The Rifle Rangers, Mayne Reid [intellectual books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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“There are some nice trees here, Captain,” suggested another of the band, with as much coolness as if he had been conversing about the hanging of so many dogs. He wished—a curiosity not uncommon—to witness the spectacle of hanging.
“Madre de Dios! stupid! I tell you we haven’t time for such silly sport. Out with you there! Sanchez! Gabriel! Carlos! send your bullets through their Saxon skulls! Quick!”
Several of the Jarochos commenced unslinging their carbines, while those who guarded us fell back, to be out of range of the lead.
“Come,” exclaimed Raoul, “it can’t be worse than this—we can only die; and I’ll let the padre know whom he has got before I take leave of him. I’ll give him a souvenir that won’t make him sleep any sounder to-night. Oyez, Padré Jarauta!” continued he, calling out in a tone of irony; “have you found Marguerita yet?”
We could see between us and the dim rushlight that the Jarocho started, as if a shot had passed through his heart.
“Hold!” he shouted to the men, who were about taking aim; “drag those scoundrels hither! A light there!—fire the thatch! Vaya!”
In a moment the hut of the contrabandista was in flames, the dry palm-leaves blazing up like flax.
“Merciful Heaven! they are going to roast us!”
With this horrible apprehension, we were dragged up towards the burning pile, close to which stood our fierce judge and executioner.
The bamboos blazed and crackled, and under their red glare we could now see our captors with a terrible distinctness. A more demon-like set, I think, could not have been found anywhere out of the infernal regions.
Most of them were zamboes and mestizoes, and not a few pure Africans of the blackest hue, maroons from Cuba and the Antilles, many of them with their fronts and cheeks tattooed, adding to the natural ferocity of their features. Their coarse woolly hair sticking out in matted tufts, their white teeth set in savage grins, their strange armour and grotesque attitudes, their wild and picturesque attire, formed a coup d’oeil that might have pleased a painter in his studio, but which at the time had no charm for us.
There were Pintoes among them, too—spotted men from the tangled forests of Acapulco—pied and speckled with blotches of red, and black, and white, like hounds and horses. They were the first of this race I had ever seen, and their unnatural complexions, even at that fearful moment, impressed me with feelings of disgust and loathing.
A single glance at this motley crew would have convinced us, had we not been quite sure of it already, that we had no favour to expect. There was not a countenance among them that exhibited the slightest trait of grace or mercy. No such expression could be seen around us, and we felt satisfied that our time had come.
The appearance of their leader did not shake this conviction. Revenge and hatred were playing upon his sharp sallow features, and his thin lips quivered with an expression of malice, plainly habitual. His nose, like a parrot’s beak, had been broken by a blow, which added to its sinister shape; and his small black eyes twinkled with metallic brightness.
He wore a purplish-coloured manga, that covered his whole body, and his feet were cased in the red leather boots of the country, with heavy silver spurs strapped over them. A black sombrero, with its band of gold bullion and tags of the same material, completed the tout ensemble of his costume. He wore neither beard nor moustache; but his hair, black and snaky, hung down trailing over the velvet embroidery of his manga. (See Note 2).
Such was the Padré Jarauta.
Raoul’s face was before him, upon which he looked for some moments without speaking. His features twitched as if under galvanic action, and we could see that his fingers jerked in a similar manner.
They were painful memories that could produce this effect upon a heart of such iron devilry, and Raoul alone knew them. The latter seemed to enjoy the interlude; for he lay upon the ground, looking up at the Jarocho with a smile of triumph upon his reckless features.
We were expecting the next speech of the padre to be an order for flinging us into the fire, which now burned fiercely. Fortunately, this fancy did not seem to strike him just then.
“Ha, monsieur!” exclaimed he at length, approaching Raoul. “I dreamt that you and I would meet again; I dreamt it—ha! ha! ha!—it was a pleasant dream, but not half so pleasant as the reality—ha! ha! ha! Don’t you think so?” he added, striking our comrade over the face with a mule quirt. “Don’t you think so?” he repeated, lashing him as before, while his eyes sparkled with a fiendish malignity.
“Did you dream of meeting Marguerita again?” inquired Raoul, with a satirical laugh, that sounded strange, even fearful, under the circumstances.
I shall never forget the expression of the Jarocho at that moment. His sallow face turned black, his lips white, his eyes burned like a demon’s, and, springing forward with a fierce oath, he planted his iron-shod heel upon the face of our comrade. The skin peeled off, and the blood followed.
There was something so cowardly—so redolent of a brutal ferocity—in the act, that I could not remain quiet. With a desperate wrench I freed my hands, skinning my wrists in the effort, and, flinging myself upon him, I clutched at the monster’s throat.
He stepped back; my ankles were tied, and I fell upon my face at his feet.
“Ho! ho!” cried he, “what have we here? An officer, eh? Come!” he continued, “rise up from your prayers and let me look at you. Ha! a captain? And this?—a lieutenant! Gentlemen, you’re too dainty to be shot like common dogs; we’ll not let the wolves have you; we’ll put you out of their reach; ha! ha! ha! Out of reach of wolves, do you hear! And what’s this?” continued he, turning to Chane and examining his shoulders.
“Bah! soldado raso—Irlandes, carajo!” (A common soldier—an Irishman, too!) “What do you do fighting among these heretics against your own religion? There, renegade!” and he kicked the Irishman in the ribs.
“Thank yer honner!” said Chane, with a grunt, “small fayvours thankfully received; much good may it do yer honner!”
“Here, Lopez!” shouted the brigand.
“Now for the fire!” thought we.
“Lopez, I say!” continued he, calling louder.
“Aca, aca!” (here!) answered a voice, and the griffe who had guarded us came up, swinging his scarlet manga.
“Lopez, these I perceive are gentlemen of rank, and we must send them out of the world a little more gracefully, do you hear?”
“Yes, Captain,” answered the other, with stoical composure.
“Over the cliffs, Lopez. Facilis descensus Averni—but you don’t understand Latin, Lopez. Over the cliffs, do you hear? You understand that?”
“Yes, Captain,” repeated the Jarocho, moving only his lips.
“You will have them at the Eagle’s Cave by six in the morning; by six, do you hear?”
“Yes, Captain,” again replied the subordinate.
“And if any of them is missing—is missing, do you hear?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“You will take his place in the dance—the dance—ha! ha! ha! You understand that, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Enough then, good Lopez—handsome Lopez! beautiful Lopez!—enough, and good-night to you!”
So saying, the Jarocho drew his quirt several times across the red cheek of Raoul, and with a curse upon his lips he leaped upon his mustang and galloped off.
Whatever might be the nature of the punishment that awaited us at the Eagle’s Cave, it was evident that Lopez had no intention of becoming proxy in it for any of us. This was plain from the manner in which he set about securing us. We were first gagged with bayonet-shanks, and then dragged out into the bushes.
Here we were thrown upon our backs, each of us in the centre of four trees that formed a parallelogram. Our arms and legs were stretched to their full extent, and tied severally to the trees; and thus we lay, spread out like raw hides to dry. Our savage captors drew the cords so taut that our joints cracked under the cruel tension. In this painful position, with a Jarocho standing over each of us, we passed the remainder of the night.
Note 1. Griffe, a cross-breed between a negro and a Carib.
Note 2. Manga, a jacket with loose sleeves.
It was a long night—the longest I can remember—a night that fully illustrated the horror of monotony. I can compare our feelings to those of one under the influence of the nightmare. But, no—worse than that. Our savage sentries occasionally sat down upon our bodies, and, lighting their cigaritos, chatted gaily while we groaned. We could not protest; we were gagged. But it would have made little difference; they would only have mocked us the more.
We lay glaring upon the moon as she coursed through a cloudy heaven. The wind whistled through the leaves, and its melancholy moaning sounded like our death-dirge. Several times through the night I heard the howl of the prairie wolf, and I knew it was Lincoln; but the Jarochos had pickets all around, and the hunter dared not approach our position. He could not have helped us.
The morning broke at last; and we were taken up, tied upon the backs of vicious mules, and hurried off through the woods. We travelled for some distance along a ridge, until we had reached its highest point, where the cliff beetled over. Here we were unpacked, and thrown upon the grass. About thirty of the Jarochos guarded us, and we now saw them under the broad light of day; but they did not look a whit more beautiful than they had appeared under the glare of the blazing rancho on the preceding night.
Lopez was at their head, and never relaxed his vigilance for a moment. It was plain that he considered the padre a man of his word.
After we had remained about half an hour on the brow of the cliff, an exclamation from one of the men drew our attention; and, looking round, we perceived a band of horsemen straggling up the hill at a slow gallop. It was Jarauta, with about fifty of his followers. They were soon close up to us.
“Buenos dias, caballeros!” (Good day, gentlemen!) cried their leader in a mocking tone, leaping down and approaching us, “I hope you passed the night comfortably. Lopez, I am sure, provided you with good beds. Didn’t you, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain,” answered the laconic Lopez.
“The gentlemen rested well; didn’t they, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“No kicking or tumbling about, eh?”
“No, Captain.”
“Oh! then they rested well; it’s a good thing: they have a long journey before them—haven’t they, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I hope, gentlemen, you are ready for the road. Do you think you are ready?”
As each of us had the shank of a bayonet between his teeth, besides being tied neck and heels, it is not likely that this interrogatory received a reply; nor did his “reverence” expect any, as he continued putting similar questions in quick succession, appealing occasionally to his lieutenant for an answer. The latter, who was of the taciturn school, contented himself, and his superior too, with a simple “yes” or “no.”
Up to this moment we had no knowledge of the fate that awaited us. We knew we had to die—that we knew; but in what way we were still ignorant. I, for one, had made up my mind that the padre intended pitching us over the cliffs.
We were at length enlightened upon this important point. We were not to take that awful leap into eternity which I had been picturing to myself. A fate more horrible still awaited us. We were to be hanged over the precipice!
As if to aid the monster in his inhuman design, several pine-trees grew out horizontally from the edge of the cliff; and over the branches of these the Jarochos commenced reeving their long lazos. Expert in the handling of ropes, as all Mexicans are, they were not long in completing their preparations, and we soon
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