Part 35

Chata soon perceived that as the day wore on, and she began to exhibit signs of fatigue from the hurried march and the heat, her presence caused far more anxiety than triumph to her captor. “The old folly!” he muttered from time to time,—“to act without counting the cost. I doubt whether there is a decent woman among this drove of camp-followers. If I had but thought to bring one from the hacienda! In fact, it was a fool’s act to bring the child at all, with such work before me as I have!”

Chata caught these broken sentences with a wild hope that he might decree her return to Tres Hermanos. Willingly would she have risked going alone on foot if necessary. But the sun set, the shades of evening closed in, and the hurried march was still pursued, until, when she was ready to faint with fatigue, the General ordered a halt, and lifting her from the saddle, placed her upon a pile of blankets; while a half-dozen men set to work with practised hands to build a little hut or tent of mesquite and manzanita boughs to shelter her from the night air.

As the weary girl sat near the tent fire, endeavoring to eat the food of which she stood in much need, but for which she could not force an appetite, she found herself the centre of a wild horde of perhaps nearly five hundred persons, of whom a fifth were women and children, who were busy at the fires preparing the evening meal while the men were staking horses, or patrolling the circle of the camp, keeping within bounds the hard-driven and panting cattle and sheep, whose distressing lowing and bleating at intervals filled the air. Apparently there was an entire lack of discipline, the unreasoning enthusiasm of the moment and the personal magnetism of the renowned leader serving to hold the unruly elements subservient to the necessities of the occasion, and obedient to his slightest mandate. The majority of the troops were of the most wild and even savage appearance; for, as their leader had said, they were the riff-raff, the scourings of the mountain villages and remote farms. Chata was not unaccustomed to the sight of such individuals, but in mass the impression they made upon her was of concentrated evil. The trace of gentler feeling that each face or person might have revealed on scrutiny was lost in the prevailing ferocity of expression and accoutrement. The clash of arms, the jingle of spurs, the hoarse voices made her shudder no less than the sullen faces, the gleaming eyes, and the sinewy and powerful frames.

Strangely enough, as her eyes followed Ramirez, a sense of his complete harmony with his surroundings seemed in the girl’s mind to condone the wild deeds of which he had figured as the hero. She realized for the first time the fascination that unlimited power over such elements must exercise over a mind given to daring, and uncontrolled by any moral principle. She thought of Chinita, and how her adventurous spirit would have exulted in such an adventure as this. As she gazed into the fire the very face of that fearless, enigmatic young nature seemed to rise before her, beautiful, passionate, yet with that capacity of endurance, which in a man might become cruelty, that capricious changeableness, which one moment dissolved in tears, and the next shone in a smile. So real was the vision that Chata started, and found herself gazing affrightedly into the face of Ramirez, who was regarding her with the expression of mingled affection, triumph, and vexation which had not left his countenance since he had set her upon Doña Rita’s favorite horse at the door of the hacienda.

“I have a notable project in my mind for you,” he said abruptly. “You know that I am the Governor of Guanapila.”

“Yes,” she said timidly; “but I thought—” she hesitated, fearing to offend.

“Ah, you thought I was beaten and barred out. They will find I am neither one nor the other. The gate is shut but not bolted, and it will be hard if I find not a way to creep in. It is impossible for me to keep you with me on the march. You must be with some woman.”

“Oh, I would rather be with you. Indeed I will give no trouble! I will be brave!” she exclaimed, instinctively shrinking from the thought of contact with such women as she saw around her.

He smiled with gratification, his egotistic nature flattered by the thought that he was gaining her confidence; but his face darkened as she added with hesitation, “I had hoped—I thought perhaps you were taking me to my mother.”

“It is not of your mother I was thinking,” he said ambiguously, “when I spoke of Guanapila, but of my niece Carmen de Velasquez. She knows that the General Ramirez once sent an escort with her mother to Tres Hermanos, and levied upon her husband for a loan of ten thousand dollars when he might have had five times as much,—for the old fellow she has married is rich, and does honor to the financial acumen of the fair Carmen, and we will see whether she has a just appreciation of the favors I am supposed to have rendered her. There, go to your tent and sleep in peace; in three days you shall be safe within the house of Velasquez in Guanapila.”

It cannot be said that Chata slept in peace; yet the prospect was reassuring, and enabled her to bear with resignation the fatigues and excitements of the following days, and the loneliness and terrors of the nights. The General slept before the opening of her tent. Upon the fourth night he awoke her, and handed her a torn and shabby reboso and a skirt of coarse red cloth, with instructions to put them on. She did so with some repugnance, though the clothing she left was not better; and at a call stepped out into the starlight. The young Captain Alva preceded her in silence outside the limits of the camp, where two horses were in waiting, held by a man whom at the first startled glance she failed to recognize. It would have horrified her beyond control had she known that in his size and air and dress he was the image of the ranchero who had entered Tres Hermanos on the night of the murder, years before. She uttered a cry of relief as Ramirez greeted her.

“Ah, is it not a perfect disguise?” he said. “Why, I might go into El Toro itself with impunity! Mount, child, and keep close at my side!”

In a minute or less, with the assistance of Alva, Chata was ready for the start,—her courage rising with the sense of mystery and daring under which Ramirez seemed to glow and expand. He paused to give his last commands to Alva, of which she heard only the concluding words: “Reyes should be here by daylight. Keep him at all hazards, for he must sound Ruiz before another day passes. _Caramba!_ I cannot believe that fellow has failed me; but whether or no, the end will be the same,—except that I swear if Ruiz prove false, were he twice my godson he shall not escape my vengeance.”

The General pulled his hat over his eyes, waved his hand, struck the spurs into his horse, and led the way at a swift canter. Chata until within the last few days had never ridden on horseback; but she was singularly free from fear or awkwardness, and with ease, though in silence, kept at his side.

“Chata,” Ramirez once said abruptly, turning his dark and piercing eyes upon her, “I am risking much for your sake. Remember that you are my daughter. Be faithful to me, obey my bidding, and I will cherish you as the apple of my eye. It may depend upon you whether the troops of Doña Isabel follow my lead or that of Gonzales. You will know my meaning later; but I swear to you, as I have done by Ruiz, my vengeance shall rest upon whomsoever balks me,—yes, if it is even you, the newfound daughter whom I love.”

Chata trembled. Though his words were an enigma, they indicated that her _rôle_ was not to be an utterly passive one. Her companion awaited no answer, and Chata did not attempt to make one. They rode on at ever increasing speed as the night advanced. Just at daybreak they reached a hut, which was placed at the mouth of a cañon. There they left their horses, and an old woman appeared with a crate of turkeys in each hand, one of which she gave to the disguised chieftain, the other to the wondering Chata.

An hour later they were in the streets of Guanapila, and before they had broken their fast Chata sat overcome with fatigue and dismay upon the stone stairs that led to the corridor of a palatial residence. The ranchero, as the servants supposed him, had gone to speak with the lady of the mansion. It was a long time before he re-appeared; and when he did, a beautiful woman preceded him. She was very pale, and there was in her eyes an incredulous and startled expression, which changed to pity as her gaze fell upon Chata,—who, looking up, thought of the pale and lovely face she had seen but once, and knew she must be in the presence of Carmen, the sister of the nun of El Toro.

Ramirez whispered a word in the ear of the bewildered girl, it might be of warning or of farewell; but her senses failed her,—she neither saw nor heard more.

“Go, go!” cried the mistress of the house. “For God’s sake go, before there is any one to wonder. Whether your tale be true or false, she has the face of a Garcia, and a loveliness and sweetness of her own. I will guard her as though she were my child. Go, go! and the saints grant you a safe passage. I will not betray your confidence. Ah, she has fainted! I will manage that; it shall be my pretext for charity.”

Ramirez kissed the hand of the unconscious Chata, and turned away. For once he had executed an act of extreme self-denial, yet amid it all his crafty mind foresaw how he might use it to his advantage.

The exit from the city was readily effected, but Ramirez did not proceed many miles unrecognized after mounting his horse at the hut where he had left it. The man who spoke his name unhesitatingly, though in a cautious voice, was Reyes. He gave the General unwelcome tidings. Gonzales had joined forces with those of Tres Hermanos. He had risked the attack and occupation of El Toro, and it was conjectured would attempt the march to the Capital itself, round which the audacious Juarez was from his stronghold in Vera Cruz directing the concentration of the Liberal forces.

Ramirez ground his teeth in rage. “I have been delayed and hampered by that girl,” he cried. “Could I but have gone straight to Ruiz, he would not have dared defy me. As it is—”

“As it is,” interrupted Reyes, “all is not yet lost. I have still to see Ruiz,—he is not my son if it is impossible to convince him upon which hot plate the cake is best toasted.”

The conference of the two men lasted but a few moments. They had been so accustomed in their long intercourse to treat of subjects of which one was as well informed as the other, and upon the course to be taken at the present time they were so well agreed, that they parted with no attempt at explanation, but simply after a few words of instruction had been given by Ramirez to the other.

“Tell him,” the chief said finally, “I am ready to fulfil my word; and if Ruiz be anxious to see her, let him risk as much for love as I have done. She is at the house of Doña Carmen Velasquez in Guanapila; and tell him as surely as he is my godson and your son he shall be shot as a traitor if he fails me in this affair. Good-by for a time; good news or bad news, my blood is up for a desperate venture now. It cannot be that after all these years luck is turning against me at last.”

“It did that years ago when you stabbed the American,” thought Reyes as they parted; “it was that that weighted the scale. That accursed foreigner who is here to avenge him has upset all our plans for misleading Gonzales. With both together Ramirez has fearful odds against him, which even with the help of Ruiz and his men he may find it hard to combat. But how in heaven’s name has the General his daughter with him? _Caramba!_ I have often wondered how he would relish that drunken freak of mine! Faith, I did not care to try his temper to-night by many questions. Well, who would have thought he would have kept in the same mind for so many years! To think of his striving to give her the family training at this late date! Ah, ah, ah! it is more likely to mar than to make her. If Fernando is of my mind he will wait in such a matter for no pruning and training, but pluck the flower while it is within his reach, thorns and all.”

With which poetic simile, Tio Reyes rode on well pleased on his errand to the young Ruiz, while Ramirez, proceeding rapidly in the opposite direction, regained within the hour his enthusiastic but disorderly horde.

XL.

Vain would be the attempt to describe the consternation of Doña Isabel when she awoke at early dawn, and felt about her that peculiar stillness—a stillness that seems absolutely tangible—which indicates the abstraction of the element of humanity from the associations about us, and is especially impressive when that loss is utterly unexpected.

It was not yet daylight, and it was by this peculiar stillness, and not by sight, that Doña Isabel learned with a deadly feeling of dismay at her heart, that she was alone. For a moment she lay silent, then raising herself on her elbow sought to peer through the gloom, while with faltering voice she uttered the name “Chinita.”

There was no answer. She would have been inexpressibly surprised had there been; and yet refusing to be convinced, she arose from her bed and made her way to that of Chinita. Had the girl been there, in the infinite relief and excitement of the moment the lady must have clasped her in her arms with kisses and tears; as it was, after passing her hands wildly over the empty couch, she sank upon it with a deep and bitter moan, feeling anew, and with the intensified agony of remembrance, the shock with which she had heard the cry of Herlinda,—“My husband! My husband!” What but a like betrayal could in that place and time have drawn a young girl from her chamber? Alas! alas!

The thoughts of Doña Isabel flew to Ruiz; a thousand trifles, unheeded before, crowded her remembrance as confirmation of some secret understanding between him and Chinita. If she had noticed them at all it was to think with a smile that they had reference to Rosario. How had she been so blind! She sprang to her feet and hastily dressed herself with some undefined intention of seeking him in his quarters, and demanding an explanation of him if he were to be found, or of confirming her worst fears if he had fled. All her old distrust of him, which he had so skilfully lulled, returned with overwhelming force, and in her unfounded suspicion she included the more just one of treason to her purposes to the cause of liberty and to Gonzales, and with irresistible certainty became convinced that the delays and detours which Ruiz had made had been expedients of traitorous policy. In the few moments needed for the completion of her toilet, a terrible fear took possession of her. For the first time that night she had been separated from the main body of the troops,—what if she were abandoned! Nothing seemed more likely. Only the great self-possession that she habitually practised prevented her from rushing out—yes, even into the streets of the village—to satisfy herself that the rude encampment remained unbroken.

Yet with all this raging excitement of grief and doubt within her, she presently stepped out upon the corridor with that stately calmness which she ever wore before the world, were it represented by but the meanest peasant. Day had scarcely broken, yet there was a sound of movement unusual in so small a place. To the excited mind of Doña Isabel it appeared that like herself the people all must be searching wildly for the girl who had so strangely escaped her. She went to the inn door and looked out. The camp-women were wandering through the streets already, chaffering and bargaining with the vendors of milk and bread and vegetables. In the distance she saw the soldiers preparing for the march. Three or four officers were lounging down the narrow street. To her infinite surprise and relief she saw among them Ruiz. He hastened his steps and joined her with an air of consternation, which even in her excitement she noticed had in it a subdued suggestion of apprehension as of one detected in some doubtful act.

In a few words Doña Isabel apprised him of the disappearance of Chinita. It was impossible that it could be concealed; it was absolutely necessary that search should be made. Ruiz listened with an emotion greater even than hers. “Good heavens, Señora!” he cried, “we are undone. Ramirez must be at hand. In some way she has learned his whereabouts; she has fled to him!”

Doña Isabel thought Ruiz had suddenly gone mad. “Fled to Ramirez!” she cried. “Impossible! What can she know of the man? What object can she have in seeking him?”

Instinctively the lady had led the way back to the room she had left. Ruiz followed her, in the utter demoralization of his mind at the unexpected tidings, pouring out incoherent explanations of the designs that Chinita had cherished, and unconsciously revealing much of the duplicity of the part he had himself acted. With an acuteness of mind perhaps intensified by the keen emotion with which she listened to the unexpected accusations against the young girl, Doña Isabel conjectured at once that the speaker had played a double part; and it was a not improbable solution of the mystery of Chinita’s disappearance, that in discovering this the young girl had resolved to precipitate a crisis in the fate of the man who exercised so unaccountable a fascination over her.

Yet with whom had she fled? Had Ramirez himself stolen into the inn and borne her away? The face of Ruiz blanched at this suggestion. Had the girl learned what was indeed a fact, that upon that very day the troops of Doña Isabel Garcia were by their officers to protest against a further attempt to reach Gonzales, and declaring Ruiz their chosen and permanent leader were at once to take up the march to join the forces of General Ortega, a newly arisen and popular Liberal chieftain who was a personal and implacable enemy of Ramirez,—thus leaving El Toro to its fate? Had Chinita indeed gone with such news to Ramirez? Ruiz felt that his doom was sealed, for he rightly conjectured that the excitement of Chinita’s disappearance had already dampened the ardor in his behalf which he had found it a slow and almost impossible task to awaken among the troops. Indeed, that it had been roused at all was owing to the discontent which had arisen through the cleverly concealed tactics he had used in contriving so long and monotonous a march to the aid of a man but little known or admired, and from the general belief in the love of the beautiful _protégée_ of Doña Isabel for the young aspirant for fame. In her hand the favor of Doña Isabel was supposed to lie. Eager for action, eager for booty, brought to a point where they were almost within sound of the bugles of General Ortega, who was making his hurried and triumphant march to the capital, it had been decided that upon that very morning a _pronunciamento_ should be made, which, while involving no change of politics, should compel the consent of Doña Isabel to the apparently spontaneous outburst of patriotism upon the part of her troops, and confirm Ruiz in the command that she had temporarily confided to him.

Ruiz had so cunningly planned every detail that he doubted not that not only Doña Isabel, but Chinita as well, would be convinced of his entire ignorance of the _coup_, and that the girl’s ambition, and perhaps a somewhat malicious satisfaction in the reversal of the plans of Doña Isabel, would lead her to an acceptance of the apparently unavoidable forfeiture of her own desires.

To this end the ambitious young officer had been patiently working since the day he had found himself at the head of the troops of Tres Hermanos. He had been amazed at his own success. Everything had seemed to contribute to it. Not even the triumph of seeing himself actually attracting the good-will, if not the love, of Chinita had been denied him; and now at the moment least expected, at the most critical juncture, she had failed him. It was impossible for him to assume his usual self-sufficient air as he re-issued from the apartment of Doña Isabel,—an air that imposed on the majority of observers as that of a man conscious of power, rather than as a disguise of incompetency. His crest-fallen bearing as he gave the necessary orders for scouts to be sent out in search of those who in the night must have left the ill-guarded town was evident to the most careless eye, and did much to increase the feeling of distrust and coldness that was already beginning to supplant the ill-considered ardor of a few hours before.

The scouts had been despatched; and the main body of the troops waited for marching orders, which were long delayed. Ruiz, closeted with the men who had been most amenable to his reasoning, urged openly the arguments that he had but covertly suggested before. That exhausted apathy which following an exploded project is far more hopeless than that which, merely unignited, precedes its agitation, resisted all his efforts at revival. The officers, like the soldiers, listlessly waited to hear what would happen next, absolutely indifferent to Ruiz, and concerned for the moment in a mere matter of gossip,—the escapade of a young girl.

Toward noon some of the messengers returned. Most of them had nothing to report, but the vaquero Gabriel, the husband of Juana, as soon as he could escape the questioning of Ruiz, disappeared. An hour later he entered the apartment of Doña Isabel.

“What news, Gabriel, what news?” the lady cried excitedly. “Did you come upon any trace of—of the child; of those who have stolen her away?”

The vaquero shook his head, and Doña Isabel groaned. Those few hours had wrought a terrible change in her appearance. She was not young and able to meet shocks of disaster as she had been when they had shaken her in by-gone years.

“I found no trace of them, my Señora,” said the man, slowly. “Perhaps my eyes are not as keen as they were, and they say when one thinks much one sees little. Since I am married I find one must think. A woman gives one abundance for thought. She grinds care for a man more surely than corn for his bread.”

Doña Isabel looked up at him quickly. She knew that this oracular sentence had some bearing on the subject that absorbed her thoughts. “Speak,” she said. “What has your wife to do with this?”

“She was the playmate of the young Señorita,” he suggested.

“True, but what of that?”

“She would be likely to be in her confidence,—at least where there was no other to trust.”

Doña Isabel started, looking at him with fixed attention.

“The thought came to me as I rode out of the town,—it came back to me again and again. After hours of vain search I suffered myself to be convinced. I came back and taxed Juana with knowing with whom, and when and where, her friend had gone.”

“Well?” ejaculated Doña Isabel, in extreme agitation.

“She denied it. By all the saints she denied it; but I had a saint she had forgotten to commend herself to.” He smiled significantly.

Doña Isabel understood the arguments used by rancheros to refractory wives too well to doubt what his grim jest meant. At another time she would have indignantly dismissed from her presence the man who admitted laying a hand in castigation upon his wife; now she merely by an imperative gesture urged him to finish what he had to communicate.

“It was as I thought,” he said coolly. “Two men talked with her last night. The one was Juana’s brother, Pepé; the other was the Señor Americano your grace knows of.”