The Rifle Rangers

Chapter Forty Seven.
The Jarachos

We headed towards the National Bridge. Raoul had a friend half-way on the route – an old comrade upon whom he could depend. His rancho was in a secluded spot, near the road that leads to the rinconada² of San Martin. We should find refreshment there; and, if not a bed, “at least”, said Raoul, “a roof and a petaté.” We should not be likely to meet anyone, as it was ten miles off, and it would be late when we reached it.

It was late – near midnight – when we dropped in upon the contrabandista, for such was the friend of Raoul; but he and his family were still astir, under the light of a very dull wax candle.

José Antonio – that was his name – was a little “sprung” at the five bareheaded apparitions that burst so suddenly upon him; but, recognising Raoul, we were cordially welcomed.

Our host was a spare, bony old fellow, in leathern jacket and calzoneros (breeches), with a keen, shrewd eye, that took in our situation at a single glance, and saved the Frenchman a great deal of explanation. Notwithstanding the cordiality with which his friend received him, I noticed that Raoul seemed uneasy about something as he glanced around the room; for the rancho, a small cane structure, had only one.

There were two women stirring about – the wife of the contrabandista, and his daughter, a plump, good-looking girl of eighteen or thereabout.

“No han cenado, caballeros?” (You have not supped, gentlemen), inquired, or rather affirmed, José Antonio, for our looks had answered the question before it was asked.

“Ni comido – ni almorzado!” (Nor dined – nor breakfasted!) replied Raoul, with a grin.

“Carambo! Rafaela! Jesusita!” shouted our host, with a sign, such as, among the Mexicans, often conveys a whole chapter of intelligence. The effect was magical. It sent Jesusita to her knees before the tortilla-stones; and Rafaela, José’s wife, seized a string of tassajo, and plunged it into the olla. Then the little palm-leaf fan was handled, and the charcoal blazed and crackled, and the beef boiled, and the black beans simmered, and the chocolate frothed up, and we all felt happy under the prospect of a savoury supper.

I had noticed that, notwithstanding all this, Raoul seemed uneasy. In the corner I discovered the cause of his solicitude in the shape of a small, spare man, wearing the shovel-hat and black capote of a priest. I knew that my comrade was not partial to priests, and that he would sooner have trusted Satan himself than one of the tribe; and I attributed his uneasiness to this natural dislike of the clerical fraternity.

“Who is he, Antone?” I heard him whisper to the contrabandista.

“The curé of San Martin,” was the reply.

“He is new, then?” said Raoul.

“Hombre de bien,” (A good man), answered the Mexican, nodding as he spoke.

Raoul seemed satisfied, and remained silent.

I could not help noticing the “hombre de bien” myself; and no more could I help fancying, after a short observation, that the rancho was indebted for the honour of his presence more to the black eyes of Jesusita than to any zeal on his part regarding the spiritual welfare of the contrabandista or his family.

There was a villainous expression upon his lips as he watched the girl moving over the floor; and once or twice I caught him scowling upon Chane, who, in his usual Irish way, was “blarneying” with Jesusita, and helping her to fan the charcoal.

“Where’s the padre?” whispered Raoul to our host.

“He was in the rinconada this morning.”

“In the rinconada!” exclaimed the Frenchman, starting.

“They’re gone down to the Bridge. The band has had a fandango with your people and lost some men. They say they have killed a good many stragglers along the road.”

“So he was in the rinconada, you say? and this morning, too?” inquired Raoul, in a half-soliloquy, and without heeding the last remark of the contrabandista.

“We’ve got to look sharp, then,” he added, after a pause.

“There’s no danger,” replied the other, “if you keep from the road. Your people have already reached El Plan, and are preparing to attack the Pass of the Cerro. ‘El Cojo,’ they say, has twenty thousand men to defend it.”

During this dialogue, which was carried on in whispers, I had noticed the little padre shifting about uneasily in his seat. At its conclusion he rose up, and bidding our host “buenas noches,” was about to withdraw, when Lincoln, who had been quietly eyeing him for some time with that sharp, searching look peculiar to men of his kidney, jumped up, and, placing himself before the door, exclaimed in a drawling, emphatic tone:

“No, yer don’t!”

“Qué cosa?” (What’s the matter?) asked the padre indignantly.

“Kay or no kay – cosser or no cosser – yer don’t go out o’ hyur afore we do. Rowl, axe yur friend for a piece o’ twine, will yer?”

The padre appealed to our host, and he in turn appealed to Raoul. The Mexican was in a dilemma. He dared not offend the curé, and on the other hand he did not wish to dictate to his old comrade Raoul. Moreover, the fierce hunter, who stood like a huge giant in the door, had a voice in the matter; and therefore José Antonio had three minds to consult at one time.

“It ain’t Bob Linkin ’d infringe the rules of hospertality,” said the hunter; “but this hyur’s a peculiar case, an’ I don’t like the look of that ’ar priest, nohow yer kin fix it.”

Raoul, however, sided with the contrabandista, and explained to Lincoln that the padre was the peaceable curé of the neighbouring village, and the friend of Don Antonio; and the hunter, seeing that I did not interpose – for at the moment I was in one of those moods of abstraction, and scarcely noticed what was going on – permitted the priest to pass out. I was recalled to myself more by some peculiar expression which I heard Lincoln muttering after it was over than by the incidents of the scene itself.

The occurrence had rendered us all somewhat uneasy; and we resolved upon swallowing our suppers hastily, and, after pushing forward some distance, to sleep in the woods.

The tortillas were by this time ready, and the pretty Jesusita was pouring out the chocolate; so we set to work like men who had appetites.

The supper was soon despatched, but our host had some puros in the house – a luxury we had not enjoyed lately; and, hating to hurry away from such comfortable quarters, we determined to stay and take a smoke.

We had hardly lit our cigars when Jesusita, who had gone to the door, came hastily back, exclaiming:

“Papa – papa! hay gente fuera!” (Papa, there are people outside!)

As we sprang to our feet several shadows appeared through the open walls. Lincoln seized his rifle and ran to the door. The next moment he rushed back, shouting out:

“I told yer so!” And, dashing his huge body against the back of the rancho, he broke through the cane pickets with a crash.

We were hastening to follow him when the frail structure gave way; and we found ourselves buried, along with our host and his women, under a heavy thatch of saplings and palm-leaves.

We heard the crack of our comrade’s rifle without – the scream of a victim – the reports of pistols and escopettes – the yelling of savage men; and then the roof was raised again, and we were pulled out and dragged down among the trees, and tied to their trunks and taunted and goaded, and kicked and cuffed, by the most villainous-looking set of desperadoes it has ever been my misfortune to fall among. They seemed to take delight in abusing us – yelling all the while like so many demons let loose.

Our late acquaintance – the curé – was among them; and it was plain that he had brought the party on us. His “reverence” looked high and low for Lincoln; but, to his great mortification, the hunter had escaped.

Chapter Forty Eight.
Padre Jarauta

We were not long in learning into whose hands we had fallen; for the name “Jarauta” was on every tongue. They were the dreaded “Jarochos” of the bandit priest.

“We’re in for it now,” said Raoul, deeply mortified at the part he had taken in the affair with the curé. “It’s a wonder they have kept us so long. Perhaps he’s not here himself, and they’re waiting for him.”

As Raoul said this the clatter of hoofs sounded along the narrow road; and a horseman came galloping up to the rancho, riding over everything and everybody with a perfect recklessness.

“That’s Jarauta,” whispered Raoul. “If he sees me– but it don’t matter much,” he added, in a lower tone: “we’ll have a quick shrift all the same: he can’t more than hang– and that he’ll be sure to do.”

“Where are these Yankees?” cried Jarauta, leaping out of his saddle.

“Here, Captain,” answered one of the Jarochos, a hideous-looking griffe³ dressed in a scarlet uniform, and apparently the lieutenant of the band.

“How many?”

“Four, Captain.”

“Very well – what are you waiting for?”

“To know whether I shall hang or shoot them.”

“Shoot them, by all means! Carambo! we have no time for neck-stretching!”

“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.⁴

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.

Chapter Forty Nine.
A Hang by the Heels

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 beheld our gallows.

“According to rank, Lopez,” cried Jarauta, seeing that all was ready; “the captain first – do you hear?”

“Yes, Captain,” answered the imperturbable brigand who superintended the operations.

“I shall keep you to the last, Monsieur,” said the priest, addressing Raoul; “you will have the pleasure of bringing up the rear in your passage through purgatory. Ha! ha! ha! Won’t he, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Maybe some of you would like a priest, gentlemen.” This Jarauta uttered with an ironical grin that was revolting to behold. “If you would,” he continued, “say so. I sometimes officiate in that capacity myself. Don’t I, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

A diabolical laugh burst from the Jarochos, who had dismounted, and were standing out upon the cliff, the better to witness the spectacle of our hanging.

“Well, Lopez, does any of them say ‘yes’?”

“No, Captain.”

“Ask the Irishman there; ask him – he ought to be a good Catholic.”

The question was put to Chane, in mockery, of course, for it was impossible for him to answer it; and yet he did answer it, for his look spoke a curse as plainly as if it had been uttered through a trumpet. The Jarochos did not heed that, but only laughed the louder.

“Well, Lopez, what says Saint Patrick? ‘Yes’ or ‘no’?”

“‘No’, Captain.”

And a fresh peal of ruffian laughter rang out.

The rope was now placed around my neck in a running noose. The other end had been passed over the tree, and lay coiled near the edge of the cliff. Lopez held it in his hand a short distance above the coil, in order to direct its movements.

“All ready there, Lopez?” cried the leader.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Swing off the captain, then – no, not yet; let him look at the floor on which he is going to dance; that is but fair.”

I had been drawn forward until my feet projected over the edge of the precipice, and close to the root of the tree. I was now forced into a sitting posture, so that I might look below, my limbs hanging over. Strange to say, I could not resist doing exactly what my tormentor wished. Under other circumstances the sight would have been to me appalling; but my nerves were strung by the protracted agony I had been forced to endure.

The precipice on whose verge I sat formed a side of one of those yawning gulfs common in Spanish America, and known by the name barrancas. It seemed as if a mountain had been scooped out and carried away. Not two hundred yards horizontally distant was the twin jaw of the chasm, like a black burnt wall; yet the torrent that roared and foamed between them was full six hundred feet below my position! I could have flung the stump of a cigar upon the water; in fact, an object dropping vertically from where I sat – for it was a projecting point – must have fallen plumb into the stream.

It was not unlike the cañon where we had tossed over the dogs; but it was higher, and altogether more hell-like and horrible.

As I looked down, several small birds, whose species I did not stay to distinguish, were screaming below, and an eagle on his broad, bold wing came soaring over the abyss, and flapped up to my very face.

“Well, Captain,” broke in the sharp voice of Jarauta, “what do you think of it? A nice soft floor to dance upon, isn’t it, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“All ready there? Stop! some music; we must have music: how can he dance without music? Hola, Sanchez, where’s your bugle?”

“Here, Captain!”

“Strike up, then! Play ‘Yankee Doodle’. Ha! ha! ha! ‘Yankee Doodle’, do you hear?”

“Yes, Captain,” answered the man; and the next moment the well-known strains of the American national air sounded upon my ear, producing a strange, sad feeling I shall never forget.

“Now, Lopez!” cried the padre.

I was expecting to be swung out, when I heard him again shout, “Stay!” at the same time stopping the music.

“By heavens! Lopez, I have a better plan,” he cried: “why did I not think of it before? It’s not too late yet. Ha! ha! ha! Carambo! They shall dance upon their heads! That’s better – isn’t it, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

A cheer from the Jarochos announced their approval of this change in the programme.

The padre made a sign to Lopez, who approached him, appearing to receive some directions.

I did not at first comprehend the novelty that was about to be introduced. I was not kept long in ignorance. One of the Jarochos, seizing me by the collar, dragged me back from the ledge, and transferred the noose from my neck to my ankles. Horror heaped upon horror! I was to be hung head downwards!

“That will be much prettier – won’t it, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“The gentleman will have time to make himself ready for heaven before he dies – won’t he, Lopez?”

“Yes Captain.”

“Take out the gag – let him have his tongue free; he’ll need that to pray with – won’t he, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

One of the Jarochos jerked the bayonet roughly from my mouth, almost dislocating my jaw. The power of speech was gone. I could not, if I had wished it, have uttered an intelligible word.

“Give him his hands, too; he’ll need them to keep off the zopilotes; won’t he, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

The thong that bound my wrists was cut, leaving my hands free. I was on my back, my feet towards the precipice. A little to my right stood Lopez, holding the rope that was about to launch me into eternity.

“Now the music – take the music for your cue, Lopez; then jerk him up!” cried the sharp voice of the fiend.

I shut my eyes, waiting for the pull. It was but a moment, but it seemed a lifetime. There was a dead silence – a stillness like that which precedes the bursting of a rock or the firing of a jubilee-gun. Then I heard the first note of the bugle, and along with it a crack – the crack of a rifle; a man staggered over me, besprinkling my face with blood, and, falling forward, disappeared!

Then came the pluck upon my ankles, and I was jerked head downwards into the empty air. I felt my feet touching the branches above, and, throwing up my arms, I grasped one, and swung my body upwards. After two or three efforts I lay along the main trunk, which I embraced with the hug of despair. I looked downward. A man was hanging below – far below – at the end of the lazo! It was Lopez. I knew his scarlet manga at a glance. He was hanging by the thigh in a snarl of the rope.

His hat had fallen off. I could see the red blood running over his face and dripping from his long, snaky locks. He hung head down. I could see that he was dead!

The hard thong was cutting my ankles, and – oh, heaven! – under our united weight the roots were cracking! Appalling thought! “The tree will give way!” I held fast with one arm. I drew forth my knife – fortunately I still had one – with the other. I opened the blade with my teeth, and, stretching backward and downward, I drew it across the thong. It parted with a “snig”, and the red object left me like a flash of light. There was a plunge upon the black water below – a plunge and a few white bubbles; but the body of the Jarocho, with its scarlet trappings, was seen no more after that plunge.