The Tiger Hunter

For better security, Don Rafael advanced still further among the bamboos, carefully parting them with his hands as he moved forward; and the horsemen, though they rode past along the bank, only a short distance from where he was concealed, had not the slightest suspicion their enemy was so near. The most sharp-sighted eye could not have discovered his place of concealment.

Still continuing to listen, he heard the plashing of the horses as they forded the crossing; and a few minutes after a profound silence reigned over the scene.

Chapter Sixty Three.
An Unwilling Ambassador

On the afternoon of that same day – a little after the time when Don Rafael buried himself among the bamboos – the ex-student of theology, accompanied by Costal and Clara, was riding along the Huajapam road, at no great distance from the ford of the Ostuta. When near to this famous crossing, the three halted; and while their horses were picking up a little grass, Costal kept on a little further afoot – for the purpose of reconnoitring the ground upon the banks of the river.

Meanwhile Clara busied himself in roasting, over a fire he had kindled, some green ears of maize corn, which, with a few pieces of dried beef (cecina), were to constitute the dinner of the party. Clara had taken the materials from his alforjas.

After an interval of silence, the Captain commenced a conversation with the object of making to the negro a communication evidently deemed by him of some importance.

“Listen to me, Clara!” said he; “we are entrusted with a commission which I need not tell you will require us to act with the greatest circumspection. I need not tell you that our carrying to this Captain Arroyo the threats of the General is a sufficiently dangerous errand. No more need I assure you that to enter the town of Oajaca is of a similar character. There the Royalists think no more of the head of an insurgent, than you of one of those ears of corn that you are roasting in the fire. What I wish of you, then, is – that you will drop the bad habit you have of calling me by the name of Lantejas; which, up to the present time, has brought me nothing but ill fortune. It was under that name I was proscribed; and I beg of you, therefore, that, for the future, both you and Costal will know me only by the name of Don Lucas Alacuesta. This last is the name of my mother’s family, and it will serve my purpose as well as any other.”

“Enough said, Captain,” rejoined the negro; “I shall not forget to obey your orders – even though I should have the axe of the executioner raised over my neck.”

“I am satisfied you will not. Meanwhile, until Costal returns, you may serve me with some of those morsels you are roasting, which seem to be done enough. I am dying of hunger.”

“And I too,” added the negro, casting a greedy glance towards the cecina.

Clara spread out before the Captain his saddle-cloth to serve as a napkin; and, taking some pieces of the broiled meat from the coals, placed them upon it. To this he added two or three of the roasted ears. Then, seating himself close to the fire, he drew from the ashes the remaining portions of meat, and commenced eating with an earnestness that was likely to prove fatal to Costal’s share in the banquet.

“Ho!” cried the Captain, “if you continue on in that fashion, your comrade Costal will be likely to go without his dinner.”

“Costal will not eat before to-morrow,” replied the negro in a grave tone.

“That I can easily believe,” assented Don Cornelio. “There will be nothing left for him to eat, I fancy.”

“You misunderstand me, Señor Captain. To-day is the third after midsummer, and to-night the moon will be at the full. That is why Costal will not eat, in order that by fasting he may prepare himself to hold communion with his gods.”

“You fool! Do you believe in the wretched fables of the pagan Costal?”

“I have reason to believe them,” gravely replied the negro. “The God of the Christians dwells in the sky; those of Costal inhabit the Lake of Ostuta, Tlaloc, the god of the mountains, lives on the summit of Monopostiac; and Matlacuezc his wife, the goddess of the water, bathes herself in the waters of the lake that surround the enchanted mountain. The third night after the summer solstice – at the full of the moon – is the time when they show themselves to the descendants of the caciques of Tehuantepec – to such as have passed their fiftieth year – and Costal intends to invoke them this very night.”

As Don Cornelio was about endeavouring to bring the negro to a more rational religious belief, Costal strode silently up.

“Well,” said the Captain, “is our information correct? Have you learnt whether Arroyo is really encamped on the banks of the Ostuta?”

“Quite true,” answered the Indian, “a peon of my acquaintance, whom I chanced to meet, has told me that Arroyo and Bocardo are by the ford, where they intercept the passage of all who come this way. It is close by, so that this evening you can deliver your message. After that is done, I would ask leave of absence for Clara and myself for the night. We wish to spend it on the shore of the Sacred Lake.”

“Hum!” muttered Don Cornelio, without noticing the request. “So near!” continued he, speaking to himself, and abruptly ceasing to eat. “What else did your peon acquaintance make known about Arroyo and Bocardo?”

“Only that they are more thirsty than ever – the one for blood, the other for plunder.”

Costal imparted this information in a tone but little calculated to inspire the Captain with a relish for his mission.

He endeavoured to conceal his uneasiness, however; and, raising his voice to a tone of assumed boldness, he inquired: —

“It is to the ford of the Ostuta, then, we are to go?”

“Yes, Señor Captain, whenever it pleases your honour to move forward.”

“We have plenty of time,” replied Don Cornelio, evidently reluctant to make any further advance. “I wish to take a few hours of rest before going thither. And your old master, Don Mariano de Silva – did you hear anything of him?”

“Yes. He has long ago left the hacienda Las Palmas, and is living in Oajaca. As to that of Del Valle, it is still occupied by the Royalist garrison.”

“So then we have enemies on all sides of us?” rejoined the Captain.

“Arroyo and Bocardo,” said Costal, “should scarcely be enemies to an officer bearing despatches from the General Morelos. As for Clara and myself, we are that sort whom these bandits never frighten.”

“I agree with you there,” rejoined the Captain, “certainly I do – meanwhile – nevertheless – I should prefer – ah! who is that horseman who is galloping in this direction, carbine in hand?”

“If one may judge the master by the servant, and if this fellow chances to have a master, that master ought to be one of the greatest rogues on earth.”

As Costal was delivering this figurative speech, he stretched forth his hand and seized hold of his own old and trusty piece.

The horseman in question was no other than Gaspacho – the courier who had brought to Arroyo the evil news from the hacienda Del Valle.

He rode forward as one rides in a conquered country; and without making any obeisance addressed himself to the Captain – who, from being a white, appeared to him the most considerable of the three strangers.

“Tell me, friend – ” said he.

“Friend!” cried Costal, interrupting him, and evidently ill pleased with his looks, “a captain in the army of General Morelos is no friend to such as you.”

“What does this brute of an Indian say?” demanded Gaspacho, regarding Costal with an air of contempt.

The eyes of Costal fairly blazed with rage; and his movements promised for Gaspacho a terrible chastisement, when Don Cornelio interposed to prevent it. “What is your wish?” asked he of the follower of Arroyo.

“To know if you have seen anything of that rascal, Juan de Zapote, and his worthy companion, Gaspar?”

“We have seen neither Zapote nor Gaspar.”

“If they’re not found, then, my friend Perico – who met and permitted them to pass him – is likely to spend a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour – when he appears in the presence of our Captain Arroyo.”

“Ah! you are in Arroyo’s service then?”

“I have the honour.”

“Perhaps you can tell me where I shall be most likely to find him?”

“Quien sabe? By the ford of the Ostuta you may find him – if he’s not gone elsewhere – to the hacienda of San Carlos, for example.”

“This hacienda does not belong to the royalists then?” inquired the Captain.

“Perhaps I may be mistaken,” ironically answered Gaspacho. “In any case, if you wish to see the Captain – which rather astonishes me – you will have to cross the ford all the same; and there you may hear of his whereabouts. My faith! that is a splendid cloak you have got on your shoulders. It appears a mile too big for you; and looks as if it would just fit a man of my dimensions.”

On saying these words, the bandit put spurs to his horse and galloped off – leaving Don Cornelio with an unpleasant impression upon his mind, caused by his ambiguous speeches and the admiration the stranger had expressed for his cloak.

“I fear we have fallen among wicked people here,” said he, addressing himself to Costal. “You see how little this ragged fellow makes of an officer of Morelos; and doubtless his master will make still less. Well – we must be prudent, and wait until night before we attempt to go forward among them.”

“Prudence is not always a bad substitute for courage,” remarked Costal, with a shrug. “We shall do as you desire, Señor Captain; and I shall be careful we do not fall either into the hands of the loyalists, or those of the followers of Arroyo, before arriving in the presence of that gentleman himself. Otherwise, I might lose the one peculiar day of my life, that I have so long looked forward to. Trust to me. I think you can say that I never let you remain long in a dangerous situation?”

“You are my providence,” cried the Captain, with friendly warmth. “It is true; and it will always give me pleasure to acknowledge it.”

“No, no,” interrupted Costal, “what I may have done for you is not worth talking about. Meanwhile, we will act wisely to take a wink of sleep – Clara and myself more especially: since, during all this night, we shan’t have another opportunity to close our eyes.”

“You are right – I perfectly agree with you. Let us all have some sleep then.”

As the sun was still hot, Clara and Costal stretched themselves under the shadow of a spreading tree, and both, with that indifference to danger to which a life of adventures had habituated them, were soon buried in profound slumber; during which the negro was constantly endeavouring, in dreams, to capture the Siren with dishevelled hair, and force her to reveal to him some rich placer of gold.

As for Don Cornelio, he lay for a long time awake: anxious and apprehensive about the result of his approaching interview with the guerilla chief. At length, imitating the example of his two compagnons de voyage, he also fell asleep.

Chapter Sixty Four.
The Talisman Transmitted

It was only after a long and desperate effort to subdue the passion with which Don Rafael Tres-Villas had inspired her, that Gertrudis de Silva resolved upon making use of the talisman she had so carefully preserved – that message, which Don Rafael had sworn to obey without a moment’s hesitation – even though it should reach him on the instant when his hand was raised to strike down his most mortal enemy.

When the young girl at length reluctantly yielded to the determination of once more seeing Don Rafael, her first emotion was one of profound pleasure. She could not convince herself of the fact, that her former lover could now be indifferent, or that from his mouth she should hear the avowal that he no longer loved her. She believed that the message would convey to him a happiness similar to that she herself felt in sending it; and it was for this reason, and also the better to secure his fidelity and zeal, that she had led the messenger to expect a magnificent reward, on the accomplishment of his errand. Under the critical circumstances in which the messenger found himself, after setting out from Oajaca, it was well that such a golden lure glistened before his mental vision – else the precious talisman might have stood less chance of arriving at its destination.

On the departure of the messenger, Gertrudis felt as if inspired with new life; but this joyful state was but of short duration. Doubt soon took the place of certainty. Between herself and her lover more than one misunderstanding had arisen, all the result of imperious circumstances. She was no longer loved – this was her reflection. The distant proof she had for a while believed in – the affair of Aguas Calientes – was perhaps only a wild freak on the part of the Colonel; and if he no longer loved her, it was because he loved another.

Moreover, her messenger would have to traverse a country disturbed by civil war, and there was every chance of his failing to accomplish his mission. This doubt also added to the torture she was undergoing.

Overcome by such sad thoughts, and at times devoured by black and bitter jealousy, her heart was lacerated to the extreme of endurance. Her cheek had paled to the hue of the lily; while the purple circle round her eyes told of the mental agony the young Creole was enduring.

In this condition was she when Don Mariano set out on the journey from Oajaca – only three days after the departure of the messenger Gaspar.

The fond father beheld with apprehension the extreme melancholy that had taken possession of his daughter; and, convinced of the inutility of the efforts he had already made to cure her of her passion for Don Rafael – by representing the latter as unworthy of her – he had altogether changed his tactics in that regard. He now endeavoured to extenuate the faults of the Colonel; and, in the place of an accuser, became his benevolent champion.

“The nobility and frankness of his character,” Don Mariano would say, “is enough to set aside all suspicion of his perfidy. His silence may be explained by the events through which he has been involuntarily borne, and by the political relationships that surround him.”

Gertrudis smiled sadly at the words of her father, but her heart was not the less torn with grief.

In this unpleasant state of mind they passed three days, while journeying from Oajaca to the borders of the lake Ostuta. On the route they had met with no particular adventures nor encountered any obstacle; though from rumours that reached them from time to time – of the sanguinary deeds perpetrated by the ferocious Arroyo – they could not help experiencing a certain amount of apprehension.

It was on the third evening of the journey that they reached the Ostuta river and had halted upon its banks at the spot already described. During the night Don Mariano, rendered uneasy by hearing certain confused noises in the adjoining forest, had despatched one of the trustiest of his servants in the direction of the crossing, with directions to reconnoitre the place.

Two hours afterwards the domestic returned, with the report, that, near the ford he had seen numerous fires blazing along the bank of the river and on both sides of the ford. These could be no other than the fires of Arroyo’s camp: since they had heard several times along their route, that the brigand was encamped at the crossing of the Ostuta.

The servant added, that in returning from his reconnaissance he was under the belief that some one had followed him, as dogging his steps through the forest. It was for this reason that Don Mariano had caused the fires of his bivouac to be extinguished, and had so suddenly taken his departure from the place.

By going some distance down the river, and making the circuit of the lake into which it flowed, the servant of Don Mariano believed he could find a crossing, by which they might reach the hacienda of San Carlos on a different road. Although this détour would make their journey nearly one day longer, it would still be preferable to falling into the company of Arroyo and his brigands.

Among all the places in America, sacred to the worship of the native races, perhaps none enjoys a greater celebrity than the lake of Ostuta, and the mountain which rises up out of the bosom of its waters.

The mountain is called Monopostiac, or the Cerro encantado (enchanted hill). It has long been the locale of Indian tradition; and the singularly lugubrious aspect of the lake and its surrounding scenery would seem to justify the legendary stories of which it has been made the scene. It was to the borders of this lake, that the necessity of seeking his own and his daughter’s safety, was now conducting Don Mariano de Silva.

The journey proved long and arduous. The feebleness of Gertrudis would not permit her to travel fast, even in her easy litera; and the bad state of the roads, which would scarce admit the passage of the mules, contributed to retard their advance.

It was near midnight before they came within sight of the lake, – its sombre waters suddenly appearing through an opening in the trees. At the point where they approached, it was bordered by a thick forest, whose dark shadowy foliage promised them an impenetrable asylum where they might pass the night safe from discovery or pursuit.

In this forest Don Mariano resolved to make halt, and wait until the light of day might enable him to discover the crossing, by which, as his servant had assured him, they might reach the by-road leading to the hacienda of San Carlos.

Chapter Sixty Five.
Lantejas Beheaded

The short interval of bluish light between daybreak and sunrise in the tropics was nearly over, when Captain Lantejas and his two trusty followers climbed into their saddles to proceed towards the ford of the Ostuta. A difficulty yet lay in the way of their reaching it: since before gaining the river it would be necessary for them to pass within sight of the hacienda Del Valle, and they might be seen, as they supposed, by the sentinels of the royalist garrison. As yet the three travellers were ignorant that the place was blockaded by the guerilla of Arroyo.

“If we were to pass it by night,” said Costal, “it would look more suspicious. Better to go in full daylight. Clara can ride ahead of us. If any one stops him, he can ask permission for a merchant and his servants who are travelling southward. If, on the other hand, he sees no one, he may ride on; and we can follow him without further ceremony.”

The advice was to the liking of the Captain; and they accordingly commenced advancing along the road that would conduct them past the hacienda.

In about a quarter of an hour they arrived in front of it, near the end of the long avenue already mentioned. Costal and Don Cornelio halted at some distance behind while Clara rode forward; and, to make sure that no one was there, even entered the avenue itself.

Not a human being could be seen. The place appeared deserted – all was silent as upon that night when Don Rafael rode up to the house to find only desolation and death.

Still further to guard against surprise, Clara rode on up the avenue; but he had scarce gone a hundred paces from the main road when a soldier appeared behind the parapet of the hacienda, evidently watching his approach.

The black seeing that he was discovered kept on straight for the building.

The distance hindered Don Cornelio and Costal from distinguishing the words that passed between Clara and the sentry; but they could see that the latter was pointing out something to the black which was to them invisible. Whatever the object was, it appeared to excite the risible faculties of the negro: for, distant as he was, they could distinctly hear him laughing.

Meanwhile the sentinel disappeared, and as Clara continued to indulge in his hilarity, it was evident he had obtained the permission asked for. At all events, Don Cornelio and Costal regarded his behaviour as a good omen.

Nevertheless he seemed to hesitate about returning to the road; and instead of doing so, the moment after, he made signs to Don Cornelio and Costal to advance up the avenue.

Both instantly obeyed the invitation; and when they had arrived near the walls, Clara, still shaking his sides with laughter, pointed out to them the object which had given origin to his mirth.

On beholding it, Don Cornelio believed that his eyes were deceiving him. In truth the spectacle, to which he was thus introduced, had very little in it to justify the merriment of the black. In place of the heads of wolves and other noxious animals, which may often be seen nailed up against the walls of country houses, here there were three human heads! They were not yet desiccated, but appeared as if freshly cut off from the bodies to which they belonged.

“Wretched man!” cried Don Cornelio, addressing himself to Clara, “what is there in such a sight to excite your gaiety?”

“Carrambo!” exclaimed the negro, answering to the reproach by a fresh burst of laughter, – then, in a whisper, he continued, pointing to one of the heads —

“Señor Captain, don’t you see? One of the heads is yours!”

“Mine?” muttered the ex-student, suddenly turning pale, though, as he felt his head still upon his shoulders, he believed that the negro was only mocking him.

“So the sentry has just told me,” affirmed Clara, “but, Señor Captain, you who know how to read may satisfy yourself.”

As the negro spoke he pointed to an inscription, that appeared over one of the heads. Don Cornelio, despite the gloomy shadow which the tall cypresses cast over the wall, was able to read the inscription: “Esta es la cabeza del insurgente Lantejas.” (This is the head of the insurgent Lantejas.)

It was in reality the head of an insurgent of the same name as Don Cornelio himself – one of Arroyo’s followers, who, as already known, by the report of Gaspacho, had been captured during a sortie of the besieged.

Don Cornelio turned his eyes away from the hideous spectacle presented by the head of his namesake; and anathematising once more the unfortunate name which he had inherited from his father, made all haste to ride off from the spot.

In proportion as the distance between him and the hacienda increased, his terror became diminished, and at length ended in a melancholy smile at the odd coincidence of the encounter with his beheaded homonyme.

But the profound silence that surrounded him as he journeyed along, and the knowledge that in a few minutes he would find himself face to face with the redoubtable guerillero, once more imbued the mind of the Captain with the darkest presentiments.

Without permitting his companions to suspect the sentiments that were troubling him, he would willingly have proposed deferring for another day his interview with the bandit chief. Both Costal and Clara, however, as they rode along by his side, presented an appearance of such stoical indifference to danger, that he felt ashamed of showing himself less brave than they; and, thus restrained, he continued to travel on in silence.

Shortly after, they came in sight of the river, and at the same time could command a view of the banks on both side of the ford. Don Cornelio became reassured at the sight. Neither horse, horseman, nor tent, was to be seen. Noisy and bustling as the place had been in the morning, it was now in the evening completely silent and deserted. Not a trace remained of the encampment of Arroyo – save the smouldering bivouac fires, and the débris of various articles that lay scattered over the ground.

“If I know,” said Costal to the Captain, “how to pick the truth from the lies which that scurvy fellow has told us – he who took such a marvellous fancy to your cloak – I should say we are on the road that will guide us to the man you are in search of. He is at this moment, I venture to say, at the hacienda San Carlos – notwithstanding that the droll humbug appeared to make such a mystery of his whereabouts.”

“But suppose the hacienda San Carlos to be occupied by a Spanish garrison?” suggested the Captain.

“Let us first cross the river,” said Costal, “you can remain upon the other side with Clara, while I go forward and make a reconnaissance.”

This proposition was agreed to by Don Cornelio; and the three travellers having forded the stream, Costal prepared to separate from them.

“Be cautious, good Costal,” said Lantejas, “there is danger on every side of us.”

“For me and Clara,” remarked the Indian, with an ironical smile; “one who has already lost his head should have nothing more to fear, Señor Captain!”

Saying this, Costal went off at a trot, leaving the Captain and Clara on the bank of the river.

The Indian had scarce passed out of sight, when a plunging in the water announced that horses were crossing the ford. Looking around, Don Cornelio beheld two horsemen riding out on the bank where he and Clara had halted. One of them carried behind him a pair of canvas alforjas, which appeared to have some large roundish objects inside. Merely exchanging a brief salute, the horsemen were passing on; when the Captain, in hopes of obtaining some information from them, inquired if the hacienda of San Carlos was far distant.

“No,” replied one, “only about a quarter of a league.”

“Are we likely to be well received there?” further asked Don Cornelio.

“Ah!” replied the second horseman, “that depends – ”

The muttered voice, and the distance which he had already gained, hindered Don Cornelio from perceiving the tone of irony in which he spoke; but almost at the same instant the speaker elevated his voice to a high pitch, though only the last words were heard with distinctness.

These were, “Mejico e independencia.”

The phrase was well-known to Don Cornelio.

“What word came before it?” inquired he of his companion; “viva, was it not?”

“No, it was muera,” replied the negro.

“You are mistaken, I think, Clara.”

“No, I repeat it, – it was muera!”

Not having inquired from the horsemen whether San Carlos was in the power of the royalists or insurgents, Don Cornelio remained as undecided upon that point as ever.

A considerable time passed, and still Costal did not return.

“Suppose I gallop forward a bit,” suggested Clara, “and see whether I can meet him?”

The Captain having become uneasy about the prolonged absence of Costal, assented to this proposition; but at the same time directed the black to return in a quarter of an hour, if Costal did not make his appearance within that time.