Chapter Twenty Two
The New Kingdom
The Mexican senator, with his contracted, or rather egoistic views, was struck dumb by the gigantic and daring design of his companion. He could only exclaim, as he respectfully pressed the hand which the Spaniard held out to him:
“Oh, Don Estevan – if you permit me still to give you this modest title – I regret my suspicions; and for the happiness which you offer me, for the grand perspective which you open before me, I promise you my life, my heart, but – ”
“But! another suspicion?” asked Don Estevan, with a smile.
“No, not a suspicion of you, but a fear of some one else. Have you noticed the young man whom chance brought into our company? I have a secret presentiment that there is something between him and Doña Rosarita. He is young – he is good-looking – and they appear to have known each other a long while.”
“What!” exclaimed Don Estevan, “jealous of this ragged rustic?”
“I avow,” replied the Senator, “that I cannot help it. I noticed two or three times their eyes fixed upon each other with a strange expression.”
“Make yourself easy about that. I know, for certain – and from Don Augustin himself I have had my information – that the heart of his daughter is free. Besides, her vanity alone would hinder her from any fancy for this droll fellow, who appears to have all the pride of a Spanish beggar. He shall be watched; and, should he have the impudence to carry his pretensions so high, it will be an easy matter to send him about his business.”
In pronouncing the last words the countenance of Don Estevan appeared for a moment to wear a troubled expression, and he could not hinder himself from adding:
“I have myself remarked what you say, but let us not dwell upon chimerical fears. Listen to me, Don Vicente, while I explain more categorically the object of which I have been speaking, in order that you may understand fully why I wish to reckon upon your assistance. I have not yet told you – either what resources I have, or the kingdom it is my design to conquer.”
“True enough,” assented Tragaduros, “you have not.”
“The province then which I intend to transform into a kingdom is neither more nor less than this of Sonora.”
“What! our republican state to be changed into a monarchy!” exclaimed the Senator. “Señor Don Estevan, to attempt this will be to play with your life.”
“I know it.”
“But what resources do you count upon?”
“Listen: Ten years ago I was in the Spanish army, and fought against the independence of your country in this very province. I then became acquainted with its resources – its incalculable richness – and when I quitted it to go home to Europe, I had a presentiment that some day I should again return to it – as I have done. Chance at that time made me acquainted with Don Augustin, then occupied in amassing the vast wealth which to-day he so freely spends. I had the fortune to render him a service – to save his life, in fact, and prevent his house from being pillaged by the insurgents, for he did not conceal his sympathy for the Spanish cause. I afterwards kept up with him a correspondence, and learned that Sonora became every day more discontented with the federal government. I then designed my great plan, which was approved of by the prince, and at his desire I came over here. Don Augustin was among the first to whom I opened my purpose. He was flattered by the promises I was able to make in the name of my royal master, and at once placed his fortune at my disposal.
“Nothwithstanding the large pecuniary resources I have been able to dispose of, I am seeking to augment them still farther, and chance has favoured me. While here in my former campaign I made the acquaintance of an odd character – a young fellow who in turns betrayed both royalists and republicans. My relations with him recall a somewhat droll occurrence. I found that he was guiding the regiment I commanded into an ambuscade of the insurgents, and I ordered him to be hung to the first tree we should meet with. Fortunately for him my men translated the order in its most literal sense; and being at the time in the middle of vast savannahs entirely destitute of trees, the execution was held over, as it was an impossibility to perform it. The result was that in the middle of our marchings and counter-marchings the fellow escaped; and it appears did not, afterwards, hold any rancour towards me, since he has again offered his services to me. This fellow to-day goes by the name of Cuchillo. It was he whom I met at the village of Huerfano, where you saw us renew our acquaintance; and at that interview he has made known to me the secret of an immense placer of gold – whither I intend to conduct my expedition. Besides ourselves, Cuchillo alone knows the object of this enterprise,” (the Spaniard did not mention the name of Tiburcio), “which is generally supposed to be merely a new expedition – like many others that have been got up to go gold seeking by chance.
“And now, Señor Senator,” continued Don Estevan, “you need not proceed farther with us. You may remain here, where you will have an easy part to play, in making yourself agreeable to the fair Rosarita, while I am braving the perils of this unknown frontier. As for Cuchillo, if he attempt to play the traitor with me a second time, I shall take care to be a little more prompt in punishing him.
“The product of this expedition,” pursued the Spaniard, – “of which, as leader, I shall be entitled to a fifth part – will be added to the resources I have already. The men who compose it will be easily converted into devoted partisans of our design; and should it happen that the forces I expect from Europe should fail to come to hand in due time, these adventurers will serve a good purpose. But I have no fear for the want of followers. Europe is at the present moment overcrowded with people who lack employment: any enterprise will be welcome to them; and a leader in any part of the world needs only to speak the word for crowds to enrol themselves under his banner.”
As he said this, Don Estevan paced the room, agitated by the grandeur of his thoughts. His dark eyes flashed with excitement, and his soul seemed inspired with a warlike ardour that caused him for a while to forget the presence of the Senator. It was only after some minutes spent in this wild enthusiasm that he remembered an important fact – that in all projects such as he was engaged in, intrigue should be the precursor of open action; and as this was to be the peculiar rôle which the Senator was expected to play, he again turned to address himself to this individual.
“Meanwhile,” said he, “your tactics will be of a more pacific character. I take charge of the open fighting – while you manage the secret diplomacy of the affair. Your fortune, restored to you by this opulent alliance, will enable you to get back the influence you have lost. You will receive with the daughter of Don Augustin, at least two hundred thousand dollars of dowry. Half of this you are to employ in making partisans in the Senate, and in what you are pleased to call your army. This sum you will not lose: it will be repaid to you, and with usurious interest; or if it never should, you still make a good thing of it. The end you will keep in view, is to detach the Senate of Sonora from the Federal alliance. You will find no lack of reasons for this policy. For instance, your State has now scarcely the privileges of a simple territory; your interests differ entirely from those of the central States of the Republic. Every day your laws are becoming more centralised. The President, who deals with your finances, resides at a distance of seven hundred leagues from your capital – it is ridiculous! Besides, the funds of the treasury are misappropriated – the army badly paid, although you have to do your duty in raising the tax that is to pay it – a thousand grievances can be cited. Well, this will enable you to get up a pronunciamento, and before the news of your grito can reach the city of Mexico, and the Executive power there can send a force against you – ay, before the government troops could get half-way to Sonora, more than two-thirds of them would desert. The others would come upon the ground, only to find the insurrectionary party too strong for them, and they themselves would be certain to join us.
“Laws emanating from your own Senate – of which you yourself would have the control and guidance – laws suited to the manners and usages of your State, would soon become firmly established and respected, and Sonora would then be an independent government. This would be the first step and the most difficult. After that the rest would be easy enough; and the gold which I should furnish will bring it about. The Senate and the army would call for a European prince to place himself at their head – one who speaks the same language and professes the same religion as themselves. This prince I have already provided. Now hear me, Don Vicente! as to your own share in this business. The Senator Despilfarro is already a rich man, with a lady for his wife of whom a prince might be proud. He will be made noble – a count – a Grandee of Spain. A lucrative post will attach him to the person of the new king, and nothing is to hinder him from rising to the very summit of his ambition. All this I promise on the part of your future sovereign, King Charles the First.”
With these words the Spaniard finished his harangue. The Mexican Senator, fascinated by the riches and honours thus promised him, grasped the hand of the bold conspirator, at the same time crying out with enthusiasm, “Viva! Viva Carlos el Primero!”
“Good!” rejoined Don Estevan, with a smile. “Don Carlos can count upon one powerful partisan already in Sonora, and there will soon be many. But it is getting late, Don Vicente, and I have yet much business to do before I can go to sleep. You will excuse me, then, if I bid good-night to you.”
After exchanging the usual buenas noches, the Senator returned to his own chamber and couch, to dream of his future riches and grandeur.
Chapter Twenty Three
Quarrelsome Gamesters
In a remote chamber of the hacienda were lodged the four adventurers, Pedro Diaz, Oroche, Cuchillo, and Baraja. These gentlemen were not slow in becoming acquainted with one another, and this acquaintance was soon of the most familiar character. In the middle of the room in which all four were to pass the night, stood a strong oaken table, upon which, in an iron candlestick, was burning a long thin tallow candle, that gave forth a somewhat dim and doubtful light. By this light Cuchillo and Baraja – forgetful of all their promises and vows – were going on with the game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village of Huerfano.
Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche, seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his elbow resting on his knee – the favourite attitude of mandolin players – accompanied his own voice as he sang the boleros and fandangos then most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region.
Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of mezcal, already half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally helped themselves – as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour. Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja’s pockets, and Cuchillo was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him. The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the table.
“Who the devil wants your music?” cried he to Oroche in a furious tone, “and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion – only credit when I win, and cash whenever I lose.”
“You offend me, Señor Cuchillo,” said Baraja, “my word has always passed for its value in cash.”
“Especially when you don’t happen to lose,” sneeringly added Cuchillo.
“That is not a very delicate insinuation,” said Baraja gathering up the cards. “Fye, fye! Señor Cuchillo – to get angry about such a trifle! I myself have lost half a hacienda at play – after being robbed of the other half – and yet I never said a word about it.”
“Didn’t you indeed? what’s that to me? I shall speak as I please, Señor Baraja, and as loudly as I please too,” added he, placing his hand upon the hilt of his knife.
“Yes,” coolly answered Baraja, “I know you use words that cause your friends to drop dead; but these words are harmless at a distance – besides I have got a tongue as sharp as yours, Señor Cuchillo.”
As Baraja said this, he drew his knife from its sheath – in which action he was imitated by his antagonist – and both placed themselves simultaneously in an attitude for fight.
Oroche coolly took up his mandolin – which at the interference of Cuchillo he had laid aside – and, like a bard of ancient times was, preparing to accompany the combat with a chant, when Diaz suddenly interposed between the two champions.
“For shame, gentlemen!” cried he; “what! two men made to be mutual friends, thus to cut each other’s throats for a few paltry dollars! on the eve too of becoming the owners of a hundred times as much! Have I not understood you to say, Señor Cuchillo, that you were to be the guide of our expedition? Your life is no more your own, then; it belongs to us all, and you have no right to risk it. And you, Señor Baraja! you have not the right to attempt the life of our guide. Come! put up your knives, and let there be no more of this matter.”
This speech recalled the two combatants to their senses. Cuchillo remembering the grand interest he had in the success of the expedition, and perceiving that the risk of life was playing a little too high – for a combat of this sort usually ends in the death of one or the other – gave ready ear to the counsel of Diaz. Baraja, on his side, reflected that the dollars he had already pocketed might be better employed than in defraying the expenses of his own funeral; and on this reflection was equally ready to desist from his intention.
“Be it so, then!” cried Cuchillo, speaking first; “I sacrifice my feelings to the common good.”
“And I,” said Baraja, “I am willing to follow so noble an example. I disarm – but – I shall play no more.”
The knives were again stuck into their scabbards, and the two adversaries mutually extended their hands to one another.
At this moment, Diaz, by way of preventing any allusion to the recent quarrel, suddenly turning to Cuchillo, demanded:
“Who, Señor Cuchillo, is this young man whom I saw riding by your side as you came up to the hacienda? Notwithstanding the friendship that appeared to exist between you and him, if I mistake not, I observed you regarding one another with an occasional glance of mistrust – not to say hostility. Was it not so?”
Cuchillo recounted how they had found Tiburcio half dead upon the road, and also the other circumstances, already known to the reader; but the question put by Diaz had brought the red colour into the face of the outlaw, for it recalled to him how his cunning had been outwitted by the young man, and also how he had been made to tremble a moment under Tiburcio’s menace. Writhing under these remembrances, he was now determined to make his vengeance more secure, by enlisting his associates as accomplices of his design.
“It often happens,” said he, in a significant tone, “that one man’s interest must be sacrificed to the common welfare – just as I have now done – does it not?”
“Without doubt,” replied several.
“Well then,” continued Cuchillo, “when one has given himself, body and soul, to any cause, whatever it may be, it becomes his duty, as in my case, to put a full and complete constraint upon his affections, his passions, even his dearest interests – ay, even upon any scruples of conscience that might arise in an over-delicate mind.”
“All the world knows that,” said Baraja.
“Just so, gentlemen. Well, I feel myself in that difficulty; I have a too timid conscience, I fear, and I want your opinions to guide me.”
His audience maintained an imperturbable silence.
“Suppose, then,” continued the outlaw, “there was a man whom you all held in the highest esteem, but whose life compromised the success of our expedition, what should be done with him?”
“As God lives,” cried Oroche, “I should be happy to find some occasion of sacrificing private interests to the common good.”
“But is there such a man?” inquired Diaz, “and who may he be?”
“It’s a long story,” replied Cuchillo, “and its details concern only myself – but there is such a man.”
“Carajo!” exclaimed Oroche, “that is enough; he should be got rid of as speedily as possible.”
“Is that the advice of all of you?” asked Cuchillo.
“Of course,” answered simultaneously Oroche and Baraja.
Diaz remained silent keeping himself out of this mysterious compromise. After a little, he rose from his seat, and under some pretext left the chamber.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” said Cuchillo, addressing himself to his two more facile comrades, “you are fully of the opinion that the man should be got rid of? Let me tell you, then, that this man is no other than Tiburcio Arellanos.”
“Tiburcio!” exclaimed the two acolytes.
“Himself – and although, since he is one of my dearest friends, it goes sadly against my heart, I declare to you that his life may render abortive all the plans of our expedition.”
“But,” interposed Baraja, “why may he not lose it? – to-morrow in this hunt of wild horses there will be a thousand opportunities of his losing it?”
“True enough,” said Cuchillo, in a solemn voice. “It is of great importance he should not return from this hunt. Can I rely upon you, gentlemen?”
“Blindly!” replied the two adventurers.
The storm was gathering over the head of poor Tiburcio, but danger threatened him from still another quarter; and long before the expected hunt, that danger would be at its height.
The three adventurers continued their conversation, and were entering more particularly into the details of their design, when a knocking at the outer door interrupted their sinister councils.
Chapter Twenty Four
Tiburcio in Danger
Cuchillo opened the door, outside of which appeared one of the attendants of Don Estevan. Without entering the man communicated his message – which was to Cuchillo himself – to the effect that Don Estevan awaited him in the garden. The outlaw, without reply, followed the servant, who conducted him to an alley between two rows of granadines, where a man wrapped in his cloak was pacing to and fro, apparently buried in a deep meditation. It was Don Estevan himself.
The approach of Cuchillo interrupted his reverie, and a change passed over his countenance. Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself.
“You have sent for me?” said he to Don Estevan.
“You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion,” began the Spaniard, without making answer. “I have allowed you time enough to sound this young fellow – you know whom I mean. Well! no doubt you have penetrated to the bottom and know all – you, whose perspicacity is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience?”
There was an ascerbity in this speech which caused the outlaw to feel ill at ease, for it re-opened the wounds of his self-esteem.
“Well,” continued Don Estevan, “what have you learnt?”
“Nothing,” replied Cuchillo.
“Nothing!”
“No; the young man could tell me nothing, since he knew nothing himself. He has no secrets for me.”
“What! does he not suspect the existence of the Golden Valley?”
“He knows no more of it than of the Garden of Eden,” replied Cuchillo, with a confident swagger.
“What was bringing him to the hacienda, then – for that is upon the route? He must have some object in coming this way.”
“O yes! – he came to ask Don Augustin to take him into his service as a vaquero.”
“It is evident,” said the Spaniard, in a tone of mockery, “that you have gained his full confidence and know all about him.”
“I flatter myself, my perspicacity – ”
“Is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience,” interrupted Don Estevan, still keeping up his tone of raillery. “Well, but has this young man not confided to you any other secret? You have had a long ride together, and an opportunity to talk of many things. For instance, has he said nothing to you about an affair of the heart? – has he not told you he was in love?”
“Por Dios! Who could Tiburcio be in love with in these deserts? The poor devil is likely to think more of a good horse than a pretty girl.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a mocking laugh that sent a shivering through the frame of Cuchillo. “Well, well! friend Cuchillo, your youth promised better than this. If your conscience is as callous as your perspicacity is obtuse – which God forbid – it is not likely to interfere with your sleep.”
“What do you mean, señor?” demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.
“I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it.”
“Good action!” repeated Cuchillo, embarrassed to know at what epoch of his life he had done such a thing.
“Yes – in saving this young man’s life.”
“But it was you who did that good action: as for me, it was only a lucrative one.”
“Be it so. I will lend it to you, notwithstanding the proverb which says we should only lend to the rich. But now hear what I have ascertained – I, who do not boast either of my scruples of conscience or of my perspicacity. This young man has in his pocket, at this moment, a written direction of the route to the Golden Valley; moreover, he is passionately in love with Doña Rosarita, for whom he would give all the gold in this valley, or all the gold in the world, and all the horses in Sonora, if he had them. Moreover, his object in coming to the Hacienda del Venado, was to make himself its future proprietor.”
“Blood and thunder!” cried Cuchillo, started as if bitten by a snake – “that cannot be – it is not possible I could be fooled in that manner by a child!”
“That child is a giant beside you, master Cuchillo,” coldly replied Arechiza.
“It is impossible!” exclaimed the exasperated Cuchillo.
“Do you wish the proofs? – if you do you shall have them – but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.”
“No matter; I should like to hear them,” said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice.
“I will not speak of your conscience – mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders – nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars – ”
Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.
“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race – or appears to be of a race – that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”
“No,” said Cuchillo.
“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is: – In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”
“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.
“A second question: – Were they really Indians who murdered your companion?”
“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.
“Third question: – Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”
“I did – to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”
“One more question: – Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river – not quite dead, it may be?”
The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.
Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!
“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.
“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant – the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception – no treason, or your life will answer for it!”
“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”
The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:
“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration – ”
“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”
Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears – as of two persons engaged in conversation – but the words could not be distinguished.
“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.
“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”
A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this: – “If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”
Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.
The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?
Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!
“Providence,” said he to himself – and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips – “Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no – no – I spurn the occasion – it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”
As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.
“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes – now follow me!”