The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

Literally may I say the “slip,” though the word may need explanation.

I was returning towards my own steed, with the intention of once more regaining my saddle, and riding back in the direction I had come, when a swishing noise fell upon my ear, that caused the blood to curdle within my veins, as if the sound so heard had been the summons of the last trumpet.

The wild cry that succeeded this sound added little to its terrors; for I knew that one was but the prelude to the other.

The first was to me a noise well known and easily identified. It was the whistling of lazos projected through the air. The second was but the triumphant cheer that accompanied their projection.

I looked up in dismay, which instantly became despair. It was not causeless. The air above me was a network of ropes, each with a running noose at its end.

I might not have observed their intricate coiling, nor perhaps did I at the moment. I was not allowed much time for minute observation. Almost in the same instant that the “swishing” sounded in my ears, I felt my body encircled by closing cords; and the next moment I was jerked from my feet, and flung with violence upon my back.

Story 1, Chapter XX

A Cuadrilla of Salteadores

Sudden as it was, and unexpected, there was no mystery in my capture. I had fallen into the hands of Mexicans, and, of course, enemies.

It was a party of horsemen, about forty in number – irregularly armed, but all armed one way or another. They must have seen me as I advanced up the long opening among the trees, though I had no idea that I had been observed by human eye.

Perhaps they had not seen me, but only received warning of my approach by hearing the hoof-strokes of my horse; or they might have seen the steed I was in pursuit of, before mine had made its appearance in the avenue.

At all events, they had been made aware of my coming in some way, and had thrown themselves into an ambush on both sides of the path.

Improbable as it might appear, I could not help fancying that the grey mustang had been sent forth as a “stool pigeon,” so well had the creature succeeded in decoying me into their midst.

I scrambled over the ground, and at length managed to recover my legs. On looking up, I saw that I was surrounded; and felt, moreover, that, although permitted to regain my feet, I was still tightly held in the loops of numerous lazos, which encircled my neck, arms, waist, and limbs.

Any attempt to get away from such multifarious fastenings would have been worse than idle, and could only result in my being plucked off my feet again, and perhaps treated with greater rudeness than before.

Knowing this, I surrendered without making the least movement or resistance.

It was a motley group in whose midst I stood: in this respect equalling a party of Guy Fawkes mimers. No two were dressed exactly alike, though there was a general similitude of costume among them, especially in the particular articles of broad-brimmed hats, and wide-legged trowsers of velveteen.

Some of them had serapés hanging scarf-like over their shoulders; but all were armed with long knives (machetés), and lances; I could also see short guns (escopetas) strapped along the sides of their saddles.

“A guerilla,” I muttered to myself, thinking I had fallen among a hand of guerilleros.

I was soon undeceived, and found I had not been so fortunate. The ruffian countenances of my captors – as soon as I had time to scrutinise them more closely – the coarse jests and ribald language passing between them, along with some other professional peculiarities – told me that, instead of a band of partisans, I was in the clutches of a cuadrilla of salteadores– true robbers of the road!

My observation of the fact was not calculated to tranquillise my spirits, but the contrary. As a general rule, the bandits of Mexico are not bloodthirsty. If the purse be freely delivered up to them, they have no object in ill-treating the person of their captives. It is only when the latter show ill-humour, or attempt resistance, that their lives are in danger.

At that time, however, with the country in a state of active war – with a hated enemy marching victorious along its roads – some of the outlawed chiefs had become inspired with a sort of sham patriotism – in most instances for the purpose of being left free to plunder, or else with the design of obtaining pardon for past offences. Though occasionally acting as guerilleros, and attacking the wagon trains of the American army, their patriotism was of a very ambiguous order; and not unfrequently were their own countrymen the victims of their despoiling propensities.

In one respect only did this patriotism display itself with partiality, and that was in the ferocity with which they treated such American prisoners as had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Horrible mutilations were common – with all the vindictive modes of punishment known to the lex talionis.

I could easily believe, while regarding the ferocious faces around me, that I was in great danger of some fearful fate: perhaps to be drawn and quartered; perhaps burnt alive; perhaps – I knew not what – I could only conjecture something terrible.

After I had been pulled about for some minutes, and rudely abused by several of the band, a man made his appearance in their midst, who seemed to exert over the others some species of authority. The word “capitan,” pronounced by several as he came forward, told me that he was the chief of the robbers; and his appearance entitled him to the distinction.

He was a man of large frame, and swarthy complexion – heavily bearded and moustached. His dress was splendid in the extreme – being a full suit of ranchero costume, with all its ornamental trimming of gold lace, bell-buttons, and needlework embroidery.

The countenance of this man might have been handsome, but for an expression of ferocity that pervaded it; and this was so marked as at once to impress the beholder with the belief that it was the face of a fiend rather than of a human being.

A row of white teeth glistened under his coal-black moustache; and these, as he came near the spot where I was held captive, were displayed, in what was intended for a smile of gratification, but which had all the characteristics of a grin.

I supposed at first that this gratification simply proceeded from his having made prisoner one of the enemies of his country. I had no idea that it could by any possibility have especial reference to myself.

One thing, however, struck me as peculiar. When the brigand spoke – addressing some words of direction to his subordinates – I fancied I had heard his voice before!

It fell on my ears without producing an agreeable impression. Rather the contrary; but where I could have heard it, or why it should jar upon my ear, were questions I could not answer.

I had been a good deal among Mexicans of all classes – not only since the capture of Vera Cruz, but long before the commencement of the campaign. My knowledge of their language had naturally inducted me into a more extensive acquaintance with our enemies than was the lot of most of my comrades. For this reason it did not follow that the sound of a familiar voice should lead to the instant recognition of the man who uttered it – more especially as he from whom it proceeded was before my eyes in propria persona– the chief of a band of salteadores.

I scanned the robber’s face with as much minuteness as circumstances would permit. I could not perceive in it a single feature that I remembered ever to have seen before.

Perhaps I was mistaken about the voice?

I listened to hear it again. Not long was I kept waiting. Once more it was raised; not, as before, in words addressed to the salteadores who surrounded me, but to myself.

“Ho, cavallero!” cried the robber chief, coming up to the spot where I stood, and speaking in a tone of triumphant exultation; “you are welcome among us – the more especially as I owe you a revanche for the little bit of service you did me last night. If I am not mistaken, it is to your bullet I am indebted for this.”

As the brigand spoke, he threw back upon his shoulders the closed folds of his manga, exposing his right arm to my view. I saw that it was carried in a sling, and that the hand, protruding beyond the scarf that supported it, was wrapped in cotton rags, that were stained with blotches of dry blood!

My memory needed no further refreshing. No wonder that the bandit’s voice had fallen upon my ears with a familiar sound. It was the same I had heard only the night before, giving utterance to that hideous threat of which I had hindered the fulfilment – the same that had cried, “Die, Calros Vergara!”

No additional explanation was required. I stood in the presence of Ramon Rayas!

“How feel you now?” continued the robber, in a taunting tone, not unmingled with fierce bitterness. “Don Quixote of the modern time! You, the protector of female innocence! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ah,” cried he, turning round, and fixing his eyes upon my beautiful horse – held captive, like myself, by half a score of lazos. “Por Dios! You have the advantage of La Mancha’s knight in your mount. A steed fit for a salteador! He will suit me, as if he had been foaled on purpose.

“Ho there, Santucho!” he cried out to one of his band, who was holding Moro by the bridle-rein. “Off with that stupid saddle, and replace it with my own. I just wanted such a horse. Thank you, Señor Americano! You can have mine in exchange; and you will be the more welcome to him since you have only one more ride to make before making that great leap that will launch you into the gulf of eternity! Ha! ha! ha!”

To this series of taunting speeches I offered no reply. Words of mine would have been idle as the murmurings of the wind. I knew it; and withheld them.

“Into your saddles, leperos!” cried the brigand, thus familiarly addressing himself to his subordinates. “Bring your prisoner along with you. Strap him tightly to the horse. Have a care he don’t escape! If he do you shall dearly rue your negligence, besides losing the pleasure of a spectacle which I shall provide for you after we arrive at the Rinconada.”

Rayas leaped upon the back of my own brave steed, which chafed, discontented, under the clumsy caparison of the Mexican saddle; but more so when mounted by one whom he seemed to recognise as the enemy of his master.

For myself I was roughly pitched upon the back of the brigand’s horse; and, after being securely tied, hands behind, and legs to the stirrup-leathers, I was conducted from the ground, a brace of brigands riding, one on either side, and guarding me with a vigilance that forbade me to indulge in the slightest hope of escape.

Story 1, Chapter XXI

Robbers En Route

At a short distance from the spot where I had been lazoed, the road taken by the robbers debouched from the forest, and entered the chapparal.

No longer under the gloomy shadow of the great trees, I had a better view of the band, and could see that they were genuine salteadores.