The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид
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got some black marks against him. Look here, hombres,” continued the speaker, drawing nearer to the others, and adopting a more confidential tone. “I’m a blind man, if I haven’t seen his phiz before; ay, and tapado at that.”
“Tapado?” echoed several.
“With black crape! It was only on my last trip but one up the country. I went with the recua of José Villares. He carried goods for that English house—you know—in the Calle do Mercaderos. Well, we were stopped at the Pinal, between Peroté and Puebla; every mule stripped of its carga; and every man of us, with José himself obliged to lie with our mouths to the grass, till the rascals had rifled the recua. They took only what was most valuable and easiest carried; but, carrambo! it well nigh ruined poor José; he has never been the same aniero since.”
“What of all that, hombre?” inquired one, who seemed to be still unsatisfied. “What has that to do with the Capitan Rayas?”
“Ah! I forgot,” said the accuser; “it was of the Capitan Rayas we were speaking. Well, it has this to do with him. The salteadores were all tapado, with black crape over their faces, their captain like the rest; but while he was engaged examining some papers he took from José, I caught a glance of his ugly countenance—just enough to know it again. If it wasn’t the same I saw the other day when I met this Rayas in the camp, then I don’t know chingarito from holy water. I’ll answer for it from the chin up to the eyes. Above that I didn’t see it, for the tapado was over it.”
“Bah!” exclaimed one of the men, who appeared to be of easy conscience himself; “what if the Capitan Rayas has done a little business on the road? There are officers in our army of higher rank than he who’ve cried out, ‘Boca abajo!’—ay, some that are now generals!”
“Hush, camarade!” interrupted one who stood nearest the speaker. “See, the medico’s coming out. Guardate, guardate! it’s treason you’re talking!”
The interest with which I had listened to this singular palaver, had hindered me from entering the tent. The men had spoken loud enough for me to overhear every word—no doubt under the supposition that I did not understand their language—and to keep them in this belief, I had made pretence of being engaged in a whispering conversation with one of my own troopers who stood near.
As the return of the medico put an end to the talking of his attendants, I advanced to meet him, and inquired the condition of his patient.
“Thanks to your care, cavallero, he is out of danger from his wound. But from what he has confided to me—and to you also, I believe—he will be in danger of another kind by remaining in this place.”
I could tell from this speech that Calros had communicated to the surgeon the incidents of the preceding night.
“How long do you keep guard here?” inquired the Mexican, with an abstracted air.
“I am under orders to strike tents and march—exactly at noon.”
“To Jalapa, I presume?”
“To Jalapa.”
“In that case this young fellow must be carried back to the village of El Plan. A body of your troops will likely remain there for some time?”
“I believe that is the intention of our commander-in-chief.”
“Then the invalid would be safer there. It will do him no harm, if taken upon a stretcher. I must lend him half-a-dozen of my assistants, or pick up some stragglers to perform this service.”
“He would be safer in Jalapa?” I suggested, interrogatively. “Besides, the climate of Jalapa is much more favourable to the healing of wounds—is it not?”
“That is true,” answered the man of science; “but Jalapa is distant. We have not a single ambulance in our army. Who is to carry him there—a poor soldier?”
“A fine young fellow, notwithstanding. My men would not mind the trouble of taking him, if you think—”
I looked round, in hopes that the proposal might be heard and approved by another.
The Jarocha was standing in the entrance of the tent, her face beaming with gratitude. No doubt it was due to the assurance which the surgeon had given her of her brother’s speedy recovery; but I fancied I could perceive, in the sparkle of her beautiful eyes, a smile indicative of consent to what I had proposed.
The surgeon comprehended not the cause of my friendly interest in the welfare of the wounded Jarocho.
Did Lola comprehend it? Did she suspect it? Endowed with the keen, delicate instincts of her race, it was probable she did; at least, I fancied so, from the kindly look with which she had listened to my suggestion.
After all, it might have been gratitude for my friendly intentions, and nothing more.
“I see no objection to his going up the road,” said the surgeon, after having spent some little time in considering, “It is very kind on your part, cavallero,” added he—“a stranger and an enemy.” Here the medico smiled. “It is only a continuation of your humane exertions during the past night.”
A smile, almost imperceptible, accompanied this last observation, together with the slightest raising of his eyes towards the Jarocha.
“Suppose,” said he, continuing his speech, and relieving me from some little embarrassment, “suppose we consult the wishes of the invalid himself. What say you, señorita?”
“Gracias, ñores,” replied the girl. “I shall ask brother Calros.”
“Calros!” she called out, turning her face towards the tent. “The young officer who has been so kind to you proposes to have you carried up the road to Jalapa. Would you like to go there? The medico says the air of Jalapa will be better for you than this place.”
With a fast-beating pulse I listened for the response of the invalid.
It was delayed. Calros appeared to be considering.
“Why?” I asked myself.
“Ay de mi!” broke in the voice of his sister, in a tone of ingenuous reflection. “It is very hot at El Plan.”
“Thanks, sweet Lola!” I mentally exclaimed, and listened for the decision of Calros, as a criminal waiting for his verdict.
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