The Bandolero Part 27

"No--not to the house. Thar's a bit o' it too--the last hundred yards or so--impossible for bosses."

"Still it would have been better than to leave them here? I don't like separating the men from their saddles--especially as we know nothing of the ground."

"Thar's another reezun for our not goin' the other way," pursued the guide, without replying to my remarks. "If I'd taken you by the road we might a made a mess o' it."

"How?"

"If they're up at the big house there'll be one o' 'em on the watch down below--near the joinin' o' the roads. They allers keep a sentry there.

He'd be sartin to a seen us--whereas, by comin' this way, we may have a chance o' stealin' close to the shanty afore any o' 'em sets eyes on us."

"You propose that we dismount, then, and go forward afoot?"

"Thar's no other way, cap'n."

"How far is it to the house?"

"As to distance, nothin'; not over six hundred yards, I shed say. I've only been there once. It's the steepness o' the track that takes up the time."

I did not much like the idea of dismounting my men, and leading them away from their horses. Not but that the individuals I had selected were equal to good fighting afoot; but it occurred to me that it was possible for us to have been seen, as we marched along the lower road-- seen, too, by those who might have a fancy to follow us.

There were guerilleros along the mountain foot, as well as robbers in its ravines. In short, every peasant and small proprietor was at this time a _partisan_.

What if a band should get together, and come on after us? The capture of twenty American horses--without a blow struck to retain them--would have been a blow to me I should not easily have got over. It would have been the ruin of a military reputation, I had but just commenced making.

I dared not risk such a discomfiture; and I determined upon the men remaining by their horses.

I had no idea of abandoning the enterprise. That would have been a still greater disgrace. I but stayed to consider some plan of approach, involving less risk of a failure.

A few minutes spent in reflection, and a few more words exchanged with the stage-driver, helped me to what I conceived a better: the men to remain where they were; myself and the guide to go up the ravine alone, reconnoitre the house, and then take such measures as circ.u.mstances might suggest.

If we should find that the brigands were "abroad," my troopers would be spared a toilsome ascent, and the chagrin of a disappointment. If "at home," it might then be worth while to pay them a visit in full force.

The guide thought there would be no danger in our going alone--so long as we made our reconnoissance with proper caution. There was no scarcity of cover, both underwood and tall timber. In the event of our being perceived while making approach, we could fall back upon our friends, before much harm could be done to us. Should we be close pressed, the men could meet us half-way. I had the means of making them hear me at three times the distance.

I had no lieutenant with me--only my first sergeant, who had seen service in three out of the four quarters of the globe. Above all, he had "fit Injun, both in forest and prairie;" and could be trusted on an enterprise like that we had in hand.

Having arranged the signal in a whisper, and communicated to him such other instructions as occurred to me, I dismounted from my horse; and followed "Don Samuel Bruno" in the direction of the "shanty."

The night was far from being a dark one. These are rare under the skies of Southern Mexico. There was no moon, but myriads of stars; and at a later hour the moon might be expected.

The atmosphere was tranquil--scarce a breath of air stirring the suspended leaves of the pines. The slightest sound could have been heard at a remarkable distance. We could distinguish the bleating of sheep on the plain below, and the screaming of wildfowl on the sedgy sh.o.r.es of Lake Chalco!

Less light, and more noise, would have answered our purpose better.

We ourselves made but little of the last. Though the path was steep, it was not so difficult of ascent--only here and there, as it extended from terrace to terrace by a more precipitous escarpment--and up these we were a.s.sisted by the shrubbery.

We had agreed to proceed by signs; or, when near enough, by whispers.

We knew that the slightest sound might betray us.

At short intervals we stopped to obtain breath--less from actual exhaustion, than to keep down the noise of our heightened respiration.

At one place we made a more lengthened pause. It was upon a shelf-like terrace of some extent--where there were hoof-prints of horses, and other indications of a trodden path. My guide pointed them out-- whispering to me, that it was the road of which he had spoken.

I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date--made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The "sign" promised well for the success of our enterprise.

Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain.

The stage-driver silently preceded me--still going slowly, and without any abatement of caution.

I had time to reflect, as I followed him.

My thoughts were anything but cheerful. The gloomy canopy of the pines appeared to give a tinge to my spirit, and it became attuned to the sad sighing heard high up among their _ancillae_. The moaning of the great Mexican owl, as it glided past on soft silent wing, seemed meant only to mock me!

I had been under a half belief that I had forgotten Dolores Villa-Senor, or become indifferent to her existence. Vain hallucination! Idle, and I knew it now.

Long weary marches; sieges protracted; battles, and wounds therein received; even the coquetry of other eyes--wicked as hers--had not chased her image from my heart, or my memory. It was there still.

I could see her countenance before me--under the sombre shadow of the trees--plain as I saw the white-winged owls--soft as the weird wafting of their wings!

I had not forgotten her. In that hour I knew that I never should.

And while hastening to effect her rescue, I felt as if I could have gloated over her ruin--so steeped was my soul in chagrin--so brimful of black vengeance!

It was no chivalrous thought that was carrying me up the slopes of Ixticihuatl--only the hope of humiliating her, who had humiliated me!

I was aroused from my unworthy imaginings by the voice of Sam Brown, whispering close to my ear. His words were:--

"Don't ye hear it, cap'n?"

"Hear what?"

"The music."

"If you call the hooting of that horrid owl--"

I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards.

"Don't ye hear somethin' up that way?" he continued, "Thar's the tw.a.n.g o' a guitar, or one o' them thar Mexikin bandoleens--as they call 'em.

Hear that? Somebody laughin'! Hear that, too? If my ears haven't lost thar hearin', that ere's the voice o' a sheemale!"

The last remark secured my attention. I listened--as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death!

There _was_ the tw.a.n.g of a stringed instrument--harp or guitar, bandolon or _jarana_. There _was_ a voice--a man's voice--and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat.

"Yes," I a.s.sented, mechanically, "there's music there!"

"Moren' that, cap'n! Thar's dancin'."