CHAPTER X
THE BRIGAND CHIEF
"Don Rodrigo de Vivar, Rapaz, orgulloso, y vano." --_El Cid._
Imagine an abnormally virtuous urchin and an abnormally kindly farmer.The urchin resolutely turns his back on the farmer's melon patch, thoughthere is no end of opportunity. But the farmer catches him, brings himin by the ear, makes him choose a big one, and leaves him there, thesole judge of his own capacity. Driscoll had tried to dodge a fight, butFate was his kindly farmer.
"Better fall back a little, Murgie," he said. "You'd only scare 'em, youknow."
He himself passed on ahead. But it was mid-afternoon before anythinghappened. Jacqueline meantime had shown some pettish ill-humor. Thosewho had fought to be her escort were now singularly indifferent.Driscoll was idly curious and quietly contemptuous, but he detected nofright in her manner. "Fretting for her silver-braided Greaser," he saidto himself. "A pretty scrape she's got herself into, too! Now I wonderwhy a girl can't have any sense." But as the answer was going to taketoo long to find, he swerved back to the simpler matter of a possiblefracas.
"Well, well," he exclaimed at last, rising in his stirrups, "if thereisn't her nickel-plated hero now!"
A quarter of a mile ahead, mounted, waiting stock-still across thetrail, was Fra Diavolo. The American put away his pipe and barely movedhis spurred boot, yet the good buckskin's ears pointed forward and hetrotted ahead briskly. From old guerrilla habit, the cavalryman notedall things as he rode. To his left the blue of the mountain line, beingnearer now, had deepened to black, and the Sierra seemed to hang overhim, ominously. But the dark summits were still without detail, andmidway down, where the solid color broke into deep green verdure and wasmottled by patches of dry slabs of rock, there was yet that massive blurwhich told of distance. Foothills had rolled from the towering slide,and mounds had tumbled from the hills, and a tide of giant pebbles hadswept down from the mounds. These rugged boulders had turned the trail,so that the American was riding beneath a kind of cliff. To his right,on the east of the trail, the boulders were smaller and scattered, likea handful of great marbles flung across the cactus plain. He may haveglanced toward this side especially, at the clumps of spiny growth overthe pradera, and caught glimpses behind the strewn rocks, but his lookwas casual, unstartled. He breathed deeply, though. The old familiarelation set him vaguely quivering and tingling, with nervous, subtledesire. The young animal's excess of life surged into a pain, almost.Even the buckskin, knowing him, took his mood, and held high hisnostrils.
Fra Diavolo's peaked beaver, his jacket, his breeches, his high pommeledsaddle, his great box stirrups, the carabine case strapped behind, allbe-scrolled with silver, danced hazily to the magic of rays slantingdown from the lofty Sierra line. Like himself, his horse was a thing ofspirited flesh, for glorious display. The glossy mane flowedluxuriantly. The tail curved to the ground. A mountain lion's skincovered his flanks. He was large and sleek and black, with the metal andpride of an English strain. He was a carved war-charger. The man astridewas rigid, stately. Man and horse had a heroic statue's promise ofinstant, furious life.
"Oh, la beaute d'un homme!" cried Jacqueline, perceiving the majesticoutline silhouetted against the rocks. "Why, why--it's Fra Diavolo!"
"It--it is!" confessed Murguia. There was dread, not surprise, in hisexclamation. The waiting horseman, and a lonely hut there behindhim--none other than a brigand "toll-station"--these were but toosignificant of an old and hated rendezvous. Don Anastasio got to hisfeet and nervously hurried his caravan back a short distance. Then heran ahead again and overtook the two Frenchwomen. "Senoritas, wait!Neither of you need go. But I will--I must, but I can go alone, whileyou----"
"Why, what ails the man?"
"Back, senorita, back, before he sees you!"
Jacqueline looked at the imploring eyes, at the palsied hand on herbridle. "Berthe," she said, "here's your little monsieur gettingconstitutional again."
"You _will_ go, senorita?"
"Parbleu!" said the girl, and lashed her mustang.
"Dios, Dios," gasped the little monsieur, hurrying after them, "whenMaximiliano hears of this----"
"You should see Maximilian when he is angry," Jacqueline called over hershoulder. "It is very droll."
Din Driscoll had vaulted to the ground in the instant of halting.Immediately he led his horse behind the solitary hut, which was a_jacal_ of bamboo and thatch built under the cliff, and left himthere. Demijohn was a seasoned campaigner, and he would not move untilhis trooper came for him. When Driscoll emerged again, his coat was overhis left arm, and the pockets were bulging. Fra Diavolo had alreadysaluted him, but gazed down the trail at the two women approaching.
"How are you, captain?" Driscoll began cordially.
Fra Diavolo looked down from his mighty seat. "Ai, mi coronel, I wasexpecting Your Mercy."
"Honest, now? Or weren't you worrying lest I'd got left back inTampico?"
One of the ranchero's hands rose, palm out, deprecatingly.
"But someone might have told you I didn't get left at all," Driscollpursued. "Segundino maybe? Or was it Juan?"
"Or Don Tiburcio?" suggested the captain. He dismounted and doffed hisbig sombrero. "Good, I see you brought Her Ladyship safely."
"Or I myself, rather," said Jacqueline, reining in her pony at themoment, "Ah, the Senor Capitan as an escort knows how to make himselfprized by much anticipation."
"Senorita!" The Mexican bent in heavy ceremony, the sombrero coveringhis breast. "I am honored, even in Your Mercy's censure. Those whodeserve it could not appreciate it more."
"Forward then, captain. On with the excuses, I promise to believe them."
"Those sailors, my lady, who fight with kicks. Ugh!--they attacked someof my men this morning in Tampico. I had to call at the fort for aid."
"Oh, but Maximilian shall hear of this!"
"I think he will," and Fra Diavolo bowed again, hiding the gleam of asmile. "But I forget, your compatriot----"
"Monsieur Ney?--Yes?"
"He meant to help the sailors----"
"But he was not hurt?"
"Oh, no, no! But he had to be held in the fort."
"That poor Michel!"
"So," the syllable fell weightily, as if to crush Ney out of herthoughts, "here I am at last, to claim the distinguished pleasure ofseeing Your Ladyship to the stage at Valles."
Din Driscoll had been gazing far away at the mountains, his thumbstucked in his belt. He stood so that the Mexican was between him and thescattered boulders on the right of the trail. Now he addressed themountains. "The stage at Valles? There is no stage at Valles---- And,captain," he dropped Nature abruptly, and turned on the man, "who areyou, hombre? Come, tell us!"
If Fra Diavolo were a humbug, he was not nearly so dismayed as one mightexpect. For that matter, neither was Jacqueline. She inquired ofDriscoll how he knew more about stage lines than the natives themselves.Because the natives themselves were not of one mind, he replied. Forinstance, Murgie's muleteers had assured him fervidly that there wassuch a stage, whereas passing wayfarers had told him quite simply thatthere was not, nor ever had been.
Jacqueline's gray eyes, wide open and full lashed, turned on FraDiavolo. "You are," she exclaimed, noiselessly clapping her hands as ata play, "then you are--Oh, _who_ are you?"
The Mexican straightened pompously. "Who?" he repeated deep in hischest, "who, but one at Your Mercy's feet! Who, but--Rodrigo Galanhimself!"
"The _terrible_ Rodrigo?" She wanted complete identification.
He looked at her quickly. The first darkening of a frown creased hisbrow. But still she was not alarmed. Berthe, however, proved moresatisfying. "Oh, my dear lady!" she cried, reining in her horse closerto her mistress.
"And who," drawled the American at a quizzical pitch of inquiry, "mayDon Rodrigo be?"
"What, senor," thundered the robber, "you don't----" He stopped,catching sight of the timorous Murguia hovering near. "Then, look atthat old man, for he at
least knows that he is in the presence of DonRodrigo. He is trembling."
But Jacqueline was--whistling. The bristling highwayman swung round fullof anger. Driscoll stared at her amazed. Then he laughed outright."Well, well, Honorable Mr. Buccaneer of the Sierras, now maybe---- Yes,that's what I mean," he added approvingly as Fra Diavolo leaped astridehis charger and jerked forth two pistols from their holsters, "that'sit, get the game started!"
Jacqueline's red lips were again pursed to whistle, but she changed andhummed the refrain instead:
"Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!"
Driscoll stared at her harder. The words were strange and meant nothing.But there was a familiarity to the tune. That at least needed nointerpreter. The old ballad of troubadours, the French war song of old,the song of raillery, the song of Revolution, this that had been a folksong of the Crusader, a Basque rhyme of fairy lore, the air known in thedesert tents of Happy Arabia, known to the Jews coming out of Egypt,known to the tribes in the days without history or fifes--why, if thiswasn't the rollicking, the defiant paean of Americans! But how came sheby it, and by what right?
"'And we won't go home till morning,'" he joined in, inquisitively.
The girl paused, as explorers singing it have paused when savages neverbefore seen by white men joined in with barbarian words. But she wenton, letting the miracle be as it might.
"'The news I bear, fair lady----'"
she sang, and nodded at the bandit, to indicate that here was _his_line,
"'The news I bear, fair lady, Will cause your eyes to weep.'"
"'----Till daylight doth appear,'" Driscoll finished it with her. Thenboth looked up like two children, to the awful presence on horseback.
Don Rodrigo was at some pains to recover himself. A helpless girl andone lone trooper were practising a duet under his very frown. Only aglance toward the boulders and cacti reassured him.
"Well, what next?" Jacqueline demanded sweetly. "Is it to be the--the'game' at last?"
"One word," said the Mexican solemnly. Straight in his saddle, he fixedthem with keen eyes, keen, black eyes under shaggy brows. The syllablesfell portentously. His voice deepened as far away thunder. "One wordfirst," growled the awakening lion. "You know now that I am Don RodrigoGalan. Yes, I am he, the capitan of guerrillas, the rebel, the brigand,the hunted fugitive. Such names of ignominy a true patriot must bearbecause he dares to defy his poor country's oppressors." Here FraDiavolo scowled; he was getting into form. "But to His Majesty in ourown Mexican capital, to His Glorious Resplendent Most Christian, MostCatholic, priest-ridden, bloodthirsty, foppish, imbecile decree-makingfool of a canting majesty--to this Austrian archduke who drove forth theincarnation of popular sovereignty by the brutal hand of the foreigninvader--to him I will yet make it known that the love of liberty, thatthe loyalty to Liberal Reforms, to the Constitution, to Law and Order,to--uh--are not yet dead in these swamps and mountains of our Patria.And he will know it when he--when he hears my demand for your ransom,Senorita Marquesa. He will know it, too, when he learns that CaptainMaurel--a Frenchman, senorita, not a Mexican--now lies stark in death inthe brush near Tampico, where he came to take and to hang the steadfastpatriot, Rodrigo Galan. But his Tender-Hearted Majesty will grieve lessfor that than for the loss of you, Senorita--Jacqueline. For is it notknown that you, the first lady of honor to the Empress, that you arealso His Majesty's----"
"My faith," said Jacqueline, "he speaks Spanish well!"
Thus she stopped the insult. Also she stopped an unforeseen champion ather side. Driscoll, with pistol half drawn, was willing to be checked. Ashot just then, placed as they were, would mean a bad ending to thegame. That he knew. So he was thankful for Jacqueline's hand on hiswrist.
Forked eloquence was silenced by now. Yet the patriot had been inearnest, under the spell of his own ardor. Don Anastasio, with headbowed, had listened in sullen sympathy. But both Mexicans started asthough stung at Jacqueline's applauding comment. Don Rodrigo purpledwith rage. She only looked back at him, so provokingly demure, thatsomething besides the ransom got into his veins. He wet his lips, baringthe unpleasant gleam of teeth.
"Come!" he said thickly. "You and your maid go with me."
Driscoll's jaw dropped. "Diablos," he exclaimed, bewildered, "you don'tmean---- Look, Don Roddy, you're crazy! Such things----"
"Come!"
"But I tell you it's foolish. Such things do not happen, unless inmelodrama."
For reply the guerrilla chief wheeled his charger and caught the bridlesof the two horses that the girls rode. He pulled, so as to leave exposedthe troublesome American behind them.
"Grands dieux," exclaimed Jacqueline, "have the men in this countrynothing to do except catch my bridle! But really, sir, this situation isforced. It is not artistic. As--as Monsieur the Chevalier says, it'squite impossible."
She looked around for Monsieur the Chevalier to make it so, but to herdismay, to her disgust, he had taken to his heels. He was running away,as fast as he could go. Then her horse reared, for musket firing hadsuddenly, mysteriously begun on all sides of her. Many fierce pairs ofeyes were bobbing up from behind the boulders on the right of the trail;yellow-brown faces, like a many-headed Hydra coiled in the cacti. Theywere shooting, not at her, but at the fleeing American. She felt anobject in her hand, which Driscoll had thrust there, and she rememberedthat he had whispered something, though she had forgotten what.
Her captor was straining at the bridle. In his frenzy he leaned over, tolift her from the saddle, and then she struck him across the face withher whip. And then, with what the American had put in her other hand,she struck again. The weapon was Driscoll's short hunting knife. Theblade grazed Rodrigo's shoulder. He loosed his hold, and before he couldprevent, both she and Berthe were in the shack under the cliff. The maidsank to the floor. The mistress stood in the doorway. There was a glintin the gray eyes not lovable in man or woman, but in her it was superb.
Fifty feet back up the trail she saw Driscoll scaling the cliff. Thatdemon yelling, which is the first spasm of Mexican warfare, had notceased, and each demon was shooting as fast as he could reload. She sawthe white dust spurt out from the bullet peppered rock. But either thesun slanting down from the mountain line was in their eyes, or they weredisconcerted at the American's change in their plans; at any rate theirlaboriously ascending target did not drop. Up he climbed. Jacquelinewondered why he still clung to the jacket over his arm, as people willcling to absurd things in time of panic.
"To go through that peril, and yet a coward!" she murmured. "It's awaste----"
The runaway gained the top of the embankment, and fell behind a rock.And now a half dozen of the little demons were coming across the trailto the shack--to take her.
"Oh, the frisson, the ecstasy!" she cried. There was a certain poignantsense of enjoyment in it.
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