The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ the wounded man—willing to clutch at hope, even when offered by an enemy.

      “Think you have a chance to recover? I’m sure of it. The bullet has passed through your thigh—what of that? It’s only a flesh wound. The great artery is not touched. That I’m sure about, or you’d have bled to death long ago. The bone is not broken: else you could no more lift your foot in that fashion, than you could kick yonder cofre from the top of Peroté. Carrambo! you’d be sure to get over it, if—”

      There was an interval of silence, as though the speaker hesitated to pronounce the condition implied by that “if.” The peculiar emphasis, placed on the monosyllabic word, told me that he was making pause for a purpose.

      “If what, Capitan Rayas?”

      The interrogatory came from the wounded man, in a tone trembling between hope and doubt.

      “If,” answered the other, and with emphatic pronunciation—“if you tell me where you have hidden Dolores.”

      There was a groan; and then in a quivering voice came the rejoinder.

      “How could that affect my recovery? If I am to die, it could not save me. If it be my fate to survive this sad day—”

      “It is not,” interrupted the salteador, in a firm, loud voice. “No! This day you must die—this hour—this moment, unless you reveal to me that secret you have so carefully kept. Where is Dolores?”

      “Never! Rather shall I die than that she should fall into the power of such a remorseless villain. After that threat, O God!—”

      “Die, then! and go to the God you are calling upon. Die, Calros Vergara—!”

      During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing nearer to the speakers. Just as the “Die, then!” reached my ears, I caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace—as well as of him to whom it was addressed.

      Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his grasp.

      At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived I should be too late.

      Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword at my feet, and drawing my revolver from its holster in my belt.

      To cock the pistol, take aim, and pull the trigger, were three actions in one, the result being a crack, a flash, a cloud of smoke, a cry of commingled rage and pain; and succeeding to these sounds, a loud breaking among the bushes on the opposite side of the opening, as if some individual was making his way through the thicket, without staying to seek for a path, and with no other thought than to put space between himself and the form still recumbent upon the sward!

      The latter I knew to be Carlos, or Calros, in the patois of his con-paisano. The fugitive was the salteador so lately threatening his life.

      Had the murderer succeeded in his design? I saw his blade brandished aloft, as I drew my pistol from its holster. I had not seen the downward thrust; but, for all that, it might have been made.

      With a heart brimful of anxiety, I ran across the glade. I say brimful of anxiety: for something, I could not tell what, had excited my sympathy for Calros Vergara.

      Partly may it have been from hearing that speech off sombre but significant import—“Soy moriendo! Lola!—Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo!” and partly from admiration for a noble nature, that preferred even death to the disclosing of some secret, which might compromise the welfare of his beloved Dolores.

      I thought no more of the robber, or his efforts to escape. My whole attention became devoted to the man whom he had marked out for his victim; and I made all haste to ascertain whether I had been successful in hindering his fell intent.

      In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.

      “Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in—?”

      “Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours—better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre!—I die—I die! Mother of God protect—Lola!—Lolita! quer-i-da herm …”

      The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with my ear close to the lips of the speaker.

      His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.

      I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his enemy. He appeared to be dead.

Story 1, Chapter IV.

       Table of Contents

      An Angel Voice.

      For some seconds I hung over what I supposed to be an inanimate form; it was that of a mere youth, and fair to behold, as was also the face, which was conspicuously upturned to the light of the moon. Notwithstanding its deathly pallor, it exhibited a fine type of manly beauty. The features were regular, the complexion brown, the cheek soft and smooth, the upper lip darkly bedecked with the young growth of virility, the eye rotund and of noble expression, the forehead framed in a garland of glossy black hair, whose luxuriant curls drooped down upon each side of the full rounded throat—all these I saw at a single glance. I saw also a faultless figure, habited in the costume of a peasant rather than of a soldier, but a peasant of a peculiar people, the Jarochos. In the words lately proceeding from the lips of the unfortunate youth, I had recognised the patois of this people, and was not surprised at seeing a richly-embroidered shirt of the finest linen, neatly fitting over the young man’s breast, a sash of China crape around the waist, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of bell-buttons, and boots with spurs attached, apparently of silver.

      Striking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet, and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head, both lying near, denoted their ci-devant wearer to be a denizen of the coast lands—in short, a “Jarocho.”

      These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I really believed to have caused the Jarocho’s death.

      To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.

      Where was that just СКАЧАТЬ