The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

After getting hold of their hats they sauntered out by the great door, through which they had entered on the night before. The sun was now at meridian height, and his beams fell down upon the patch of open ground in front of the monastery, for a monastery they supposed it must be. A glance backward as they walked out from its walls showed its architecture purely of the conventual style; windows with pointed arches, the larger ones heavy mullioned, and a campanile upon the roof. This, however, without bells, and partially broken down, as was much of the outer mason work everywhere. Here and there were walls crumbling to decay, others half-hidden under masses of creeping plants and cryptogams; in short, the whole structure seemed more or less dilapidated.

Soon they entered under the shadow of the trees; long-leaved evergreen pines loaded with parasites and epiphytes, among these several species of orchids – rare phenomenon in the vegetable world, that would have delighted the eye of a botanist. As they wished to get beyond earshot of those left lounging by the porch, they continued on along a walk which had once been gravelled, but was now overgrown with weeds and grass. It formed a cool arcade, the thick foliage meeting overhead, and screening it from the rays of the sun. Following it for about a hundred yards or so, they again had the clear sky before them, and saw they were on the brow of a steep slope – almost a precipice – which, after trending a short distance right and left, took a turn back toward the mass of the mountain. It was the boundary of the platform on which the building stood, with a still higher cliff behind.

The point they had arrived at was a prominent one, affording view of the whole valley of Mexico, that lay spread out like a picture at their feet. And such a picture! Nothing in all the panoramic world to excel – if equal it.

But as scenery was not in their thoughts, they gave it but a glance, sitting down with faces turned towards one another. For there were seats here also – several rustic chairs under shady trees – it being evidently a favourite loitering place of the friars.

“Well, Cris, old comrade,” said Kearney, first to speak, “we’ve gone through a good deal this day or two in the way of change. What do you think of these new acquaintances of ours?”

“Thar, Cap, ye put a puzzler.”

“Are they monks?”

“Wal, them is a sort o’ anymals I hain’t had much dealin’s wi’; niver seed any till we kim inter Mexiko, ’ceptin’ one or two as still hangs round San Antone in Texas. But this chile knows little u’ thar ways, only from what he’s heerin’; an’ judgin’ be that he’d say thar ain’t nerry monk among ’em.”

“What then? Robbers?”

“Thar, agin, Cap, I’m clean confuscated. From what we war told o’ Mr Reevus in the gaol, they oughter be that. They sayed he war a captain o’ saltadores, which means highwaymen. An’ yet it do ’pear kewrous should be sich.”

“From what I know of him,” rejoined Kearney, “what I learned yesterday, it would be curious indeed – remarkably so. I’ve reason to believe him a gentleman born, and that his title of captain comes from his having been an officer in the army.”

“That mou’t be, an’ still wouldn’t contrary his havin’ turned to t’other. Down by the Rio Grande, thar are scores o’ Mexikin officers who’ve did the same, from lootenants up to kurnels – ay, ginrals. Thar’s Canales, who commanded the whole cavalry brigade – the ‘Chaperal fox’ as we Texans call him – an’ thar ain’t a wuss thief or cut-throat from Mantamoras up to the mountains. An’ what air ole Santy hisself but a robber o’ the meanest an’ most dastardly sort? So, ’tain’t any sign o’ honesty their bearing military titles. When they’ve a war on in thar revolushionary way, they turn sogers, atween times takin’ to the road.”

“Well, Cris, supposing these to be on the road now, what ought we to do, think you?”

“Neery use thinkin’, Cap, since thar’s no choice left us. ’Tain’t die dog, or eet the hatchet; and this chile goes for chawin’ the steel. Whativer they be, we’re bound to stick to ’em, an’ oughter be glad o’ the chance, seein’ we haint the shadder o’ another. If tuk agin’ we’d be strung up or shot sure. Highwaymen or lowwaymen, they’re the only ones about these diggin’s that kin gie us purtekshun, an’ I reck’n we may rely on them for that – so far’s they’re able.”

For a time Kearney was silent, though not thinking over what the Texan had said, much of which had passed through his mind before. The train of his reflections was carried further back, to the point where he was first brought into contact with Rivas, by their legs getting linked together. Then forward throughout the hours and incidents that came after, recalling everything that had occurred, in act as in conversation – mentally reviewing all, in an endeavour to solve the problem that was puzzling them.

Seeing him so occupied, and with a suspicion of how his thoughts were working, the Texan forebore further speech, and awaited the result.

“If we’ve fallen among banditti,” Kearney at length said, “it will be awkward to get away from them. They’ll want us to take a hand at their trade, and that wouldn’t be nice.”

“Sartinly not, Cap; anything but agreeable to eyther o’ us. It goes agin the grit o’ a honest man to think o’ belongin’ to a band o’ robbers. But forced to jine ’em, that ’ud be different. Besides, the thing ain’t the same in Mexico as ’twud be in Texas and the States. Hyar ’tisn’t looked on as beein’ so much o’ a disgrace, s’long’s they don’t practice cruelty. An’ I’ve heern Mexikins say ’tain’t wuss, nor yet so bad, as the way some our own poltishuns an’ lawyers plunder the people. I guess it be ’bout the same, when one gits used to it.”

To this quaint rigmarole of reasoning – not without reason in it, however, – Kearney only replied with a smile, allowing the Texan to continue; which he did, saying —

“After all, I don’t think they’re robbers any more than monks; if they be, they’re wonderfully well-behaved. A perliter set o’ fellers or better kump’ny this chile niver war in durin’ the hull coorse of his experience in Texas, or otherwhars. They ain’t like to lead us into anythin’ very bad, in the way o’ cruelty or killin’. So I say, let’s freeze to ’em, till we find they ain’t worthy of being froze to; then we must gie ’em the slip somehow.”

“Ah! if we can,” said his fellow-filibuster doubtingly. “But that is the thing for the far hereafter. The question is, what are we to do now?”

“No guess’n at all, Cap, as thar’s no choosin’ atween. We’re boun’ to be robbers for a time, or whatsomever else these new ’quaintances o’ ours be themselves. Thet’s sure as shootin’.”

“True,” returned the other musingly. “There seems no help for it. It’s our fate, old comrade, though one, I trust, we shall be able to control without turning highwaymen. I don’t think they are that. I can’t believe it.”

“Nor me neyther. One thing, howsomever, thet I hev obsarved air a leetle queery, an’ sort o’ in thar favour.”

“What thing?”

“Thar not hevin’ any weemen among ’em. I war in the kitchen this mornin’ ’fore ye war up, and kedn’t see sign o’ a petticoat about, the cookin’ bein’ all done by men sarvents. Thet, I’ve heern say, air the way wi’ monks; but not wi’ the other sort. What do you make o’t, Cap?”

“I hardly know, Cris. Possibly the Mexican brigands, unlike those of Italy, don’t care to encumber themselves with a following of the fair sex.”

“On t’other hand,” pursued the Texan, “it seems to contrary their bein’ o’ the religious sort, puttin’ out sentries as they do. Thar wor that one we passed last night, and this mornin’ I seed two go out wi’ guns, one takin’ each side, and soon arter two others comin’ in as if they’d been jest relieved from thar posts. Thar’s a path as leads down from both sides o’ the building.”

“All very strange, indeed,” said Kearney. “But no doubt we shall soon get explanation of it. By the way,” he added, changing tone with the subject, “where is the dwarf? What have they done with him?”

“That I can’t tell eyther, Cap. I haven’t seen stime o’ the critter since he war tuk away from us by that head man o’ the sarvents, and I don’t wish ever to set eyes on the skunk again. Cris Rock niver was so tired o’ a connexshun as wi’ thet same. Wagh!”

“I suppose they’ve got him shut up somewhere, and intend so keeping him – no doubt for good reasons. Ah! now we’re likely to hear something about the disposal of ourselves. Yonder comes the man who can tell us!”

This, as the soi-disant Abbot was seen approaching along the path.

Chapter Forty Four

The Abbot

“Amigo,” said their host, as he rejoined them, speaking to Kearney, who could alone understand him, “permit me to offer you a cigar – your comrade also – with my apologies for having forgotten that you smoked. Here are both Havannahs and Manillas, several brands of each. So choose for yourself.”

The mayor-domo, who attended him, carrying a huge mahogany case, had already placed it upon one of the rustic benches, and laid open the lid.

“Thanks, holy father,” responded Kearney, with a peculiar smile. “If you have no objection, I’ll stick to the Imperadoes. After smoking one of them a man need have no difficulty as to choice.”

At which he took an “Emperor” out of the case.

“I’m glad you like them,” observed the generous donor, helping him to a light. “They ought to be of good quality, considering what they cost, and where they come from. But, Don Florencio, don’t let the question of expense hinder you smoking as many as you please. My outlay on them was nil– they were a contribution to the monastery, though not exactly a charitable one.”

He said this with a sort of inward laugh, as though some strange history attached to the Imperadoes.

“A forced contribution, then,” thought the Irishman, the remark having made a strange, and by no means pleasant impression upon him.

The Texan had not yet touched the cigars, and when with a gesture the invitation was extended to him, he hung back, muttering to Kearney —

“Tell him, Cap, I’d purfar a pipe ef he ked accomerdate me wi’ thet ’ere article.”

“What says the Señor Cristoforo?” asked the Abbot.

“He’d prefer smoking a pipe, if you don’t object, and there be such a thing convenient.”

“Oh! un pipa. I shall see. Gregorio!”

He called after the mayor-domo, who was returning toward the house.

“Never mind, reverend Father,” protested Kearney; “content yourself with a cigar, Cris, and don’t give trouble.”

“I’m sorry I spoke o’ it,” said the Texan. “I oughter be only too gled to git a seegar, an’ it may be he wudn’t mind my chawin’, stead o’ smokin’ it! My stammuck feels starved for a bit o’ bacca. What wouldn’t I gie jest now for a plug o’ Jeemes’s River!”

“There, take one of the cigars and eat it if you like; I’m sure he’ll have no objection.”