The Lone Ranche

Seemingly weighing his words, Miranda proceeds, —

“No doubt it was a band of Comanche Indians that destroyed your caravan and killed your comrades. But I have as little doubt of there being white men among them – one at least, and that one he who planned and instigated the deed.”

“Who, Colonel Miranda?” is the quick interrogatory of the Kentuckian, while with flashing eyes and lips apart he breathlessly awaits the answer. For all, he does not much need it; the name to be pronounced is on the tip of his own tongue.

It is again “Gil Uraga!”

“Yes,” replies the Mexican, with added emphasis. “He is, undoubtedly, the robber who despoiled you. Though done in the guise of an Indian onslaught, with real Indians as his assistants, he has been their instructor – their leader. I see it all now clear as sunlight. He got your letter, which you say was addressed to me as colonel commanding at Albuquerque. As a matter of course, he opened it. It told him when and where to meet you; your strength, and the value of your cargo. The last has not been needed as an incentive for him to assail you, Don Francisco. The mark you made upon his cheek was sufficient. Didn’t I tell you at the time he would move heaven and earth to have revenge on you – on both of us? He has succeeded; behold his success. I a refugee, robbed of everything; you plundered the same; both ruined men!”

“Not yet!” cries the Kentuckian, starting to his feet. “Not ruined yet, Colonel Miranda. If the thing be as you say, I shall seek a second interview with this scoundrel – this fiend; seek till I obtain it. And then – ”

“Hyur’s one,” interrupts the ex-Ranger, unfolding his gigantic form with unusual rapidity, “who’ll take part in that sarch. Yis, Frank, this chile’s willin’ to go wi’ ye to the heart o’ Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o’ the Montyzoomas; reddy to start this minnit.”

“If,” resumes Hamersley, his coolness contrasting with the excited air of his comrade, now roused to a terrible indignation, “if, Colonel Miranda, it turns out as you conjecture, that Gil Uraga has taken part in the destruction of my waggon-train, or even been instrumental in causing it, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain justice.”

“Justice!” exclaims the ex-Ranger, with a deprecatory toss of the head. “In case o’ this kind we want somethin’ beside. To think o’ thirteen innercent men attacked without word o’ warnin’, shot down, stabbed, slaughtered, and sculped! Think o’ that; an’ don’t talk tamely o’ justice; let’s shout loudly for revenge!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Land of the “Lex Talionis.”

During the quarter of a century preceding the annexation of New Mexico to the United States, that distant province of the Mexican Republic, like all the rest of the country, was the scene of constantly recurring revolutions. Every discontented captain, colonel, or general who chanced to be in command of a district, there held sway as a dictator; so demeaning himself that martial and military rule had become established as the living law of the land. The civic authorities rarely possessed more than the semblance of power; and where they did it was wielded in the most flagitious manner. Arbitrary arts were constantly committed, under the pretext of patriotism or duty. No man’s life was safe who fell under the displeasure of the ruling military chieftain; and woman’s honour was held in equally slight respect.

In the northern frontier provinces of the republic this irresponsible power of the soldiery was peculiarly despotic and harassing. There, two causes contributed to establish and keep it in the ascendency. One of these was the revolutionary condition of the country, which, as elsewhere, had become chronic. The contest between the party of the priests and that of the true patriots, begun in the first days of Mexico’s independence, has been continued ever since; now one, now the other, in the ascendant. The monstrous usurpation of Maximilian, supported by Napoleon the Third, and backed by a soldier whom all Mexicans term the “Bandit Bazaine,” was solely due to the hierarchy; while Mexico owes its existing Republican government to the patriot party – happily, for the time, triumphant.

The province of New Mexico, notwithstanding its remoteness from the nation’s capital, was always affected by, and followed, its political fortunes. When the parti prêtre was in power at the capital, its adherents became the rulers in the distant States for the time being; and when the Patriots, or Liberals, gained the upper hand this rôle was reversed.

It is but just to say that, whenever the latter were the “ins,” things for the time went well. Corruption, though not cured, was to some extent checked; and good government would begin to extend itself over the land. But such could only last for a brief period. The monarchical, dictatorial, or imperial party – by whatever name it may be known – was always the party of the Church; and this, owning three-fourths of the real estate, both in town and country, backed by ancient ecclesiastical privileges, and armed with another powerful engine – the gross superstition it had been instrumental in fostering – was always able to control events; so that no Government, not despotic, could stand against it for any great length of time. For all, freedom at intervals triumphed, and the priests became the “outs;” but ever potent, and always active, they would soon get up a new “grito” to bring about a revolutionary change in the Government. Sanguinary scenes would be enacted – hangings, shooting, garrottings – all the horrors of civil war that accompany the bitterest of all spite, the ecclesiastical.

In such an uncertain state of things it was but natural that the militarios should feel themselves masters of the situation, and act accordingly.

In the northern districts they had yet another pretext for their unrestrained exercise of power – in none more than New Mexico. This remote province, lying like an oasis in the midst of uninhabited wilds, was surrounded on all sides by tribes of hostile Indians. There were the Navajoes and Apaches on its west, the Comanche and other Apache bands on the south and east, the Utahs on its north, and various smaller tribes distributed around it. They were all more or less hostile at one time or another: now on terms of an intermittent peace, secured by a “palaver” and treaty; this anon to be broken by some act of bad faith, leaving their “braves” at liberty once more to betake themselves to the war-path.

Of course this condition of things gave the soldiery a fine opportunity to maintain their ascendency over the peaceful citizens. Rabble as these soldiers were, and poltroons as they generally proved themselves in every encounter with the Indians, they were accustomed to boast of being the country’s protectors, for this “protection” assumed a sort of right to despoil it at their pleasure.

Some few years preceding the American-Mexican war – which, as well known, gave New Mexico to the United States – these belligerent swaggerers were in the zenith of their arbitrary rule. Their special pet and protector, Santa Anna, was in for a new spell of power, making him absolute dictator of Mexico and disposer of the destinies of its people. At the same time, one of his most servile tools and successful imitators was at the head of the Provincial Government, having Santa Fé for its capital. This man was Manuel Armijo, whose character may be ascertained, by those curious to study it, from reading the chronicles of the times, especially the records of the prairie merchants, known as the “Santa Fé traders.” It will there be learnt that this provincial despot was guilty of every act that could disgrace humanity; and that not only did he oppress his fellow-citizens with the soldiery placed at his disposal to protect them from Indian enemies, but was actually in secret league with the savages themselves to aid him in his mulcts and murders! Whatever his eye coveted he was sure to obtain, by fair means or foul – by open pillage or secret theft – not unfrequently accompanied by assassination. And as with the despot himself, so with his subordinates – each in his own town or district wielding irresponsible power; all leading lives in imitation of the provincial chieftain, as he of him – the great prototype and patron of all – who held dictatorial sway in the capital of the country, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

A knowledge of this abnormal and changeable condition of Mexican affairs will, in some measure, explain why Colonel Miranda so suddenly ceased to be commandant of Albuquerque. Santa Anna’s new accession to power brought in the Padres, turning out the Patriotas, many of the latter suffering death for their patriotism, while the adherents of the former received promotion for their support.

Staunchest among these was the captain of Lancers, Gil Uraga, promoted to be colonel as also commandant of the district from which its deposed chief so narrowly escaped with his life.

And now this revolutionary usurper is in full authority, his acts imitating his master, Armijo, like him in secret league with the savages, even consorting with the red pirates of the plains, taking part in their murderous marauds, and sharing their plunder.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Prosperous, but not Happy

Despite his rapid military promotion and the ill-gotten wealth he has acquired, Colonel Gil Uraga is anything but a happy man. Only at such times as he is engaged in some stirring affair of duty or devilry, or when under the influence of drink, is he otherwise than wretched. To drinking he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for vengeance.

There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a portrait that hangs against the wall of the sala. It is a likeness of Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty retreat, the young lady’s portrait as the rest.

The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man may feel.

In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico – land of revolutions – where the sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime. He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican militarios, he could boast of his bonnes fortunes, which he often did.

These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face.

It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady’s little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother’s indignation, had no reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths every time he glances in his looking-glass.

After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter, like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct!

But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of his vengeance is yet unappeased – that due to him who was second in the duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself, then there would still be the other thought to torture him – his thwarted love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his thirst for vengeance.

He is seated in the sala of Miranda’s house, which he occupies as his official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle that stands upon a table beside him – this and a cigar burning between his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila, distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.

His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off, drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her? He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her – murder his dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.

Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.

Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States – that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the Provincias Internas. But no word of Miranda anywhere – no trace can be found either of him or his sister. “Chingara!”

As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth – too foul to bear translation – were the name of a man, one at this moment appears in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps inside the room.

He is an officer in full uniform – one whom we have met before, though not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga’s adjutant, as also his confederate in crime.

“I’m glad you’ve come, ayudante,” says the Colonel, motioning the new-comer to a seat. “I’m feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you’ve got such a faculty for conversation.”

This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.

“Sit down and give me your cheerful company,” the Colonel adds. “Have a cigar and a copita of this capital stuff; it’s the best that Tequila produces.”

“I’ve brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine,” returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet.

“Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in.”

“It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There’s only one man, and he’s a civilian.

“Civilian or soldier, you’re free to introduce him. I hope,” he adds, in an undertone, “it’s one of the ricos of the neighbourhood, who won’t mind taking an albur at montè or a throw of the dice. I’m just in the vein for a bit of play.”

“He I’m going to introduce don’t look much like a rico. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes – somewhat dilapidated by the way – are about all the property he possesses.”

“He’s a stranger to you, then?”

“As much as to yourself, as you’ll say after seeing him – perhaps more.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he’s not one of the gent-de-razon. He’s only an Indian.”