LITMIR.BIZ

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      The Menace of a Monster.

      The tent I was leaving stood in the centre of a circumscribed clearing. Ten paces from its front commenced the chapparal—a thicket of thorny shrubs, consisting of acacia, cactus, the agave, yuccas, and copaiva trees, mingled and linked together by lianas and vines of smilax, sarsaparilla, jalap, and the climbing bromelias. There was no path save that made by wild animals—the timid Mexican mazame and its pursuer, the cunning coyote.

      One of these paths I followed.

      Its windings soon led me astray. Though the moon was shining in a cloudless sky, I was soon in such a maze that I could neither tell the direction of the tent I had left behind, nor that of the sufferer I had sallied out in search of.

      In sight there was no object to guide me. I paused in my steps, and listened for a sound.

      For some seconds there was a profound silence, unbroken even by the groans of the wounded, some of whose voices were, perhaps, now silent in death. The wolves, too, had suspended their hideous howlings, as though their quest for prey had ended, and they were busily banqueting on the dead.

      The stillness produced a painful effect, even more than the melancholy sounds that had preceded it I almost longed for their renewal.

      A short while only did this irksome silence continue. It was terminated by the voice I had before heard, this time in the utterance of a different speech.

      “Soy moriendo! Lola—Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo!” (I am dying, Dolores—dear Dolores! never more shall I see you in this world!)

      “Nunca mas en este mundo!” came the words rapidly re-pronounced, but in a voice of such different intonation as to preclude the possibility of mistaking it either for an echo or repetition by the same speaker.

      “No, never!” continued the second voice, in the same tone, and in a similar patois. “Never again shall you look upon Lola—you, Calros Vergara, who have kept me from becoming her husband; who have poisoned her mind against me—”

      “Ah! it is you, Rayas! What has brought you hither? Is it to torture a dying man?”

      “Carajo! I didn’t come to do anything of the kind. I came to assure myself that you were dying—that’s all. Vicente Vilagos, who has escaped from this ugly affair, has just told me you’d got a bit of lead through your body. I’ve sought you here to make sure that your wound was fatal—as he said it was.”

      “Santissima! O Ramon Rayas! that is your errand?”

      “You mistake—I have another: else I shouldn’t have risked falling into the hands of those damnable Americanos, who might take a fancy to send one of their infernal bullets through my own carcass.”

      “What other errand? What want you with me? I am sore wounded—I believe I am dying.”

      “First, as I’ve told you—to make sure that you are dying; and secondly, if that be the case, to learn before you do die, what you have done with Lola.”

      “Never. Dead or living, you shall not know from me. Go, go! por amor Dios! do not torment a poor wretch in his last moments.”

      “Bah! Calros Vergara, listen to reason. Remember, we were boys together—scourged in the same school. Your time’s up; you can’t protect Lola any more. Why hinder me—I who love her as my own life? I’m not so bad as people say, though I am accused of an inclination for the road. That’s the fault of the bad government we’ve got. Come! don’t leave the world like a fool; and Lola without a protector. Tell me where you’ve hidden her—tell me that, and the n—”

      “No! no! Leave me, Rayas! leave me! If I am to die, let me die in peace.”

      “You won’t tell me?”

      “No—no—”

      “Never mind, then; I’ll find out in time, and no thanks to you. So, go to the devil, and carry your secret along with you. If Lola be anywhere within the four corners of Mexico, I’ll track her up. She don’t escape from Rayas the salteadur!”

      I could hear a rustling among the hushes: as if the last speaker, having delivered his ultimatum, was taking his departure from the spot.

      Suddenly the sound ceased; and the voice once more echoed in my ear—

      “Carrambo!” exclaimed the man now known to me as Ramon Rayas, “I was going away without having accomplished the best half of my errand! Didn’t I come to make certain that your wound was mortal? Let’s see if that picaro Vilagos has been telling me the truth. Through what part of the body are you perforated?”

      There was no reply; but from certain indications I could tell that the salteador had approached the prostrate man, and was stooping down to examine his wounds.

      I made a movement forward in the direction in which I had heard the strange dialogue; but checked myself on again hearing the voice of Rayas.

      “Carajo!” ejaculated he, in a tone that betokened some discovery, at the same time one causing disappointment. “That wound of yours is not mortal—not a bit of it! You may recover from it, if—”

      “You think I have a chance to recover?” eagerly interrogated 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

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