The Rifle Rangers Part 52

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

PADRE JARAUTA.

We were not long in learning into whose hands we had fallen; for the name "Jarauta" was on every tongue. _They were the dreaded "Jarochos"

of the bandit priest_.

"We're in for it now," said Raoul, deeply mortified at the part he had taken in the affair with the cure. "It's a wonder they have kept us so long. Perhaps _he's_ not here himself, and they're waiting for him."

As Raoul said this the clatter of hoofs sounded along the narrow road; and a horseman came galloping up to the rancho, riding over everything and everybody with a perfect recklessness.

"That's Jarauta," whispered Raoul. "If he sees _me_--but it don't matter much," he added, in a lower tone: "we'll have a quick shrift all the same: he can't more than _hang_--and that he'll be sure to do."

"Where are these Yankees?" cried Jarauta, leaping out of his saddle.

"Here, Captain," answered one of the Jarochos, a hideous-looking griffe [Note 1] dressed in a scarlet uniform, and apparently the lieutenant of the band.

"How many?"

"Four, Captain."

"Very well--what are you waiting for?"

"To know whether I shall _hang_ or _shoot_ them."

"Shoot them, by all means! _Carambo_! we have no time for neck-stretching!"

"There are some nice trees here, Captain," suggested another of the band, with as much coolness as if he had been conversing about the hanging of so many dogs. He wished--a curiosity not uncommon--to witness the spectacle of hanging.

"_Madre de Dios_! stupid! I tell you we haven't time for such silly sport. Out with you there! Sanchez! Gabriel! Carlos! send your bullets through their Saxon skulls! Quick!"

Several of the Jarochos commenced unslinging their carbines, while those who guarded us fell back, to be out of range of the lead.

"Come," exclaimed Raoul, "it can't be worse than this--we can only die; and I'll let the padre know whom he has got before I take leave of him.

I'll give him a _souvenir_ that won't make him sleep any sounder to-night. _Oyez, Padre Jarauta_!" continued he, calling out in a tone of irony; "have you found Marguerita yet?"

We could see between us and the dim rushlight that the Jarocho started, as if a shot had pa.s.sed through his heart.

"Hold!" he shouted to the men, who were about taking aim; "drag those scoundrels. .h.i.ther! A light there!--fire the thatch! _Vaya_!"

In a moment the hut of the contrabandista was in flames, the dry palm-leaves blazing up like flax.

"Merciful Heaven! _they are going to roast us_!"

With this horrible apprehension, we were dragged up towards the burning pile, close to which stood our fierce judge and executioner.

The bamboos blazed and crackled, and under their red glare we could now see our captors with a terrible distinctness. A more demon-like set, I think, could not have been found anywhere out of the infernal regions.

Most of them were zamboes and mestizoes, and not a few pure Africans of the blackest hue, maroons from Cuba and the Antilles, many of them with their fronts and cheeks tattooed, adding to the natural ferocity of their features. Their coa.r.s.e woolly hair sticking out in matted tufts, their white teeth set in savage grins, their strange armour and grotesque att.i.tudes, their wild and picturesque attire, formed a _coup d'oeil_ that might have pleased a painter in his studio, but which at the time had no charm for us.

There were Pintoes among them, too--spotted men from the tangled forests of Acapulco--pied and speckled with blotches of red, and black, and white, like hounds and horses. They were the first of this race I had ever seen, and their unnatural complexions, even at that fearful moment, impressed me with feelings of disgust and loathing.

A single glance at this motley crew would have convinced us, had we not been quite sure of it already, that we had no favour to expect. There was not a countenance among them that exhibited the slightest trait of grace or mercy. No such expression could be seen around us, and we felt satisfied that our time had come.

The appearance of their leader did not shake this conviction. Revenge and hatred were playing upon his sharp sallow features, and his thin lips quivered with an expression of malice, plainly habitual. His nose, like a parrot's beak, had been broken by a blow, which added to its sinister shape; and his small black eyes twinkled with metallic brightness.

He wore a purplish-coloured manga, that covered his whole body, and his feet were cased in the red leather boots of the country, with heavy silver spurs strapped over them. A black sombrero, with its band of gold bullion and tags of the same material, completed the _tout ensemble_ of his costume. He wore neither beard nor moustache; but his hair, black and snaky, hung down trailing over the velvet embroidery of his _manga_. [See Note 2].

Such was the Padre Jarauta.

Raoul's face was before him, upon which he looked for some moments without speaking. His features twitched as if under galvanic action, and we could see that his fingers jerked in a similar manner.

They were painful memories that could produce this effect upon a heart of such iron devilry, and Raoul alone knew them. The latter seemed to enjoy the interlude; for he lay upon the ground, looking up at the Jarocho with a smile of triumph upon his reckless features.

We were expecting the next speech of the padre to be an order for flinging us into the fire, which now burned fiercely. Fortunately, this fancy did not seem to strike him just then.

"Ha, monsieur!" exclaimed he at length, approaching Raoul. "I dreamt that you and I would meet again; I dreamt it--ha! ha! ha!--it was a pleasant dream, but not half so pleasant as the reality--ha! ha! ha!

Don't _you_ think so?" he added, striking our comrade over the face with a mule quirt. "Don't _you_ think so?" he repeated, las.h.i.+ng him as before, while his eyes sparkled with a fiendish malignity.

"Did _you_ dream of meeting Marguerita again?" inquired Raoul, with a satirical laugh, that sounded strange, even fearful, under the circ.u.mstances.

I shall never forget the expression of the Jarocho at that moment. His sallow face turned black, his lips white, his eyes burned like a demon's, and, springing forward with a fierce oath, he planted his iron-shod heel upon the face of our comrade. The skin peeled off, and the blood followed.

There was something so cowardly--so redolent of a brutal ferocity--in the act, that I could not remain quiet. With a desperate wrench I freed my hands, skinning my wrists in the effort, and, flinging myself upon him, I clutched at the monster's throat.

He stepped back; my ankles were tied, and I fell upon my face at his feet.

"Ho! ho!" cried he, "what have we here? An officer, eh? Come!" he continued, "rise up from your prayers and let me look at you. Ha! a captain? And this?--a lieutenant! Gentlemen, you're too dainty to be shot like common dogs; we'll not let the wolves have you; we'll put you out of their reach; ha! ha! ha! Out of reach of wolves, do you hear!

And what's this?" continued he, turning to Chane and examining his shoulders.

"Bah! _soldado raso--Irlandes, carajo_!" (A common soldier--an Irishman, too!) "What do _you_ do fighting among these heretics against your own religion? There, renegade!" and he kicked the Irishman in the ribs.

"Thank yer honner!" said Chane, with a grunt, "small fayvours thankfully received; much good may it do yer honner!"

"Here, Lopez!" shouted the brigand.

"Now for the fire!" thought we.

"Lopez, I say!" continued he, calling louder.

"_Aca, aca_!" (here!) answered a voice, and the griffe who had guarded us came up, swinging his scarlet manga.

"Lopez, these I perceive are gentlemen of rank, and we must send them out of the world a little more gracefully, do you hear?"

"Yes, Captain," answered the other, with stoical composure.

"Over the cliffs, Lopez. _Facilis descensus Averni_--but you don't understand Latin, Lopez. Over the cliffs, do you hear? You understand that?"

"Yes, Captain," repeated the Jarocho, moving only his lips.