CHAPTER VII.
FELIPE’S VISITOR.
“Well, Pepe, what is it?” a little impatiently asked Felipe Canelo, as a vaquero paused at the entrance of the little arbor within which he was seated with Luisa.
“Un papelaio, mi amo,” respectfully answered Pepe, as he presented a folded note to the young man, and then resumed his former position as it was being perused.
Luisa’s eyes were fixed upon her brother’s face, and the change in it was so sudden and strange, that she could not suppress an exclamation of alarm. His face blanched to an ashen white, and his form shook as though he had an ague-fit, while there was a wild, half-crazed glare in his eyes, that frightened her, she scarce knew why. But the sound of her voice recalled Felipe to his senses, and with an effort he regained his composure sufficiently to speak coherently.
“It is nothing, Luisa, darling. It is from an old friend that I thought was dead, and the unexpected sight of his name shocked me; that is all,” he muttered, as stooping, he pressed a kiss upon her cheek. “But, Pepe, where is the gentleman who gave you this; I must see him,” he added, as he saw that the vaquero still stood at the door.
“He awaits you at the first clump of magueys on the arroyo maduro, senor, just below the ford. I met him there and he asked me to give you el papelaio. But pardon, master, shall I not go with you? He is a wild, rough-looking person, more like a salteador than an honest man,” urged the vaquero.
“No, Pepe; he means no mischief, and even if he did, it is not one man who would get the better of me,” laughed Felipe, but it was in a constrained manner. “Go now, and saddle Peralta, and fasten him at the gate. I will be there in five minutes. Come, Luisa, let us return to the house,” he added, taking her arm and leaving the arbor.
“Felipe—brother, do not go to that man. I know that something dreadful will happen if you do,” pleaded Luisa.
“But I must go, or he would come here, and—”
“But that would be better; then where there were so many around, he would not harm you,” interrupted the maiden, eagerly.
“Not for the world would—I mean it would not be pleasant, sister; at least, just at present,” stammered Felipe. “And there is no danger. Besides, I shall go armed. So say no more about it, and when I come back we will laugh heartily over your foolish fancies,” he added, lightly.
Luisa said no more, for she saw that he was determined to go, and in a few moments he was in the saddle, well armed, and galloping swiftly toward the point designated. As he rode up, he uttered the shrill, thrilling whistle of the red-tailed hawk, and in a few moments the signal was answered from the grove of moquet, and a horseman rode from out among the underbrush that surrounded the tall plants.
He was a tall, stalwart man, with features regular enough, but upon them was the brand of crime and fearful passion. Pepe, the vaquero, had spoken truly when he described the stranger as a “wild, rough-looking man.” He was such a man as one would instinctively shun if in a lone place, and feel more at ease when he was out of sight.
The two men, so dissimilar in appearance, were soon deeply engaged in consultation, and did not notice that there was an intruder near them, and one, too, that was listening eagerly to their every word, his countenance betraying the intense interest it occasioned him. He was concealed behind a dense stunted bush, or rather in a little clump, not more than a score of feet distant, with his eye at one opening and ear at another, carefully parting the leaves with his hands, so as to hear everything, while the slightly-fluttering leaves fully screened his face from view.
That it was a secret topic they were discussing was plainly evidenced by the continual glances that were cast around them, as if to guard against espial or interruption, but they were directed beyond where the spy was crouched. Perhaps an hour afterward the two men separated, Felipe riding homeward slowly, the stranger galloping rapidly off toward Guanajuato.
When they moved out of sight the spy arose, and looking toward the point where the latter had disappeared, clenched his fist and shook it vindictively, hissing between his closed teeth as he did so.
“Beware, Senor Don Lopez Romulo. I know you now, and your precious secret! And I will foil you, so sure as the sun shines; yes, and test my cuchillo on your ribs before many days. Santissima Virgin! can it be true?” he added, in a changed voice, as he sat down again, and resting his head upon his hand, sunk into a deep fit of musing that lasted until the sun had set.
“Yes, that will do, I think. At least I will try. But Don Felipe? Sangre de Christo! it must be so; else they would not have been so cautious. Poor Senora Canelo!” he muttered, as he strode rapidly toward the hacienda, taking a roundabout course, so as to enter it upon the opposite side from that whence Felipe had ridden.
It was at an early hour of the night of the succeeding day to that on which Felipe had met his strange visitor, that this same man, or Lopez Romulo as the spy had termed him, entered a low, fifth-rate cabaret near the suburbs of Guanajuato. His soft, felt hat was slouched over his eyes, and the muffling folds of his coarse woolen bayeta shrouded the lower portion of his face, only leaving a narrow aperture, from which gleamed a large black eye. After a quick glance around the room, he dropped his cloak, and spoke to the patrone.
“Senor Don Sanchez, if a cavallero asks for me by the name you know, be so kind as to direct him to my table. Stop. Have you any acquaintance with Don Sylva Cohecho?”
“Carajo! yes; more than I could wish. He owes me for two nights’ drinking, and what a head he has got, to be sure! He said you would see me paid.”
“Very good. Include it with my bill. Send a bottle of wine and some cigarettes—not like the bundle you gave me the other day, or I will ram them down my pistol and use your head for a target.”
“I comprehend your excellency,” grinned the patrone, significantly. “You were a stranger then, and I did not expect to see you again. It was all in the way of business, you see. But no offense, I trust?”
“None. You rob the traveler in one way, I in another; ha, ha!” laughed Romulo, as he passed to the further end of the vacant room, where he seated himself at a small table.
The host, when he brought the ordered articles, removed the two nearest stands to a distance, so that any thing said in a moderate tone by Lopez or his expected friend could not be overheard. After the elapse of an hour, perhaps, half of the tables were occupied, and then Sylva Cohecho, the repulsive-looking scoundrel who had betrayed Marcos Sayosa and his comrades of the Scarlet Shoulders to the Melladios, entered, and was directed to where Romulo was sitting. He was greeted with a careless, half-contemptuous nod by the latter, who did not deign to move the cigarette from between his lips.
“You wished to see me, ’nor capitan?”
“On business, yes; for pleasure, no,” returned Lopez, not noting the flash of anger that shot from beneath the shaggy, pent-house eyebrows of his comrade. “I have work for you to do, of that kind which pleases you the most. There is a certain man that I wish put out of the way; a blow of the cuchillo will do. And the sooner it is done the greater will be your pay. He has deeply insulted me, and as it was at a place and time that I could not resent it then, I ask you. But that matters not. When you have done this, we will be ready to begin the business that brought us here.”
“And the person’s name is—?”
“One Marcos Sayosa, a miner of Los Rayas, and, I have heard, the chief of those who call themselves Scarlet Shoulders,” returned the captain.
“Good, and at the same time I can discharge the little sum he owes me!” exclaimed Cohecho, clutching his long knife vindictively.
“Ah, you know him, then?”
For reply Don Sylva narrated the adventures of the night on which he had played the spy.
“Your headstrong folly will ruin both yourself and my plans, yet; not that the first would matter much, because the sooner the zopilates feed upon your hideous carcass the better; but until this affair is over, remember your life belongs to me, and you must keep as much in the dark as possible. Supposing some of those miners should meet you again—for they will not soon forget such a marvel of grace and beauty as you are—their first greeting would be either a stab or a pistol bullet,” angrily muttered Lopez, as he refilled his glass.
“Carrai! but that’s a two-handed game,” returned Cohecho. “And they have all returned to work at the mines, so there is no danger of that. But about this Sayosa?”
“You will receive five hundred pesos, if you bring me satisfactory proof that he is dead; but beware how you act. If you try to deceive me, I wear a knife that has stilled the breath of better men than you, and perhaps you know my hand never misses its aim,” answered Romulo, significantly.
“Voto al demonios,’nor capitan, where is the need of threats? Have I ever played you false?”
“Not to my knowledge. If you had, you would not be sitting here now.”
“He is your enemy, and mine also. I shall claim the money within the week, perhaps before another night. But the other—”
“Is an altogether different affair. You will be paid for it, as I told you, just as soon as the work is done.”
“Carambo, it is beautiful!” murmured the ruffian, in a joyful tone. “After this I shall set up a monte bank, and roll in gold—the sweet, darling gold!”
“Yes; after, but not yet. Do not let your chiripe turn your brain or steal away the little sense you have got,” sneered Don Lopez, as he lighted another cigarette.
“Pardon, ’nor capitan, I was dreaming. But did you see this Don Felipe Canelo?” returned Cohecho.
“Mil diablos, zarayote, why do you speak that name?” exclaimed Lopez, ferociously. “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing—nothing at all,” drawing a little back from the table, as if in expectation of an attack. “I only thought—”
“Carrai!” hissed Romulo. “You have no right to think of any thing or in any way but as I bid you. And the better you obey me in this, the longer will be your life. Por to dos santos” (by all the saints), “if I hear that name from your thick lips, or hear your tongue even hint at it, I will tear it out by the roots and feed it to the coyotes.”
“I hear you, ’nor Romulo, and will heed your hint.”
“See that you do. I never warn twice.”
“Have you any further orders?”
“None; except that you be here to-morrow night, to report progress in the first affair. Then you can attend to this miner, Sayosa.”
“Muy bueno! But, ’nor capitan, I must have some money. I spent the last ocharo to-night,” hinted Sylva.
“Voto a brios, picaro, do you think I am a gold mine?” fumed the choleric Lopez. “Here, take this, and be a little less free in your riotings,” at the same time shoving six golden onzas over to the other, who eagerly clutched them, saying, as he slipped them, one by one, into his pocket:
“You wrong me, master. Remember, there are many little bribes to give that I can not avoid, and—”
“To say nothing of the Chinas,” interrupted Lopez, as he arose from the table. “But remember; be diligent, and meet me here at this hour to-morrow night,” and he turned away, without a look of recognition for the obsequious bow of the unabashed ruffian, who then resumed his seat with an air of relief, darting a venomous glance after his master, and refilling his glass.
“Yes, you may strut and put on airs for a while longer, you cursed dog, but only for a little while. Let me once receive my gold, and then—I will give you a receipt in full! Oh, won’t it be delicious when I am free, and settle your curses and your jeers with the knife? When I strike you to the heart, and then, as you gasp out your life at my feet, I will do as you have threatened me—pluck out your tongue and thrust it down your throat! I could die then, perfectly happy. No, not die; oh, no! I shall be rich then, and with the gold you give me, I will double and double it, until I can count it by thousands of ounces! No, no, not die; life would be too sweet then, and I will live for years—years of pleasure and feasting. Oh, the gold, and wine, and women! for them I will live—live forever!” murmured the hideous ruffian, as he drank repeatedly from the bottles before him, lost to the present, busied only with gorgeous images of the future.