CHAPTER III.
MARCOS SAYOSA, THE YOUNG MINER.
The venta of tia Joaquina was widely celebrated among the miners of Los Rayas for the excellence of its liquors, the fine flavor of its cigarettes, and the buxom beauty of el patrona, or “the hostess.” Situated on the outskirts of Guanajuato, it was allowed a little more license then would have been shown it, had it stood in a more respectable portion of the city. Many a night of wild revelry, drinking, carousing, quarreling, and fighting had been passed there by the hotheaded young miners of the surrounding country, without fear of being interrupted by the entrance of the alguazils, to wind up their festivities by a morning visit at the levee of the alcalde.
Many a tragic scene had those old walls witnessed, either within or without, as the miners of Los Rayas, as a general thing, are not over punctilious in regard to the shedding of blood when their veracity or honor is deemed brought in question.
A young man was slowly approaching the venta, and although he kept his hand upon the haft of his cuchillo, it was more from habit than caution, for he was evidently in a deep reverie. But when he reached the door of the posada, he threw off this feeling, and entering the room, was met by the patrona, a large, handsome woman of perhaps forty years.
“Well, ’nor Marcos, you are here at last,” she exclaimed, warmly greeting the miner, who was an especial favorite with her. “The cavalleros have given you up, and, as you can hear, are enjoying themselves hugely,” she added, as a burst of laughter came from beyond a thickly-listed door.
“Yes, tia Joaquina, I was delayed, and even now, if I must confess the truth, I own more than half inclined to give the lads a cold shoulder to-night. I am not in the humor for revelry,” said he, in a low voice, that sounded rich and deep as the tones of a flute.
“P’r Dios, that would never do! There is business to be done to-night. I believe they have heard that on the morrow the Melladios are going to try the strength of your ‘Scarlet Shoulders,’ and see if the defeat you gave them at the last—”
“By the Virgin of Atocha! but that is good news,” exclaimed Marcos, his full, black eyes sparkling with ardor. “We will teach the—”
“H’la, ’na Joaquina!” shouted a voice, as the door was opened and a head thrust through the aperture from within. “Bring some more—mira, comarados, the capitan is making love to Santa Joaquina!” he yelled, as he caught sight of the young miner.
“Treason—treason!” they shouted, as several rushed forth, and, clustering around Marcos, forced him laughingly into the room, where he was greeted with cheers and vivas, that testified to his popularity.
It was a long, low-ceiled room, the rude adobe walls white-washed, but the rough rafters overhead were black with smoke and festooned with cobwebs, the accumulations of years. A rough table ran the entire length of the room, with a narrow passage at either end. Along the sides and secured to the walls were small stands, intended for three persons each, and all equally guiltless of cloth or covering of any kind. Lights were suspended from overhead, and, with candles stuck in niches around the walls, illumined the room sufficiently for the purpose.
A thick, hazy cloud of smoke now filled every crevice, being supplied by the glowing cigarette that each man held, some forty in number. Before them were scattered various utensils that were, or had been, full of liquor. Tin and bone cups, stone jugs and leather bottles, in every possible position that such utensils could possibly assume, covered the table. The patrona was far too careful of her crockery to intrust it in such hands, even though sure of being paid for the damage done. It was too scarce a commodity.
He who was called Marcos Sayosa finally seated himself at one of the side tables, with two of his more particular friends, who quickly enlightened him as to the truth of the subject hinted at by Joaquina. To understand it more fully, the reader must know that the men who worked in Los Rayas, and those of Mellado, a neighboring mine, were bitter rivals, each party contending that their mine was the richest and best, and many were the contests, both single and en masse, that had taken place; all leaving the point in question as far from being settled as ever. It had reached such a point that regular organizations were formed on both sides, with officers chosen, signals and passwords arranged, and the office of spy was well rewarded. Of the miners from Rayas, who had gained the soubriquet, “Scarlet Shoulders,” from the knot of ribbon of that color they wore around their left shoulder, Marcos Sayosa was the chief, while a middle-aged man, Perico Fuenter by name, commanded the opposition. The two war-cries, “Rayas” or “Mellado,” were as famous and promptly answered as that of the ’prentices in London of “clubs.” When they were heard, those not belonging to the faction barred their doors, and sought such place of security as they could find.
“You see,” said Lucas Planillas, the second in command, “they swear they will go through the town on the morrow, and make every man drink to the health of their cursed hole, and vow that it is far superior to our blessed mine.”
“I wish them joy of the attempt,” sneered Marcos, “but this—this spy; who is he? I never heard of him before as I know of.”
“Sylva Cohecho is his name. But who he is I know not, save that he gave the signals and grips all correct. Look, yonder he is, at the next table. Shall I call him?”
“No, no; I wish to take a good look at the gentleman first. So, that is he?”
The man that he looked upon was one that would have attracted attention in any company, not for his beauty, either of face or person; on the contrary, he was rather under-sized, but had the head and shoulders of a giant. As he faced the captain, with one arm dangling by the side of his seat, the immense length of arm and deepness of his chest was fully revealed. His cheeks and chin was covered with a stiff, bristly mass of grizzled hair of much more recent growth than his mustache, the ends of which rested upon his shoulders. He was dressed in the usual holiday garb of the mineros, and from beneath the slouched brim of his straw hat one piercing black eye glanced around the room. The bridge of his nose was wanting, the purple scar showing that it had been mutilated by the same blow that had deprived him of his eye. Altogether he was not exactly the person a traveler would be pleased to meet upon a solitary road. And so thought Marcos.
“Voto a Brios, ’nor Lucas, but he is a hang-dog looking fellow. Are you sure he is not a spy upon the wrong side?” muttered Sayosa.
“You know as much about him as I do,” returned Planillas. “But if you suspect, better end it before harm is done. Say but the word, a nod, and he will never trouble any one, unless it is his master, the devil,” significantly tapping the hilt of his knife that peeped from his shirt frill.
“No, Planillas; at least not until I have had speech with him. The mezcal he is using so freely may loosen his tongue after awhile. But have you sent messengers to the rest of the band?”
“By daylight the city will be full, and all prepared for business,” said the lieutenant, as he lighted another cigar.
They sat conversing in whispers for some time, forming their plans for the expected assault, and drinking but sparingly. Then the young captain heard a name mentioned that made him start from his chair and listen intently.
“H’la, ’nor Carlos,” shouted a young man across the table, “you know how you were foiled by that little Carlita, the one who lives with old tio Tomas? Here is a cavallero who has been smiled upon by the Virgin, ay, and the black-eyed doncella, too!”
“Who is it you mean. Not yourself, I hope,” replied the man addressed, a little sarcastically.
“Not so happy. But I referred to Senor Don Despierto here.”
“’Tis true, senores cavalleros,” added Despierto, with mock modesty. “I saw the beautiful Carlita, and as I had nothing of greater importance on my hands, I laid siege to her affections, and—succeeded.”
“By Venus, the cunning little prude, and she would not so much as even look at me!” murmured Don Carlos. “But how far did you succeed?”
“How far can—”
“Hold, Senor Despierto!” shouted Marcos, as he leaped forward and grasped the speaker by the shoulder. “Por todos de Santos! if you do not retract that base calumny, and say that you foully lied of one who is as pure as the holy Virgin herself, I will tear your tongue out by the roots, and force it down your throat!” he hissed, compressing his fingers until it seemed they would meet through the yielding flesh.
“Mil demonios, if you were twice my captain, you should answer for this,” gritted Estevan Despierto. “Unloose your hand, or I’ll unloosen it with a dose of steel.”
“Bah, if you looked on a knife you’d turn pale and run like a coyote!” said Marcos, as he hurled the other from his seat, half way through the crowd that had gathered around the disputants.
“Look out, Marcos; he’s drawn his cuchillo,” cautioned Planillas, as he leaped before his captain, who was prepared for the attack of his foe. “Abojo—abojo los armas (down with your weapons). Do you think there are no bodies to carve but those of your friends? Remember the Melladios!” he added.
“Peace, ’nor Planillas. He must either retract his words, and acknowledge he was lying, or not all the saints will save him from my vengeance,” calmly, but bitterly said Sayosa.
“A Despierto is not a Sayosa. He never denies his word,” sneered Don Estevan.
“Enough. Stand aside, comarados, and let us end this,” gritted Marcos, drawing his cuchillo and wrapping a frazada (a woolen cloak) around his left arm.
“H’la, senores,” called a voice from the crowd. “Fair play! let them fight upon the great table, so we can all see the sport.”
Ready for any thing that was novel, the mineros soon cleared the table, by brushing the drinking utensils upon the floor—thus proving the patrona’s prudence in abjuring crockery. A few minutes sufficed for this, and then the combatants leaped upon the table, prepared for the sport, while the spectators crowded around the arena, or stood upon the little stands by the side of the walls, eagerly staking their money upon the first wound and result of the duel.
Marcos had doffed his hat and outer jayneta, revealing a closely-fitting garment of quilted silk. A sash was tightly bound around his waist, and a handkerchief secured his long hair from falling over his face. His antagonist was prepared much like the same. They were both handsome, well-built and hardened men, but there was a peculiar look about Despierto, that could only result from dissipation and excesses, that was not visible in his adversary, and the older gamesters freely laid their money against him. They knew that in a prolonged contest he must go down before his more temperate foe.
“Andela!” (forward), shouted Lucas Planillas.
At the word both men bounded forward, and their knives met with a clash that sent showers of tiny sparks to the table. Then their thrusts and blows were made so quickly, the parries and changes of position were so rapid, that the eye could not follow them. It was like the rapid shifting of the kaleidoscope when quickly turned. The eye could catch the motion, but ere it could fix the details, another combination would obliterate its predecessor.
Despierto was slowly being forced back, or retreated from policy, when, as Marcos stood near the edge of the table, Sylva Cohecho—he who had brought the news of the intended attack by the Melladios—thrust forth a hand, and strove to catch the young miner by the foot. If he had succeeded it must have been fatal, for Estevan would have profited by the stumble, and ended the combat then and there. But Lucas’ eye caught the motion in time to frustrate it, and as he delivered a swift blow behind the spy’s ear with his clenched fist, an adroit trip of the foot sent him headlong under the table.
“Cursed crookback, you would do murder?” yelled Planillas, drawing his knife and diving under the table just as Cohecho crowded out through the crowd, who were ignorant of the cause of the disturbance.
He ran to the door, and turning, saw Lucas dart forward. Drawing a pistol from his belt, he fired at the youth, the bullet piercing his sombrero, while a faint yell and heavy fall among the spectators told that the bullet had not been entirely harmless. Cohecho saw Planillas stagger, and thinking his aim had been true, burst open the door with a strong pull, and rushed through the bar-room, gaining the open street in safety, sending back a wild, taunting laugh of triumph.
Further pursuit would be worse than useless, so the miners returned to the room where the fight was still in progress, and a little knot gathered around the dead body of a youth, who had been shot through the brain by the missile intended for Planillas. The latter only gave one glance at the victim, and then turned to view the duel.
They were both wounded, but evidently not very severely. The perspiration ran in streams from their bronzed faces. Marcos adroitly unrolled the frazada that enveloped his left arm until it nearly reached the floor. And, as the motions of his knife were thus concealed, penetrated his antagonist’s guard, and sent his long blade to the hilt in Despierto’s body.
But an attempted parry of the latter diverted the aim slightly, and instead of passing between his ribs, as was intended, the knife glanced into his back, inflicting a painful flesh wound, but not disabling the duelist. The force of the blow, however, staggered him, and he fell upon his back, as his foot slipped upon some blood. Marcos kicked the knife from his grasp, and then kneeling upon his breast, pressed the point of his knife against the man’s throat.
“Now, base liar, unsay the words, or by the Virgin of Atocha, I will kill you like a dog!”
“I am Don Estevan Despierto!” scornfully replied the defeated duelist, as though in those words were contained his answer to the threat.
“Once more I ask you. If you do not, before I count ten, you will never speak again!”
“Bah! your arm is not strong enough, nor your heart brave enough to kill a man,” sneered Despierto, vindictively struggling to free himself.
For a moment all was breathless silence in the room. Naught was heard but the half-choked breathing of the man, who, laying upon his back, with a foeman’s knees pressing into his breast—the dull, red gleam of the long knife that had already drank his blood, as it was poised above his throat, glancing full in his eyes, quailed not, but glowered fiercely at his conqueror, as if daring the final blow. Then a faint murmur ran around the room, half of admiration, half of pity for the bold, strong-hearted man who was about to meet his death. But no one offered to interfere; had he done so, a score of knives would have confronted him. By the miner’s laws of the entire country, Despierto’s life was forfeited to his victor, to be taken when and how his fancy might dictate. Still, a shudder ran over the spectators as the voice of the young miner began to count; it had a hard, metallic ring to it, that appeared to fill the entire room, like the clanging of a huge bell.
“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho—”
But he counted no further, for the door was thrown violently open, and Joaquina rushed in from the bar-room, screaming:
“Valga me Dios, cavalleros, you are betrayed! The accursed Melladios are here. Hay mucho—muchissimos!” (they are many.)
Instantly all was confusion. Several of those nearest the door ran out to the entrance to see if it was not a false alarm, while the rest hastily possessed themselves of their firearms that were stacked in the corner of the room. Marcos Sayosa arose from the prostrate body of his foe, and said:
“We will settle this affair afterward. Now, every man is needed. Will you help your comrades?”
“I belong to the band,” haughtily replied Despierto, “and will do my duty. You will not have to search for me, if we are both alive after we chastise these beggarly hounds.”
“Good! I will trust you.”
A loud roar, as of many voices, was heard from without, closely followed by a volley of firearms, and then two of the “Scarlet Shoulders” re-entered, bearing between them the wounded body of their comrade.