Chapter 23 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
Quarrelsome Gamesters
In a remote chamber of the hacienda were lodged the four adventurers, Pedro Diaz, Oroche, Cuchillo, and Baraja. These gentlemen were not slow in becoming acquainted with one another, and this acquaintance was soon of the most familiar character. In the middle of the room in which all four were to pass the night, stood a strong oaken table, upon which, in an iron candlestick, was burning a long thin tallow candle, that gave forth a somewhat dim and doubtful light. By this light Cuchillo and Baraja—forgetful of all their promises and vows—were going on with the game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village of Huerfano.
Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche, seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his elbow resting on his knee—the favourite attitude of mandolin players—accompanied his own voice as he sang the boleros and fandangos then most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region.
Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of mezcal, already half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally helped themselves—as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour. Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja’s pockets, and Cuchillo was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him. The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the table.
“Who the devil wants your music?” cried he to Oroche in a furious tone, “and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion—only credit when I win, and cash whenever I lose.”
“You offend me, Señor Cuchillo,” said Baraja, “my word has always passed for its value in cash.”
“Especially when you don’t happen to lose,” sneeringly added Cuchillo.
“That is not a very delicate insinuation,” said Baraja gathering up the cards. “Fye, fye! Señor Cuchillo—to get angry about such a trifle! I myself have lost half a hacienda at play—after being robbed of the other half—and yet I never said a word about it.”
“Didn’t you indeed? what’s that to me? I shall speak as I please, Señor Baraja, and as loudly as I please too,” added he, placing his hand upon the hilt of his knife.
“Yes,” coolly answered Baraja, “I know you use words that cause your friends to drop dead; but these words are harmless at a distance—besides I have got a tongue as sharp as yours, Señor Cuchillo.”
As Baraja said this, he drew his knife from its sheath—in which action he was imitated by his antagonist—and both placed themselves simultaneously in an attitude for fight.
Oroche coolly took up his mandolin—which at the interference of Cuchillo he had laid aside—and, like a bard of ancient times was, preparing to accompany the combat with a chant, when Diaz suddenly interposed between the two champions.
“For shame, gentlemen!” cried he; “what! two men made to be mutual friends, thus to cut each other’s throats for a few paltry dollars! on the eve too of becoming the owners of a hundred times as much! Have I not understood you to say, Señor Cuchillo, that you were to be the guide of our expedition? Your life is no more your own, then; it belongs to us all, and you have no right to risk it. And you, Señor Baraja! you have not the right to attempt the life of our guide. Come! put up your knives, and let there be no more of this matter.”
This speech recalled the two combatants to their senses. Cuchillo remembering the grand interest he had in the success of the expedition, and perceiving that the risk of life was playing a little too high—for a combat of this sort usually ends in the death of one or the other—gave ready ear to the counsel of Diaz. Baraja, on his side, reflected that the dollars he had already pocketed might be better employed than in defraying the expenses of his own funeral; and on this reflection was equally ready to desist from his intention.
“Be it so, then!” cried Cuchillo, speaking first; “I sacrifice my feelings to the common good.”
“And I,” said Baraja, “I am willing to follow so noble an example. I disarm—but—I shall play no more.”
The knives were again stuck into their scabbards, and the two adversaries mutually extended their hands to one another.
At this moment, Diaz, by way of preventing any allusion to the recent quarrel, suddenly turning to Cuchillo, demanded:
“Who, Señor Cuchillo, is this young man whom I saw riding by your side as you came up to the hacienda? Notwithstanding the friendship that appeared to exist between you and him, if I mistake not, I observed you regarding one another with an occasional glance of mistrust—not to say hostility. Was it not so?”
Cuchillo recounted how they had found Tiburcio half dead upon the road, and also the other circumstances, already known to the reader; but the question put by Diaz had brought the red colour into the face of the outlaw, for it recalled to him how his cunning had been outwitted by the young man, and also how he had been made to tremble a moment under Tiburcio’s menace. Writhing under these remembrances, he was now determined to make his vengeance more secure, by enlisting his associates as accomplices of his design.
“It often happens,” said he, in a significant tone, “that one man’s interest must be sacrificed to the common welfare—just as I have now done—does it not?”
“Without doubt,” replied several.
“Well then,” continued Cuchillo, “when one has given himself, body and soul, to any cause, whatever it may be, it becomes his duty, as in my case, to put a full and complete constraint upon his affections, his passions, even his dearest interests—ay, even upon any scruples of conscience that might arise in an over-delicate mind.”
“All the world knows that,” said Baraja.
“Just so, gentlemen. Well, I feel myself in that difficulty; I have a too timid conscience, I fear, and I want your opinions to guide me.”
His audience maintained an imperturbable silence.
“Suppose, then,” continued the outlaw, “there was a man whom you all held in the highest esteem, but whose life compromised the success of our expedition, what should be done with him?”
“As God lives,” cried Oroche, “I should be happy to find some occasion of sacrificing private interests to the common good.”
“But is there such a man?” inquired Diaz, “and who may he be?”
“It’s a long story,” replied Cuchillo, “and its details concern only myself—but there is such a man.”
“Carajo!” exclaimed Oroche, “that is enough; he should be got rid of as speedily as possible.”
“Is that the advice of all of you?” asked Cuchillo.
“Of course,” answered simultaneously Oroche and Baraja.
Diaz remained silent keeping himself out of this mysterious compromise. After a little, he rose from his seat, and under some pretext left the chamber.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” said Cuchillo, addressing himself to his two more facile comrades, “you are fully of the opinion that the man should be got rid of? Let me tell you, then, that this man is no other than Tiburcio Arellanos.”
“Tiburcio!” exclaimed the two acolytes.
“Himself—and although, since he is one of my dearest friends, it goes sadly against my heart, I declare to you that his life may render abortive all the plans of our expedition.”
“But,” interposed Baraja, “why may he not lose it?—to-morrow in this hunt of wild horses there will be a thousand opportunities of his losing it?”
“True enough,” said Cuchillo, in a solemn voice. “It is of great importance he should not return from this hunt. Can I rely upon you, gentlemen?”
“Blindly!” replied the two adventurers.
The storm was gathering over the head of poor Tiburcio, but danger threatened him from still another quarter; and long before the expected hunt, that danger would be at its height.
The three adventurers continued their conversation, and were entering more particularly into the details of their design, when a knocking at the outer door interrupted their sinister councils.