Chapter 18 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
On the second day after the fiesta there was a small dining party at the Presidio. Merely a few bachelor friends of the Comandante—the beaux esprits of the place—including the fashionable Echevarria. The cura was among the number, and also the mission padrés, both of whom enjoyed the convivialities of the table equal to any “friar of orders grey.”
The company had gone through the numerous courses of a Mexican meal—the “pucheros,” “guisados,” and endless mixtures of “chilé,”—and the dinner was at that stage when the cloth has been carried off, and the wine flows freely, “Canario” and “Xeres,” “Pedro do Ximenes,” “Madeira,” and “Bordeos,” in bottles of different shapes, stood upon the table; and for those who liked a stronger beverage there was a flask of golden “Catalan,” with another of Maraschino. A well-stored cellar was that of the Comandante. In addition to his being military governor, he was, as already hinted, collector of the derechos de consume, or custom-house dues. Hence he was the recipient of many a little present, as now and then a basket of champagne or a dozen of Bordeaux.
His company had got fairly into the wine. The cura had thrown aside his sanctity and become human like the rest; the padrés had forgotten their sackcloth and bead-roll, and the senior of them, Padré Joaquin, entertained the table with spicy adventures which had occurred to him before he became a monk. Echevarria related anecdotes of Paris, with many adventures he had encountered among the grisettes.
The Spanish officers being the hosts were, of course, least talkative, though the Comandante—vain as any young sub who wore his epaulettes for the first time—could not refrain from alluding occasionally to his terrible list of bonnes fortunes among the fair Sevillanas. He had long been stationed at the city of oranges, and “la gracia Andalusiana” was ever his theme of admiration.
Roblado believed in the belles of the Havannah, and descanted upon the plump, material beauty which is characteristic of the Quadroons; while the lieutenant expressed his penchant for the small-footed Guadalaxareñas—not of old Spain, but of the rich Mexican province Guadalaxara. He had been quartered there.
So ran the talk—rough and ribald—upon that delicate theme—woman. The presence of the trio of churchmen was no restraint. On the contrary, both padrés and cura boasted of their liaisons with as much bawd and brass as the others, for padrés and cura were both as depraved as any of their dining companions. Any little reserve either might have shown upon ordinary occasions had disappeared after a few cups of wine; and none of them feared the company, which, on its part, stood as little in awe of them. The affectation of sanctity and self-denial was meant only for the simple poblanos and the simpler peons of the settlement. At the dinner-table it was occasionally assumed by one or the other, but only by way of joke,—to give point and piquancy to the relation of some adventure. In the midst of the conversation, which had grown somewhat general and confused, a name was pronounced which produced a momentary silence. That name was “Carlos the cibolero.”
At the mention of this name several countenances changed expression. Roblado was seen to frown; on Vizcarra’s face were portrayed mixed emotions; and both padrés and cura seemed to know the name unfavourably.
It was the beau Echevarria who had mentioned it.
“’Pon the honour of a cavallero! the most impudent thing I ever witnessed in all my life, even in republican Paris! A fellow,—a demned trader in hides and tasajo—in short, a butcher of demned buffaloes to aspire—Parbleu!”
Echevarria, though talking Spanish, always swore in French. It was more polite.
“Most insolent—intolerable!” cried several voices.
“I don’t think the lady seemed over angry withal,” remarked a blunt young fellow, who sat near the lower end of the table.
A chorus of voices expressed dissent from this opinion. Roblado’s was the loudest.
“Don Ramon Diaz,” said he, addressing himself to the young fellow, “you certainly could not have observed very carefully on that occasion. I who was beside the lady know that she was filled with disgust—” (this was a lie, and Roblado knew it), “and her father—”
“Oh, her father, yes!” cried Don Ramon, laughing. “Any one could see that he was angry—that was natural enough. Ha! ha!”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired one.
“A splendid rider,” replied Don Ramon. “The Comandante will admit that.” And the free speaker looked at Vizcarra with a smile of intelligence. The latter frowned at the observation.
“You lost a good sum, did you not?” inquired the cura of Vizcarra.
“Not to him,” replied the Comandante, “but to that vulgar fellow who seems his friend. The worst of it is, when one bets with these low people there is no chance of getting a revanche at some other time. One cannot meet them in the ordinary way.”
“But who is the fellow?” again inquired one.
“Who? Why, a cibolero—that’s all.”
“True, but is there nothing about his history? He’s a gilero, and that is odd for a native! Is he a Criollo? He might be a Biscayan.”
“Neither one nor the other. ’Tis said he’s an Americano.”
“Americano!”
“Not exactly that—his father was; but the padré here can tell all about him.”
The priest thus appealed to entertained the company with some facts in the history of the cibolero. His father had been an Americano, as it was supposed—some stray personage who had mysteriously found his way to the valley and settled in it long ago. Such instances were rare in the settlements of New Mexico; but what was rarer still, in this case the “Americano” was accompanied by an “Americana”—the mother of Carlos—and the same old woman who attracted so much attention on the day of San Juan. All the efforts of the padrés to christianise either one or the other had been in vain. The old trapper—for such he was—died as he had lived—a blaspheming “heretico;” and there was a general belief in the settlement that his widow held converse with the devil. All this was a scandal to the Church, and the padrés would long since have expelled the güero family, but that, for some reason or other, they were protected by the old Comandante—Vizcarra’s predecessor—who had restrained the zealous priests in their good intention.
“But, caballeros!” said the padré, glancing towards Vizcarra, “such heretics are dangerous citizens. In them lie the seeds of revolution and social disturbance; and when this güero is at home, he is seen only in the company of those we cannot watch too closely: he has been seen with some of the suspected Tagnos, several of whom are in his service.”
“Ha! with them, indeed!” exclaimed several. “A dangerous fellow!—he should be looked after.”
The sister of the cibolero now became the subject of conversation; and as remarks were made more or less complimentary to her beauty, the expression upon the face of Vizcarra kept constantly changing. That villain was more interested in the conversation than his guests were aware, and he had already formed his plans. Already his agents were out on the accomplishment of his atrocious designs.
The transition from the cibolero’s sister to the other belles of the place, and to the subject of woman in general, was natural; and the company were soon engaged in their original conversation, which, under the influence of additional wine, grew more “racy” than ever.
The scene ended by several of the party becoming “boracho;” and the night being now far advanced, the guests took their leave, some of them requiring to be conducted to their homes. A soldier apiece accompanied the cura and padrés, all three of whom were as “drunk as lords;” and it was no new thing for them.