Chapter 22 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
The officer, from his position, had a full view of the girl as she stood in the little enclosure of flowers. She had retreated to the door, and would have gone inside, but she turned to call off Cibolo, a large wolf-dog, who was barking fiercely, and threatening the new-comer.
The dog, obedient to her voice, ran back into the house growling, but by no means satisfied. He evidently wanted to try his teeth on the shanks of the stranger’s horse.
“Thank you, fair Señorita,” said the officer. “It is very kind of you to protect me from that fierce brute. I would he were the only clangour I had to fear in this house.”
“What have you to fear, Señor?” inquired Rosita, with some surprise.
“Your eyes, sweet girl: more dangerous than the sharp teeth of your dog,—they have already wounded me.”
“Cavallero,” replied Rosita, blushing and averting her face, “you have not come here to jest with a poor girl. May I inquire what is your business?”
“Business I have none, lovely Rosita, but to see you,—nay, do not leave me!—I have business—that is, I am thirsty, and halted for a drink: you will not refuse me a cup of water, fair Señorita?”
These last phrases, broken and hastily delivered, were meant to restrain the girl from cutting short the interview, which she was about to do by entering the house. Vizcarra was not thirsty, neither did he wish for water; but the laws of hospitality would compel the girl to bring it, and the act might further his purposes.
She, without replying to his complimentary harangue, stepped into the house, and presently returned with a gourd-shell filled with water. Carrying it to the gate-like opening of the fences, she presented it to him, and stood waiting for the vessel.
Vizcarra, to make his request look natural, forced down several gulps of the fluid, and then, throwing away the rest, held out the gourd. The girl stretched forth her hand to receive it, but he still held it fast, gazing intently and rudely upon her.
“Lovely señorita,” he said, “may I not kiss that pretty hand that has been so kind to me?”
“Sir! please return me the cup.”
“Nay, not till I have paid for my drink. You will accept this?”
He dropped a gold onza into the gourd.
“No, Señor, I cannot accept payment for what is only an act of duty. I shall not take your gold,” she added, firmly.
“Lovely Rosita! you have already taken my heart, why not this?”
“I do not understand you, Señor; please put back your money, and let me have the cup.”
“I shall not deliver it up, unless you take it with its contents.”
“Then you must keep it, Señor,” replied she, turning away. “I must to my work.”
“Nay, further, Señorita!” cried Vizcarra; “I have another favour to ask,—a light for my cigar? Here, take the cup! See! the coin is no longer in it! You will pardon me for having offered it?”
Vizcarra saw that she was offended, and by this apology endeavoured to appease her.
She received the gourd-shell from his hands, and then went back to the house to bring him the light he had asked for.
Presently she reappeared with some red coals upon a small “brazero.”
On reaching the gate she was surprised to see that the officer had dismounted, and was fastening his horse to a stake.
As she offered him the brazero, he remarked, “I am wearied with my ride; may I beg, Señorita, you will allow me a few minutes’ shelter from the hot sun?”
Though annoyed at this request, the girl could only reply in the affirmative; and the next moment, with clattering spur and clanking sabre, the Comandante walked into the rancho.
Rosita followed him in without a word, and without a word he was received by her mother, who, seated in the corner, took no notice of his entrance, not even by looking up at him. The dog made a circuit around him, growling angrily, but his young mistress chided him off; and the brute once more couched himself upon a petaté, and lay with eyes gleaming fiercely at the intruder.
Once in the house, Vizcarra did not feel easy. He saw he was not welcome. Not a word of welcome had been uttered by Rosita, and not a sign of it offered either by the old woman or the dog. The contrary symptoms were unmistakeable, and the grand officer felt he was an intruder.
But Vizcarra was not accustomed to care much for the feelings of people like these. He paid but little regard to their likes or dislikes, especially where these interfered with his pleasures; and, after lighting his cigar, he sat down on a “banqueta,” with as much nonchalance as if he were in his own quarters. He smoked some time without breaking silence.
Meanwhile Rosita had drawn out her loom, and, kneeling down in front of it, went on with her work as if no stranger were present.
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the officer, feigning interest in the process, “how very ingenious! I have often wished to see this! a reboso it is? Upon my word! and that is how they are woven? Can you finish one in a day, Señorita?”
“Si, Señor,” was the curt reply.
“And this thread, it is cotton; is it not?”
“Si, Señor.”
“It is very prettily arranged indeed. Did you place it so yourself?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Really it requires skill! I should like much to learn how the threads are passed.”
And as he said this he left his seat upon the banqueta, and, approaching the loom, knelt down beside it.
“Indeed, very singular and ingenious. Ah, now, do you think, pretty Rosita, you could teach me?”
The old woman, who was seated with her eyes bent upon the ground, started at hearing the stranger pronounce her daughter’s name, and glanced around at him.
“I am really serious,” continued he; “do you think you could teach me this useful art?”
“No, Señor!” was the laconic reply.
“Oh! surely I am not so stupid! I think I could learn it—it seems only to hold this thing so,”—here he bent forward, and placed his hand upon the shuttle, so as to touch the fingers of the girl,—“and then put it between the threads in this manner; is it not—?”
At this moment, as if carried away by his wild passions, he seemed to forget himself; and, turning his eyes upon the blushing girl, he continued in an under tone, “Sweetest Rosita! I love you,—one kiss, fairest,—one kiss!” and before she could escape from his arms, which had already encircled her, he had imprinted a kiss upon her lips!
A scream escaped from the girl, but another, louder and wilder, answered it from the corner. The old woman sprang up from her crouching position, and running across the floor launched herself like a tigress upon the officer! Her long bony fingers flew out, and in an instant were clutching his throat!
“Off! beldame! off!” cried he, struggling to escape: “off I say; or my sword shall cut short your wretched life, off!—off!—I say!”
Still the old woman clutched and screamed, tearing wildly at his throat, his epaulettes, or whatever she could lay hold of.
But sharper than her nails were the teeth of the great wolf-dog that sprang almost simultaneously from his lair, and, seizing the soldier by the limbs, caused him to bellow out at the top of his voice—
“Without there! Sergeant Gomez! Ho! treason! to the rescue! to the rescue!”
“Ay! dog of a Gachupino!” screamed the old woman,—“dog of Spanish blood! you may call your cowardly myrmidons! Oh! that my brave son were here, or my husband alive! If they were, you would not carry a drop of your villain blood beyond the threshold you have insulted!—Go!—go to your poblanas—your margaritas! Go—begone!”
“Hell and furies! This dog—take him off! Ho, there! Gomez! your pistols. Here! send a bullet through him! Haste! haste!”
And battling with his sabre, the valiant Comandante at length effected a retreat to his horse.
He was already well torn about the legs, but, covered by the sergeant, he succeeded in getting into the saddle.
The latter fired off both his pistols at the dog, but the bullets did not take effect; and the animal, perceiving that his enemies outnumbered him, turned and ran back into the house.
The dog was now silent, but the Comandante, as he sat in his saddle, heard a derisive laugh within the rancho. In the clear soft tones of that jeering laughter he distinguished the voice of the beautiful güera!
Chagrined beyond measure, he would have besieged the rancho with his troop, and insisted on killing the dog, had he not feared that the cause of his ungraceful retreat might become known to his followers. That would be a mortification he did not desire to experience.
He returned, therefore, to the troop, gave the word to march, and the cavalcade moved off, taking the backward road to the town.
After riding at the head of his men for a short while, Vizcarra—whose heart was filled with anger and mortification—gave some orders to the sergeant, and then rode off in advance, and in full gallop.
The sight of a horseman in blue manga, passing in the direction of the rancho—and whom he recognised as the young ranchero, Don Juan—did not do much towards soothing his angry spirit. He neither halted nor spoke, but, casting on the latter a malignant glance, kept on.
He did not slacken his pace until he drew bridle in the saguan of the Presidio.
His panting horse had to pay for the bitter reflections that tortured the soul of his master.