Chapter 50 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
The monk who presented himself was the same who had figured at the dinner-party. He was the senior of the two that directed the mission, and in every respect the ruler of the establishment. He was known as the Padré Joaquin, while his junior was the Padré Jorgé. The latter was a late addition to the post, whereas Padré Joaquin had been its director almost since the time of its establishment. He was, therefore, an old resident, and knew the history and character of every settler in the valley. For some reason or other he held an inveterate dislike to the family of the cibolero, to which he had given expression upon the evening of the dinner-party,—although he assigned no cause for his hostility. It could not have been because he regarded them as “hereticos,” for, though the Padré Joaquin was loud in his denunciations of all who were outside the pale of the Church, yet in his own heart he cared but little about such things. His zeal for religion was sheer hypocrisy and worldly cunning. There was no vice practised in the settlement in which Padré Joaquin did not take a leading part. An adroit monte player he was—ready to do a little cheating upon occasions—a capital judge of game “gallos,” ever ready to stake his onzas upon a “main.” In addition to these accomplishments, the padré boasted of others. In his cups,—and this was nothing unusual,—he was in the habit of relating the liaisons and amourettes of his earlier life, and even some of later date. Although the neophytes of the mission were supposed to be all native Tagnos with dark skins, yet there was to be seen upon the establishment quite a crowd of young mestizoes, both boys and girls, who were known as the “sobrinos” and “sobrinas” of Padré Joaquin.
You cannot otherwise than deem this an exaggeration: you will imagine that no reverend father could practise such conduct, and still be held in any sort of respect by the people among whom he dwelt? So should I have thought had I not witnessed with my own eyes and ears the “priest-life” of Mexico. The immoralities here ascribed to Padré Joaquin can scarcely be called exceptional in his class. They are rather common than otherwise—some have even said universal.
It was no zealous feeling of religion, then, that could have “set” the monk in such hostile attitude against the family of the poor cibolero. No. It was some old grudge against the deceased father,—some cross which the padré had experienced from him in the days of the former Comandante.
As Padré Joaquin walked forward on the azotea, his busy bustling air showed that he was charged with some “novedad;” and the triumphant smile upon his countenance told that he calculated upon its being of interest to those to whom he was about to communicate it.
“Good day, father!—Good day, your reverence!” said the Comandante and Roblado speaking at the same time.
“Buenos dias, cavalleros!” responded the padré.
“Glad to see you, good father!” said Roblado. “You have saved me a ride. I was just in the act of starting for the mission to wait upon your reverence.”
“And if you had come, capitan, I could have given you a luxury to lunch upon. We have received our buffalo-tongues.”
“Oh! you have!” cried Vizcarra and Roblado in the same breath, and with an expression of interest that somewhat surprised the padré.
“Ha! you greedy ladrones! I see what you would be after. You would have me send you some of them. You sha’n’t have a slice though—that is, unless you can give me something that will wash this dust out of my throat. I’m woeful thirsty this morning.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the officers. “What shall it be, father?”
“Well—let me see.—Ah!—a cup of ‘Bordeos’—that you received by last arrival.”
The claret was ordered and brought up; and the padré, tossing off a glassful, smacked his lips after it with the air of one who well knew and appreciated the good quality of the wine.
“Linda! lindisima!” he exclaimed, rolling his eyes up to heaven, as if everything good should come and go in that direction.
“And so, padré,” said the impatient Roblado, “you have got your buffalo-tongues? Your hunters, then, have returned?”
“They have; that is the business that brought me over.”
“Good! that was the business that was about to take me to the mission.”
“An onza we were both on the same errand!” challenged the padré.
“I won’t bet, father; you always win.”
“Come! you’d be glad to give an onza for my news.”
“What news?—what news?” asked the officers at once, and with hurried impatience of manner.
“Another cup of Bordeos, or I choke! The dust of that road is worse than purgatory. Ah! this is a relief.”
And again the padré swallowed a large glassful of claret, and smacked his lips as before.
“Now your news, dear padré?”
“Pues, cavalleros—our hunters have returned!”
“Y pues?”
“Pues que! they have brought news.”
“Of what?”
“Of our friend the cibolero.”
“Of Carlos?”
“Precisely of that individual.”
“What news? Have they seen him?”
“No, not exactly him, but his trail. They have discovered his lair, and know where he is at this moment.”
“Good!” exclaimed Vizcarra and Roblado.
“They can find him at any time.”
“Excellent!”
“Pues, cavalleros; that is my news at your service. Use it to your advantage, if you can.”
“Dear padré!” replied Vizcarra, “yours is a wiser head than ours. You know the situation of affairs. Our troopers cannot catch this villain. How would you advise us to act?”
The padré felt nattered by this confidence.
“Amigos!” said he, drawing both of them together, “I have been thinking of this; and it is my opinion you will do just as well without the help of a single soldier. Take these two hunters into your confidence—so far as may be necessary—equip them for the work—set them on the trail; and if they don’t hunt down the heretic rascal, then I, Padré Joaquin, have no knowledge of men.”
“Why, padré!” said Roblado; “it’s the very thing we have been thinking about—the very business for which I was about to seek you.”
“You had good reason, cavalleros. In my opinion, it’s the best course to be followed.”
“But will your hunters go willingly to work? They are free men, and may not like to engage in so dangerous an enterprise.”
“Dangerous!” repeated the padré. “The danger will be no obstacle to them, I promise you. They have the courage of lions and the agility of tigers. You need not fear that danger will stand in the way.”
“You think, then, they will be disposed to it?”
“They are disposed—I have sounded them. They have some reasons of their own for not loving the cibolero too dearly; and therefore, cavalleros, you won’t require to use much persuasion on that score. I fancy you’ll find them ready enough, for they have, been reading the proclamation, and, if I mistake not, have been turning over in their thoughts the fine promises it holds out. Make it sure to them that they will be well rewarded, and they’ll bring you the cibolero’s ears, or his scalp, or his whole carcase, if you prefer it, in less than three days from the present time! They’ll track him down, I warrant.”
“Should we send some troopers along with them? The cibolero may not be alone. We have reason to believe he has a half-blood with him—a sort of right-hand man of his own—and with this help he may be quite a match for your hunters.”
“Not likely—they are very demonios. But you can consult themselves about that. They will know best whether they need assistance. That is their own affair, cavalleros. Let them decide.”
“Shall we send for them? or will you send them to us?” inquired Roblado.
“Do you not think it would be better for one of you to go to them? The matter should be managed privately. If they make their appearance here, and hold an interview with either of you, your business with them will be suspected, and perchance get known to him. If it should reach his ears that these fellows are after him, their chances of taking him would be greatly diminished.”
“You are right, father,” said Roblado. “How can we communicate with these fellows privately?”
“Nothing easier than that, capitan. Go to their house—I should rather say to their hut—for they live in a sort of hovel by the rocks. The place is altogether out of the common track. No one will be likely to see you on your visit. You must pass through a narrow road in the chapparal; but I shall send you a guide who knows the spot, and he will conduct you. I think it like enough the fellows will be expecting you, as I hinted to them to stay at home—that possibly they might be wanted. No doubt you’ll find them there at this moment.”
“When can you send up the guide?”
“He is here now—my own attendant will do. He is below in the court—you need lose no time.”
“No. Roblado,” added the Comandante, “your horse is ready—you cannot do better than go at once.”
“Then go I shall: your guide, padré?”
“Esteban! Hola! Esteban!” cried the padré, leaning over the wall.
“Aqui, Señor,” answered a voice.
“Sube! sube! anda!” (Come up quickly.)
The next moment an Indian boy appeared upon the azotea, and taking off his hat approached the padré with an air of reverence.
“You will guide the capitan through the path in the chapparal to the hunters’ hut.”
“Si, Señor.”
“Don’t tell any one you have done so.”
“No, Señor.”
“If you do you shall catch the ‘cuarto.’ Vaya!”
Roblado, followed by the boy, descended the escalera; and, after being helped on his horse, rode away from the gate.
The padré, at the invitation of Vizcarra, emptied another cup of Bordeos; and then, telling his host that a luncheon of the new luxury awaited him at the mission, he bade him good day, and shuffled off homeward.
Vizcarra remained alone upon the azotea. Had any one been there to watch him, they would have noticed that his countenance assumed a strange and troubled expression every time his eyes chanced to wander in the direction of La Niña.