Volume 3 Chapter 20 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
No Blood
The sun had already hidden his red disc under the sea horizon, when the man-hunters mounted the hill, and approached the hut where Custos Vaughan had been compelled to make halt, and in which he was now lying lifeless.
“Mira, Manuel!” said Andres, as they came within sight of the hovel, and at the same instant saw the horse standing tied to the tree; “un cavallo! saddled, bridled, and with alforjas!”
“A traveller’s horse!” rejoined Manuel, “and that very traveller we’ve been tracking. Yes! it’s the horse of the great alcalde of Mount Welcome! Don’t you remember, when we saw them before us at mid-day, that one of the horses was a bay, and the other a grey? There’s the grey, and it was on that very animal the Custos was riding.”
“Quite true, compadre; but where’s the other?”
“Maybe among the trees, or tied round the other side of the hut. The riders must be inside.”
“Both, do you think, Manuel?”
“Of course, both; though where Blackskin’s horse can be is more than I can say. Carrambo! what’s halted them here? There’s nobody lives in the ranche. I know that: I came this way about a week ago and it had no tenant then. Besides, the ingenio where he was to put up for the night is just below. What, in the name of Saint Mary, has stopped them here?”
“Por Dios, compadre!” said the younger of the two caçadores, looking significantly at the saddlebags still hanging over the cantle of the Custos’s saddle. “There ought to be something valuable in those alforjas?”
“Caval! you’re right; but we mustn’t think of that just yet, camarado! After the other’s done, then we shall have the opportunity—I wonder whether they’re both inside? It’s very odd we don’t see the negro’s horse!”
“Ha!” rejoined Andres, apparently struck with an idea. “What if he’s gone on to the plantation for some purpose? Suppose an accident has happened to the Custos’s steed, or, carrai! suppose he’s himself taken sick? You remember the man we met, who told us about them ugly pistols—he said that one of the travellers—the white man—looked sick. Didn’t the fellow say he saw him puking?”
“Por Dios! he did. As you say, there may be something in it. If Blackskin’s out of the way, now’s our time; for there is more to be feared from that big buck nigger than his master, when it comes to a struggle. If it should prove that the Custos is sick—I hope it is so—he won’t be in a condition to make much use of his weapons; and carrambo! we must get hold of them before he knows what we’re after!”
“Hadn’t we better go round first?” counselled the sagacious Andres. “Let us explore the back of the hut, and see whether the other horse is there. If he’s not, then certainly the negro’s gone off on some errand! We can steal through the bushes to the other side, and get right up to the walls without any danger of being seen!”
“That’s our plan, camarado. Let’s lose no time, then, for, if it be so that Blackskin’s abroad, we’re in luck. We mayn’t find such another chance—not between here and the world’s end. Follow me, hombre! and set down your feet as if you were stepping upon eggs with young birds in them. Vamos!”
So saying, the chief of the two caçadores skulked in among the trees, closely followed by his companion.
After making a circuit through the underwood, the assassins stole silently in towards the back of the hovel.
They saw no other horse—only the grey, which stood tied to the tree in front. The bay was gone, and in all probability his rider. Andres already congratulated himself upon his conjecture being correct: the negro had ridden off upon some errand.
This was put beyond all doubt by their perceiving the fresh tracks of a horse, leading away from the hut along the road towards Content. The hoof-prints were so plain as to be visible at some distance. The turf on the road-edge was torn up, and deeply indented—where the negro groom had urged his horse into a gallop.
The assassins saw this, even without returning to the road; and were now satisfied that the attendant was gone away. It only remained to make sure that the traveller himself was inside the hut.
Creeping cautiously up to the wall, the caçadores peeped through the unclayed chinks of the cabin.
At first the darkness inside hindered them from distinguishing any object in particular. Presently, as their eyes grew more accustomed to the obscurity, they succeeded in making out the bamboo bedstead in the corner, with something that resembled the figure of a man stretched lengthwise upon it. A dark cloak covered the form, the face as well; but the feet, booted and spurred, protruding from under the cover, told that it was a man who was lying in that outstretched attitude—the man who was to be murdered!
He appeared to be sound asleep: there was no motion perceptible—not even as much as would indicate that he breathed!
Lying on the floor, at some distance from the couch, was a hat, and beside it a pair of pistols, in their holsters—as if the traveller had unbuckled them from his belt, and flung them down, before going to sleep. Even if awake he could scarce get hold of the pistols, before his assailants could spring upon him.
The assassins looked towards one another with a significant glance. The fates appeared to favour their attempt; and, as both on the instant were actuated by the same sanguinary instinct, they leaped simultaneously to their feet, drew their sharp machetés, and rushed together through the doorway.
“Matelo! matelo!” (kill him!) cried both, in the same voice, each with a view of encouraging the other; and, as they uttered the cruel cry, they buried the blades in the body of the unresisting traveller—stabbing it repeatedly through the cloak.
Convinced that they had finished their bloody work, the murderers were about to rush out again—probably with an eye to the saddlebags outside, when it occurred to them as strange that the victim of their hired villainy should have kept so quiet. In their frenzied excitement—while dealing what they supposed to be his death-blows—they had not stopped to notice anything odd in the behaviour of the man whom they were murdering. Now that the deed was done, and they could reflect more coolly, a sudden surprise seized upon them—springing from the circumstance that the wretched man had made not the slightest motion—had neither stirred nor cried out! Perhaps the first stab had gone right through his heart: for it was so intended by Andres, who had given it. But even that does not produce instantaneous death, and the man-hunters knew it. Besides, on the blade of Andres’ macheté, as well as that of his comrade, there was no blood!
It was very strange. Could the cloak or under-garments have wiped it off? Partially they might, but not altogether! Their blades were wet, but not with blood—of that they showed scarce a stain!
“It’s a queer thing, comrade,” exclaimed Manuel. “I could almost fancy—Vaya! Lift the cloak, and let’s have a look at him.”
The other, stepping closer to the couch, stooped forward, and raised the fold of the camlet from the face of the murdered man.
As he did so, his hand came in contact with the cold skin, while his glance fell upon the stiffened features of a corpse—upon eyes whose dull, blank film showed that the light had long since forsaken them!
The assassin stayed not for a second look. With a cry of terror he let go the garment; and rushed towards the door, followed by his equally terrified companion.
In another moment both would have escaped outside; and perhaps have taken the back track, without thinking any more about the saddlebags; but just as Andres had set foot upon the door-sill, he saw before him something that caused him to pull up, and with a precipitancy that brought his comrade with a violent concussion against his back.
The something which had led to this sudden interruption was the presence of three men, standing in a triangular row, scarce five paces from the door. Each was holding a gun, in such position, that its dark, hollow tube was visible to the eyes of the assassin—pointing directly upon himself.
The three men were of three distinct colours—white, yellow, and black; all three known to the man-hunter and his companion. They were Herbert Vaughan, Cubina, captain of Maroons, and Quaco, his lieutenant.