Chapter 50 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
Awkward Odds
Ijurra was alone, and I continued to advance to the spot where he was standing. His back was towards me, for he still fronted in the direction in which Isolina had galloped off. He had followed her with his eyes, with a cry of disappointed rage, with a threat of malignant vengeance.
The sound of his own voice hindered him from hearing mine, and he was not aware of my presence, when I paused scarcely three feet from where he stood, and directly behind him.
I held my sword drawn; I could have thrust him in the back, through and through again, before he could have offered either defence or resistance. He was completely in my power.
Fortunate was it for him at that moment that I had been bred a gentleman, else in another instant his lifeless body would have lain at my feet. A plebeian blade would have made short work with the ruffian, and I confess that my instincts of fair-play were sorely tried. I had before me a man who had sought my life—a deadly foe—a deadly foe to her I loved—a perjured villain—a murderer! With such titles for himself, he had none to the laws of honour; and I confess that for one short moment, I felt like ignoring his claim.
’Twas but for a moment: the thought revolted me. Wicked and worthless as he was, I could not stab him in the back.
I leaned forward, and tapping him upon the shoulder, pronounced his name.
It was the first intimation he had of my presence; and starting as if hit by a bullet, he turned face towards me. The flush of anger upon his cheek suddenly gave place to deadly pallor, and his eyes became set in that peculiar stare that indicates an apprehension of danger. This he must have felt keenly, for my determined look and drawn sword—to say nothing of the surprise by which I had come upon him—were calculated to produce that effect.
It was the first time we had stood face to face, and I now perceived that he was a much larger man than myself. But I saw, too, that his eye quailed, and his lip quivered, at the encounter. I saw that he was cowed; felt that I was his master.
“You are Rafael Ijurra?” I repeated, as he had not made answer to my first interrogation.
“Si, señor,” he answered hesitatingly. “What want you with me?”
“You have some documents there,” (he still held the papers in his hand); “a portion of them belongs to me. I shall trouble you to hand them over.”
“Are you Captain Warfield?” he asked, after a pause, at the same time pretending to examine the superscription upon the commissary’s letter. I saw that his fingers trembled.
“I am Captain Warfield—you ought to know by this time?”
Without noticing the insinuation, he replied—
“True—there is a letter here bearing that address. I found it upon the road: you are welcome to it, señor.”
As he said this, he handed me the commissary’s order, still retaining the other documents.
“There was an enclosure. I perceive you have it in your hand. I beg you will make me equally welcome to that.”
“Oh! a note signed Ramon de Vargas? It was an enclosure?”
“Precisely so; and of course goes along with the letter.”
“Oh, certainly; here it is, señor.”
“There is still another little document in your possession—a safeguard from the American commander granted to a certain lady. It is not yours, Señor Ijurra! I beg you will deliver it to me. I wish to return it to the lady to whom it belongs.”
This was the bitterest pill I had yet presented to him. He glanced hastily first to the right and then to the left, as if desirous of making escape. He would fain have done so, but I kept him under my eye, and he saw that my hand was ready.
“Certainly there is a safeguard,” replied he, after a pause, and with a feigned attempt at laughter. “’Tis a worthless document to me; ’tis at your service, sir captain;” and as he handed me the paper, he accompanied the act with another sorry cachinnation.
I folded the precious documents, and thrust all three under the breast of my coat; then placing myself in fighting attitude, I cried out to my adversary to “draw and defend” himself.
I had already noticed that he wore a sword, and, like myself, it appeared to be the only weapon he carried. I saw no pistols upon his person. I had none myself—nothing save a light cut-and-thrust sword. It was far slighter than the sabre of my antagonist, but it was a weapon that had seen service in my hands, and I had perfect confidence in it. I had no fear for the result against so cowardly an adversary; I was not awed, either by his heavier blade, or the superior size of his person.
To my astonishment, he hesitated to unsheath his sword!
“You must draw,” I shouted with emphasis. “You or I have now to die. If you do not defend yourself, I shall run you through the body. Coward! would you have me kill you with your blade in its sheath?”
Even the taunt did not nerve him. Never saw I complete a poltroon. His white lips trembled, his eyes rolled wildly from side to side, seeking an opportunity to escape. I am certain that could he have hoped to get clear, he would at that crisis have turned and run.
All at once, and to my surprise, the coward appeared smitten with courage; and, grasping the hilt of his sabre, he drew the blade ringing from its scabbard, with all the energy of a determined man! His reluctance to fight seemed suddenly to have forsaken him. Had I mistaken my man? or was it despair that was nerving his arm?
His cowed look had disappeared: his eyes flashed with fury and vengeance; his teeth gritted together; and a fierce carajo hissed from his lips.
Our blades met—the sparks crackled along the creasing steel, and the combat began.
Fortunate for me, that, in avoiding the first lunge of my antagonist, I had to turn half round: fortunately I turned so soon, else I should never have left that glade alive.
As I faced in the new direction, I saw two men running towards us, sword in hand. A single glance told me they were guerrilleros. They were already within ten paces of the spot, and must have been seen long before by Ijurra.
This was the key to his altered demeanour. Their approach it was that had inspired him with courage to begin the fight—for he had calculated the time when they should be able to get up, and assail me from behind.
“Hola!” shouted he, seeing that I had discovered them—“Hola! El Zorro—José! anda! anda! Mueran los Yankies! at muerte con el picaro!”
For the first time, I felt myself in danger. Three swords to one was awkward odds; and the red giant, with a companion nearly as large as himself, would no doubt prove very different antagonists from the poltroon with whom I was engaged.
Yes, I was conscious of danger, and might have retreated, had I deemed such a course possible; but my horse was too far off, and the new-comers were directly in the path I should have to take to reach him. I could not hope to escape on foot; I well knew that these men run as lightly as Indians, for we had often proved their capacity in that accomplishment. They were already too near. I should be overtaken, struck down, pierced, with my back to the foe.
I had no time to reflect—just enough to leap back a pace or two, so as to bring all three of them in front of me, when I found my sword clashing against their blades, and parrying their blows one after the other.
I can describe the unequal combat no farther. It was a confused medley of cut and thrust, in which I both gave wounds and received them. I was wounded in several places, and felt the warm blood running under my clothes and over my face.
I grew wearied to death, and every second growing weaker and fainter.
I saw the red giant before me with his hand raised on high. His blade had already drawn my blood, and was crimsoned at the point; it was about to descend with a finishing stroke. I should be unable to parry it, for I had just exhausted my strength in guarding against a blow from Ijurra. My hopeless peril wrung from me a cry of despair.
Was it my cry that caused the blade to drop from the hand of my antagonist, and the uplifted arm to fall loosely by his side? Was it my cry that created the consternation suddenly visible in the faces of my foes? I might have fancied so, had I not heard a sharp crack from behind, and seen that the arm of El Zorro was broken by a shot!
It seemed like the awaking from some horrid dream. One moment I was battling, face to face, with three desperate men; the instant after, their backs were towards me, and all three were running as for life!
I followed them with my eyes, but not far; for at twenty paces off they plunged into the thicket, and disappeared.
I turned in the opposite direction. A man was running across the open ground with a gun in his hand. He was advancing towards the spot where I stood. It was he who had fired the shot. I saw that he was in Mexican costume; surely he was one of the guerrilleros—he had aimed at me, and wounded his comrade?
For some seconds, I fancied that such might be the case. Evidently he was bolder than any of the three, for he continued to advance, as if determined to attack me alone!
I placed myself in readiness for this new antagonist—taking a fresh grasp on my sword, and wiping the blood from my eyes, that I might the better receive him.
It was not until he was close to the point of my blade, that I recognised the long ape-like arms, and crooked mateless limbs, of Elijah Quackenboss!
The ranger, after delivering his fire, had not waited to reload, but ran forward with the intention of joining me in the hand-to-hand fight—though he carried no other weapon than his empty gun. But this would have been an efficient arm in such hands; for, despite his unsymmetrical build, Dutch Lige was stalwart and though, and would have been a full match for any two of my assailants, had they stood their ground.
But the crack of the gun had set them off like deer. They fancied, no doubt, that a stronger force was near; perhaps they remembered the terrible rifles of the trappers, and no doubt believed it was they who had arrived to the rescue. Indeed, such was my own belief, until I saw the oddly-costumed ranger bounding towards the spot.
A glance satisfied me that I owed my preservation to Lige’s love of botanical science. A large globe-shaped cactus plant, bristling like a hedgehog, hung dangling from the swivel of his gun—it was thus carried to save his fingers from contact with its barbed spines—while stuck into every loop and button-hole of his dress could be seen the leaves and branchlets, and fruits and flowers, of a host of curious and unknown plants! He had been herborising in the woods; and coming by chance within earshot of the scuffle, had scrambled through the bushes just in time to spoil the coup-de-grâce intended by El Zorro.
“Thanks, Quackenboss! thanks, my brave friend! you came in good time: you have saved me.”
“But a poor shot I’ve made, capten. I ought to have broken that red divel’s skull, or sent my bullet into his stomach; he’s got off too easy.”
“It was a good shot: you broke his arm, I think.”
“Ach! ’twas a poor shot; the cactus spoiled my aim. You hurt, capten?”
“I am wounded, but not mortally, I think. I feel a little faint: ’tis only the blood. My horse—you will find him yonder—among the trees—yonder. Go, Lige; bring my horse—my horse—”
For some minutes, I was out of the world.
When consciousness came back, I perceived that my steed had been brought up, and stood near. The botanist was bending over me, and binding up my wounds with strips torn from his own shirt. He had one boot on; the other stood by, full of water, a portion of which he had already poured down my throat, and with the rest he proceeded to bathe my temples and wash the blood from my face.
This done, I soon felt refreshed and strong enough to mount; and having climbed into the saddle, I set out for the rancheria, my companion half guiding, half leadin my horse.
By the path which we followed, we should have to pass close to the hacienda and within sight of it; but night had come on, and the darkness would hinder us from being observed. It was what I now desired, though I had left the cerro with hopes and wishes directly the reverse. With a red gash upon my forehead—my uniform torn and blood-stained—I feared being seen, lest my invalid appearance should create unnecessary alarm. But we passed on without meeting any one, either by the hill or upon the main road; and in half-an-hour after, I was safe within my cuarto in the house of the alcalde.