Chapter 55 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
A Cruel Proscription
The open space in front of the hovel was occupied by a group of women—most of them young girls. There were six or seven; I did not count them. There were two or three men, Mexicans, mixed up in the group. Rube was in their midst, endeavouring in his broken Spanish to give them consolation and assurance of safety. Poor victims! they needed both.
The women were half-naked—some of them simply en chemise. Their long black hair fell loosely over their shoulders, looking tossed, wet, and draggly. There was blood upon it; there was blood upon their cheeks in seams half dried, but still dropping. The same horrid red mottled their necks and bosoms, and there was blood upon the hands that had wiped them. A red-brown blotch appeared upon the foreheads of all. In the moonlight, it looked as if the skin had been burnt.
I rode closer to one, and examined it: it was a brand—the fire-stamp of red-hot iron. The skin around was scarlet; but in the midst of this halo of inflammation I could distinguish, from their darker hue, the outlines of the two letters I wore upon my button—the well-known “U.S.”
She who was nearest me raised her hands, and tossing back from her cheeks the thick clustered hair, cried out—
“Miralo, señor! mira!”
Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off—they were wanting!
I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling adown their necks was evidence enough.
The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face—not their hands. There were no hands. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at the wrists. Horrid sight!
Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly embracing them!
One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as she stood a little apart; but no—it could not be—she was not tall enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare—
“Your name, señorita?”
“Conchita, señor—la hija del alcaldé.”
The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.
My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.
I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or confirming one another.
One of the men was more coherent—Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as follows:—
Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the guerrilleros with cries of “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” and “Death to the Yankees!” They commenced by breaking open the tiendas, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were joined by the mob of the place—by leperos and others. Pedro noticed the herredero (blacksmith) and the matador (cattle-killer) taking a conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob—the mistresses of the guerrilleros, and others of the town.
After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry, “Mueran los Ayankieados!” and the crowd scattering in different directions, entered the houses, shouting, “Saquenlos afuera! matenlos!” (Drag them out! kill them!)
The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to the Americanos, were dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon, called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some of the crowd suggested that they should be marked, so that their friends the Tejanos should know them again. The suggestion was adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith—
“Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro!” (Bring the branding-iron!)
Others cried out, “Sacan las orejas!” (Cut off their ears.)
The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call—willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron—already prepared—while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of his trade!
Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde’s house. One Pedro knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red hair: it was the salteador, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra—nor had we.
Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?
Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we should come up.
Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered—that there were other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated—he had been murdered.
This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper—at the same time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage to inquire further.
The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.
The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough, and vengeance was impatient.
I was joyed by this decision; I could not have waited.
The women were directed to continue on to the ranger-camp; Pedro, mounted behind one of the men, should go with us. We needed him for purposes of identification.
We were about to move forward, when a figure appeared along the road in the direction we were going to take. On coming within sight of us, the figure was seen to skulk and hide in the bushes.
Rube and Garey ran rapidly forward; and in a few minutes returned bringing with them a Mexican youth—another of the victims!
He had left the scene of his sufferings somewhat later than the rest.
Was the guerrilla still in the place?
No; they were gone from the village.
“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.
They had taken the up-river road, towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.
“What cries?”
They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”
“O merciful God!”