The Missourian Part 3

Jacqueline turned to the stranger who served as itinerary folder. Would he dispose of the childish objection? He would. But he wondered why the senor had not mentioned one who was the most to be feared of all bandits; in fact, the most implacable of the rebels still battling against His Truly Mexican Majesty. The stranger paused expectantly, but as Ney seemed to recognize no particular outlaw from the description, he went on with a deepening frown, "----and who is none other than the Capitan Don Rodrigo Galan."

"Who's he?" Ney inquired, willing enough to have any scarecrow whatever for Jacqueline.

"Is it possible?--Your Mercy does not know?"

Ney pleaded that he had never been in the country before.

"But surely," the Mexican objected, "Don Rodrigo is a household word throughout Europe?"

"He has certainly been heard of in Mexico," said Jacqueline, whereat Fra Diavolo turned to her gratefully. "But," she added, "Monsieur Ney will now find in him another objection to my journeying overland."

The ardor of the bandit's eulogist faltered. "The senor might indeed,"

he confessed, "only," and here he hesitated like a man contemplating suicide, "only, Don Rodrigo has been--yes, he's been shot, from ambush; and his band--yes, his band is scattered forever."

Having achieved the painful ma.s.sacre, Fra Diavolo traveled on more easily to a.s.sure the senorita that since then the country had been entirely pacified. Ney, however, was not. How did they know the story was true? And if it was, he was sorry. He would enjoy meeting the terrible and provokingly deceased Monsieur Rodrigue, if only to teach him that being terrible is not good manners. But, did they know for certain that the bandit was dead?

"We do," said the Mexican, again like a reluctant suicide, "because I killed him myself."

"But how are we to know, sir," Ney persisted, "that you are so terrible on your own account?"

"My identification, you mean? Bueno, it is only just. Here, this may do," and the ranchero drew a paper from his money belt and handed it to Jacqueline. The paper was an order addressed to one Captain Maurel, who was to proceed with his company to the district of Tampico, and there to take and to shoot the guerrilla thief, Rodrigo Galan, and all his band, who infested the district aforesaid, known as the Huasteca. The Captain Maurel would take note that this Rodrigo Galan frequented the very city of Tampico itself, with an impudence to be punished at all hazards.

Signed: Dupin, Colonel of His Majesty's Contra Guerrillas.

"Colonel Dupin?" Jacqueline repeated with a wry mouth. Dupin, the Contra-Guerrilla chief, was a brave Frenchman. But the quality of his mercy had made his name a shudder on the lips of all men, his own countrymen included.

"Yes," said Fra Diavolo between his teeth, "Mi Coronel Dupin--the Tiger."

"So he is called, I know," said Jacqueline. "And you, it appears, are Captain Maurel--Maurel, but that is French?"

"The way it is spelled on the paper, yes. But my Coronel, being French, made a mistake. He should have written it 'Morel.'"

"No matter," said Jacqueline, "for you are only a trite, conventional officer, after all. But how much merrier it would be if you were--were----" and suddenly she leaned over the paper and placed an impetuous finger on the bandit's name. "So," she continued wistfully, "there is no danger. We ride, we take a stage. It is tame. I say it is tame, monsieur!"

Captain Maurel, or Morel, desired to add that there was a trader who owned an hacienda in the interior, and that this trader was starting for his plantation the very next morning; all of which was very convenient, because the trader had extra horses, and he, Captain Morel, had a certain influence with the trader. The senorita's party could travel with his friend's caravan as far as the stage.

"Voila!" cried Jacqueline. "It is arranged!"

"Diable, it is not!" Michel was on his feet again.

His wayward charge looked him over reflectively. "Our Mars in his baby clothes again," said she, as a fond, despairing mother with an incorrigible child.

The Mexican had shown himself hostile and ready. But seeing Jacqueline's coolness he melted out of his somewhat theatrical bristling, lest her sarcasm veer toward himself.

The tempestuous Mars, however, was beyond the range of scorn. He kept one stubborn purpose before him. "We go back to the ship, or"--he took breath where he meant to put a handsome oath--"or--it's a fight!"

"There, there," said Jacqueline gently. "Besides, are you not to go with me just the same?"

Ney turned to the stranger. "I ask you to withdraw, sir, both yourself and your offers, because you're only meddling here."

The intruder grew rigid straightway. "_I_ am not one to take back an offer," he stated loftily. His voice was weighted to a heavier guttural, and in the deep staccatos harshly chopped off, and each falling with a thud, there was a quality so ominous and deadly that even Jacqueline had her doubts. But she would not admit them, to herself least of all. "And I, Monsieur Ney," she said, "have decided to accept,"

though she had not really, until that very moment.

Ney turned to the one sailor with him. "Run like fury!" he whispered.

"Bring the others!"

"Oh, very well," said the Mexican.

As he doubtless intended, Fra Diavolo's words sounded like the low growl of an awakening lion, and at the same time he brought forth the reed whistle and put it to his lips. The note that came was faint, like that of a distant bird in the forest.

Ney smiled. It seemed inadequate, silly. Lately he had become familiar with the sonorous foghorn, and besides, he was not a woodsman and knew nothing of the penetration of the thin, vibrant signal. When the sailors should come, he would take the troublesome fellow to the commander of the garrison on the hill. But then a weight fell on him from behind, and uncleanliness and garlic and the sweating of flesh filled his nostrils.

Bare arms around his neck jerked up his chin, according to the stroke of Pere Francois. Other writhing arms twined about his waist, his legs, his ankles; and hands clutched after his sabre and pistol. But at last he stood free, and glared about him, disarmed and helpless. Jacqueline's infernal Fra Diavolo was surveying him from the closed door of the Cafe, behind which he had swept the two women. His stiff pose had relaxed, and he was even smiling. He waved his hand apologetically over his followers. "His Exceeding Christian Majesty's most valiant contra guerrillas," he explained.

The so-called contra guerrillas were villainous wretches, at the gentlest estimate. Their scanty, ragged and stained cotton manta flapped loosely over their skin, which was scaly and as tough as old leather.

Most of them had knives. A few carried muskets, long, rusty, muzzle-loading weapons that threw a slug of marble size.

Almost at once the burly French sailors appeared, but Fra Diavolo's little demons closed in behind them and around them and so kept them from reaching Ney. Thus both sides circled about and moved cautiously, waiting for the trouble to begin in earnest. Michel only panted, until at last he bethought himself that there was such a thing as strategy.

"One of you out there," he shouted in French, "quick, go to the fort.

Bring the soldiers!"

The Mexicans did not understand, and before they could prevent, a sailor had taken to his heels.

Then Fra Diavolo comprehended. "You idiots!" he bellowed. "You--Pedro!

Catch him! Faster!--Catch him, I say!"

A little demon darted away in pursuit of the sailor. Obviously, the situation hung on the swifter in the race.

CHAPTER IV

LA LUZ, BLOCKADE RUNNER

"For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."

--_Romeo and Juliet._

"Meson" is Spanish for hostelry. In the ancient caravansaries, like the one at Bethlehem sacred to the Christ child, the same accommodations were meted out to man and beast alike. More recently there are "hotels,"

which distinguish a man from his beast, usually; though sometimes undeservedly. And so the word "mesn" got left behind along with its primitive meaning. But in Mexico word and meaning still go together to this day, and both described pretty well the four walls in Tampico where Anastasio Murguia tarried. Excepting the porter's lodge at the entrance, the establishment's only roof formed an open corridor against one of the walls, in which species of cloister the human guests were privileged to spread their blankets in case of rain or an icy norther. Otherwise they slept in the sky-vaulted court among the four-footed transients, for what men on the torrid Gulf coast would allow his beast more fresh air than himself?

Don Anastasio's caravan filled the meson with an unflurried, hay-chewing promise of bustle-to-be at some future date. Except for the camels and costume lacking, the Mexican trader might have been a sheik in an oasis khan. His bales littered the patio's stone pavement. They were of cotton mostly, which he had bought in the Confederate States, in exchange for necessities of warfare and life. Complacent burros and horses were juggling into their mouths some final grains from the sacks over their noses. Peon servants stolidly busied themselves around charcoal braziers.

An American leaned in the cavernous doorway. The tarnished insignia on his collar indicated an officer of Confederate cavalry. He was smoking a cob pipe, of which he seemed quite fond. And as a return for such affection, the venerable Missouri meerschaum lent to its young master an air that was comfortably domestic and peaceable. The trooper wore a woolen shirt. His boots were rough and heavy. Hard wear and weather had softened his gray hat into a disreputable slouch affair. A broad black-leather belt sagged about his middle from the weight of cartridges. Under his ribs on either side protruded the b.u.t.t of a navy-six, thrust in between shirt and trousers. He watched with dozing interest the muleteers inside as they roped up straw, tightened straps, and otherwise got ready for departure. Then Anastasio Murguia appeared coming up the street, just from his lately recorded interview with Fra Diavolo. The weazened little old Mexican was in a fretful humor, and his glance at the lounging Southerner was anything but cordial. He would have pa.s.sed on into the meson, but the other stopped him.

"Well, Murgie, are we projecting to start to-night?" the trooper inquired in English. "Eh?--What say?"