The Red-Blooded Heroes of the Frontier Part 21

Mauro's father, by legacy from his father, was the attorney and counsellor of the Duque de la Torrevieja; and so might Mauro have been for the next Duke had there not cropped out in him the daring, the love of adventure, the pride, and the confidence that had lifted the first Lucha-sangre above his fellows. It was a case of breeding back--away back over and past generations of fawning commoners to the times when Lucha-sangre swords were splitting Moorish casques and winning guerdons.

Nor in spirit alone was Mauro bred back. He was deep of chest, broad of shoulder, lithe and graceful. His ma.s.sive neck upbore a head of Augustan beauty, lighted by eyes that alternately blazed with the pride and resolution of a Cid and softened with the musings of a Manrique. Mauro was a Lucha-sangre of the twelfth century, reincarnate.

Little is it to be wondered at that, as the lad was often his father's message-bearer to the Duke, he found favor in the eyes of the Duke's only daughter, Sofia; and still less is it to be wondered at that he early became her thrall. Of nights at the university he was ever dreaming of her; up out of his text-books her lovely face was ever rising before him in cla.s.s.

Of a rare type was Sofia in Andalusia, where nearly all are dark, for she was a true _rubia_, blue of eye, fair of skin, and with hair of the wondrously changing tints of a cooling iron ingot.

And now here was Mauro, just back from Sevilla, almost within arms'-reach of his divinity, and yet not free to seek her. And as the rippling current of the Quadaira crimsoned and then reddened and darkened till it seemed to him like a great ruddy tress of Sofia's waving hair, Mauro sprang to his feet and fiercely whispered: "_Mil demonios!_ but she shall at least know, and then I'll kiss the old _padre_, and his musty office good-bye and go try my hand at some man's task!"

Opportunity came earlier than he had dared hope. The very next morning the elder Lucha-sangre sent Mauro to the castle with some papers for the Duke's approval and signature. Still at breakfast, the Duke received him in the great banquet-hall of the castle, the walls covered with portraits of Torreviejas gone before, several of the earlier generations so dim and gray with age they looked mere spectres of the limner's art.

While the Duke was reading the papers, Mauro stood with eyes riveted to the newest portrait of them all, that of Sofia's mother--Sofia's very self matured--herself a native of a northern province wherein to this day red hair and blue eyes are a frequent, almost a prevailing type, that tell the story of early Gothic invasions. So absorbed in the picture, so completely possessed by it was Mauro, that when the Duke turned and spoke to him, he did not hear.

And so he stood for some moments while the Duke sat contemplating the fine lines of his face and the splendid pose of his figure; his eyes lightened with admiration, his head nodding approval.

Then gently touching Mauro's arm, the Duke queried: "And so you admire the d.u.c.h.ess, young man?"

With a start Mauro answered, after a dazed stare at the Duke: "A thousand pardons, Excellency! But yes, sir; who in all the world could fail to admire her?"

"Yes, yes," replied the Duke; "G.o.d never made but one other quite her equal, and her He made in her own very image--Sofia; _que Dios la aguarda_!"

Mauro gravely bowed, received the papers from the Duke, and withdrew.

Turning to his secretary, the Duke sighed deeply and murmured: "_Dios mio!_ if only I had a son of my own blood like that boy! What a pity he should be tied down to paltry pettifoggery!"

Meantime Mauro, striding disconsolate past an angle of the narrow garden of the inner courtyard, was detained by a soft voice issuing from the seclusion of a bench beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient fig tree: "_Buenos dias, Don Mauro. Bueno es verte revuelto._"

"Buenos dias, Condesa; and it is indeed good to me to be back, good to hear thy voice--the first real happiness I have known since my ears last welcomed its sweet tones. Good to be back! ah! Condesa Sofia, for me it is to live again."

"But, Don Mauro--"

"A thousand pardons, Condesa, but thy duenna may join thee at any moment, and my heart has long guarded a message for thee it can no longer hold and stay whole,--a message thou mayest well resent for its gross presumption, and yet a message I would here and now deliver if I knew I must die for it the next minute.

"From childhood hast thus possessed me. Never a night for the last ten years have I lain down without a prayer to the Virgin for thy safety and happiness; never a day but I have so lived that my conduct shall be worthy of thee. Though I am the son of thy father's _licenciado_, thou well knowest the blood of a long line of proud warriors burns in my veins. Hope that thou mightst ever even deign to listen to me I have never ventured to cherish--"

"But Don Mauro--"

"Again a thousand pardons, Condesa, but I must tell thee thou art the light of my soul. Without thee all the world is a valley of bitterness; with thee its most arid desert would be an Eden. The birds are ever chanting to me thy name. Every pool reflects thy sweet face. Every breeze wafts me the fragrance of thy dear presence. Every thunderous roll of the Almighty's war-drums calls me to attempt some great heroic deed in thine honor, some deed that shall prove to thee the lawyer's son, in heart and soul if not in present station, is not unworthy to tell to thee his love. And--"

"But, Mauro, Mauro _m--mio_!" And with a sob she arose and actually fled through the shrubbery.

Two days later the betrothal of the Countess Sofia to the Count Leon, the eldest son and heir to the Duke de Oviedo, was announced by her father.

And that, indeed, was what she had tried but lacked the heart to tell him--that, wherever her heart might lie, her father had already promised her hand!

It was a bitter night for Mauro, that of the announcement, and a sad one for his father. Their conference lasted till near morning. The son pleaded he must have a life of action and hazard; his country at peace, he would train for the bull ring.

"Why not the opera, my son?" the thrifty father replied. "Thou hast a grand tenor voice; indeed the Bishop has asked that thou wilt lead the choir of the Cathedral. With such a voice thou wouldst have action, see the world, gain riches, while all the time playing the parts, fighting the battles of some great historic character."

"But no, father," answered Mauro; "such be no more than sham fights. Not only must I wear a sword as did the early Lucha-sangres, but I must hear it ring and ring against that of a worthy foe, feel it steal within the cover of his guard, see the good blade drip red in fair battle. True, there be no Moors or French to fight, but what soldier on reddened field ever took greater odds than a lone _espada_ takes every time he challenges a fierce Utrera bull? And I swear to thee, _padre mio_, whatever my calling, I shall ever be heedful of and cherish the motto that Lucha-sangre swords have always borne: '_No me sacas sin razon; no me metes sin honor._'" (Do not draw me without good cause; do not sheath me without honor!)

The less strong-minded of the two, the father yielded, and even furnished funds sufficient for a year's private tutoring by Frascuelo, then the greatest _matador_ in all Spain.

Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a public a.s.sembly was a chief espada of a cuadrilla of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil from the start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extraordinary strength and activity, utterly fearless but cool headed, a natural general, at the close of his first _corrida_ he was acclaimed the certain successor of the great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time christened _El Tigre_ (the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of his movements and the ferocity of his attacks.

The next eight years were for _El Tigre_ fruitful of fame and riches but utterly arid and barren of even the most casual feminine attachment.

Well educated, clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with physical beauty and personal charm few men equalled, he was invited by the n.o.bility often, received as an equal by the men and literally courted by the women. But the attentions of women were all to no purpose. For _El Tigre_ only one woman existed--Sofia, now the d.u.c.h.ess de Oviedo--though he had never again set eyes on her from the hour of their parting beneath the fig tree.

Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley of Cuautla, the Duke and Sofia divided their time between Paris and Mexico. Their marriage was far from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had brought Count Leon rumors of her admiration for Mauro, rousing suspicions that were not long crystallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful, honest wife, he could never win of her the affection he gave and craved.

Obviously proud of her, always devoted and kind, he received from her respect and consideration in return, which indeed was all she had to give, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an ever-gnawing grief.

Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of Mauro and Sofia should be worked out far afield from their burning Utreran plains, high up on the cool plateau of Central Mexico.

For several years most generous offers had been made _El Tigre_ to bring his _cuadrilla_ to Mexico, but, surfeited with fame and rolling in riches, he had declined them. At last, however, in 188-, an offer was made him which he felt forced to accept--six thousand dollars a performance for ten _corridas_, to be given on successive Sundays in the Plaza Bucareli in the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his _cuadrilla_ to be paid by the management. And so, late in April of that year _El Tigre_ arrived in Mexico with his _cuadrilla_ and (as stipulated in his contract) sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera are famed in _toreador_ history and song as the fiercest, most desperate fighters _espada_ ever confronted.

At the first performance _El Tigre_ took the Mexican public by storm. No such execution, daring, and grace had ever been seen in either Bucareli or Colon. _El Tigre_ was the toast in every club and _cafe_ of the city.

Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung his praises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him.

_El Tigre's_ coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joy overflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill.

Where she was at the time _El Tigre_ had no idea. And yet, wholly unsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but both had attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last, inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box.

Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments of peril for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes during his moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke's jealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of her bearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning of the last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon with his attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements for attendance at the last _corrida_.

And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too high above, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of the seats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-foot barrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she could catch every shifting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and--where he could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking in any way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she had been more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to deny herself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance, a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro _mio_" had plainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So it naturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia rushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benches immediately beneath the box of the _Presidente_, directly in front of which Mauro must come, at the head of his _cuadrilla_, to salute the _Presidente_.

The city was thronged with visitors come to see _El Tigre_. Hotels and clubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had for months stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough _tlacos_ to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the greatest and most magnificent it could ever be their good fortune to witness. The day was perfect, as indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours before the performance the princ.i.p.al thoroughfares leading to the Plaza Bucareli were packed solid with a moving throne all dressed _en fete_.

In no country in the world may one see such great picturesqueness, variety, and brilliancy of color in the costumes of the ma.s.ses as then still prevailed in Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood, come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics and head-dresses brilliant as the plumage of parrots, great lovers of flowers, three and a half centuries of contact with civilization had not served to deprive them of any of their fondness for bright colors. Thus with the hors.e.m.e.n in the graceful _traje de chorro_--sombreros and tight fitting soft leather jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver ornaments, the footmen swaggering in _serapes_ of every color of the rainbow, the women wrapped in more delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers, the winding streets looked like strips of flower garden ambulant.

Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all standing-room had been filled and the gates closed, thousands of late comers were shut out.

The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was surrounded by a six-foot solid-planked barrier. Behind and above the barrier rose the benches of the auditorium, the "bleachers" of the populace; they rose to a height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while above the uppermost line of benches were the private boxes of the _elite_. Within the ring were five heavily planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, behind which a hard pressed _toreador_ might find safety from a charging bull.

These refuges were little used, however, except by the underlings, the _capadores_, or by capsized _picadores_; _espadas_ and _banderilleros_ disdained them. On the west of the ring was the box of the _Presidente_ of the _corrida _(in this instance, the Governor of the Federal District); on the east the main gate of the ring through which the _cuadrilla_ entered; on the north the gate of the bull pen.

At a bugle call from the _Presidente's_ box, the main gate swung wide and the _cuadrilla_ entered, a band of lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, in slippers, white stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk ornamented with silver, each wearing the little queue and black rosette attached thereto that from time immemorial Andalusian _toreadores_ have sported.

_El Tigre_ headed the squad, followed by two junior _matadores_, three _banderilleros_, three _capadores_, and two mounted _picadores_, while at the rear of the column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing, dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other white, each composed of three mules harnessed abreast as for a chariot race, but dragging behind them nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the dead of the day's fight might be attached and dragged out of the arena.

Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black cloak pa.s.sed over the left shoulder and beneath the right, the loose end of the cloak draped gracefully over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free. The _picadores_ were mounted (as usual) on old crowbaits of horses, mere bags of skin and bones, so poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot; a broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls. Each rider was seated in a saddle high of cantle and ancient of form as those Knights Templar jousted in. The breast of each horse was guarded by a great side of sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the right leg of each rider was incased in such a stiff and heavy leather leg-guard as to render him afoot almost helpless; and he was further guarded by still another side of sole leather swung from the saddle horn and covering his left leg and much of his horse's barrel. On the right stirrup of each _picador_ rested the b.u.t.t of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tipped with a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch and hold in the bull's hide.

As the _cuadrilla_ entered, a regimental band played _El Hymno Nacional_, the National Anthem, while the vast audience roared and shrieked a welcome to the gladiators.

Marching to the time of the music in long tragic strides, heads proudly erect, right arms swinging and shoulders slightly swaying in the challenging swagger which _toreadores affect_, the _cuadrilla_ crossed the arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the _Presidente's_ box, bared their heads, gracefully saluted the _Presidente_, and received the key to the bull pen and his permission to begin the fight. And as _El Tigre's_ eyes fell from the salute to the _Presidente_ they rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtle telepathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he confronted.

There she sat on the second bench-row above the top of the barrier, matured and fuller of figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting; there she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips trembling, her great blue eyes pouring into his messages of a love so deep and pure that it needed all his self-command to keep from leaping the barrier and falling at his feet.

For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered, almost overcome with surprise and delight again to see her, thrilled with the joy of her message, blazing with revolt at the painful consciousness that she was and must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh stopped the beating of his heart. And so he stood gazing into Sofia's eyes until, self-possession recovered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men to their posts.

Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were tossed to attendants, each footman received a red cape, the two _picadores_ took position one on either side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up a tune, the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull bounded into the arena, maddened with the pain of a short _banderilla_, with long streaming ribbons, stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendant perched above the gate.