The Bandolero; Or, A Marriage among the Mountains Read online

  CHAPTER TEN.

  THE STREET OF THE SPARROWS.

  As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact withthe legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise havestunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.

  I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain myfeet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.

  As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see somethingshining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hiltwas in his hand.

  My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to interceptmy retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could Iexpect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?

  It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by thefront door was out of the question. Double barring it would make thingsno worse.

  Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible.Was there a back door? Or a stair up to the _azotea_?

  My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them theylost part of their importance. The man was standing with his backtowards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries hadfollowed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they beenleft to their predilections.

  But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door toadmit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemednot the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.

  As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steelshooting out in front--while he commanded the people to keep back.

  The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a longtoledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of thelamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence.There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.

  He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.

  "Leperos!" he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking toinferiors; "What is this disturbance? What are you after?"

  "An enemy! A Yankee!"

  "_Carrambo_! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearanceyou are right," continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turnedhalf round in the doorway. "But what's the use?" he continued. "Whatadvantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?"

  I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker thehandsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Senor!

  A bitter chance that should have made _him_ my protector!

  "Let them come on!" I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; "Ineed no protection from you, sir--thanks all the same! I hold the livesof at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, theyshall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter thecowardly rabble. Aside, sir!"

  If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.

  "_Carrambo_, senor!" he responded, without showing himself in the leastchafed by my ungrateful answer. "You are perhaps not aware of thedanger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man."

  "You'll say it, _capitano_!" shouted one on the outside. "Why not? TheYankee has insulted you. Let's punish him, if it be only for that!"

  "_Muera! Muera el Americano_!"

  My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards thedoor.

  "_Al atras, leperos_!" shouted my protector. "The first that sets footover my threshold--humble as it is--I shall spit upon my sword, like apiece of _tasajo_. You are very brave here in the Callecito de losPajaros! I doubt whether there's one among you who has met the enemy--either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!"

  "You're mistaken there, capitan Moreno!" answered a tall dark man whostood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief ofthe trio who had first attacked me, "Here's one who has been in both thebattles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, notlike your noble self--a prisoner upon parole!"

  "Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?" sneeringly retorted my protector."I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind.No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time whenprisoners were being taken?"

  "_Carajo_!" screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid withrage. "You say that? You have heard it, _camarados_? Capitan Morenosets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of ouraccursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation--we thecitizens of Puebla!"

  "No--no, we won't stand it. _Muera el Americano_! The Yankee must bedelivered up!"

  "You must take him, then," coolly responded Moreno, "at the point of mysword."

  "And at the muzzle of my pistol," I added, springing to the side of mygenerous host--determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.

  This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrascoand his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengefulshout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and,instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like andsilent.

  They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; andthis no doubt for the time restrained them.

  But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in thesix-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans hadjust become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon--firstused in battle in that same campaign--and its destructive powers, byreport exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the PrairieIndians, with a fear almost supernatural.

  Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as myprotector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo--quick andsure as I could have delivered my twelve shots--what would all haveavailed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, andevery moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallenbefore their fury.

  It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that inwhich I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet,by my honour, it _did_ exist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did inmy life.

  I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that ofprofound gratitude--first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God formaking such a noble man!

  The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. Itwas to save him who was risking his life to save me.

  I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate.What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that deathwas at hand.

  My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from acraven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.

  As we stood silent--both defenders and those threatening to attack--asound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to beprolonged.

  There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any onewho has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along apaved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:--thecontinuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasionalclank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.

  Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the "Street of theSparrows."

  "_La guardia_! _La patrulla Americana_!" (The guard! The Americanpatrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.

  My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth--thinking myassailants would now make way for me.

  But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining theirsemicircle around the doorway.

  Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise--with their knives and _machetes_ only demonstrating in silence!

  I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principalstreets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into theCallecito.

  If silent, but for ten seconds, t
hey would be safe to renew the attack;and I should then be lost--surely sacrificed!

  What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the _fracas_, and,by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive intime to be too late--to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to thecuartel?

  I hesitated to tempt the attack.

  Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?

  O God! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! Nosound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had passed theend of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyondhearing!

  Ha! a happy thought! That night--I now remembered it--my own corps--theRifle Rangers--constituted the street patrol. My first Serjeant wouldbe at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code ofsignals--independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour offortune, I had upon my person the means of making them--a commondog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in goodstead.

  In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, andwere heard half-way across the City of the Angels.

  If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have moreeffectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless--astounded!

  Only for a short while did they thus remain. Then, as if some wildpanic had suddenly seized upon them, both footpads and citizens ranscattering away!

  In the place they had occupied I could see two score of horses, with thesame number of men upon their backs--whose dark green uniforms werejoyfully recognised.

  With a shout I rushed forth to receive them!

  After an interlude of confused congratulations I turned to give thanks--far more than thanks--to Francisco Moreno.

  My gratitude was doomed to disappointment. He who so well deserved itwas no longer to be seen.

  The door, through which I had so fortunately fallen, was closed upon mygenerous protector!