Chapter XXII Rava in the Toils
Next morning early Pedro’s mule, held by Pedrillo, stood at his door, surrounded by a whispering, awe-stricken group of native urchins lingering to see the dread beast mounted by the Viracocha of the fabulous leg. As Pedro appeared the brute twitched an ear toward him, opened his mouth, and drew breath in a faint, rasping, wheezy note of salutation. Pedro was gloomy, but he paused to rub the gray nose.
“Ah, my good friend,” he said, with feeling, “there is melancholy in thine accent—belike, the echo of a melancholy in thy soul, like that in mine. ’T is but a sorry life: we’re agreed in that, and comrades in misery. Thou, a mule, a cook’s mule; I, a cook, a one-legged cook; and a panting, surcharged, vociferous Bolio at our heels, following with the pertinacy of doom! But if thou, too, hast doleful thoughts, forbear to voice them, lest I be brought to tears. Now, prithee, lend me thy back. Adiós, Pedrillo. Remember the frijoles. Burn them again, scamp, and I’ll—Whoa, mule! Thou misbegotten whimsy, I thought I read sadness in thine eye,—and ’t was the devil. Be done, or I’ll chew thine ear! Farewell, Pedrillo.”
Pedro was off. Half-an-hour’s ride took him through the suburbs, and he turned into the military road toward the grim fortress overlooking the town. A short, steep climb, and he was at the gate, bantered by the guard about the coming of Señora Bolio. Within was a citadel, surrounded by buildings for the garrison, or the townspeople when driven by war, and quarters for the Inca’s officers. As Pedro was passing he was hailed by the familiar pipe of Rogelio. He drew rein, not in the best of grace, awaiting the veedor’s approach.
“Ah, Pedro, my good friend,” said Rogelio, “I am pleased to see thee. I had thee in mind, ’t is but a moment since. I——”
“Ware the heels of the mule!” bellowed Pedro, with a violence that startled the veedor into sudden agility in a backward spring.
“My soul and body!” exclaimed Rogelio, rolling his eyes from the beast to its rider. “No need to roar, my friend. Thine animal looketh gentle enough.”
“He hideth an abundance of wickedness under a smooth exterior—like some of his brethren who go on two legs,” remarked Pedro.
“Ah?” Rogelio eyed the cook suspiciously.
“Ah!” returned Pedro. “But, hadst aught to say, Señor Veedor?”
“Why, I have, good Pedro,” said Rogelio, recovering. “In a few days—perhaps a fortnight, perhaps very soon—I expect—that is to say, I—he, he, Pedro!—’tis a delicate subject—but—well, I may need a woman servant. Just a common servant, Pedro.”
“Ah!” said the cook. “Just a common servant! So! ’T is a common need, Veedor, shared by common and uncommon. I thank thee for thy confidence, Señor. I’ll betray it to no man.” And apparently considering the interview closed, Pedro gathered his reins to go.
“Wait!” shouted the veedor. “Blockhead, that is not all!”
“Not all, Señor! Thou hast need of two?”
The veedor piped a curse, then controlled himself and went on with a smile of forced amiability. “I mean it is not all I have to say, Pedro. In a few days—or less—I hope to share thy happiness.”
“My happiness!” exclaimed Pedro, mystified. “Oh, I see! The Señor is going to turn cook.”
“Damnation!” squeaked the veedor; then stifling his rage, he continued: “No, no! Not that. By thy happiness I mean thine inamorada, the Señora Bolio——”
“Oh, blessed saints!” interrupted Pedro. “Thou wouldst share my happiness in the Señora? Take it all, Señor! Take the whole of her. By heaven, I’ll send her up entire! Wait but an hour.” He started to turn his mule.
“Stop, fool!” choked the exasperated veedor; and grasping at a rein, narrowly escaped a kick. He sprang out of range with a gasp.
“Well,” said Pedro, complacently, “I gave thee warning, Señor. But hast more to say?”
It was a minute before Rogelio regained his speech. “Yes!” he shrilled. “Perdition! Yes! If thou wilt but hold thy tongue!”
“Bueno! I listen. Proceed, Señor Veedor.”
Rogelio drew near again and said, with difficulty, forcing a grin: “Now, in the devil’s name, give heed; and forbear to fly off the bowstring until I have finished! What I’ve tried to get into thy pate is this. In a few days I shall have a guest, Pedro.” He looked cautiously about and whispered, “A maiden, my friend—the fairest heathen in the land. I’ll not say her name—he, he!—that shall be a secret. But, I would have a woman servant—one worthy of dependence, dost mark? Canst find me one? Thou ’rt known to the townsfolk, and I am not. What sayst? There will be some moderate compensation for thy time and trouble, Pedro,—moderate, mind thee, for I am a poor man; though,” he looked about again, “I’ll tell thee this, once I have her safe, there will be treasure untold at my command—Ah! Hum!—That is, Pedro, a fair sum—rather small, in fact—little more than enough for my requirements, for I have a fam——” He stopped short, snuffled, and went on hastily, “I’ll pay thee, Pedro. Wilt find me a servant?”
Pedro concealed both his contempt and his suddenly roused interest, and after brief scrutiny of the tallowy face and protuberant eyes, looked away. “Why,” he drawled, “for the time it hath taken thee to get it out, ’t is a simple matter. Doubtless I can find a woman. I’ll look about.”
“Do so, my worthy friend,” said Rogelio, rubbing his hands. “It will be worth thy while.”
“No doubt,” answered Pedro. “Adiós, Señor.” He rode away.
“Dolt, lunk-head, clod-pate!” muttered Rogelio, looking viciously after him.
“Oily scoundrel!” muttered Pedro. “Slimy dastard.” Then he chuckled. “Oh, give me but an hour, and I could work him into a fit! His rage striketh at his vitals. But, let us see! A maiden, the fairest in the land, and treasure untold! God’s love! Can it be she?” He reined up, the better to think, and sat in study, his geniality of countenance giving place to grave concern. Shortly he rode on, still pondering.
Pedro’s mission to the fortress was to see the sick armorer and warn him against Fray Mauricio, with the advice that José go straightway to Cuzco, where Pizarro would hold him safe. The Morisco was so ill, however, that he said nothing of his errand, and after an hour at the bedside, took his departure.
Pedro rode back much occupied with uneasy thoughts of Cristoval and Rava. He had heard nothing of their fate, and it was generally believed that they had perished in the mountains. After De Valera had been found in the canyon by his companions even the Cañares had lost the scent. Still Pedro hoped, and better, prayed with right good-will. Now he determined to watch for Rogelio’s expected guest, his suspicion thoroughly roused by the morning’s conversation.
Two days later he was again riding toward the fortress. On this occasion, however, he went beyond, making inquiries for the huasi of one Municancha, master-mason. Rewarded at length, he was received with distinction by the dignified Indio and his interesting family, to whom he made himself so agreeable that he was pressed to come again, the small children chasing the dust of his mule for many yards, with shrill farewell and reiterated invitation.
Pedro rode back in an enviable frame of mind. It was dark when he passed the road to the fortress, and he had gone a little beyond when his mule stopped with a suddenness that sent his hand smartly to his sword-hilt. He distinguished a shadowy group of figures ahead, and hearing a word in Spanish, he prodded his animal with his single spur and rode forward. The strangers had drawn off to let him pass. As he neared them Pedro hailed:—
“Hob, compadres! A good-night to you.”
“Oh, ’t is Pedro!” he heard one say in relief, then the ring of ordered pikes, and, “Good-night, Pedro!” briefly.
“What cheer, friends?” asked the cook, drawing rein; but they moved on without response. He grunted at their discourtesy and went his way, failing to observe in the darkness that two of the number bore a hamaca.
The party halted near the fortress gate. Duero was challenged by the sentinel, seating himself wearily while the soldier drawled his call for the sergeant. The officer appeared, a parley followed, and the gate swung open.
“Well, and what fortune, amigo?” asked the old sergeant, surveying Duero as he stood scowling in the lantern light. “Why, man, thou’rt haggard!”
The other replied with an oath: “Not the worst fortune, but so near the worst that, curse me, ’t would be no easy choice between them. Dost pass my party?”
“Pass them,” said the sergeant, and Duero called to his companions; then, not wishing to be interrogated, gave the officer good-night. The sergeant watched the hamaca past the gate, and with a grimace to his sentinel, retired to the guard-room. Since the death of Atahualpa he had seen the like more than once.
Inside the gate Duero dismissed his remnant of the Cañares. Taking up the silent and closely curtained hamaca, the Spaniards were presently pounding at the veedor’s door. An Indio servant opened to them, and the litter was carried into the court. Apprised of its arrival, Rogelio hurried out.
Duero ignored his greeting and demanded bluntly: “Where is the cage, Señor Veedor? Here is the bird.”
“Oh, my stars!” snuffled Rogelio, rubbing his hands and sidling round the hamaca. “Is she there, indeed?—and in good condition, Duero? Remember, that was part of the stipulation—that she should be unharmed, and in good condition.”
“As to being unharmed, I’ll answer for it,” replied the soldier. “As for her condition, you can figure for yourself what it is like to be after such a journey. Where will you have her put? Come! We’re weary.”
“This way,” said Rogelio, in a fluster. “The room is all prepared—a bower, Duero, a very bower! He, he! Wait! I’ll fetch a lamp.” He scuttled away, reappeared with a light, and led the way to a door opening upon the patio. It was fastened with a heavy padlock. Fumbling for a second, he threw open the door. The hamaca was carried in, the door closed, and while Rogelio edged round eagerly with the lamp, striving for a glimpse, Duero threw back the curtains and lifted Rava, almost lifeless, from the litter. She moaned as he bore her to the couch, and he hastened to remove the bonds and gag she had worn since nearing Xauxa. She gave no other evidence of animation.
“Here—the light!” commanded Duero, gruffly, and took it without ceremony from the veedor’s hand, bending over the girl in scrutiny. Rogelio hovered about, twisting his fat fingers, and straining to have a look at the pale, drawn face almost hidden by her disordered tresses. It was a face to move the compassion of a savage. The rough soldier felt its pathos, for he straightened up and said brusquely:—
“She needeth looking after, ’t is a certainty. Fetch a woman at once, Señor Veedor.”
“A woman!” piped Rogelio. “Why, there’s no woman about. I have spoken for one, and may have her to-morrow.”
“No woman about!” exclaimed Duero, turning upon him sternly. “Do you say there is none to give this girl the care she needeth?”
“To-morrow—” began the veedor weakly.
“To-morrow!—To-night! This night, Veedor, or she goeth to Xauxa.” Duero’s black eyes travelled over Rogelio with an expression the latter did not care to meet.
“To-night! Impossible, Duero!” he whined. “There is not a woman in the fortress save two just come from San Miguel, and they—” He shook his head.
“Then, Señor, you will fetch one from Xauxa,” said Duero, with determination.
“Curse me if I will!” retorted the veedor, angrily. “And look thou, Duero: this is mine affair. Thy part in it is done. Thou’lt refrain from meddling.”
Duero motioned his companions forward, and stepped to raise the Ñusta. At the move Rogelio forgot himself and sprang forward with a snarl and curse to interpose, but recollected himself at once when Duero, dagger half-drawn, thrust an elbow beneath his chin and met his eyes with a scowl so malevolent that he caught breath with a sudden weakening of his knees. As the veedor retreated with a gasp Duero followed him steadily with his glare, then turned again with deliberation to the couch. The veedor raised a shaking hand to his throat as if he expected to find it already cut, and quavered:—
“My—my soul—and body, Duero! Thou’rt sudden! Wait! I—fiends and goblins!—I’ll go if it will please thee.”
“It will,” said Duero, briefly. “See that you do. We will tarry until your return. But first, a small cup of chicha. We must warm her blood, or your woman will find a corpse. Do you hear, Veedor? A cup of chicha!”
The veedor started painfully and waddled away. He was back in a moment with the liquor. The soldier forced a few drops between the pallid lips of the Ñusta, and vigorously chafed her hands and arms. A fierce, unprincipled rascal in most respects, he was endowed with a rough warmth of heart to which the helpless state of his captive made silent appeal. He worked with what gentleness was in him, and when at last Rava opened her pathetic eyes he motioned his companions out of the room with the hamaca. Rogelio lingered near, but a gesture from Duero and the menace in his eyes sent him back into the shadow, whispering a futile anathema. When the unhappy girl revived somewhat the soldier drew a robe over her, and leaving her sobbing desolately among the pillows, gripped Rogelio’s arm and led him out. He locked the door, and to the veedor’s astonishment and rage, pocketed the key. The other commenced a shrill expostulation, but the burly Duero merely hunched a shoulder at him with chin thrust out and a sidelong glance of quiet viciousness that stopped his railing abruptly. Rogelio led the way to his room with no further word, followed by his four sullen hirelings.
They ranged themselves round his table in silence. The veedor stood glancing uneasily from one scowl to another, then piped in irritation: “Well, gentlemen, your task is finished, isn’t it? Come now, my good friends, the hour groweth late. Return in the morning, and I’ll give you your hire.”
Duero stepped forward, planting a powerful fist upon the table and hitching at his belt: “Señor Veedor, we’ll have our hire now! Then, when you have brought some one to look after the señorita, our business is done. In the meantime, with your leave—or without it—we wait here. She must be cared for before morning. But now, our gold.”
Rogelio blinked about the circle, snuffled, and went out. Having closed the door, his rage overflowed in a series of frenzied gesticulations in the direction of Duero, accompanied by suppressed grunts and squeaks, until he was swollen in feature and quite breathless. He returned with a bag and pair of balances. They looked on with vigilance while he weighed out the gold, the lamp illuminating swarthy faces full of eagerness—except that of Duero, which was only watchful and grim.
“There!” snapped the employer. “Two thousand castellanos. Take it.”
Duero extended an arm to withhold the others and said, coolly, “Double it!”
The veedor staggered back with the bag clasped in his arms. “Wha—what?” he gasped.
“I say, double it!” replied Duero, with force.
Rogelio stared at him with fallen chin.
“Double it!” repeated the soldier, and returned the stare fixedly.
“Fiends!” shrieked the veedor. “Man, thou ’rt mad! What was our bargain?”
“That acquitteth the bargain, Señor, but there are damages.”
“Damages! What damages?”
“Why, to our several consciences, Veedor. Mine, I’ll swear, hath stood a wear and tear that hath left not remnants enough to equip a dog! ’T is a most villanous piece of villany, and promiseth to grow worse when our hands are out of it. By the crucifix! Señor Rogelio, my soul will need masses for this affair, and I mean to provide for them. You will make it double, or the girl goeth to Xauxa this night; and I’ll have the Señor Inca notified—or mayhap, Mendoza.”
“Scoundrels, bandits, thieves!” screamed Rogelio, his face purple and hands shaking. Duero took a step toward him with a movement to his sword-hilt, and the victim retreated to the wall, hugging his gold and rolling his eyes in terror. The soldier surveyed him with contempt.
“Well,” he demanded, “what do you say? Must we lug her back to Xauxa? Answer, and quickly, for I sicken.”
“Oh, gentlemen!” wailed Rogelio, “be honest. Be just. Be considerate of a poor man.”
Duero broke in with imitation of his whine: “Oh, be open-handed. Be charitable. Be virtuous. Faugh! You offend my bile. Come. Yes, or no! Do you double it? ’T is indifferent to us, for the Inca, or Mendoza, will know how to reward. But answer!”
Rogelio rolled his eyes to heaven, then lagged forward to the table and took up the scales. “Oh, my good men, ’t is—”
“Cease!” commanded Duero. “We are no good men. Had we been, you had not approached us. Weigh out, and be done.”
The veedor heaved a long, shuddering sigh, and weighed the gold.
“Now,” said Duero, “to your horse, and to Xauxa.”
“Oh, curses!” protested the veedor. “Art not finished? I’ve paid thee twice!”
“Go!” shouted Duero, stamping his foot. “Order your horse. I’ll see you to the gates.”
Rogelio went out with a groan. In half an hour he was riding down the hill, panting an imprecation at every step. Duero returned from the gate whither he had escorted him, and calling the servant, ordered the best the veedor’s larder afforded. Then the villains held carnival.