The Flag of Distress Part 16

Stepping a few paces out from the _tinacal_, he salutes the two hors.e.m.e.n, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his approach. Despite his coa.r.s.e, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently on terms of familiarity with both--the style of his salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies, as signified by his saying:

"I want a word with you, Don Francisco."

"What is it, Rocas?" asks the Creole. "Anything about _seal-skins_?"

laying a significant emphasis on the last word.

"_Carramba_! No. Something of more importance than that."

"Money, then?"

"Money."

"Do you wish our speech to be private?"

"Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino--"

"Oh!" interrupts the _ganadero_, "don't let me stand in the way. I'll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco."

"Do," says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the _tinacal_, and stand loitering at its door.

Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.

Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged conference.

"I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day." It is De Lara who has said this; after which adding: "_Adios, Don Rafael! Hasta manana_!" he gives his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travelling companion; Rocas sauntering back towards the _tinacal_.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A "GOLPE DE CABALLO."

On coming up with the _ganadero_, De Lara rides on silently by his side, without exhibiting any desire to satisfy the other's curiosity. He but piques it by saying, that Rocas has a made communication of an intensely interesting kind; which he will impart to him, Faustino, in due time; but now there are other matters of more importance to be attended to.

The fighting is before them; and that cannot be set aside.

Calderon wishes it could: for the flask has been for a time forgotten, and the spirit has been getting cold within him.

"Take another pull!" counsels his companion; "you may need it. We'll soon be in the town, and, perhaps, the first man we meet there will be your yellow-haired rival."

Scarcely have the words pa.s.sed De Lara's lips when something in front fixes his attention, as also that of his companion. At some distance along the road a cloud of dust is ascending; in its midst a darker nucleus, distinguishable as the forms of horses with riders on their backs. There appear to be four of them, filed two and two.

Plying their spurs, and galloping closer, the gamblers perceive that this equestrian party is proceeding in the same direction as themselves--towards the town.

But they are soon near enough to know that such is not their destination. For, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no difficulty in identifying the individuals before them. The horses are the same seen that morning, saddled and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio's house. Two of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez; the other two--

At this point conjecture terminates. De Lara, certain, and no longer able to control himself, cries out:

"_Carajo_! it's they returning from their excursion--paired off, as I supposed they would be! So, Calderon, you have your chance sooner than you expected. And without seeking it--a lucky omen! There's your rival, riding by the side of your sweetheart, and pouring soft speech into her ear! Now's your time to set things straight--insult him to your heart's content. I feel like giving a fresh affront to mine."

He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. The _ganadero_ does the same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, they see them two and two, each pair some ten or twelve paces apart from the other. Crozier and Carmen are in the advance, Cadwallader and Inez behind.

De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards her escorting cavalier, and bend over--he to her--till their heads are close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!

"_Carrai_! they're kissing!" he exclaims, in a tone of bitter exasperation.

He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.

The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dreamed not of danger.

The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara's wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is intended--a repet.i.tion of the morning's work, with doubtless something more.

Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere p.r.i.c.king of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of a man--if need be. This resolve can be read in his att.i.tude, in his eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may cost life--in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.

De Lara sweeps past the mids.h.i.+pman without saying a word; without even taking notice of him. His affair is with one further on.

But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the intent to a.s.sault, as shown in his eyes.

Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade.

Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to lower his plume, he too pa.s.ses Cadwallader, without a word--riding on after De Lara.

He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a very different termination.

Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle, and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance, divines the intent. It is a _golpe de caballo_, or collision of horses--a common mode of a.s.sault among Spanish Californians.

Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shrops.h.i.+re determines on a different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels confident he can stay there.

With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.

Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez Alvarez, heard simultaneously with the shock.

When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road-- his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.

Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose b.u.t.t protrudes from his saddle-holster.

He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his saddle, as if from a s.h.i.+p's shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.

Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do nothing now, save storm and threaten--interlarding his threats with curses--"_Carajos_!" spitefully p.r.o.nounced.

The ladies, at Crozier's request, have ridden on ahead, so that their ears are not offended.

After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen--Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing--Crozier, in serious tone, says:

"Don Francisco De Lara--for your card tells me that is your name--take a sailor's advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don't want you to walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet.

The same advice to you, sir," he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near equally cowed and crestfallen.

After dictating these humiliating conditions--which, _nolens volens_, the defeated bravos are obliged to accept--the young officers leap back into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.

Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted by a "_golpe de caballo_."