Chapter Forty Eight. On down the Mountain
“Dead!” muttered the inhuman wretch, as he stood upon the spot late occupied by his victim, looking down over the cliff. “Dead he must be; unless a man can fall two hundred feet and still live; which isn’t likely. That clears the way, I take it; and unless I have the ill luck to meet some one coming up – a straggler – it’ll be all right. As sound ascends, I ought to hear them before they could see me. I shall keep my ears open.”
Saying which he commenced the descent of the second slope, proceeding in the same cautious way as before.
The path was but a ledge, which, after running fifty yards in a direct line, made an abrupt double back in the opposite direction, all the while obliquing downwards. Another similar zig-zag, with a like length of declivity traversed, and he found himself at the cliff’s base, among shadowy, thick standing trees. He remembered the place, and that before reaching it on their way up they had followed the trend of the cliff for more than a quarter of a mile. So, taking this for his guide, he kept on along the back track.
Not far, before seeing that which brought him to a stop. If he had entertained any doubt about the sentinel being dead, it would have been resolved now. There lay the man’s body among the loose rocks, not only lifeless, but shapeless. A break in the continuity of the timber let the moonlight through, giving the murderer a full view of him he had murdered.
The sentinel had fallen upon his back, and lay with his face upward, his crushed body doubled over a boulder; the blood was welling from his mouth and nostrils, and the open eyes glared ghastly in the white, weird light. It was a sight to inspire fear in the mind of an ordinary individual, even in that of a murderer. But it had no effect on this strange lusus of humanity, whose courage was equal to his cruelty. Instead of giving the body a wide berth, and scared-like stealing past, he walked boldly up to it, saying in apostrophe —
“So you’re there! Well, you need not blame me, but your luck. If I hadn’t pushed you over, you’d have shot me like a dog, or brained me with the butt of your gun. Aha! I was too much for you, Mr Monk or soldier, whichever you were, for you’re neither now.
“Just possible,” he continued, changing the form of his monologue, “he may have a purse; the which I’m sure to stand in need of before this time to-morrow. If without money, his weapons may be of use to me.”
With a nimbleness which bespoke him no novice at trying pockets, he soon touched the bottom of all those on the body, to find them empty.
“Bah!” he ejaculated, drawing back with a disappointed air, “I might have known there was nothing in them. Whatever cash they’ve had up there has been spent long ago, and their wine will soon be out too. His gun I don’t care for; besides, I see it’s broken; – yes, the stock snapped clean off. But this stiletto, it’s worth taking with me. Even if I shouldn’t need it as a weapon, it looks like a thing Mr Pawnbroker would appreciate.”
Snatching the dagger – a silver-hilted one – from the corpse of its ill-starred owner, he secreted it inside his tattered rag of a coat, and without delay proceeded on.
Soon after he came to a point where the path, forsaking the cliff, turned to the left, down the slope of the mountain. He knew that would take him into the Pedregal, where he did not desire to go. Besides his doubts of being able to find the way through the lava field, there was no particular need for his attempting so difficult a track. All he wanted was to get back to the city by the most direct route, and as soon as possible into the presence of a man of whom during late days he had been thinking much. For from this man he expected much, in return for a tale he could tell him. It must be told direct, and for this reason all caution was required. He might fall into hands that would not only hinder him from relating it in the right quarter, but prevent his telling it at all.
Just where the path diverged to the left, going down to the Pedregal, a mass of rocks rose bare above the tops of the trees. Clambering to its summit he obtained a view of what lay below; the whole valley bathed in bright moonlight, green meadows, fields of maize, and maguey, great sheets of water with haze hanging over them, white and gauzy as a bridal veil. The city itself was distinguishable at a long distance, and in places nearer specklings of white telling of some pueblita, or single spots where stood a rancho or hacienda. Closer still, almost under his feet, a clump of those mottlings was more conspicuous; which he recognised as the pueblo of San Augustin. A narrow ribbon-like strip of greyish white passing through it, and on to the city, he knew to be the Great Southern or Acapulco Road, which enters the capital by the garita of San Antonio de Abad. This route he decided on taking.
Having made note of the necessary bearings, he slipped back down the side of the rock, and looked about for a path leading to the right.
Not long till he discovered one, a mere trace made by wild animals through the underwood – sufficiently practicable for him, as he could work his way through any tangle of thicket. Sprawling along it, and rapidly, despite all obstructions, he at length came out on the Acapulco Road, a wide causeway, with the moon full upon it.
The track was easy and clear even now, too clear to satisfy him. He would have preferred a darker night San Augustin had to be passed through, and he knew that in it were both serenos and alguazils. Besides, he had heard the moxos at the monastery speak of troops stationed there, and patrols at all hours along the roads around. If taken up by these he might still hope to reach his intended destination; but neither in the time he desired, nor the way he wished. He must approach the man with whom he meant seeking an interview, not as a prisoner but voluntarily. And he must see this man soon, to make things effectual, as the reward he was dreaming of sure.
Urged by these reflections, he made no further delay; but taking to the dusty road, moved in all haste along it. In one way the moon was in his favour. The causeway was not straight, for it was still a deep descent towards the valley, and carried by zig-zags; so that at each angle he was enabled to scan the stretch ahead, and see that it was clear, before exposing himself upon it. Then he would advance rapidly on the next turning-point, stop again, and reconnoitre.
Thus alternately making traverses and pauses, he at length reached the outskirts of the pueblo, unchallenged and unobserved. But the problem was how to pass through it; all the more difficult at that early hour. He had heard the church clock tolling the hours as he came down the mountain, and he knew it had not struck ten. A beautiful night, the villagers would be all abroad; and how was he to appear in the street without attracting notice – he above all men? His deformity of itself would betray him. An expression of blackest bitterness came over his features as he thus reflected. But it was not a time to indulge in sentimentalities. San Augustin must be got through somehow, if he could not find a way around it.
For this last he had been looking some time, both to the right and left. To his joy, just as he caught sight of the first houses – villa residences they were, far straggling along the road – a lane running in behind them seemed to promise what he was in search of. From its direction it should enable him to turn the village, without the necessity of passing through the plaza, or at all entering upon the streets. Without more ado he dodged into the lane.
It proved the very sort of way he was wishing for; dark from being overshadowed with trees. A high park-like wall extended along one side of it, within which were the trees, their great boughs drooping down over.
Keeping close in to the wall he glided on, and had got some distance from the main road, when he saw that which brought him to a sudden stop – a man approaching from the opposite direction. In the dim light, the figure was as yet barely discernible, but there was a certain something in its gait – the confidential swagger of the policeman – which caught the practised eye of Zorillo, involuntarily drawing from him the muttered speech —
“Maltida sea! An alguazil!”
Whether the man was this or not, he must be avoided; and, luckily for the dwarf, the means of shunning him were at hand, easy as convenient. It was but to raise his long arms above his head, lay hold of one of the overhanging branches, and draw himself up to the top of the wall; which he did upon the instant. It was a structure of adobes, with a coping quite a yard in width, and laid flat along this, he was altogether invisible to one passing below.
The man, alguazil or not, neither saw him nor suspected his being there, but walked tranquilly on.
When he was well beyond earshot the dwarf, deeming himself safe, was about to drop back into the lane, when a murmur of voices prompted him to keep his perch. They were feminine, sweet as the sound of rippling brooks, and gradually becoming more distinct; which told him that those from whom they proceeded were approaching the spot. He had already observed that the enclosure was a grand ornamental garden with walks, fountains, and flowers; a large house on its farther side.
Presently the speakers appeared – two young ladies sauntering side by side along one of the walks, the soft moonlight streaming down upon them. As it fell full upon their faces, now turned toward the wall, the dwarf started at a recognition, inwardly exclaiming —
“Santissima! The señoritas of the carriage!”