The Crimson Conquest 41

The Crimson Conquest 41

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.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXIII*

 

_*Rogelio Finds Gall and Wormwood*_

 

 

Pedro was extinguishing the lights of his _cantina_ when he heard the

clatter of a horse’s hoofs. They stopped at his door, and Rogelio

entered, perspiring, breathless, and in violent perturbation.

 

"Ho, Señor _Veedor_, thou dost ride late!" exclaimed Pedro, in surprise.

"There is something amiss?"

 

Rogelio sank upon the nearest stool, panting and wiping away

perspiration, on the verge of apoplexy from exertion and rage combined.

The danger of it seemed to strike Pedro at once. He hurried forward and

commenced fanning the official vigorously with his apron.

 

"Steady, steady, Señor!" he urged, soothingly. "Do not try to talk.

Take time and spare thy wind. Thou ’rt gasping like a ducked hen.—Nay,

nay! Do not swear. Be tranquil. Calm thyself. Count ten, Señor—now

do! Believe me, naught doth so soothe a fit of ferment. But—swearing

again! Gently, gently, or thou’lt melt in thine own heat! Gods, man!

Cease rolling thine eyes. Hast a cramp under thy belt? Let me thump

thy back.—Ah!"

 

Pedro pummelled the agitated _veedor_ between the shoulders with hearty

vigor, and succeeded thereby in expelling what little breath he had

remaining, rendering him still more helpless from exasperation. He

saved himself by bolting from his seat and backing against the wall,

where he stood waving his arms in speechlessness to keep the zealous

cook away.

 

"Name of a saint, my friend!" said Pedro, with great concern, after

Rogelio began to breathe more freely, "I never saw an over-gorged pup

nearer a fit than thou. What hath gone wrong?"

 

"She—hath arrived!" gasped the _veedor_ at length.

 

"Oh! She hath arrived, hath she? Well, she must be a very tarantula to

work thee a spell like that, Señor! By the gods, even Bolio’s coming

could not give me such a bedevilment of jerks and palpitations!"

 

The _veedor_ was rendered speechless again. Pedro eyed him with great

commiseration until he showed signs of recovery, then threw him into

another spasm by inquiring with solicitude,

 

"Doth the lady pursue, Señor? If so, we will barricade the door."

 

Rogelio held up his hands, violently shaking his head. "No, no!" he

managed to say. "Damned—numskull! Let me—talk."

 

"Why, talk, to be sure! ’T is what I’ve waited for,—to hear thee talk.

What the devil dost think? that I’ve been standing here this while to

see thee contort and strangle? I had liefer watch a pig in the colic.

Proceed, _Veedor_, and talk. It may ease thy mind. _Sensa animi tui

libere profare_—Latin, Señor, and it meaneth, speak freely. Prithee,

begin. I listen."

 

The _veedor_ had collapsed into a chair, choking with rage. He sprang

up, shaking both fists at the cook, and started toward the door; turned

back, and waving his arms for silence, howled:

"Accursed—rattle-teeth!—hear me!—I seek a servant!"

 

"Thou seekest a servant!" responded Pedro, with composure. "Well, by

heaven, I could guess it! And thou needest, not one, but a dozen, I

should say; and a strait-jacket withal. But, _infierno_! is the quest

of a servant so delirious a pursuit?—Now, do be calm, Señor! Hold a

minute, and I’ll bleed thee. No? But ’t would be wise, my friend, for

if thou ’rt not on the edge of the staggers, then I never gave physic to

a horse.—And now thou’rt swearing again! Fie, _Veedor_! Here! Let me

get thee a wet rag."

 

Pedro hurried away. When he returned the _veedor_ had regained his

utterance, and waving aside the proffered application, he shouted:—

 

"Keep off, thou babbling moon-calf! Wilt hear me? I need a servant—at

once! A servant—dost hear? A servant—and may the fiend claw thy

vitals! Canst get me one—to-night? I’ll pay thee well."

 

"Well, stew me! if the need of a servant wrought me to such a state of

mind, I’d——" Pedro seated himself. "But ’t is late, _Veedor_. Thy guest

hath come, sayst thou?"

 

"Yes, yes! She is sick from weariness, and needeth a woman. Wilt find

me one?"

 

Pedro became serious at once. "Sick! Then ’t is pressing. Let me

think. There is Señora Bolio, for a possibility. She might consent to

go, but she knoweth no Quichua. That, however, might be an advantage,

not so? Less apt to connive at escape." Pedro eyed the _veedor_

watchfully.

 

"Yes! _Diablo_, yes!" said Rogelio, eagerly. "Canst persuade her?"

 

"I’ll try," said Pedro, rising. He threw off his apron and started

toward the door; halted, and came back, determined to test his

suspicion. "Señor," he said, abruptly, "how did they get her away from

Peralta? Did they kill him? If not, then I swear to thee, _Veedor_,

thou ’rt as good as dead!" and Pedro slowly shook his head in direst

portent.

 

The _veedor_ was unguarded. He started violently, and his face went

ashy. "Oh, my soul and body! I—I forgot to ask them." He scanned the

cook with quick suspicion. "How in the devil’s name dost know?" he

demanded. Pedro placed a finger beside his nose, wagged his head with

deep significance, and went out. Now it was his turn to be agitated.

 

He pegged straight to the señora’s lodging, and pounded upon the door

until it opened. "Quick!" he cried. "The Viracocha woman! There is

sickness."

 

The native made him repeat it, refastened the door, and left Pedro in a

fume. When she opened again, it was with a request to follow, and led

him across the court. The señora appeared at a door with an

under-garment over her shoulders. "Is it thou, Pedro?" she asked,

sleepily. "What is to do? This is an unholy hour to wake a body, dost not know it?"