The Crimson Conquest 50

The Crimson Conquest 50

Clad in armor which Markumi’s zeal had brought to the splendor of

silver, Cristoval at last rode with Pedro through the crowded streets at

the head of their few retainers. They were attended to the edge of the

village by the people, and for a mile beyond by the old _curaca_, who

bade them farewell with warm assurance that while a roof remained in

Xilcala they should find there a welcome and refuge.

 

At the head of the canyon through which flowed Xilcala stream Cristoval

halted for a final look at the valley, here to find the sharpest pang of

all. He turned with a sigh from its tranquillity, its beauty, and the

thousand recollections, and rode into the defile with a presentiment

that in leaving its peace to enter the gloomy gorge was a foreshadowing

of what lay before him.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXIX*

 

_*A March and Another Reunion*_

 

 

The march down the canyon of the Xilcala was rapid, and on the second

day they were near its debouchment into the valley of the Maranon, close

to the great national highway leading to Cuzco. After this they

proceeded with the utmost circumspection. By the end of the fifth day

they had passed Lake Chinchaycocha and halted at Carhuacaya, in the

valley of the Xauxa. It was a hamlet of two dozen houses, regularly

laid out and with the usual _campata_, or square, on which stood the

residence of the _curaca_, where the two Viracochas were received for

the night. Like many another village they passed, this had suffered

severely at the hands of the ravaging Cañares who had followed Pizarro’s

march, and from Spaniards on their way to Cuzco, for recruits were

already flowing in; but Pedro had stopped there on his way to Xilcala,

and his reappearance was welcome.

 

On the following morning the party encountered an interruption wholly

deranging their plans. Cristoval and Pedro were preparing for the

journey when the _curaca_ entered, showing some embarrassment. He

greeted them cordially, but advised them not to leave that day. In

fact, it would be impossible. The roads were occupied. The town—it was

distressing—was surrounded by the troops of the Inca! Pedro whistled.

 

"By the fighting San Miguel!" exploded Cristoval, in Spanish. "We are

prisoners, Pedro! What sayst thou to that?"

 

Pedro sat down. "Why, stew me!—like the ancient Roman soldier who was

hit in the belly by a stone from a catapult, I have very little to say."

 

"Viracochas," said the _curaca_, earnestly, "I pray you have no

uneasiness. The General Matopo commanding shall be informed of your

rescue of the Ñusta Rava, Viracocha Cristoval, of which Markumi hath

told me. That service will insure you against any danger soever."

 

"Danger! Then we might be in danger, is it so, _Curaca_? Are these

troops marching against the Viracochas?"

 

"You will readily understand, Viracocha Cristoval, it is not permitted

me to know."

 

Cristoval resumed his arming. "Well, it might be worse. If Pizarro had

us pent in this fashion it would be a short shrift for me, Pedro, and

belike, would call for some painful lying from thee to explain thine

indiscretion in choice of company. But let us step out and see what is

to be seen."

 

They found several Xilcalans at the outer door, watching a battalion

just entering the square. The two Spaniards halted, struck by its

martial appearance as it massed in the plaza.

 

An officer of middle age wearing a noble’s ear ornaments was followed by

a group of twenty or more, many with the same insignia, and all

brilliant in the uniform of the Conibos, a northern tribe from the

valley of the Huallaga. Beside the officer was the _curaca_, talking

earnestly. The party turned aside from the direct line of march to

permit the passage of their column, and halted. The _curaca_ approached

to summon the Spaniards.

 

The commander eyed the two mail-clad figures with interest, but the

sight of Pedro’s wooden leg required all his self-possession to avoid a

display of astonishment. His salutation was not unfriendly, but the

Spaniards were aware that they were prisoners. "Viracochas," said he,

after the _curaca_ had presented them, "it seemeth an ill return for our

indebtedness, of which the _curaca_ informeth me, but it is necessary

that you accompany us. I assure you that one who hath befriended the

Ñusta Rava need fear nothing more than inconvenience. Were it in my

discretion I would not impose even that; but I am responsible for the

secrecy of the movement of my troops and you will understand the

necessity which compelleth me. In order, however, to avoid undue

restraint, I will accept your words that you make no effort to escape."

 

"Thou mayst depend upon us, my lord," said Cristoval. "There is,

however, one request. I have an escort of Xilcalans whom I count as

friends. Will my lord permit that they accompany me?"

 

"Gladly," said the general, "if they so choose. We shall meet to-night,

Viracochas. May the Sun guard you!"

 

He moved off with his officers, leaving one to follow with the two

captives, and they hastened to saddle. Taking leave of the _curaca_,

they joined the waiting officer and, followed by the Xilcalans, fell

into an interval between battalions.

 

The command went into bivouac late at night, and Matopo sent for his

prisoners to join him at supper. Several subordinate officers shared the

meal, and to them and to the old noble it was an incident, for these

were the first they had seen of the Viracochas. Matopo soon became

assured of Cristoval’s sympathy with the cause of Rava’s people, though

the cavalier avoided direct __EXPRESSION__, merely relating, at the

general’s request, the details of his association with Atahualpa and the

subsequent enmity of Pizarro. When he remembered and drew forth the

Inca’s last gift, the fringe from the royal _llautu_, the effect was

magical. The officers bent before it with reverence little less than

the actual presence of the monarch would have inspired, and Cristoval

found himself elevated to a dignity as great as it was unexpected. The

half-forgotten trifle was a talisman.

 

"Viracocha Cristoval," said Matopo, gravely, as the cavalier replaced

the potent cord, "thou bearest a warrant from the Inca. No man in

Tavantinsuyu will withhold from it his recognition. It is a rare

credential, and demandeth the confidence in its possessor reposed in him

by the Inca himself. The Inca Atahualpa won his throne by arms, but he

was the Inca. Thou hadst done well to show me the fringe this morning,

but I will make what reparation is possible. Thou ’rt free, Viracocha."

 

This result was so unforeseen that Cristoval failed to comprehend the

change in his situation, and the general repeated: "Thou ’rt free,

Viracocha Cristoval, and I have only to ask that I be allowed to make

thee amends."

 

"I thank thee, General Matopo. There hath been no inconvenience, for,

as I have said, we were journeying toward Cuzco. But—my comrade?"

 

Matopo shook his head. "Mine authority can go no farther. I shall be

compelled to retain him."

 

"Then with thy leave we will remain together."

 

Matopo’s surprise was as evident as his relief. His relief was equal to

his uneasiness, what there was of it, lest the secret movement of his

troops might be imperilled by the Viracocha’s liberation. "No need to

ask my leave," he replied, quickly; "but you will go as my guests, and I

believe I can promise that he will not be long deprived of his liberty."

 

Two weeks later the column approached the village of Abancay, where it

would cross the river Apurimac. Cristoval and Pedro were walking with

Matopo at the head of the main body, leading their steeds. As they

neared the village they could see that it was occupied by the advance

guard. As they descended into the plain a soldier came at top speed to

announce that there were two Viracochas in the village, apparently not

soldiers, and that there was some difficulty in securing them.

 

"Shall we ride forward, my Lord Matopo?" asked Cristoval.

 

"It would be well," replied the general, "else the Viracochas may lose

their lives in resisting."

 

The two Spaniards were off at a gallop. The soldiers scattered before

them, and they drew rein at the square. At the sight of the two

Viracochas Pedro raised a shout:—

 

"The señora, by the infernal cook of cooks!—and Father Tendilla!"

 

The square was full of excited soldiers, leaving a swaying ring in the

middle, occupied by the lady and the priest mounted on mules. The

father had the reins of her steed, which was facing his own, plunging,

rearing, and kicking incredibly at the surrounding line of Conibos who

repelled it with their javelins. Its rider, clinging frantically to her

pommel with one hand, half-blinded by her sombrero which had been jolted

over her eyes, fitfully whirled her battle-axe with the other in

fruitless efforts to reach the helmeted heads. She was red-faced,

shaken, and storming. The poor priest, hatless and nearly unseated by

every plunge of his companion’s mule, tugged desperately at the reins,

while half-a-dozen officers circled about, dodging the heels of the

frenzied animal, and entirely helpless before a situation transcending

their wildest dreams.

 

"_Brava_, Bolio! _Brava_, Bolio!" roared Pedro, pushing forward.

"Strike for Spain! _Cristo y San Miguel_! Strike for Spain!

_Bravamente_!"

 

At the familiar voice the axe ceased to whirl, and between plunges the

señora tilted back her sombrero. "Pedro!" she shouted wildly, then gave

attention to retaining her seat, while the mule delivered another

succession of kicks. Cristoval motioned the soldiers back as he spurred

into the ring. Pedro rode up, slipped his hand along the reins of her

steed, seized them close to the bit, and stopped the plunging.

Cristoval assisted the flustered lady to the ground, too breathless to

speak. He quieted the blowing mule while Pedro and Father Tendilla

dismounted. The former hastened to the agitated señora, and at last she

was able to gasp:—

 

"Pedro—on my soul!—hast dropped from heaven?"

 

"Heaven forbid!" said Pedro, surveying her with concern. "I’m crippled

enough as ’t is. But thou ’rt unhurt?"

 

"Oh, these heathens!" panted the señora.

 

"I’ve known Christians who were worse," said Pedro. "But, art sound and

whole?"

 

"If I could but have reached one of them! But, blessed name! how comest

thou here, Pedro?"

 

"Prisoner of war—like thyself. Art uninjured?"

 

"Like myself!" snorted the lady. "Who hath made me a prisoner of war?

Prisoner of fiddle-de-dee! Drum-sticks!" She glared vindictively at the

wondering soldiery. "Let one of them bite his tongue at me!"

 

"Bueno! There are only five thousand," remarked Pedro. "But tell me,

what dost thou here?"

 

"Oh, Pedro, I am going to Cuzco to see that angel of a girl! The father

took it in mind to go, so I came with him—but such a time! He hath been

as much care as a baby."

 

"Calm yourself, my dear Señora."

 

The señora sniffed scornfully. "Is that Peralta? I scarce knew him

without his beard. He seemeth friendly enough with these fripperied

Indians. He might be in better company—and so mightst thou, Pedro. ’T

is little credit to you both."

 

"We are prisoners, Señora."