The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📗

understand me well enough, but yez don’t want to bring the banes.”

“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.

“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”

“Frijoles—no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.

“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”

Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.

“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl—sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”

Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.

“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”

The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.

“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my little moochacha—that’s what they call thim—isn’t it, Raowl?”

“Muchacha? oh yes!”

“Well, thin, my purty little moochacha, cudn’t yez?—ye know what I mane—cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough—only a little—jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”

“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.

“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”

Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.

“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.

The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.

Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.

“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”

“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.

In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.

The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”

“Which ov them de yez want, misthress?—the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?—it’s all the same to Murtagh.”

The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:

“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”

“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”

“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”

“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years—both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”

I took the bottle and drank. It was the chingarito—a bad species of aguardiente from the wild aloe—and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.

“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live till I wish ye dead!”

The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”

“Och! nivir mind the tin days—we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind—yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles—’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”

“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.

“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.

The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.

“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”

“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.

“He wants to know if you are married.”

She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.

Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.

“By my sowl, thin,” said Chane, “I wudn’t mind marryin’ ye meself, an’ joinin’ the thribe—that is, if they’ll let me off from the hangin’. Tell her that, Raowl.”

As desired, Raoul explained his comrade’s last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.

“Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won’t buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin’, de ye hear?—tell her that.”

“El señor está muy alegre,” (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.

“I say, Raowl, does she consint?”

“She hasn’t made up her mind yet.”

“By the holy vistment! thin it’s all up wid Murt. The saints won’t save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!”