The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America. Robert Michael BallantyneЧитать онлайн книгу.
all hope of saving the place was gone, I managed to bring Manuela and her nurse away in safety. As I have told you, the nurse died, and now—here we are alone. Manuela chooses to run the risk. I will not turn aside from my duty. If you choose to join us, the girl will be safer—at least until we cross the mountains. On the other side I shall be joined by friends, if need be.”
Pedro ceased, and rekindled his cigarette, which had gone out during the explanation.
“I will go with you,” said Lawrence, with decision, as he extended his hand.
“Good,” replied Pedro, grasping it with a hearty squeeze; “now I shall have no fears for our little Indian, for robbers are cowards as a rule.”
“Have we, then, much chance of meeting with robbers?”
“Well, I should say we have little chance of altogether escaping them, for in times of war there are always plenty of deserters and other white-livered scoundrels who seize the opportunity to work their will. Besides, there are some noted outlaws in the neighbourhood of the pass we are going to cross. There’s Conrad of the Mountains, for instance. You’ve heard of him?”
“No, never.”
“Ah, senhor, that proves you to be a stranger here, for his name is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific—chiefly, however, on the east side of the Cordillera, and on the Pampas. He is an outlaw—at least he is said to be so; but one cannot believe all one hears. Some say that he is cruel, others that he is ferocious among men, but never hurts women or children.”
“Well, it is to be hoped we may not fall in with him, or any of his band,” said Lawrence; “for it is better to hear of his qualities than to put them to the test.”
“Yet, methinks,” resumed Pedro, “if you fell in with him alone you should have no cause to fear him, for you must be more than his match.”
“I don’t think I should fear him,” returned Lawrence, with a simple look. “As to being more than his match, I know not, for my spirit does not prompt me to light, and I cannot boast of much capacity in the use of arms—unless you count my good oak-cudgel a weapon. I have acquired some facility in the use of that, having practised singlestick as an amusement at school.”
As he spoke, the youth was surprised and somewhat startled by his companion suddenly drawing a pistol from his belt, and pointing it steadily at the open doorway of the hut. Turning his eyes quickly in that direction, he beheld, with increased astonishment, a pair of glaring eyes, two rows of glittering teeth, and a pair of thick red lips! The flesh which united these striking objects was all but invisible, by reason of its being nearly as black as its background.
Most eyes, if human, would have got away from a pistol’s line of fire with precipitancy, but the eyes referred to did not disappear. On the contrary, they paid no regard whatever to the owner of the pistol, but continued to glare steadily at Lawrence Armstrong. Seeing this, Pedro hesitated to pull the trigger. He was quick to defend himself, but not prompt to kill. When he saw that the eyes slowly advanced out of the gloom, that they with the lips and teeth belonged to a negro who advanced into the room unarmed and with outspread hands, he quietly lowered his weapon, and glanced at Lawrence. No doubt Pedro felt, as he certainly looked, perplexed, when he observed that Lawrence returned the intruder’s gaze with almost equal intensity.
Suddenly the negro sprang towards the Englishman. He was a short, thick-set, and exceedingly powerful man; yet Lawrence made no move to defend himself.
“Quashy!” he exclaimed, as the black fell on his knees, seized one of his hands, and covered it with kisses, at the same time bursting into tears.
“Oh! massa Lawrie—oh! massa Lawrie, why you no come sooner? Why you so long? De sodger brutes nebber dar to touch de ole house if you was dere. Oh! Massa Lawrie, you’s too late—too late!—My! how you’s growed!”
In the midst of his sobs the young negro, for he was little more than a youth, drew back his head to obtain a better view of his old companion and playmate.
Need we say that Lawrence reciprocated the affection of the man?
“He was a boy like myself when I was here,” said Lawrence in explanation to the amused Peruvian. “His father was one of my father’s most attached servants, whom he brought from Kentucky on his way to this land, and to whom he gave his freedom. Quashy himself used to be my playmate.—But tell me about the attack on the mill, Quash. Were you present?”
“Prisint! You bery sure I was, an’ I poke some holes in de varmints ’fore dey hoed away.”
“And how did you escape, Quash? Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”
The negro willingly complied. Meanwhile the Indian girl, who had been roused by his sudden entrance, resumed her seat on the saddle, and, looking intently into his black face, seemed to try to gather from the expression of his features something of what he said.
We need not repeat the story. It was a detailed account of murder and destruction; the burning of the place and the scattering of the old servants. Fortunately Lawrence had no relatives to deplore.
“But don’t you know where any of the household have gone?” he asked, when the excited negro paused to recover breath.
“Don’t know nuffin’. Arter I poke de holes in de scoundrils, I was ’bleeged to bolt. When I come back, de ole house was in flames, an’ eberybody gone—what wasn’t dead. I hollered—ay, till I was a’most busted—but nobody reply. Den I bury de dead ones, an’ I’ve hoed about eber since slobberin’ an’ wringin’ my hands.”
“Was our old clerk among the slain?” asked Lawrence.
“No, massa, but I tinks he’s a dead one now, for he too ole to run far.”
“And I suppose you can’t even guess where any of those who escaped went to?”
“Couldn’t guess more nor a Red Injin’s noo-born babby.”
“Quashy,” said Lawrence in a low voice, “be careful how you speak of Indians.”
He glanced, as he spoke, at Manuela, who now sat with grave face and downcast eyes, having apparently found that the human countenance, however expressive, failed to make up for the want of language.
And, truly, Quashy’s countenance was unwontedly mobile and expressive. Every feature seemed to possess the power of independently betraying the thoughts and feelings of the man, so that when they all united for that end the effect was marvellous. Emotional, and full of quick sympathy, Quashy’s visage changed from grave to gay, pitiful to fierce, humorous to savage, at a moment’s notice. When, therefore, he received the gentle rebuke above referred to, his animated countenance assumed a sudden aspect of utter woe and self-condemnation that may be conceived but cannot be described, and when Lawrence gave vent to a short laugh at the unexpected change, Quashy’s eyes glistened with an arch look, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.
And what an expansion that was, to be sure! when you take into account the display of white teeth and red gums by which it was accompanied.
“Well, now, Quash,” resumed Lawrence, “what did you do after that?”
“Arter what, massa?”
“After finding that slobbering and wringing your hands did no good.”
“Oh! arter dat, I not know what to do, an’ den I tried to die—I was so mis’rable. But I couldn’t. You’ve no notion how hard it is to die when you wants to. Anyhow I couldn’t manage it, so I gib up tryin’.”
At this point Manuela rose, and, bidding Pedro good-night in the Indian tongue, passed into her little chamber and shut the door.
“And what do you intend to do now, Quash?” asked Lawrence.
“Stick to you, massa, troo t’ick an’ t’in,” returned the negro with emphatic promptitude, which caused even Pedro to laugh.
“My poor fellow, that is impossible,” said Lawrence, who then explained his position and circumstances, showing how it was that he had little money and no immediate