"Thanks, Senor Juan. I don't smoke, but I will save it for a companion of mine who is in the mountains, and the poor boy will value something to smoke more than a meal itself. He is a young fellow who has had bad luck and he helps me when there is work for two."

He put the cigar in his blouse, and the recollection of this companion, who at this very hour wandered in safety far away, caused him to smile with a ferocious joy. The wine had animated Plumitas. His countenance was changed. His eyes had metallic gleams of shifting light. His puffy face contracted with a grin that seemed to dispel his habitual kindly aspect. He evinced a desire to talk, to boast of his deeds, to pay for the hospitality by astonishing his benefactors.

"You must have heard about what I did last month on the Fregenal highway. Have you really heard nothing about that? I planted myself in the road with my young companion--for we had to stop a diligence and give a message to a rich man, who has had me on his mind for a while. A domineering fellow was this man, accustomed to ordering _alcaldes_, important persons, and even civil guards at his will--what they call in the papers a _cacique_. I sent him a message asking him for a hundred _duros_ for a pressing need and what he did was to write to the governor of Seville, raise a row up there in Madrid, and make them chase me worse than ever. It was his fault that I had a gun-fight with the civil guards, and I came out of it shot in the leg; and still not satisfied, he asked them to imprison my wife, as if the poor thing could know where her husband was plundering. That Judas dared not stir out of his town for fear of Plumitas; but about then I disappeared. I went on a trip, one of those trips I've told you about, and my man took courage and went to Seville one day on business and to set the authorities against me."

"We lay in ambush for the coach on its return trip from Seville. My young companion, who has hands of gold for stopping anything on the road, ordered the driver to halt. I stuck my head and my carbine in at the door. Screams of women, cries of children, men who said nothing but seemed made of wax! I said to the travellers: 'Nothing is going to happen to you. Calm yourselves, ladies; greeting, gentlemen, and a good journey. But come, let that fat man step out.' And my man, cringing as if he were going to hide under the women's skirts, got down, as white as if his blood had left him, and lisping as if he were drunk. The coach drove on and we stood in the middle of the road alone. 'Listen; I am Plumitas, and I am going to give thee something that thou shalt not forget.' And I gave it to him. But I didn't kill him right off. I hit him in a place I know, so that he would live twenty-four hours, and so that when the guards gathered him up he could say it was Plumitas that had killed him. Thus there could be no mistake nor could others air themselves with importance."

Dona Sol listened, intensely pale, her lips compressed in terror, and in her eyes the strange glitter that accompanied her mysterious thoughts.

Gallardo made a wry face, disturbed at this ferocious tale.

"Every one knows his trade, Senor Juan," said Plumitas, as if he divined his thoughts. "We both live by killing; you kill bulls, and I people.

Only you are rich and get the applause and the fine women, while I often go hungry and if I don't take care I will end riddled like a sieve in the open plains for the crows to eat. But you don't beat me in knowing your trade, Senor Juan! You know where to strike the bull so he will fall at once. I know where to hit a Christian so that he will fall doubled up and last a while, or else spend a few weeks remembering Plumitas, who wishes not to mix with anybody, but who knows how to settle with those who meddle with him."

Again Dona Sol felt curiosity to know the number of his crimes.

"And killed? How many people have you killed?"

"You will take a dislike to me, Senora Marquesa; but since you persist.... Understand that I cannot recollect them all, no matter how much I want to remember. They probably amount to thirty or thirty-five; I don't know for sure. In this wandering life, who thinks of keeping accounts? But I am a luckless fellow, Senora Marquesa; an unfortunate fellow. The fault belongs to them that made me bad. That matter of killing is like eating cherries. You pull one and the others come after, by dozens. One must kill to go on living and if one feels pity he is eaten for his pains."

There was a long silence. The lady contemplated the bandit's short thick hands with his uneven finger nails. But Plumitas was not looking at the Senora Marquesa. All his attention was given to the _matador_ in his desire to show him grat.i.tude for having received him at his table and to dispel the bad effect his words seemed to have upon him.

"I respect you, Senor Juan," he said. "The first time I saw you fight bulls, I said to myself, 'That's a brave fellow.' You have many devotees who admire you, but not the way I do! Believe me, that to see you, I have many times disguised myself, and gone into the towns where you were fighting the bulls with the risk of being captured. Is that devotion?"

Gallardo smiled with an affirmative nodding of his head, flattered now in his artistic pride.

"Besides," continued the bandit, "n.o.body can say I came to La Rincona'

to ask even a piece of bread. Many times I have gone hungry or have lacked five _duros_, riding around near here, and never till to-day has it occurred to me to pa.s.s through the wire fence of the plantation.

'Senor Juan is sacred to me,' I said to myself always. 'He earns his money the same as I do, exposing his life. Comradeship must be respected.' For you will not deny, Senor Juan, that although you are a great personage, and I one of the most unfortunate of men, we are alike, we both live by playing with death. We are quietly eating here, but some day, if G.o.d tires of us and deserts us, they'll gather me up from the roadside like a mad dog shot to pieces, and you with all your capital will be carried out of a ring foot foremost; and although the papers may talk of your misfortune four weeks or so, d.a.m.ned little you will thank them over there in the other world."

"It is true--it is true," said Gallardo, with sudden pallor at the bandit's words.

The superst.i.tious fear he felt when moments of danger drew near was reflected in his countenance. His destiny seemed similar to that of this terrible vagabond who must necessarily fall some day or other in his unequal struggle.

"But do you believe I think of death?" continued Plumitas. "I repent of nothing and I go on my way. I also have my desires and my little pride, the same as you, when you read in the papers that you did good work on such a bull and that they gave you the ear. Remember that they talk of Plumitas all over Spain, that the newspapers tell the greatest lies about me, and, according to what they say, they are going to bring me out in the theatres. Even in Madrid, in that palace where the deputies meet to hold parley, they talk of me nearly every week.

"On top of all this, the pride of having an army following my steps, of being able, a lone man, to stir the wrath of thousands who live off of the government and wield a sword! The other day, on Sunday, I entered a town at ma.s.s time and I stopped my mare in the square near some blind men who were playing the guitar and singing. The people were staring at a picture the singers had, representing a fine fellow with a three-cornered hat, whiskers, dressed in the finest style, mounted on a magnificent horse, with his blunderbuss on the horn of his saddle and a plump la.s.s on the crupper. I stopped when I saw that the fine fellow in the picture was Plumitas! That gives pleasure. When one is condemned like Adam to work or starve, it is well to have the people imagine his existence different. I bought the paper from the blind singers and I carry it here; the complete life of Plumitas, with many lies, but all set to verse. A fine thing! When I lie down on the mountain I read it to learn it by heart. Some _senor_ who knows much must have written it."

The dreaded Plumitas showed an infantile pride as he talked of his glory. The silent modesty with which he entered the plantation was gone; the desire that they should forget his fame and look upon him as nothing but a poor traveller pressed by hunger had vanished. He glowed when he remembered that his name was famous and that his deeds received the honors of publicity.

"Who would have known me," he went on, "if I had kept on living in my village? I have thought much about that. We downtrodden fellows have no other recourse than to toil for others, or to follow the only career that gives money and name--killing! I was no good at killing bulls. My village is in the mountains and has no fierce cattle. Besides, I am heavy and unskilled. So I kill people. It is the best thing a poor man can do to be respected and make his way."

Nacional, who had listened to the bandit's words with silent gravity, thought it necessary to intervene.

"What the poor man needs is education: to know how to read and write."

Nacional's words provoked the laughter of all who knew his hobby.

"There thou hast let loose one of thy ideas, comrade," said Potaje. "Let Plumitas go on explaining himself, for what he says is very good."

The bandit received the _banderillero's_ interruption with scorn; he had little respect for him on account of his timidity in the ring.

"I know how to read and write. And of what use is that? When I lived in the village it only brought me into notice and made my fate seem harder.

What the poor man needs is justice; let them give him what belongs to him and if they won't give it to him, let him take it. One must be a wolf and cause terror. The other wolves will then respect him, and the cattle even let him eat gratefully. If they find thee a coward and without strength, even the sheep will despise thee."

Potaje, who was now drunk, a.s.sented with enthusiasm to all Plumitas said. He did not understand his words well, but through the dark mist of his intoxication he thought he could distinguish a glow of supreme wisdom.

"That's right, comrade. A club to all the world. Go on, for thou art very clever."

"I know people," continued the bandit. "The world is divided into two families, the shearers and the shorn. I don't want to be shorn; I was born to shear, because I am very brave and am afraid of n.o.body. The same thing has happened to you, Senor Juan. By being of good kidney you have lifted yourself up from the common herd, but your way is better than mine."

He sat contemplating the _maestro_ a while and then added with an accent of conviction: "I think, Senor Juan, that we have come into the world rather late. What deeds of valor and glory young fellows like ourselves would have done in other times! You would not kill bulls and I would not roam over the plains hunted like a wild beast. We would be viceroys, grand moguls! Some great thing across the seas! You have not heard of one Pizarro, Senor Juan?"

Senor Juan made an ambiguous gesture, not wishing to reveal his ignorance of this mysterious name which he heard for the first time.

"The Senora Marquesa knows who he is better than I and she will pardon me if I say wild things. I learned that history when I was a sacristan and turned myself loose on old romances belonging to the priest. Well, Pizarro was a poor fellow like us, who crossed the sea with twelve or thirteen youths as ragged as himself, and entered a country finer than Paradise--a kingdom where lies Potosi--I need say no more. They had I don't know how many battles with the natives of the Americas who wear feathers and carry bows and arrows, and finally they became their masters, appropriated the treasures of the kings of the country, and the least of them filled his house to the roof all with gold coins, and there wasn't one that wasn't made a marquis, a general, or a personage of power. Many others are like them. Imagine, Senor Juan, if we had only lived then! What would it have cost us for you and me and some of these stout fellows who are listening to me to do as much or more than that Pizarro?"

And the men of the plantation, ever silent, but with eyes glowing with emotion at this marvellous history, a.s.sented to the bandit's theories, nodding their heads.

"I repeat that we are born too late, Senor Juan. Great careers are closed to the poor. The Spaniard knows not what to do. There is no longer any place left for him to go. What there used to be in the world to be divided up, now the English and other foreigners have appropriated. The door is closed and we brave men have to rot inside this barn-yard listening to hard words because we don't surrender ourselves to our fate. I, who like enough would have become a king in the Americas, or some other place, go along the roads branded as an outcast, and they even call me a thief! You, who are a valiant man, kill bulls and get applause, but I know that many gentlemen look upon bull-fighting as a low-down trade."

Dona Sol intervened to give the highwayman counsel. Why did he not become a soldier? He could go to distant lands where there were wars and utilize his powers n.o.bly.

"Yes, I would be good for that, Senora Marquesa. I have often thought of it. When I sleep at some plantation or hide myself in my house a few days, the first time I get into bed like a Christian and eat a hot meal on a table like this, my body is grateful for it, but I soon tire, and it seems to me the mountain calls me with all its poverty, and I long to sleep in the open wrapped in my blanket with a stone for a pillow. Yes; I would make a good soldier. But where could I go? There are no longer any real wars, where each one with a handful of comrades does whatever seems wisest to him. To-day there are only herds of men all wearing the same color and the same brand, who live and die like clowns. The same thing happens as in the world: shearers and shorn. You do a great deed and the colonel appropriates it; you fight a wild beast and they give the reward to the general. No, I was also born too late to be a soldier."

Plumitas lowered his eyes, remaining a long time as if absorbed in inward contemplation of his misfortune, realizing that he had no place in the present epoch.

Suddenly he grasped his carbine, about to rise.

"I must go--many thanks, Senor Juan, for your attentions. Farewell, Senora Marquesa."

"But where art thou going?" said Potaje pulling him back. "Sit down, _malaje_. In no place art thou better off than here."

The _picador_ desired to prolong the highwayman's stay, pleased to be able to talk with him as with a life-long friend, to be able to tell afterward in the city about his interesting adventure.

"I have spent three hours here and I must go. I never stay so long in an open, level place like La Rincona'. It may be that some one has already gone with a whisper that I am here."

"Art thou afraid of the guards?" asked Potaje. "They won't come, and if they do, I am with thee."

Plumitas made a deprecatory gesture. The guards! They were men like others; there might be brave ones, but they were all fathers of families who tried not to see him, and when they heard he was at a certain place, they came too late. They only went against him when chance threw them face to face, without means of evasion.

"Last month I was at the Five Chimneys plantation breakfasting as I am here, though not in such good company, when I saw six guards coming afoot. I am sure that they did not know I was there, and that they came only for refreshment. Bad luck, but neither they nor I could fly in plain sight of all the people on the plantation. That would cause talk, and evil tongues make one lose respect, and they will say we are all cowards. The owner of the hacienda shut the gate, and the guards began to beat on it with their muskets to make him open up. I ordered him and a herder to stand behind the doors. 'When I say _now_, open wide.' I mounted the mare and held my revolver in my hand. '_Now_!' The gate opened and I rode off flinging demons! You don't know what my poor little mare can do. They sent I know not how many shots after me, but nothing! I, too, let loose as I rode away, and according to what they say, I hit two guards. To abbreviate: I went leaning along my mare's neck so they couldn't hit me and the guards took their revenge by giving the men of the hacienda a beating. That's why it is better to say nothing about my visits, Senor Juan. Along will come those fellows with their c.o.c.ked hats and they'll make you dizzy with questions and declarations, as though they were going to catch me with that."

The men of La Rinconada a.s.sented dumbly. They already knew it. They must keep quiet about the visit to avoid trouble, as was done in all the plantations and herders' ranches. This general silence was the bandit's most powerful aid. Moreover, all these countrymen were Plumitas'

admirers. In their rude enthusiasm they looked upon him as an avenging hero. They had nothing to fear from him. His threats only weighed against the rich.

"I am not afraid of the guards," continued the bandit. "It's the poor I fear. They are all good, but what an ugly thing is poverty! I know those of the c.o.c.ked hats will not kill me; they have no b.a.l.l.s for me. If anybody kills me, it will be some poor fellow. One lets them come near without fear, because they are one's own kind, and then they take advantage of one's carelessness. I have enemies; people sworn against me. Sometimes there are rascals who carry the whisper in the hope of a few _pesetas_, or renegades who are sent to do a thing and don't do it, and one must keep a firm hand to have the respect of all. If one really harms them the family is left to avenge him. If one is good and contents himself with giving them a caress with a handful of nettles and thistles, they remember that joke all their lives--the poor, my own kind, are those I fear."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "For me?" asked the bandit in tones of surprise and wonder. "For me, Senora Marquesa?"]