The gay strains of a string band enlivened the scene as he entered.

Clouds of tobacco smoke hung over the throngs that crowded round the gaming-tables to try their luck with the G.o.ddess Chance.

Jose was playing roulette, and judging by the satisfied expression of his face which the Captain noted in pa.s.sing, he rightly conjectured that luck was on his side.

Like Carlos, Pedro had taken a great fancy to the Captain, and had generously placed his private stock of wines and cigars at the latter's disposal. Many an evening had the three pa.s.sed together smoking and drinking and chatting; Pedro and Carlos listening with rapt attention to the Captain's anecdotes and adventures of which he seemed to possess an inexhaustible store. The hall was greatly overcrowded, rendering it difficult to find an acquaintance, but as the Captain paused in the midst of the tables in order to obtain a better view of the faces about him, he felt a touch on the shoulder from behind and turning, saw Pedro, the object of his search.

"_Por Dios!_ but I'm glad to see you again, _amigo_!" exclaimed the proprietor, a dark little man with a kindly face pitted by the smallpox.

He grasped and shook the Captain warmly by the hand.

"How are you--when did you return?" he inquired; leading him to a table in one corner of the hall around which were seated a number of his friends who, on the appearance of the Captain, rose and greeted him effusively.

"_Mozo--mozo!_" shouted Pedro to the waiter, "a gla.s.s for the Captain!"

The others also had been to the theater, and like him, had left during the intermission following the dance. Naturally the dancer formed the sole topic of conversation.

"Had the Senor _Capitan_ seen the Chiquita--had he ever seen such dancing before--what did he think of her?" And by the time Carlos appeared on the scene, all agreed that the latter's fortune was made--that he would soon desert the sleepy old town for a tour of the world with his newly found star of the footlights.

"A tour of the world--with the Chiquita?" echoed Carlos, a fat, broad-shouldered little man of mixed blood, pausing and pulling back a chair in the act of seating himself at the table.

"_Dios!_ if such a thing were possible," he exclaimed, pushing his hat on the back of his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes, "I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, _mis amigos_. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance for a living."

To this last remark the company agreed.

"_Caramba_--how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of _pulque_.

"Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the spectators."

"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at the doors."

"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a _cigarillo_ between the tips of his stubby fingers.

"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos Moreno," continued Miguel, his head c.o.c.ked knowingly on one side, while he squinted over the rim of his gla.s.s between puffs of cigarette smoke.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_," answered Carlos. "But by the Virgin, it was worth it!"

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his auditors with one breath.

Old Miguel dropped his gla.s.s which fell with a crash, scattering its contents and fragments over the floor.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" he gasped. "_Alma de mi vida!_ Soul of my life! 'tis the salary of a Bishop! Are you mad, Carlos Moreno?"

"Perhaps. But only Carlos Moreno can afford to pay such salaries during the _Fiesta_," he answered complacently, taking a fresh sip of _pulque_.

"How did you ever persuade her to dance?" asked Pedro. "It's not the first time you have made overtures to her."

"Ah, that's the mystery! I'd give something to know why she danced. You know," he continued, "it's the first time she has ever appeared in public."

"The first time?" interrupted the Captain in surprise. "Why--she possesses the composure of a veteran of the footlights."

"Just so," rejoined Carlos. "Nothing is more characteristic of her; she's at home everywhere. When I first saw her dance three years ago in the garden of the old _Posada_ at the birthday fete of Senora Fernandez, I knew instantly that she was either possessed of the devil or the ancient muse of dance; also, why Don Felipe Ramirez went mad over her.

"_Dios!_ she's a strange woman--almost mysterious at times!" he added reflectively, with a shrug of the shoulders and gesture of the hands. "I thought, of course, that it was the money she wanted when she finally consented to dance, but I'm not so sure of it now."

"What reason have you for supposing otherwise?" asked Pedro.

"Every reason. What do you think she did with the heap of gold and silver that was showered upon her by the audience?"

"What?" excitedly demanded old Miguel, who by this time had fortified himself with a fresh gla.s.s of _aguardiente_.

"Why, after it had been gathered up and handed to her, she, without so much as looking at it, tossed it lightly into the center of the stage and bade the musicians and stage-hands remember her when they drank to their sweethearts to-night."

Captain Forest's interest began to be aroused.

"_Caramba_--'tis strange!" muttered old Miguel, eyeing his gla.s.s meditatively; his head nodding slightly from the effects of too much liquor. "But what will Padre Antonio say when he hears of it? How fortunate he wasn't here to witness a sight that must have caused him the deepest humiliation. Poor man," he continued, a.s.suming a sympathetic tone, "it is already the scandal of the town."

"Bah! what of that?" returned Carlos.

It was evident to all that the delights of the _Fiesta_ were beginning to tell on the old man. Already it had been noted on previous occasions that an overindulgence in _aguardiente_ usually invoked a religious frame of mind in him, but which in Miguel's case resembled rather the groping of a lost soul than the prophetic vision of the seer.

"What of that?" echoed Miguel, an ominous light flashing from his eyes.

"Those golden _pesos_ so lightly earned will just about pay for a thousand ma.s.ses in order to avert excommunication and enable the Church to s.n.a.t.c.h the soul of the Chiquita from the fires of purgatory as a punishment for conduct unbecoming the ward of a priest."

"Bah! you talk like an infant, Miguel! What a sad, weary world this would be if there were only priests and churches in it and men did nothing all day long but say aves and burn candles on altars," and Carlos lightly blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Ah, yes, perhaps--_quien sabe, amigo mio_?" answered the old man dryly.

"But the Church is the Church."

"Miguel, you are growing old," said Pedro, slapping him lightly on the back. "Have another gla.s.s!"

"I'm not old. I'm no older than the rest of you, and neither will I have another gla.s.s," retorted Miguel hotly, greatly irritated by the others'

laughter.

"Ah!" he continued, wagging his head, and in a tone of bravado and offended dignity, "you think I can't get home alone, do you? I'll show you that Miguel Torreno is still as young as the rest of you!" And supporting himself with one hand on the table and the other on his stick, he rose from his seat with great difficulty.

"Miguel Torreno old, is he? A thousand devils!" A chorus of laughter greeted this last outburst as he turned unsteadily and swaying to and fro, slowly made his way through the crowd toward the door.

Just then a man at the next table rose with an oath. It was Juan Ramon, Major-domo of the Inn of the Stars. Juan Ramon, the handsome, the hawk, the gambler--the greatest _vaquero_ in Chihuahua. The man who took delight in riding horses that other men feared--the man in whose hand the _riata_ became a magic wand, a hissing serpent, and who could stretch a bull at full length upon the ground at a given spot within a given time.

"Has the blessed _Fiesta_ brought you no luck, Juan?" inquired Carlos, tilting himself back in his chair and smiling up in the other's face.

"Luck--blessed _Fiesta_? The devil take them both!" exclaimed Juan, the look of disgust on his face gradually changing to one of resignation--that serene expression of the born gambler whom experience has taught that days of famine are certain to follow those of plenty.

"Look!" he repeated. "The cards are bewitched--not a _centavo_! My pockets are empty as Lazarus' stomach! Only a month ago I picked out a beautiful little _hacienda_ with the fairest acreage to which I intended to retire and live like a _Caballero_--to-day I parted with my only horse at a loss--to-morrow," and he shrugged his shoulders indifferently, "if this sort of thing continues, I'll be forced to p.a.w.n the b.u.t.tons on my breeches.

"_Mercedes Dios_, blessed be the _Fiesta_!" And flinging the end of his _zerape_ over one shoulder and across the lower half of his face, he stalked toward the door; the laughter of his friends ringing in his ears.

IV