“Now Carreras, under the guise of politics and liberalism, was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, and the unhappy state of Mendoza was the prey of thieves, robbers, traitors and murderers, who formed his party.  He was under a noble exterior a man without heart, pity, honour, or conscience.  Tie aspired to nothing but tyranny, and though he would have made use of Gaspar Ruiz for his nefarious designs, yet he soon became aware that to propitiate the Chilian Government would answer his purpose better.  I blush to say that he made proposals to our Government to deliver up on certain conditions the wife and child of the man who had trusted to his honour, and that this offer was accepted.

“While on her way to Mendoza over the Pequena pass she was betrayed by her escort of Carreras’ men, and given up to the officer in command of a Chilian fort on the upland at the foot of the main Cordillera range.  This atrocious transaction might have cost me dear, for as a matter of fact I was a prisoner in Gaspar Ruiz’ camp when he received the news.  I had been captured during a reconnaissance, my escort of a few troopers being speared by the Indians of his bodyguard.  I was saved from the same fate because he recognised my features just in time.  No doubt my friends thought I was dead, and I would not have given much for my life at any time.  But the strong man treated me very well, because, he said, I had always believed in his innocence and had tried to serve him when he was a victim of injustice.

“‘And now,’ was his speech to me, ’you shall see that I always speak the truth.  You are safe.’

“I did not think I was very safe when I was called up to go to him one night.  He paced up and down like a wild beast, exclaiming, ’Betrayed!  Betrayed!’

“He walked up to me clenching his fists.  ‘I could cut your throat.’

“‘Will that give your wife back to you?’ I said as quietly as I could.

“‘And the child!’ he yelled out, as if mad.  He fell into a chair and laughed in a frightful, boisterous manner.  ‘Oh, no, you are safe.’

“I assured him that his wife’s life was safe too; but I did not say what I was convinced of ­that he would never see her again.  He wanted war to the death, and the war could only end with his death.

“He gave me a strange, inexplicable look, and sat muttering blankly.  ’In their hands.  In their hands.’

“I kept as still as a mouse before a cat.  Suddenly he jumped up.  ’What am I doing here?’ he cried; and opening the door, he yelled out orders to saddle and mount.  ‘What is it?’ he stammered, coming up to me.  ’The Pequena fort; a fort of palisades!  Nothing.  I would get her back if she were hidden in the very heart of the mountain.’  He amazed me by adding, with an effort:  ’I carried her off in my two arms while the earth trembled.  And the child at least is mine.  She at least is mine!’

“Those were bizarre words; but I had no time for wonder.

“‘You shall go with me;’ he said violently.  ’I may want to parley, and any other messenger from Ruiz, the outlaw, would have his throat cut.’

“This was true enough.  Between him and the rest of incensed mankind there could be no communication, according to the customs of honour-able warfare.

“In less than half an hour we were in the saddle, flying wildly through the night.  He had only an escort of twenty men at his quarters, but would not wait for more.  He sent, however, messengers to Peneleo, the Indian chief then ranging in the foothills, directing him to bring his warriors to the uplands and meet him at the lake called the Eye of Water, near whose shores the frontier fort of Pequena was built.

“We crossed the lowlands with that untired rapidity of movement which had made Gaspar Ruiz’ raids so famous.  We followed the lower valleys up to their precipitous heads.  The ride was not without its dangers.  A cornice road on a perpendicular wall of basalt wound itself around a buttressing rock, and at last we emerged from the gloom of a deep gorge upon the upland of Peena.

“It was a plain of green wiry grass and thin flowering bushes; but high above our heads patches of snow hung in the folds and crevices of the great walls of rock.  The little lake was as round as a staring eye.  The garrison of the fort were just driving in their small herd of cattle when we appeared.  Then the great wooden gates swung to, and that four-square enclosure of broad blackened stakes pointed at the top and barely hiding the grass roofs of the huts inside, seemed deserted, empty, without a single soul.

“But when summoned to surrender, by a man who at Gaspar Ruiz’ order rode fearlessly forward, those inside answered by a volley which rolled him and his horse over.  I heard Ruiz by my side grind his teeth.  ’It does not matter,’ he said.  ‘Now you go.’

“Torn and faded as its rags were, the vestiges of my uniform were recognised, and I was allowed to approach within speaking distance; and then I had to wait, because a voice clamouring through a loophole with joy and astonishment would not allow me to place a word.  It was the voice of Major Pajol, an old friend.  He, like my other comrades, had thought me killed a long time ago.

“‘Put spurs to your horse, man!’ he yelled, in the greatest excitement; ‘we will swing the gate open for you.’

“I let the reins fall out of my hand and shook my head.  ’I am on my honour,’ I cried.

“‘To him!’ he shouted, with infinite disgust.’

“‘He promises you your life.’

“’Our life is our own.  And do you, Santierra, advise us to surrender to that rastrero?’

“‘No!’ I shouted.  ’But he wants his wife and child, and he can cut you off from water.’

“’Then she would be the first to suffer.  You may tell him that.  Look here ­this is all nonsense:  we shall dash out and capture you.

“‘You shall not catch me alive,’ I said firmly.

“‘Imbecile!’

“‘For God’s sake,’ I continued hastily, ‘do not open the gate.’  And I pointed at the multitude of Peneleo’s Indians who covered the shores of the lake.

“I had never seen so many of these savages together.  Their lances seemed as numerous as stalks of grass.  Their hoarse voices made a vast, inarticulate sound like the murmur of the sea.

“My friend Pajol was swearing to himself.  ‘Well, then ­go to the devil!’ he shouted, exasperated.  But as I swung round he repented, for I heard him say hurriedly, ’Shoot the fool’s horse before he gets away.

“He had good marksmen.  Two shots rang out, and in the very act of turning my horse staggered, fell and lay still as if struck by lightning.  I had my feet out of the stirrups and rolled clear of him; but I did not attempt to rise.  Neither dared they rush out to drag me in.

“The masses of Indians had begun to move upon the fort.  They rode up in squadrons, trailing their long chusos; then dismounted out of musket-shot, and, throwing off their fur mantles, advanced naked to the attack, stamping their feet and shouting in cadence.  A sheet of flame ran three times along the face of the fort without checking their steady march.  They crowded right up to the very stakes, flourishing their broad knives.  But this palisade was not fastened together with hide lashings in the usual way, but with long iron nails, which they could not cut.  Dismayed at the failure of their usual method of forcing an entrance, the heathen, who had marched so steadily against the musketry fire, broke and fled under the volleys of the besieged.

“Directly they had passed me on their advance I got up and rejoined Gaspar Ruiz on a low ridge which jutted out upon the plain.  The musketry of his own men had covered the attack, but now at a sign from him a trumpet sounded the ‘Cease fire.’  Together we looked in silence at the hopeless rout of the savages.

“‘It must be a siege, then,’ he muttered.  And I detected him wringing his hands stealthily.

“But what sort of siege could it be?  Without any need for me to repeat my friend Pajol’s message, he dared not cut the water off from the besieged.  They had plenty of meat.  And, indeed, if they had been short, he would have been too anxious to send food into the stockade had he been able.  But, as a matter of fact, it was we on the plain who were beginning to feel the pinch of hunger.

“Peneleo, the Indian chief, sat by our fire folded in his ample mantle of guanaco skins.  He was an athletic savage, with an enormous square shock head of hair resembling a straw beehive in shape and size, and with grave, surly, much-lined features.  In his broken Spanish he repeated, growling like a bad-tempered wild beast, that if an opening ever so small were made in the stockade his men would march in and get the senora ­not otherwise.

“Gaspar Ruiz, sitting opposite him, kept his eyes fixed on the fort night and day as it were, in awful silence and immobility.  Meantime, by runners from the lowlands that arrived nearly every day, we heard of the defeat of one of his lieutenants in the Maipu valley.  Scouts sent afar brought news of a column of infantry advancing through distant passes to the relief of the fort.  They were slow, but we could trace their toilful progress up the lower valleys.  I wondered why Ruiz did not march to attack and destroy this threatening force, in some wild gorge fit for an ambuscade, in accordance with his genius for guerrilla warfare.  But his genius seemed to have abandoned him to his despair.

“It was obvious to me that he could not tear himself away from the sight of the fort.  I protest to you, senores, that I was moved almost to pity by the sight of this powerless strong man sitting on the ridge, indifferent to sun, to rain, to cold, to wind; with his hands clasped round his legs and his chin resting on his knees, gazing ­gazing ­gazing.

“And the fort he kept his eyes fastened on was as still and silent as himself.  The garrison gave no sign of life.  They did not even answer the desultory fire directed at the loopholes.

“One night, as I strolled past him, he, without changing his attitude, spoke to me unexpectedly ‘I have sent for a gun,’ he said.  ’I shall have time to get her back and retreat before your Robles manages to crawl up here.’

“He had sent for a gun to the plains.

“It was long in coming, but at last it came.  It was a seven-pounder field-gun.  Dismounted and lashed crosswise to two long poles, it had been carried up the narrow paths between two mules with ease.  His wild cry of exultation at daybreak when he saw the gun escort emerge from the valley rings in my ears now.

“But, senores, I have no words to depict his amazement, his fury, his despair and distraction, when he heard that the animal loaded with the gun-carriage had, during the last night march, somehow or other tumbled down a precipice.  He broke into menaces of death and torture against the escort.  I kept out of his way all that day, lying behind some bushes, and wondering what he would do now.  Retreat was left for him; but he could not retreat.

“I saw below me his artillerist Jorge, an old Spanish soldier, building up a sort of structure with heaped-up saddles.  The gun, ready-loaded was lifted on to that, but in the act of firing the whole thing collapsed and the shot flew high above the stockade.

“Nothing more was attempted.  One of the ammunition mules had been lost too, and they had no more than six shots to fire; amply enough to batter down the gate, providing the gun was well laid.  This was impossible without it being properly mounted.  There was no time nor means to construct a carriage.  Already every moment I expected to hear Robles’ bugle-calls echo amongst the crags.

“Peneleo, wandering about uneasily, draped in his skins, sat down for a moment near me growling his usual tale.

“’Make an entrada ­a hole.  If make a hole, bueno.  If not make a hole, them vamos ­we must go away.’

“After sunset I observed with surprise the Indians making preparations as if for another assault.  Their lines stood ranged in the shadows mountains.  On the plain in front of the fort gate I saw a group of men swaying about in the same place.

“I walked down the ridge disregarded.  The moonlight in the clear air of the uplands was as bright as day, but the intense shadows confused my sight, and I could not make out what they were doing.  I heard voice Jorge, artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone, ’It is loaded, senores.’

“Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly the words, ’Bring the riata here.’  It was the voice of Gaspar Ruiz.

“A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the besieged garrison rang out sharply.  They too had observed the group.  But the distance was too great, and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the ground, the group opened, closed, swayed, giving me a glimpse of busy stooping figures in its midst.  I drew nearer, doubting whether this was a weird vision, a suggestive and insensate dream.

“A strangely stifled voice commanded, ‘Haul the hitches tighter.’

“‘Si, senor,’ several other voices answered in tones of awed alacrity.

“Then the stifled voice said:  ‘Like this.  I must be free to breathe.’

“Then there was a concerned noise of many men together.  ’Help him up, hombres.  Steady!  Under the other arm.’

“That deadened voice, ordered:  ‘Bueno!  Stand away from me, men.’

“I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and heard once more that same oppressed voice saying earnestly:  ’Forget that I am a living man, Jorge.  Forget me altogether, and think of what you have to do.’

“’Be without fear, senor.  You are nothing to me but a gun carriage, and I shall not waste a shot.’

“I heard the spluttering of a port-fire, and smelt the saltpetre of the match.  I saw suddenly before me a nondescript shape on all fours like a beast, but with a man’s head drooping below a tubular projection over the nape of the neck, and the gleam of a rounded mass of bronze on its back.

“In front of a silent semicircle of men it squatted alone with Jorge behind it and a trumpeter motionless, his trumpet in his hand, by its side.

“Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand:  ’An inch to the left, senor.  Too much.  So.  Now, if you let yourself down a little by letting your elbows bend, I will...’

“He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst of flame darted out of the muzzle of the gun lashed on the man’s back.

“Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly.  ‘Good shot?’ he asked.

“‘Full on, senor.’

“‘Then load again.’

“He lay there before me on his breast under the darkly glittering bronze of his monstrous burden, such as no love or strength of man had ever had to bear in the lamentable history of the world.  His arms were spread out, and he resembled a prostrate penitent on the moonlit ground.

“Again I saw him raised to his hands and knees, and the men stand away from him, and old Jorge stoop, glancing along the gun.

“’Left a little.  Right an inch.  Por Dios, senor, stop this trembling.  Where is your strength?’

“The old gunner’s voice was cracked with emotion.  He stepped aside, and quick as lightning brought the spark to the touch-hole.

“‘Excellent!’ he cried tearfully; but Gaspar Ruiz lay for a long time silent, flattened on the ground.

“‘I am tired,’ he murmured at last.  ‘Will another shot do it?’

“‘Without doubt,’ said Jorge, bending down to his ear.

“‘Then ­load,’ I heard him utter distinctly.  ‘Trumpeter!’

“‘I am here, senor, ready for your word.’

“’Blow a blast at this word that shall be heard from one end of Chile to the other,’ he said, in an extraordinarily strong voice.  ’And you others stand ready to cut this accursed riata, for then will be the time for me to lead you in your rush.  Now raise me up, and, you, Jorge ­be quick with your aim.’

“The rattle of musketry from the fort nearly drowned his voice.  The palisade was wreathed in smoke and flame.

“‘Exert your force forward against the recoil, mi amo,’ said the old gunner shakily.  ‘Dig your fingers into the ground.  So.  Now!’

“A cry of exultation escaped him after the shot.  The trumpeter raised his trumpet nearly to his lips, and waited.  But no word came from the prostrate man.  I fell on one knee, and heard all he had to say then.

“‘Something broken,’ he whispered, lifting his head a little, and turning his eyes towards me in his hopelessly crushed attitude.

“‘The gate hangs only by the splinters,’ yelled Jorge.

“Gaspar Ruiz tried to speak, but his voice died out in his throat, and I helped to roll the gun off his broken back.  He was insensible.

“I kept my lips shut, of course.  The signal for the Indians to attack was never given.  Instead, the bugle-calls of the relieving force, for which my ears had thirsted so long, burst out, terrifying like the call of the Last Day to our surprised enemies.

“A tornado, senores, a real hurricane of stampeded men, wild horses, mounted Indians, swept over me as I cowered on the ground by the side of Gaspar Ruiz, still stretched out on his face in the shape of a cross.  Peneleo, galloping for life, jabbed at me with his long chuso in passing ­for the sake of old acquaintance, I suppose.  How I escaped the flying lead is more difficult to explain.  Venturing to rise on my knees too soon, some soldiers of the 17th Taltal regiment, in their hurry to get at something alive, nearly bayonetted me on the spot.  They looked very disappointed too when some officers galloping up drove them away with the flat of their swords.

“It was General Robles with his staff.  He wanted badly to make some prisoners.  He, too, seemed disappointed for a moment.  ‘What?  Is it you?’ he cried.  But he dismounted at once to embrace me, for he was an old friend of my family.  I pointed to the body at our feet, and said only these two words: 

“‘Gaspar Ruiz.’

“He threw his arms up in astonishment.

“’Aha!  Your strong man!  Always to the last with your strong man.  No matter.  He saved our lives when the earth trembled enough to make the bravest faint with fear.  I was frightened out of my wits.  But he ­no!  Que guape!  Where’s the hero who got the best of him?  Ha! ha! ha!  What killed him, chico?’

“‘His own strength general,’ I answered.”