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The Ransom Of Don Ramon Mora
by
The following day the leader of these bandits held several conversations with him, asking in regard to his family, his children in particular, their names, number, and ages. When evening came they set out once more southward, crossing the Rio Grande during the night at an unused ford. The next morning found them well inland on the Mexican side, and encamped in one of their many chaparral rendezvous. Here they spent several days, sometimes, however, only a few of the band being present. The density of the thickets on the first and second bottoms of this river, extending back inland often fifty miles, made this camp and refuge almost inaccessible. The country furnished their main subsistence; fresh meat was always at hand, while their comrades, scouting the river towns, supplied such comforts as were lacking.
Don Ramon’s appeals to his captors to know his offense and what his punishment was to be were laughed at until he had been their prisoner a week. One night several of the party returned, awoke him out of a friendly sleep, and he was notified that their chief would join them by daybreak, and then he would know what his offense had been. When this personage made his appearance, he ordered Don Ramon released from his fetters. Every one in camp showed obeisance to him. After holding a general conversation with his followers, he approached Don Ramon, the band forming a circle about the prisoner and their chief.
“Don Ramon Mora,” he began, with mock courtesy, “doubtless you consider yourself an innocent and abused person. In that you are wrong. Your offense is a political one. Your family for three generations have opposed the freedom of Mexico. When our people were conquered and control was given to the French, it was through the treachery of such men as you. Treason is unpardonable, Senor Mora. It is useless to enumerate your crimes against human liberty. Living as you do under a friendly government, you have incited the ignorant to revolution and revolt against the native rulers. Secret agents of our common country have shadowed you for years. It is useless to deny your guilt. Your execution, therefore, will be secret, in order that your co-workers in infamy shall not take alarm, but may meet a similar fate.”
Turning to one of the party who had acted as leader at the time of his capture, he gave these instructions: “Be in no hurry to execute these orders. Death is far too light a sentence to fit his crime. He is beyond a full measure of justice.” There was a chorus of “bravos” when the bandit chief finished this trumped-up charge. As he turned from the prisoner, Don Ramon pleadingly begged, “Only take me before an established court that I may prove my innocence.”
“No! sentence has been passed upon you. If you hope for mercy, it must come from there,” and the chief pointed heavenward. One of the band led out the arch-chief’s horse, and with a parting instruction to “conceal his grave carefully,” he rode away with but a single attendant.
As they led Don Ramon back to his blanket and replaced the fetters, his cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Oddly enough the leader, since sentence of death had been pronounced upon his victim, was the only one of the band who showed any kindness. The others were brutal in their jeers and taunts. Some remarks burned into his sensitive nature as vitriol burns into metal. The bandit leader alone offered little kindnesses.
Two days later, the acting chief ordered the irons taken from the captive’s feet, and the two men, with but a single attendant, who kept a respectful distance, started out for a stroll. The bandit chief expressed his regret at the sad duty which had been allotted him, and assured Don Ramon that he would gladly make his time as long as was permissible.
“I thank you for your kindness,” said Don Ramon, “but is there no chance to be given me to prove the falsity of these charges? Am I condemned to die without a hearing?”