Note: Images of the original pages are available through
HathiTrust Digital Library. See
http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.b3750786;view=1up;seq=247
THE FLYING HORSEMAN
by
GUSTAVE AIMARD,
Author of "Guide of the Desert," "Insurgent Chief," etc., etc.
Revised and Edited by Percy B. St. John
London: J. and R. Maxwell
Milton House, 4, Shoe Lane, E.C.
George Vickers, Angel Court, Strand
And All Booksellers
(From the Collected Works 1863-1885)
NOTICE.
Gustave Aimard was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian
tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of
the Prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying
them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn
squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, Gustave Aimard has
traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the
ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless
of the morrow. Hence it is that Gustave Aimard only describes his
own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known--the manners he
depicts are his own.
CONTENTS
I. THE STORM
II. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
III. THE VALLE DEL TAMBO
IV. DIPLOMACY
V. FREE--PERHAPS
VI. COMPLICATIONS
VII. HOSPITALITY
VIII. THE GUIDE
IX. THE CAMP
X. THE FORAGERS
XI. TIGERS AND FOXES
XII. A DOUBLE DUEL
XIII. EXPLANATIONS
XIV. EVENTS
XV. THE GAUCHOS
XVI. A CONSPIRACY
XVII. ARNAL
XVIII. ZENO CABRAL
XIX. CATASTROPHE
XX. CONCLUSION
THE FLYING HORSEMAN
ZENO CABRAL
CHAPTER I.
THE STORM.
We left the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter Eva prisoners
of the Pincheyra.[1]
Thanks to the presence of the strangers in the camp, no one came to
trouble the solitude of the captives.
Towards the evening they were warned by a somewhat brief message to
make all their preparations, so as to be ready to commence a journey at
the first signal.
The baggage of the two ladies had been, strange to say, scrupulously
respected by the partisans; it was therefore somewhat considerable,
and required four mules to carry it. They were promised that beasts of
burden should be placed at their disposal.
The night was dark; the moon, hidden by thick clouds, fringed with
greyish tints, gave no light; the sky was black; dull sounds were
carried on the wind, and, repeated by the echoes, awakened the wild
beasts in the depth of their secret lairs.
A funereal silence reigned over the camp, where all the fires were
extinguished; the sentinels were mute, and their long motionless
shadows stood out in relief from the darker tints of the surrounding
hills. Towards four o'clock in the morning, when the horizon began to
be tinged by greyish streaks of light, the noise of horses was heard.
The captives understood that the moment of their departure had come.
They had passed the night in prayer, without sleep having come for a
single minute to close their eyelids.
At the first knock at their door they opened it.
A man entered; it was Don Pablo. A thick cloak enveloped him, and a
broad-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"We are," laconically answered the marchioness.
"Here are your horses, ladies," said the Pincheyra; "will you mount?"
"Are we to leave immediately?" ventured the marchioness.
"It must be so, Madame," answered Don Pablo, respectfully; "we are
threatened with a storm, and any delay might cause us serious injury."
"Would it not be better to defer our journey for some hours?" pursued
the marchioness.
"You do not know our Cordilleras, my lady," answered the Pincheyra,
smiling. "A storm of two hours generally occasions such disasters that
the means of communication are stopped for weeks; but for that matter I
am completely at your orders."
The marchioness did not reply, and was at once escorted to the horses
which awaited them.
The two ladies were placed about the centre of a troop formed by some
twenty horsemen. By a remarkable refinement of courtesy on the part
of uncultivated soldiers, Don Pablo had placed two horsemen to the
right of the ladies, in order to preserve them from a fall during the
darkness.
A group of a dozen horsemen, separated from the body of the troop,
proceeded in advance as pioneers.
Notwithstanding the precarious situation in which she found herself,
and the apprehensions by which her mind was harassed, the marchioness
experienced a certain satisfaction, and an indefinable feeling of joy,
to find herself at last out of the camp of the bandits.
Don Pablo, in order no doubt to avoid annoying the ladies, kept with
the advanced guard, and, as soon as the day had become light enough to
direct his course with safety, the two horsemen placed near the ladies
were removed, so that the latter enjoyed a degree of liberty, and could
talk to each other without fear of their words being heard.
"Mother," said Doña Eva, "does it not seem strange to you, that since
our departure from Casa-Frama, Señor Sebastiao Vianna has not come near
us."
"Yes; this conduct on the part of an intimate friend does appear to me
singular; however, we must not be in a hurry. Perhaps Don Sebastiao has
reasons for keeping aloof."
"Don Sebastiao ought to know how anxious we are to receive news of my
father. I confess I am more concerned about it than I can explain."
"My dear, our parts are changed," said the marchioness; "it is you who
fear, and I who hope."
"That's true, mother. I have misgivings about this journey. The
warnings of Don Emile; his precipitate departure; what Don José
told you yesterday, and even the courteous manner of Don Pablo, and
the attentions which he heaps upon us, increase my suspicions. The
more we advance in this direction, the more I am disquieted. Is it
presentiment, or low spirits? I cannot tell you, mother."
"You are mad, Eva," answered the marchioness; "your presentiments arise
from low spirits. What can we have further to fear. The men in whose
hands we now are are completely masters of our fate."
At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard; the ladies turned, and
a horseman passed rapidly, slightly jolting against them, doubtless on
account of the narrowness of the path.
But quickly as this man had passed, he had time to skilfully throw on
the knees of the marchioness a Book of Hours, bound in red morocco, and
closed by clasps in chased gold.
The marchioness uttered a cry of astonishment, as she placed her hand
on the book.
This prayer book was the one she had given some days before to the
young painter. How was it that he returned it to her in such a singular
way?
His pace had been so rapid, and the brim of his hat had so thoroughly
concealed his face, that the marchioness did not recognise him.
We have said that the two ladies were almost alone; in fact, the
soldiers walked at some distance before and behind. The marchioness
assured herself that no one observed them, and opened the book.
A note, folded in two, was placed at the first page; this note, written
in pencil, was in French, and signed Emile Gagnepain.
The two ladies at once recognised the writing of the painter; both
spoke French a little, and they did not experience any trouble in
reading the letter. Its contents were as follows:--
"They are deceiving you, while they deceive
themselves; the bandit is of good faith in the
treason of which he is an accomplice, without knowing
it. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, manifest no
surprise. Do not offer any resistance, do not ask
any explanation; I am watching over you; all that is
possible to do I will attempt: I have to take revenge
on the man to whom you are about to be given up, in
a few hours. I shall be more than a match for the
deceiver. We shall see who is the more cunning, he or
I."
"Do not keep this paper, which might compromise you.
Have confidence in God, and trust to the devotion
of the man who has already delivered you once.
Especially, I urge you not to be astonished at
anything."
"EMILE GAGNEPAIN."
When Doña Eva had ascertained the purport of the note, on a sign from
her mother, she tore it into minute fragments, and scattered them by
degrees on the road.
For some time the prisoners remained pale, motionless, and speechless,
weighed down by this horrible disillusion.
"You were right, my daughter," at last said the marchioness; "your
presentiments were true; it was I who was mad to suppose that fate was
weary of persecuting us."
"Mother," answered Doña Eva, "it is better for us to have the
certainty of misfortune than to continue to buoy ourselves up with
chimeras. In warning us, Don Emile has rendered us an immense service.
When the blow with which we are threatened shall fall, thanks to him,
we shall be prepared to receive it; besides, does he not assure us that
all is not yet lost? He has a brave heart; he will save us, mother. And
then the fashion in which this book has come to us--does not even that
prove that we have one friend?"
"Alas! Dear child, what can I do? Nothing, if not strictly follow the
counsel our friend gives us. Unhappily, he is struggling single-handed;
he will be lost, without saving us."
"No, mother; Don Emile has doubtless taken his precautions. You have
already seen how he works; you know how prudent he is."
"Prudence and courage are not sufficient. Power alone can give success,
and, unhappily, it is power that fails us. He is isolated, without a
friend; in a country, the language of which he can hardly speak. Oh,"
she cried, with feverish energy, "if I alone were in the power of these
wretches! If I did not tremble for you, my child, I should long since
have finished with these tigers--these cowardly and heartless monsters
who are not ashamed to torture women."
"Calm yourself, mother."
"You are right, my daughter," she said.
Doña Eva leaned towards her mother, threw her arms around her, and
kissed her several times.
"You are brave and courageous, mother," she said; "I am proud and happy
to be your daughter."
Meanwhile, for some little time the sky had taken a threatening
appearance; the sun had lost its brilliancy, and only appeared drowned
in copper-coloured clouds, which drifted rapidly, and concealed its
disc. The heat was suffocating, the atmosphere heavy; without a breath
of air, the trees trembled from root to summit. A yellowish vapour rose
from the chasms of the rocks, by degrees condensed, and enveloped the
landscape as with an ominous winding sheet. The birds wheeled in long
flights, above the chasms, uttering discordant cries, and at intervals
were heard rumblings of bad omen. All appeared to presage the approach
of a storm.
Suddenly--a horseman approached; they recognised Don Pablo Pincheyra;
the soldier made signs as he galloped, and uttered cries that the great
distance prevented them from understanding, although it was evident
that he gave them warning.
"Are you good horsewomen?" he asked, as he reached them; "Do you feel
yourselves capable of keeping your seats with the horses galloping at
their utmost speed?"
"If it must absolutely be so, yes, señor," answered the marchioness.
"Listen! the moment is critical. Before an hour the storm will have
burst upon us; if it overtakes us here, we are lost; it will envelope
us in its whirlwind, and twist us like wisps of straw. I do not
guarantee to save you, but I will do all that I can towards success.
Will you have faith in me?"
"Command, señor!"
"Well, spur your horses, and give them the rein. Ahead, then, and God
help us!"
"God help us!" repeated the two ladies, crossing themselves.
"Santiago! ah! Santiago!" cried Don Pablo, putting the spurs to the
flanks of his horse.
We have said that the travellers followed the meanderings of a path
on the flanks of an abrupt mountain. But unless a person has himself
traversed the new world, it is impossible to make sure of what, in
these wild countries, is honoured by the name of a road. One of
our village paths, separating fields, is certainly more safe and
practicable than some American roads. The path of which we speak, and
which served at this time as a track for travellers, had originally
been marked out by wild beasts. The men had adopted it from the
beginning of the war of independence, as it formed the only means of
reaching the plain of Casa-Frama, the headquarters of the Pincheyras;
the latter had naturally taken good care to make it, we will not say
convenient, but at all events practicable for others than themselves.
It was six feet wide in its widest parts, and often it narrowed to
about two feet; from time to time it was interrupted by ravines,
hollowed by the torrents formed from the melting of the snow--ravines
which it was often necessary to leap at a single bound, at the risk of
personal injury, or to cross on stones rendered slippery by the green
waters. The ground was rugged, and obstructed nearly everywhere by
pieces of rock or shrubbery. To the right it was bounded by a precipice
of immense depth, and to the left by a wall of granite, which rose
nearly perpendicularly, it was by such a road as this that the two
ladies and their escort were obliged to gallop at full speed.
Ravines, ditches, and bogs were passed with giddy rapidity in this,
desperate flight; the sun was without heat and without rays, like a
ball of yellowish copper; the clouds lowered more and more, and ominous
sounds rose mournfully from the depths of the chasms.
The travellers galloped without exchanging a word, desperately urging
forward their horses whose efforts appeared almost supernatural.
Suddenly the voice of Don Pablo was heard.
"Halt!" he cried; "Alight, and throw yourselves on your faces. If you
value your lives, make haste."
There was in the sound of his voice such an accent of anguish, that the
bravest felt themselves tremble.
But all knew that the accomplishment of the order which they had just
received was a matter of life and death. By a desperate effort they
reined up their horses short; two or three cries of agony, followed by
the harsh sounds of several falls, were heard.
They came from the horsemen, whose horses had, becoming restive,
stumbled over the edge of the path.
These horrible yells passed unperceived; the instinct of
self-preservation was too powerful for anyone to care for others than
himself.
In an instant all the horsemen had alighted, and were lying on the
ground near their horses, which, instinctively understanding the danger
had also crouched themselves on the path, burying their nostrils, and
presenting their croup to the tempest.
"The hurricane! The hurricane!" cried the Pincheyra, in a loud clear
voice; "Hold on to anything that you can seize!"
All of a sudden, a horrible rumbling was heard, and the wind was let
loose with such extraordinary fury, that the mountain seemed to tremble
as if it had been shaken by an earthquake. A horrible squall swept the
valley with a roaring sound, and for some minutes separating the veil
of fog.
Don Pablo half raised himself up at the risk of being carried away like
a dry leaf, by the whirlwind which was raging, twisting, and tearing up
the trees as though they were wisps of straw, and carrying them away in
wild disorder, with a rapid but certain glance, the soldier explored
the scene; then he assured himself that but a few steps farther, after
a rather gentle descent, the path suddenly widened, and formed a
platform of about three or four yards.
It was this spot towards which all the efforts of the soldiers had been
directed. Once arrived in the valley, the situation would not be so
critical.
It was necessary, then, that come what might, they should reach the
valley.
Only, at the first terrible shock of the tempest, which in these wild
regions assumes such formidable proportions, an avalanche bad been
detached from the summit of the mountain, and had been precipitated
from rock to rock with a frightful crash, dragging with it the earth,
the underwood, and the trees which were in its way, and blocking up the
path.
The case was so much the more desperate as the storm redoubled its
violence, and the darkness had fallen thicker.
But the Pincheyra was one of those iron-hearted men who took no account
of apparently impossible things. Born in the mountains, he had often
struggled face to face with the tempest, and always he had come forth a
conqueror from this gigantic struggle.
To attempt to rise and walk would have been madness; the soldier did
not dream of it for a moment. Taking in his hand the knife from his
right pocket, in order to give himself a hold, and planting it in
the ground, the hardy mountaineer began to crawl gently, and with
precaution, on his knees and elbows by the side of the ruins massed
across the path.
At every step he stopped, and lowered his head to allow the squall
around him to pass.
It required nearly an hour for him to traverse a distance of less than
sixty yards. During this time his companions remained motionless,
holding on to the ground.
At last Don Pablo reached the spot on which the avalanche had fallen.
He looked around.
Brave as the soldier was, he could not repress a cry of anguish at the
terrible spectacle.
The rocks over which the path was traced, torn away by the fall of the
avalanche, had in some places given way for a space of more, than six
yards, and had rolled over the precipice, opening a frightful chasm.
The ruins left by the avalanche were composed in a great measure of
trees, and fragments of rock, which, entangled together, and massed, so
to speak, by the branches and the underwood, formed a thick wall on the
very edge of the gulf.
It was of no use thinking of forcing the passage with horses and mules.
The soldier with rage struck with his fist the obstacle that he could
not destroy, and proceeded to rejoin his companions. After having cast
a last look on the chasm, he prepared himself to retreat, when suddenly
he thought he heard a sharp and prolonged cry, like that used by the
mountaineers of all countries to communicate between themselves, often
at considerable distances.
Don Pablo stopped suddenly and listened, but a considerable lapse of
time passed, during which he could hear nothing but the horrible sounds
of the storm. The soldier supposed that he had been the sport of an
illusion, but suddenly the same cry, stronger and nearer, reached his
ear, "Good God!" he cried, "Are other Christians lost in the mountains,
amidst this horrible tempest?"
He stood for some moments, and cast a searching glance around.
[1] See "The Insurgent Chief," same publishers.