THE WOUNDED MAN.
A profound calm brooded over the country: the night breeze had died
away; no other sound but the continual buzzing of the infinitely little
creatures, that toil incessantly at the unknown task for which they
were created by Providence, disturbed the silence of the night: the
deep blue sky had not a cloud: a gentle, penetrating brilliancy fell
from the stars and the moonbeams flooded the landscape with gleams
that gave a fantastic appearance to the trees and mounts whose shadows
they immoderately elongated: bluish reflections seemed to pervade
the atmosphere whose dearness was such, that the heavy flight of the
coleoptera buzzing round the branches could be easily distinguished:
here and there fireflies darted like will-o'-the-wisps through the tall
grass, which they lit up with phosphorescent gleams as they passed.
It was, in a word, one of those limpid and pure American nights,
unknown in our cold climates less favoured by heaven, and which plunge
the mind into gentle and melancholy reverie.
All at once a shadow rose on the horizon, rapidly increased and soon
revealed the black and still undecided outline of a horseman; the sound
of horses' hoofs striking the hardened ground hurried blows, soon left
no doubt in this respect.
A horseman was really approaching and going in the direction of Puebla;
half asleep on his steed, he held the bridle rather loose, and allowed
it to go much as it pleased, until the animal, on reaching some
crosroads, in the middle of which a cross stood, gave a sudden start
and leaped on one side, cocking its ears and pulling back forcibly.
The rider, suddenly aroused from his sleep or, as is more probable,
from his reflections, would have been thrown, had he not, by an
instinctive movement, gathered up his horse by pulling at the bridle.
"Hola," he exclaimed, drawing himself up sharply and laying his hand on
his machete, while he looked anxiously around, "what is going on here?
Come, Moreno, my good horse, why this terror? There, calm yourself, my
good boy, no one is thinking of us."
But though the master patted it as he spoke, and both seemed to be on
good terms, the animal still continued to pull back and display signs
of the most lively terror.
"This is not natural, by Heaven! You are not accustomed to be thus
frightened for nothing: come, my good Moreno, what is it?"
And the traveller again looked around him, but this time more
attentively and peering at the ground, "Ah!" he said all at once, on
noticing a corpse stretched out on the road, "Moreno is right; there
is something there, the body of some hacendero without doubt, whom the
salteadores have killed to plunder him more at their ease, and whom
they left, without paying further heed to him: let me have a look."
While speaking thus to himself in a low voice, the horseman had
dismounted.
But, as our man was prudent, and, in all probability, long accustomed
to traverse the roads of the Mexican confederation, he cocked his gun,
and held himself in readiness either for attack or defense, in the
event of the individual whom he proposed to succor suddenly rising to
ask him for his money or his life, an eventuality quite in accordance
with the manners of the country, and against which he must place
himself on his guard.
He therefore approached the corpse and gazed at it for an instant with
the most serious attention.
It only required one glance to attain for certainty that there was
nothing to be feared from the unhappy man lying at his feet.
"Hum!" he continued, shaking his head several times, "This poor fellow
seems to be very bad: if he is not dead, he is not worth much more,
well, I suppose I must try to succor him, though I am afraid it will be
lost trouble."
After this fresh aside, the traveller, who was no other than
Dominique, the ranchero's son, to whom we just now alluded, uncocked
his gun which he leaned against the road side, so as to have it within
reach in case of need, fastened his horse to a tree, and took off his
_sarape_, so as to be less impeded in his movements.
After taking all these precautions quietly and methodically, for he was
a very careful man in everything, Dominique took off the _alforjas_
or double pockets carried on the back of the saddle, put them on his
shoulder, and kneeling down by the side of the outstretched corpse, he
opened the wounded man's clothes and put his ear to his chest, in which
was a gaping wound.
Dominique was a man of tall stature, powerful and perfectly
proportioned: his supple limbs were garnished with muscles thick as
cords and hard as marble: he was evidently endowed with remarkable
strength, joined to great skill in all his movements, which were not
without a certain manly grace: he was, in a word, one of those powerful
men uncommon in all countries, but who are most frequently found among
those nations where the exigencies of a life of combat develop the
personal faculties of the individual in frequently extreme proportions.
Although he was only twenty-two years of age, Dominique appeared
at least twenty-eight. His features were handsome, masculine and
intelligent, his black open eyes looked you boldly in the face, his
ample forehead, his auburn hair that curled naturally, his large
mouth with rather thick lips, his fiercely curled moustache, his
well designed and squarely cut chin gave his face an expression of
frankness, boldness and kindness, which was really attractive, while
at the same time rendering him most distinguished looking. A singular
thing in this man, who belonged to the humble class of _vaqueros_, his
hands and feet were wonderfully small, and his hands more especially
were exquisitely shaped.
Such physically was the new personage whom we introduce to the reader,
and who is intended to play an important part in the course of this
narration. "Well, he will have a job, to recover, if he does recover,"
Dominique continued as he rose, after vainly trying to feel the beating
of his heart. Still he did not let himself be discouraged, he opened
his _alforjas_ and took out linen, a surgical case and a small locked
box.
"Luckily I have kept up my Indian habits," he said with a smile, "and
always carry my medicine bag about with me."
Without loss of time he probed the wound and washed it carefully. The
blood dripped drop by drop from the violet edges of the wound, he
uncorked a vial, poured on the wound a few drops of reddish liquor,
and the blood at once ceased flowing as if by enchantment. Then with a
skill that evidenced much practice he bandaged the wound, on which he
delicately laid some herbs pounded and moistened with the red fluid he
had before employed.
The unhappy man gave no sign of life, his body continued to retain the
inert rigidity of a corpse; still a certain moistness existed at the
extremities, a diagnostic which made Dominique suppose that life was
not completely extinct in this poor body. After dressing the wound with
care, he gently raised the man and leaned him against a tree: then he
began rubbing his chest, temples and wrists with rum and water, only
stopping from time to time to examine with an anxious eye his pale
contracted face. Everything appeared to be useless: no contraction,
no nervous quiver indicated the return of life. But there is nothing
so persistent as the will of a man who desires to save his fellow
man. Although he began seriously to doubt the success of his efforts,
far from being discouraged, Dominique felt his ardor redoubled, and
resolved not to give up his exertions, till he had attained the
certainty that they were wasted. A striking picture was offered by the
group formed on this deserted road upon this calm and luminous night,
at the foot of the cross--the symbol of redemption--by these two men,
one of whom impelled by the holy love of humanity lavished on the other
the most paternal care.
Dominique ceased his frictions for a moment and smote his forehead, as
if a sudden thought had risen to his brain.
"Where the deuce can my head be?" he muttered; and feeling in his
_alforjas_, which seemed inexhaustible, so many things did they
contain, he brought out a carefully stoppered gourd.
He opened the wounded man's clenched teeth with his knife blade, thrust
the gourd between his lips, and poured into his mouth a portion of the
contents, while examining his face anxiously. At the end of two or
three minutes, the wounded man gave a slight shiver, and his eyelids
moved, as if he were trying to open them.
"Ah!" said Dominique with joy, "This time I believe I shall win the
day."
And, laying the gourd by his side, he recommenced his frictions with
renewed ardor. A sigh faint as a breath issued from the wounded man's
lips, his limbs began ere long to lose a little of their rigidity,
life was returning by inches. The young man redoubled his efforts; by
degrees the breathing, though faint and broken, became more distinct,
the features relaxed and the cheek bones displayed two red spots,
although the eyes remained closed, the lips moved as if the wounded man
were trying to utter some words.
"Come," said Dominique with delight, "all is not over yet, but he will
have had a very narrow squeak for it; bravo! I have not lost my time!
But who on earth can have given him so tremendous a sword thrust?
People do not fight duels in Mexico. On my soul! If I were not afraid
of insulting him. I could almost swear I know the man who so nearly
slit up this poor wretch; but patience, he must speak ere long, and
then he will be very clever if I do not learn with whom he has had the
row."
In the meanwhile life, after long hesitating to return to this body
which it had almost abandoned, had commenced an earnest struggle with
death, which it drove further and further away. The movements of the
wounded man became more distinct and decidedly more intelligent. Twice
already his eyes had opened, although they closed again immediately;
but the improvement in him was sensible: he would soon recover his
senses, it was now but a question of time. Dominique poured a little
water into a cup, mixed with it a few drops of the liquid contained in
the gourd, and put it to the patient's mouth: the latter opened his
lips, drank and then gave a gasp of relief.
"How do you feel?" the young man asked him with interest.
At the sound of this unknown voice, a convulsive quiver agitated the
whole of the wounded man's body; he made a gesture as if repulsing a
terrifying image, and muttered in a low voice, "Kill me!"
"Certainly not!" Dominique exclaimed joyfully.
"I had too much trouble in recovering you for that."
The wounded man partly opened his eyes, glanced wildly around, and
at length gazed at the young man with an expression of indescribable
horror.
"The mask!" he exclaimed, "The mask! Oh! Back, back!"
"The brain has suffered a very severe shock," the young man muttered,
"he is suffering from a feverish hallucination which, if it continued,
might produce madness. Hum! The case is serious! What is to be done to
remedy this?"
"Murderer!" the wounded man continued feebly; "Kill me."
"He insists on that as it seems; this man has fallen into some
frightful snare, his troubled mind only recalls the last scene of
murder, in which he acted so unfortunate a part. I must cut this short
and restore him the calmness necessary for his cure, if not, he is
lost."
"Do I not know perfectly well I am lost?" the wounded man who overheard
the last word said; "Kill me, therefore, without making me suffer more."
"You hear me, señor," the young man answered "very good then, listen
to me without interruption: I am not one of the men who brought you
into your present state. I am a traveller, whom accident or rather
Providence brought on this road, to come to your assistance and, as I
hope, to save you: you understand me, do you not? Hence cease to invent
chimeras; forget, if it be possible, for the present at any rate, what
passed between you and your assassins. I have no other desire but that
of being useful to you: without me you would be dead: do not render
more difficult the hard task I have taken on myself: your recovery
henceforth depends on yourself."
The wounded man made a sudden effort to rise, but his strength betrayed
him, and he fell back with a sigh of discouragement; "I cannot," he
murmured.
"I should think not, wounded as you are. It is a miracle that the
frightful sword thrust you received did not kill you on the spot:
hence, do not any longer oppose what humanity orders me to do for you."
"But if you are not the assassin, who are you?" the wounded man asked,
apprehensively.
"Who am I? A poor _vaquero_, who found you expiring here, and was
fortunate enough to restore you to life."
"And you swear to me that your intentions are good?"
"I swear it, on my honour."
"Thanks!" the wounded man murmured.
There was a rather long silence.
"Oh! I wish to live;" the wounded man resumed, with concentrated energy.
"I can understand the desire--it is quite natural on your part."
"Yes; I wish to live, for I must avenge myself!"
"That sentiment is just, for vengeance is permitted."
"You promise that you will save me--do you not?"
"At least I will do all in my power."
"Oh! I am rich: I will reward you."
The ranchero shook his head.
"Why speak of reward?" he said. "Do you believe that devotedness can
be bought? Keep your gold, caballero--it would be useless to me, for I
have no wants to satisfy."
"Still, it is my duty."
"Not a word more on this subject, I must request, señor. Any pressure
on your part would be a mortal insult to me. I am doing my duty in
saving your life, and have no claim to any recompense."
"Act as you please, then."
"Promise me first not to raise any objection to what I may consider it
proper to do on behalf of your health."
"I promise it."
"Good! In this way we shall always understand one another. Day will
soon appear, and so we must not remain here any longer."
"But when can I go? I feel so faint, that I cannot possibly make the
slightest movement."
"That need not disturb you. I will put you on my horse; and by making
it go at a foot pace, it will carry you, without any dangerous jolts,
to a safe place."
"I leave myself in your hands."
"That is the best thing you could do. Do you wish me to take you to
your house?"
"My house!" the wounded man exclaimed, with ill-disguised terror,
and making a movement as if he would try to fly. "You know me then,
señor--know my residence?"
"I do not know you, and am ignorant where your house is situated. How
could I know such details, when I never saw you before this night?"
"That is true," the wounded man muttered, speaking to himself. "I
am mad! This man is honest." Then, addressing Dominique, he said in
a broken and scarce distinct voice; "I am a traveller. I come from
Veracruz, and was going to Mexico, when I was suddenly attacked,
plundered of everything I possessed, and left for dead at the foot of
this cross, when you so providentially discovered me. As for a home, I
have no other at this moment but the one you may be pleased to offer
me. This is my whole story: it is as simple as truth."
"Whether it be true or not does not concern me, señor. I have no right
to interfere in your affairs against your will. Let me request you,
therefore, to refrain from giving me information which I do not ask of
you--which does not concern me, and which, in your present condition,
can only be injurious to you, first, by causing you too great tension
of mind, and then, by forcing you to speak."
In truth, it was only by a violent effort of the will, that the wounded
man had succeeded in keeping up so long a conversation. The shock he
had received was too powerful, his wound too severe, for him to talk
any longer, without running the risk of falling into a fainting fit
more dangerous than the one from which he had been so miraculously
drawn by his generous saviour. Already he felt his arteries throbbing,
a mist spread before his sight: there was a sinister buzzing in his
ears; an icy sweat beaded on his temples; his thoughts, into which
he had found it so difficult to introduce a little regularity and
coherence, were beginning to desert him again: he understood that any
lengthened resistance on his part would be madness, and he fell back in
a state of discouragement, and heaving a sigh of resignation--
"My friend," he murmured, in a faint voice, "do with me what you
please; I feel as if I were dying."
Dominique watched his movements with an anxious eye: he hastened to
make him drink a few drops of cordial, with which he had mixed a
soporific. This help was efficacious, and the wounded man felt himself
recalled to life. He tried to thank the young man.
"Silence!" the latter said to him, quickly; "You have talked too much
already."
And he carefully wrapped him in his cloak, and laid him on the ground.
"There!" he continued; "So far you are all right; do not stir, and try
to sleep, while I reflect on the means of removing you from here as
quickly as possible."
The wounded man attempted no resistance; the opium he had swallowed was
already acting upon him: he smiled softly, closed his eyes, and was
soon plunged in a calm and strengthening sleep. Dominique watched him
for a moment asleep with the most entire satisfaction.
"I like better to see him thus than as he was on my arrival," he said,
gladly. "Ah! All is not over yet: now we must be off as rapidly as
possible, if I do not wish to be impeded by the troublesome people who
will soon flock along this road."
He unfastened his horse, put on the bridle again, and led it close to
the wounded man. After making a species of seat on the animal's back
with some blankets, to which he added his _sarape_, pulling it off
without the slightest hesitation, he raised the wounded man in his
powerful arms, with as much ease as if he had been a child instead of a
tall, rather corpulent man, and placed him softly on the seat, where he
fastened him as well as he could, while carefully holding him to avoid
a jolt, which might prove fatal.
When the young man felt assured that his patient was in a position as
convenient as circumstances permitted, he started his horse, whose
bridle he held, without leaving his place by the side of the wounded
man, whom he supported, and proceeded straight to the rancho, where we
preceded him about an hour, in order to introduce the adventurer there.