THE PURSUIT.
It was about two p.m. on the day after the battle. Twenty men were
encamped in a clearing some ten or twelve miles at the most from the
Río Grande del Norte; with the exception of three or four of them, who
were attired like Mexican campesinos, the rest appeared to be hunters
or wood rangers. The majority were lying asleep on the grass at the
foot of the trees, with their heads in the shade and their feet in the
sun. Their horses, hobbled and ready to be mounted, were eating their
ration of Indian corn spread on woollen blankets, laid on the ground in
front of them. Several sentries, leaning on their rifles, watched over
the common safety.
A little apart was a group composed of four or five persons, seated
on buffalo skins. These persons, whom our readers are well acquainted
with, were the Count de Melgosa, Don Aníbal de Saldibar, Don Aurelio
Gutiérrez, and Moonshine. Don Aníbal, with his elbows on his knees
and his head in his hands, seemed suffering from profound sorrow.
The count was looking at him sadly. The Canadian was philosophically
smoking his Indian pipe, while at times taking a commiserating look at
the hacendero. As for Don Aurelio, he was yawning as if going to put
his jaw out, with his back carelessly resting against a tree, his arms
folded, and his legs stretched out.
We will now explain to the reader why these persons were collected at
this spot. To do so we will go back a little way, and return to the
canyon in which the fate of Mexico was decided. The first moments
following a victory are always devoted by the victors to joy and
delirium, order and discipline no longer exist. Men congratulate each
other and run backwards and forwards, singing, laughing, and forgetting
all the perils and agony of the struggle. But when minds began to calm,
and reason regains its sway, reflection comes, and the sanguinary
details of the battle appear in all their horror.
General Don Pelagio Sandoval after giving quarter to the conquered
immediately disarmed them, and employed them in removing the wounded
and burying the dead. Of all the Spanish soldiers who entered the
defile, not a single man had succeeded in escaping to bear to Coahuila
the news of this awful defeat. The Mexicans had comparatively lost very
few men, although their loss for all that was considerable. The Mexican
general resolved to encamp on the battlefield, and his troops were
encamped on the plain in front of the mouth of the canyon.
It was about nine in the evening. The bivouac fires formed a brilliant
circle round the camp, the soldiers were singing and laughing while
narrating to each other the exciting incidents of the battle. The
general, who had retired to a jacal of branches built for him, which
his troops had lined inside with the flags captured from the enemy, was
conversing with Oliver Clary. The Canadian had just finished a story
which must have powerfully affected his hearer, for his face was pale,
and a burning tear trembled at the end of his lashes.
"Poor Don Aníbal," he said, passing his hand over his eyes, "what a
frightful misfortune. This last blow is the most terrible of all. He
will not get over it."
"Immediately after the battle," the hunter continued, "Count de
Melgosa, who as you know took no part in the action, but constantly
remained with the rearguard, came to join the hacendero at the
barricade which you ordered him to defend, and at which he fought so
bravely."
"I know it, he killed General Cárdenas with his own hand. It is better
that it should be so. That man had excited such hatred against himself,
that had he lived I should probably have been powerless to protect him
in spite of my eager desire to do so."
"The moment was well selected for a confession of the nature which
the count had to make to Don Aníbal. The latter, overexcited by the
fighting, and intoxicated by the smell of powder, endured this new
misfortune with more strength than we had ventured to expect. Still the
blow was terrible, and fears were entertained for his life during a
moment. He rolled on the ground like an oak uprooted by the hurricane,
and for some minutes was a prey to frightful convulsions and a delirium
which threatened to change into insanity. Fortunately, the very
intensity of the crisis saved him. He recovered, thanked the count and
myself for the sympathy we had shown him, sat down on a gun carriage,
and after a few nervous spasms managed to weep. Now he is calmer, and
you will see him soon, for he means at once to start in pursuit of the
Indians."
"Alas, I fear that his search will be unsuccessful. The villain who
betrayed him has escaped. Does he know it?"
"Not yet."
"What is to be done? Unluckily, I can only offer him sterile
consolation. But I have it," he said, striking his forehead, "that is
the very thing. ¡Viva Cristo! if Don Aníbal does not succeed in saving
his hapless wife and daughter, he will at any rate be able to catch the
scoundrels who carried them off, and sacrifice them to his righteous
wrath."
"Ah," said the Canadian, "in what way? I do not know, General,
especially as I fear lest the misfortune is greater than you imagine."
"How so; what do you mean, Don Oliver?"
The Canadian reflected for a moment. A strange emotion agitated this
brave man, and an expression of vexation, repentance, and timidity
appeared on his frank and manly face. The general examined him with
surprise.
"Come," he said to him, "speak. I know not why, but I fancy I have
still the most frightful part of this frightful story to hear."
"You may be right, General," the Canadian said in a low and almost
unintelligible voice.
"Speak; in heaven's name tell me all."
"Nonsense," the adventurer said, "my repentance has been quite enough
for me to open my heart to you. General, I have committed one bad
action in my life."
"You, my friend?" Don Pelagio exclaimed quickly, "That is impossible."
"Thanks for that remark, General. The opinion you have of me, restores
me the courage to complete my confession. Yes, I repeat, I have
committed one bad action, the memory of which has incessantly pursued
me and filled me with remorse. One day I was a coward."
"Go on," the general interrupted him, with a shake of his head.
"You know," the adventurer continued, with a certain degree of
hesitation, and looking down to the ground, "that nearly my whole
life has been spent, in traversing the woods, either alone, or in the
company of the Indians."
"I know it; go on."
"You lived on this border for a long time; you will doubtless remember
the frightful catastrophe in which the Count de Melgosa's brother was
assassinated?"
"Wretch! Were you mixed up in that frightful affair?" the general
exclaimed.
"No," the Canadian answered with a start of horror, "and yet I was
guilty. The count's son was carried off: do you remember it?"
"Alas! The count has never recovered from the effects of that
abduction."
"When the redskins returned from that sanguinary expedition, bringing
the poor lad with them, there was a grand discussion among them to
decide the fate of the weak creature. The majority wished him to be
killed, while others asserted, on the other hand, that the child ought
to be preserved, in order to be converted into a hostage at a later
date. I was present at this discussion; the poor boy cried; I felt an
involuntary interest in him, and implored the Indians to give him to
me. I succeeded in convincing them by my intreaties, and they granted
my request."
"Well?" the general asked anxiously.
"A few weeks later," the Canadian continued, "the Mexican hacenderos
took a brilliant revenge. The redskins, surprised in their turn, were
massacred without pity. Nothing would have been easier for me at the
time than to restore to the heart-broken father the boy who had been
so treacherously carried off; but I had sworn not to do so; it was on
that condition he was intrusted to me. I did not dare break my promise;
still, taking advantage of the confusion, I tried to evade it. I placed
the boy in the hands of a servant of Don Aníbal, begging him to deliver
him to his master, as I felt convinced that he would be taken care of,
and that at a later date I might perhaps be able to restore him alive
to the parent who bewailed his death. Years passed, and various events
kept me away from these parts, to which I had only accidentally come.
Still the memory of this boy incessantly pursued me; my conscience
cried to me that I had acted badly. In a word, my remorse became so
great that I resolved to return to this country in order to discover
the fate of the poor boy I had abandoned, and repair, were it in my
power, the evil I had done."
"Good, my friend--good," the general exclaimed, warmly, "now I
recognize you. Still, has your search been successful, and have you
found the count's son again?"
"Yes," he answered, in a hollow voice; "yes, General, I have a moral
certainty that the boy is no other than Don Melchior Díaz."
"Melchior! Thank heaven! Who would not be proud and happy of such a
son?"
"As the rapidity of events has not yet allowed me to confirm my
suspicions, and convert them into a certainty, I have preserved the
greatest silence to everybody, and the count before all."
"You acted prudently."
"Yes," he continued, sorrowfully; "but unhappily Diego López has told
me that Don Melchior has left the Hacienda del Río, where he was, in
order to start on the track of the redskins."
"Alone?" the general said, with a start of terror. "That is the very
thing that terrifies me, General. The poor young man burns with a
desire to save Doña Emilia and her daughter; he is ignorant of Indian
habits, and I feel convinced that he will allow his ardour to carry him
away, and become a victim to his devotion."
"That is only too probable."
"The more so, because the redskins are implacable, and will not
hesitate to sacrifice him to their hatred of the Mexicans. Fortunately
the count is still ignorant that this young man is his son, as the news
would have infallibly killed him."
The general let his head fall on his chest, and sighed. At this moment
the door of the jacal was opened, and the count and Don Aníbal entered.
In a few hours the hacendero had aged ten years; his pale, worn
features, his eyes hollowed by fever, and his wild looks were pitiable
to behold.
"General," he said in a faint voice, "Sotavento has escaped; did you
know it?"
"I did, my friend," the general said, taking his hand affectionately;
"I know it, and am glad of it." His hearers gave a start of surprise.
"This man," the general continued gently, "is a villain of the worst
species. The horrible crime of which he has been guilty he must have
long been meditating; all his measures were taken so as to throw out
your pursuit, the confidence you placed in him only favoured him too
thoroughly in the execution of his odious plots."
The hacendero sighed.
"This man would have died sooner than reveal anything to you. You know
the Indians. You are aware to what a point they carry their obstinacy;
his living and his flight are of more use to you now than his presence
or his death would be. Clary, my friend, has the provost marshal told
you at what spot the villain escaped?"
"He has, Excellency."
"It is well. This man, however crafty he may be, cannot have
disappeared without leaving a trail, and that trail must be lifted:
Be assured that it will lead you to the den where this monster has
concealed his victims."
"Yes," Don Aníbal observed; "but who will find this trail?"
"Here is the man," the general said, stretching out his arm to the
Canadian. "Did you never hear tell of the skill of the Canadians in
following a trail?"
"This time, General, my skill would be thrown out," the hunter replied.
"Water does not retain a trail."
"Clary," the general said to him, sternly, "why this hesitation? Would
you refuse to do what I ask of you?"
"I do not refuse, General," he said sharply, "I only call attention to
an impossibility."
"Nothing is impossible when a man has a firm will. Moreover, any
discussion is useless," he added, laying a marked stress on his words,
"_the hour has arrived, and the master awaits_ for you to answer
distinctly."
The hunter started at these words, and said, with a respectful bow--
"Very good, I will obey, since you insist, Excellency. You know that
you can do anything with me; but on one condition."
"I will have no conditions."
"Pray listen to one remark."
"Be brief, for time presses."
"I claim the right to choose my companions. We are going to undertake a
campaign in which we shall leave our scalps, if not our carcases; and
as I am greatly attached to mine, I must be sure of the men I take with
me."
"What you ask is quite fair, my friend, and if you have no other
condition to make--"
"No other, General."
"Then I grant it."
"Very good; with your leave, I will set to work at once. Two words,
however, before I leave you."
"Speak, my friend."
"The desert has its laws, which no one cares to infringe. Personally I
have no animosity against the Indians; on the contrary, I have always
lived on good terms with them, and only a few days ago a Comanche chief
welcomed me to his camp as a friend."
"What conclusion do you draw from that?"
"None at all; still, as I must break these pleasant relations, I
request, once again, that the whole management of this affair may be
left in my hands. Before mounting, I will come to an understanding with
my friend, Moonshine."
"Very good."
"Don Aníbal, you will let yourself be guided by me; for I presume that
you intend to accompany us?"
"Can you doubt it, señor?"
"Well, it would, perhaps, be better for you to remain with the general."
"No, no, I will go on this expedition; for no one is more interested
than myself in its success."
"That is true. Well, as you please."
"I, too, will accompany you, Don Oliver," said the count.
"Very well, caballero."
"But there is another person who would not forgive you for leaving him
behind. Don Melchior Díaz; you will not forget to warn him, I trust,
señor, for you know that we promised it to him."
The general and the hunter exchanged a meaning glance.
"That is my business," the former remarked, "so do not trouble
yourself, Señor Conde."
"Now, I will be off," the Canadian continued; "however long my absence
may be, do not feel anxious about it. When I rejoin you, I shall be
perfectly sure of the road we have to follow."
"Can you not tell us, at least, who the people are you mean to take
with you?"
"Nothing is easier; they are men like myself, hunters and adventurers
belonging to my cuadrilla, accustomed to a desert life and Indian
tricks. Soldiers would do us more harm than good. In this expedition,
courage takes the second place; skill and craftiness alone can ensure
our success. Good-bye, good-bye, all is arranged; I shall be back soon."
"Go, my friend, and luck be with you," the general said, affectionately.
"All that it is possible to attempt, General, I will do. Good-bye."
The hunter went out.
"That is all the assistance I can offer you, Don Aníbal; I wish that I
could do more. Place the most perfect confidence in this adventurer; he
is a man of heart, thoroughly devoted and intelligent."
"I have been able to appreciate him under critical circumstances," the
count said, "and I have the best opinion of him."
"Heaven grant that his help may prove effectual," Don Aníbal murmured,
with a sigh.
"Hope, my friend, hope. God will not abandon you."
Don Aníbal only answered with a sigh more profound than the first, and,
after taking leave of the general, he and the count proceeded to the
spot where the cuadrilla of the adventurers was encamped.
"Poor man!" the general muttered, as he saw the hacendero retire. "Will
he succeed in saving the two unhappy captives? Alas!"
He shook his head doubtfully, and fell back into his meditations.
"Are you ready to start?" Moonshine asked the two gentlemen on seeing
them.
"At once?" the count asked.
"Well, that will be better for what we have to do."
"Have we the time to go and fetch our horses?"
"Your peon has brought them."
Fifteen adventurers, already mounted, were waiting, motionless and
silent. They were men with bold features and a resolute air, whose
bronzed faces testified to the fatigue they had endured in their rough
profession. A few minutes later the little band quitted the camp at a
gallop, and went out into the plain under the guidance of Moonshine.
It was a cold night, as most American nights are. The men wrapped
themselves carefully in their cloaks, to escape being saturated by
the chilling dew, which fell upon them in an abundance unknown in our
climate; and they rode sharply till sunrise without exchanging a word.
At about four in the morning they halted to give their horses a rest.
"Are we going to stop?" Don Aníbal asked. These were the first words he
had spoken since they started.
"Only for two hours," the hunter said.
"Very well."
And he fell back into his silence, from which the count did not deem
it necessary to draw him. As Moonshine had said, within two hours the
horses were resaddled, and they set out again, after eating a biscuit
and a strip of tasajo, and drinking a draught of spirits. The count
could only succeed in making his friend swallow a few mouthfuls, by
representing to him that he must keep up his strength. His grief was
intensely gloomy. This time they rode a long distance, and only halted
at one o'clock p.m. in a clearing.
"We will wait for Oliver here," the hunter said, as he dismounted.
Don Aníbal raised his head.
"Will he come soon?" he asked, with considerable eagerness.
"I do not know. That will depend on the information he may have picked
up."
"Nonsense," said Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, who had joined the party
through his warm affection for the hacendero, "he will not be long."
"My hacienda is not very far from here, señor," the count said. "There
would be time to send someone to fetch Don Melchior."
Moonshine made a sign to Diego López, gave him an order in a low voice,
and the latter at once went off.
"Where are we?" Don Aurelio asked. "I do not know at all. What is that
river running down there between the cottonwood trees?"
"We are on the Indian border, señor, and that river you can see from
here is the Río Bravo del Norte, which serves as a limit between Mexico
and the great Indian prairies."
"May I ask," the count then said, joining in the conversation, "why you
have made us take this road sooner than another?"
"For a very simple reason, señor. The man who carried off the two
ladies whom we wish to deliver is an Indian--not a civilized Indian,
but one of those to whom you give the name of Bravos, or untameable, is
he not?"
"You are quite correct."
"Very well. That being so, there are heavy odds that this man, after
carrying off the ladies, tried to rejoin his tribe and shelter himself
from pursuit by entering the desert. On the other hand, Oliver and
you, count, were attacked a little time ago by a party of Comanche
marauders. It was on the same night that Doña Emilia and her daughter,
after saving you by their unforeseen presence, disappeared--in all
probability captured by the same men who attacked you, or another
detachment of the tribe. You see, then, everything leads to the belief
that the ravishers must have retired into the desert, where they are
certain of meeting friends, instead of remaining in a hostile country,
where it would be impossible for them to remain any length of time
without running a risk of discovery."
"Yes, you are right. We were attacked by Comanches, and most assuredly
should have been massacred, had it not been for the providential
intervention of Doña Emilia," he added, in a low voice, not to be heard
by Don Aníbal.
Time slipped away; the hacendero now and then raised his head, looked
anxiously around him, and then fell back into his gloomy reverie. At
length, at about five in the evening, the noise of horses could be
heard, and the sentries signalled two riders coming up at a gallop.
They were Don Melchior Díaz and Diego López. Moonshine was greatly
puzzled by the young gentleman's arrival, for, having been warned by
Oliver of the occurrences at the Hacienda del Río, he had told Diego
López to remain absent for a time, and then return, saying that General
Sandoval had told Don Melchior to come to him alone, and that the
latter had at once left the hacienda in obedience to this order.
Diego López, consequently, rode about haphazard, and resolved to employ
the time granted him in making a reconnoissance of the banks of the Río
del Norte. Great was his surprise on recognizing in a horseman fording
the river, the man he was supposed to have gone to fetch. In two words,
Don Melchior explained what he had attempted on behalf of the captives.
On his side, the peon informed him of the expedition organized to
proceed to their assistance. The young man's heart bounded with delight
on hearing this, and, after agreeing with Diego that they should be
silent, they proceeded to the encampment in all haste.
By extraordinary good fortune. Don Melchior had succeeded in foiling
the ever active vigilance of the Indians, and, after his interview with
the ladies, left the teocali undisturbed; he had found his clothes and
horse again at the spot where he stopped to disguise himself, after
killing the sentinel; and then, mad with despair and grief, he dashed
across the prairie for the purpose of joining Oliver and persuading
him to fly with him to the rescue of the prisoners. At this moment it
was that he met the peon.
So soon as he entered the bivouac, the young gentleman leapt from his
horse, pressed the counts hand, and then rushed toward Don Aníbal,
while Diego López told Moonshine, in a low voice, all about this chance
interview. The hacendero had risen on perceiving Don Melchior; they
fell into each other's arms, and remained embraced for a long time,
mingling their tears but not speaking, for great sorrows are dumb.
"Courage!" Don Melchior at length murmured, "Courage, we shall find
them again."
"Do you think so?" Don Aníbal exclaimed eagerly. "Oh! could I but
believe it. Oh, heaven! Have I not suffered enough?"
He let his head droop on his chest again, and burst into tears. There
was something affecting in the sight of this strong man, who was so
utterly crushed by grief and cried like a child. His friends regarded
him with the most earnest compassion; they did not dare offer him
consolations whose inutility they recognized; but the sadness displayed
on their features sufficiently proved the sympathy they felt with him.
The sun had set a long time but the hunter did not appear, and the
anxiety became general. No one spoke, but each mentally calculated the
hours that had elapsed, and began to think that the Canadian's absence
threatened to become indefinitely prolonged. Moonshine alone did not
seem to feel any anxiety or surprise, because he alone of the persons
who surrounded him knew what difficulties the hunter would have to
surmount in procuring positive information, and discovering on the sand
or in the grass the flying traces of a man who, with the diabolical
prudence of his race, had doubtless tried to efface every mark of his
passage.
At about ten o'clock, at the moment when the moon, disappearing
between two clouds, plunged the clearing into complete darkness for a
few minutes, Moonshine, who, as an attentive sentry, had undertaken
to watch over the safety of all his comrades, suddenly heard the
cry of the whippoorwill rise softly and plaintively in the silence.
The Canadian listened; the same cry was repeated thrice at regular
intervals.
"It is he," the Canadian muttered, as he returned the same signal.
Almost immediately a man entered the clearing, leading his horse by the
bridle--it was Oliver Clary. He walked to the hacendero, and laid his
hand on his shoulder.
"Up, Don Aníbal," he said to him, "within twenty-four hours we shall
have recovered those whom you thought lost."
"At last!" the hacendero shouted wildly as he leapt to his feet.