While these incidents were passing by the trappers camp-fire, Don
Estevan was actively pursuing the execution of his plans.
From what little he had heard and seen of Diaz he had conceived a high
opinion of this person. He had observed in him a man of very different
character from the crowd of adventurers who usually make up expeditions
of the kind he was about to lead. Don Augustin had pronounced upon his
courage; and the chief himself had noticed the reserve with which Diaz
treated his new associates Cuchillo and Baraja. Moreover, some words
with Diaz himself had confirmed Don Estevan's favourable impression, and
convinced him that the Indian fighter was a man of brave and loyal
heart. He regarded Diaz, therefore, as a valuable member of the
expedition, and resolved to attach him as much as possible to his
service--not merely with a view to his assistance in the search and
conquest of the Valley of Gold, but for that higher aim which he had
proposed to himself--the establishment of a kingdom.
While proceeding to the rendezvous designated by Cuchillo, Don Estevan
took the opportunity of sounding Diaz on this important question. His
bravery and address as a soldier were already known; but these two
qualities were not sufficient for the purposes of the Spaniard.
Something more would be required of the man of whom it was his design to
make both his lieutenant and confidant.
The reply of Diaz to his very first question, convinced Don Estevan that
Diaz was the very man he stood in need of; but the time had not yet
arrived for the leader to open himself fully. He contented himself by
simply observing, that in the event of the expedition being crowned with
success, it might lead to an important affair--the separation of Sonora
from the Federal Republic.
At this moment the conversation between the chief and Pedro Diaz was
interrupted by the report of a carbine. It was the shot fired by
Cuchillo, which had caused the sudden alarm at the camp-fire of the
trappers, but which as already known had failed in its aim.
If the outlaw had not yielded to his own cupidity, it is possible that
Tiburcio would have fallen at that moment. The assassin would have
taken with him his two associates Baraja and Oroche; and as three
bullets instead of one would thus have been aimed at the intended
victim, the chances are that some of them would have reached his life.
But Cuchillo did not desire to have a partner in the deed who could
claim a share in the promised reward, he was determined to have the
twenty onzas to himself; and this it was that induced him to leave
Baraja and Oroche behind him. His design was well conceived, and might
have been executed to his satisfaction. No doubt his aim had been true
enough; but it chanced to be taken at an inopportune moment--just as
Tiburcio sprang forward under the impulse of the revelation which
Bois-Rose had made to him.
Having delivered his fire the outlaw did not even stop to ascertain its
effect; but turning suddenly away, he ran to recover his horse. The
dread of being pursued and overtaken by the two trappers caused him to
fly at full speed. He dreaded the vengeance of two men of whose
singular courage and dexterity he had already been a witness. Fear,
however, so confused his senses, that on facing round, he was unable to
remember in what direction he had come, or where the horse had been
left; and for some seconds he stood hesitating and doubtful.
Short as was the time, it might have proved fatal to him, but that his
unexpected attack had somewhat disconcerted the camp. Both Bois-Rose
and Tiburcio, interrupted while suffering the most vivid emotions, stood
for some moments in a state of stupor, while Pepe was stretched out at
full length, and supposed to be asleep.
This was only apparent, however, for at the report he sprang to his feet
as if he had heard the "hish" of the bullet as it passed close to his
ears.
"_Carramba_!" cried he, "I am curious to know which of us that bit of
lead was intended for, you or myself, young man; for I have heard your
conversation, and I am no stranger to this affair of Elanchovi."
"Elanchovi!" exclaimed the Canadian. "What! do you know anything of
Elanchovi?"
"Ah, well do I," answered Pepe. "I have good reasons to know
Elanchovi--but there's no time to talk of it now; I will settle that
business by-and-by, for it's a secret you can't comprehend without my
help. So indeed it is the young count, and you have found him again!
Well that's enough at present. Now, Bois-Rose, forward! You take to
the right of where the shot came from, while this young man and I go to
the left. The cowardly rascal who fired will no doubt be trying to turn
our camp, and by going both ways, one or other of us will be likely to
chance upon him. Away, Bois-Rose, away!"
Hurriedly pronouncing these words, Pepe grasped his rifle and struck off
to the left, followed by Tiburcio, who had no other weapon than his
knife. The Canadian, suddenly stooping, till his huge body was almost
horizontal, glided off to the right under the branches of the trees, and
then moved on with a silence and rapidity that showed how accustomed he
was to this mode of progression.
The camp-fire was abandoned to the guard of the half-wild horse, that,
freshly affrighted by the report of the carbine, once more plunged and
reared, until he had almost strangled himself in the noose of his lazo.
Meanwhile the day was beginning to break, and the red light of the fire
was every moment growing paler under the first rays of the morning.
"Let us stop here," said Pepe to Tiburcio, as soon as they had reached a
thicket where they could have the advantage of seeing without being
seen, and from which they commanded a view of the road leading to the
Salto de Agua. "Stand closely behind this sumac bush," continued he; "I
have an idea that this _picaron_, who has such a crooked sight, will
pass this way. If he do, I shall prove to him that the lessons
Bois-Rose has given me have not been altogether lost upon me. I manage
my piece somewhat better now than when I was in the service of her
Catholic majesty. There now, stand close, and not a word above a
whisper."
Tiburcio--or, as we may now call him, Fabian de Mediana--obeyed with
pleasure the injunctions of his companion. His spirit, troubled with a
few strange words he had heard from Bois-Rose and Pepe, was full of hope
that the latter would be able to complete the revelation just begun; and
he waited with anxious silence to hear what the ex-carabinier might say.
But the latter was silent. The sight of the young man--whom he had
himself assisted in making an orphan, and despoiling not only of his
title and wealth, but even of his name--renewed within him the remorse
which twenty years had not sufficed to blot out from his memory. Under
the dawning light he looked sadly but silently on the face of that child
whom he had often seen playing upon the beach of Elanchovi. In the
proud glance of the youth, Pepe saw once more the eyes of his high-born
mother; and in the elegant and manly form he recognised that of Don Juan
de Mediana, his father; but twenty years of a rude and laborious life--
twenty years of a struggle with the toils and dangers of the desert--had
imparted to Fabian a physical strength far superior to that of him who
had given him being.
Pepe at length resolved to break the silence. He could no longer
restrain himself, suffering as he was from such bitter memories.
"Keep your eye fixed upon the road," said he, "at yonder point, where it
is lost among the trees. Watch that point whilst I talk to you. It is
the way in which Bois-Rose and I do when there is any danger threatening
us. At the same time listen attentively to what I say."
"I listen," answered Fabian, directing his glance as his companion, had
instructed him.
"Do you remember nothing of your young days, more than you have just
related to the Canadian?"
"Nothing--ever since I learnt that Arellanos was not my father, I have
tried to remember something, but to no purpose. I do not even know who
took care of me in my infancy."
"No more know they of you, my poor young man. I am the only one who can
tell you these things of which you are ignorant."
"For heaven's sake speak!" impatiently cried Fabian.
"Hush! not so loud!" cautioned the trapper. "These woods, remote and
solitary as they seem, nevertheless contain your deadliest enemy--
unless, indeed, it was at me that the bullet was aimed. That may make a
difference in your favour. In fact, since I have not been able to
recognise you, I do not see how _he_ can?"
"Who--of whom do you speak?" brusquely demanded Fabian.
"Of your mother's murderer--of the man who has robbed you of your
titles, your honours, your wealth, and your name."
"I should be noble and rich then?" cried Fabian, interrogatively. "Oh
that I had but known it sooner--only yesterday!"
Fabian's thoughts were upon Rosarita. If he could have told this to
her, in that sad parting interview, perhaps the result might have been
different!
"Noble! yes!" replied Pepe, "you should be and shall yet, if I mistake
not--but rich--alas! you are no more rich."
"What matters it?" responded Fabian, "to-day it would be too late."
"Yes, but it does matter--ah! I knew two men--one at least--who shall
restore to you what you have lost, or die in the attempt."
"Of whom do you speak?"
"Of one who, without knowing it, aided to some extent in the
assassination of your mother--of one whom that sad souvenir has a
thousand times troubled the conscience--who, in the silence of the night
in the midst of the woods, has often fancied he could hear that cry of
anguish, which at the time he mistook for the wailing of the breeze
against the cliffs of Elanchovi. It was the death scream of your poor
mother. Ah! Don Fabian de Mediana," continued the speaker, in reply to
the gesture of horror made by the young man, "Ah! that man's conscience
has reproached him in stronger terms than you could use; and at this
hour he is ready to spill the last drop of his blood for you."
The impetuous passions of Fabian, for a moment softened by thoughts of
Rosarita, were again inflamed to their utmost. He had already sworn to
avenge the death of Arellanos, and here was anew object of vengeance,
the murderer of his own mother! The bland image of Rosarita at once
disappeared, paling away as the firelight eclipsed by the brighter
gleams of the rising sun.
"My mother's assassin!" cried he, his eyes flashing with furious
indignation. "And you know him?"
"You also--you have eaten with him at the same table--under the same
roof--that which you have just now quitted!"
Pepe without further interrogation went on to recount what he knew of
the events of Elanchovi. He told Fabian who he was--that Don Estevan
was no other than his uncle, Antonio de Mediana--of the marriage of his
mother with Don Juan his father--of the consequent chagrin of the
younger brother--of his infamous design, and the manner it had been
carried into execution. How Don Antonio, returning from the wars in
Mexico, with his band of piratical adventurers, had landed in a boat
upon the beach at Ensenada--how he had entered the chateau, and with the
help of his two subordinate villains had abstracted the Countess and her
infant--himself Fabian--how the assassination of the mother had been
committed in the boat, and the child only spared in the belief that the
murderer's steel was not necessary--in the belief that the waves and the
cold atmosphere of a November night would complete the deed of death.
Nor did Pepe conceal his own conduct connected with this affair. He
disclosed all to his half-frantic listener--the after actions of Don
Antonio with regard to himself--his imprisonment and subsequent
banishment to the fisheries of Ceuta--his escape at a later period to
the prairies of America, and his meeting with Bois-Rose--with whom,
however, no recognition had ever been established about the events of
Elanchovi--since neither had ever mentioned that name in hearing of the
other.
All these things Pepe narrated in turn, but briefly as the circumstances
required. The rest of his history Fabian already knew--at least, the
greater part of it; Bois-Rose had partially made the revelation.