The darkness was no longer that of midnight--the outlines of the
different objects began to be visible, and the peaks of the hills looked
like domes or fantastic turrets in the half-light. Detached from the
mass of the mountains, a rock in the form of a truncated cone towered up
like an outwork. A cascade fell noisily from an adjacent hill into a
deep gulf below, and in front of the rock a row of willows and
cotton-trees indicated the neighbourhood of a stream. Then the immense
plain of the delta formed by the two arms of the Rio Gila (which from
east to west cuts for itself a double passage through the chain of the
Misty Mountains) displayed itself in all its sombre majesty. Such were
the striking points of the landscape which opened before the travellers.
Soon the blue light of morning replaced the darkness, and the summits of
the hills one by one became visible. On the top of the rock two pines
could now be seen, their bending stems and dark foliage extending over
the abyss. At their foot the skeleton of a horse, held up by hidden
fastenings, showed upon his whitened bones the savage ornaments with
which he had been embellished, and fragments of the saddle still rested
upon his back. The increasing light soon shone on more sinister
emblems: on posts raised in different places, and human scalps floating
on them. These hideous trophies indicated the burial-place of an Indian
warrior. In fact a renowned chief reposed there; and his spirit
overlooked, like the genius of plunder, those plains where his war-cry
had so often resounded, and which he had ridden over on that
battle-horse whose bones were whitening by his tomb. Birds of prey flew
over his grave, uttering their shrill cries, as if they would awaken him
who slept there forever, and whose cold hand would no longer prepare for
them their bloody feasts.
A few minutes later the horizon became tinted with pale rose-coloured
clouds, and soon after, like the first spark of a fire, a ray of
sunlight struck like a golden arrow on the thick fog, and floods of
light inundated the depths of the valley. Day had come in all its
glory, but wreaths of vapour still hung capriciously on the leaves of
the trees or clung around the trunks. Soon were displayed wild
precipices, with falls of water foaming down their sides; then deep
defiles, at the entrance of which fantastic offerings of Indian
superstition were suspended.
Above the tomb of the Indian chief rose the spray of the cascade, in
which was reflected the colours of the rainbow; and lastly, a valley was
visible, closed on one side by peaked rocks, from which hung long
draperies of verdure, and on the other by a lake, whose waters were
half-hidden by the aquatic plants on its surface: this was the Golden
Valley.
At the first glance the whole scene only offered the sombre features of
a wild nature; but the scrutinising eye would soon have divined the
treasures concealed there. Nothing betrayed the presence of living
things in that deserted place, when the three hunters made their
appearance on the spot.
"If the devil has an abode anywhere on the earth," said Pepe, pointing
to the mountains, "it must surely be among those wild denies!
"But if it be true," continued he, "that it is gold which is the cause
of most crimes, it is more probable that the old fellow has chosen the
Golden Valley for his abode, which contains, according to you, Don
Fabian, enough to ruin an entire generation."
"You are right," said Fabian, who looked pale and grave, "it was here
perhaps that the unlucky Marcos Arellanos was assassinated. Ah! if this
place could speak, I should know the name of him whom I have sworn to
pursue: but the wind and the rain have effaced the traces of the victim
as well as those of the murderer."
"Patience, my child!" replied Bois-Rose; "I have never in the course of
a long life known crime to go unpunished. Often we recover the traces
that were believed to have been long effaced, and even solitude
sometimes raises its voice against the guilty. If the assassin be not
dead, cupidity will doubtless bring him again to this place, and before
long; for no doubt he is one of those in the Mexican camp. Now, Fabian,
shall we wait for the enemy here, or shall we fill our pockets with gold
and return?"
"I know not what to decide," replied Fabian; "I came here almost against
my will. I obey your wishes, or else a will stronger than either yours
or mine. I feel that an invisible hand impels me on--as it did on that
evening when, scarcely knowing what I did, I came and sat down by your
fire. Why should I, who do not know what to do with this gold, risk my
life to obtain it? I know not. I know only that here I am, with a sad
heart and a soul filled with cruel uncertainty."
"Man is but the plaything of Providence, it is true," said Bois-Rose;
"but as for the sadness you feel, the aspect of these places
sufficiently accounts for it; and as for--"
A hoarse cry, that scarcely appeared human, interrupted the Canadian.
It seemed to come from the Indian tomb, as if it were an accusing voice
against the invaders of this abode of the dead. The three hunters
glanced simultaneously towards the tomb, but no living creature was
visible there. The eye of one of the birds of prey, that were sailing
above the rock, could alone have told where the cry came from. The
imposing solemnity of the place, the bloody souvenirs evoked by it in
Fabian's mind, and the superstitious ones in that of Pepe, joined to the
strange and mysterious sound, inspired in both a feeling akin to terror.
There was something so inexplicable in the sound, that for a moment
they doubted having heard it.
"Is it really the voice of a man?" said Bois-Rose, "or only one of those
singular echoes which resound in these mountains?"
"If it were a human voice," asked Fabian, "where did it come from? it
seemed to be above us, and yet I see no one on the top of the hill!"
"God send," said Pepe, crossing himself, "that in these mountains which
abound in inexplicable noises, and where lightning shines under a calm
sky, we have only men to fight against! But if the fog contained a
legion of devils--if the valley really contains, as you say, several
years' income of the king of Spain, please, Senor Don Fabian, to recall
your recollections, and tell us if we are still far off it."
Fabian threw a glance around him; the landscape was just what had been
so minutely described to him.
"We must be close to the spot," said he, "for it should be at the foot
of the tomb of the Indian chief--and these ornaments indicate that the
rock is the tomb. We have no time to lose. You and Bois-Rose walk
around the rock, while I go and examine those cotton-trees and willows."
"I am suspicious of everything in this mysterious place," said
Bois-Rose; "that cry indicates the presence of a human being; and
whether white or red, he is to be feared. Before we separate, let me
examine the _sign_."
All three bent on the ground eyes accustomed to read there as in an open
book. The prints of a man's feet were visible on the sand, and one of
them had trodden down the plants, whose stems were still gently rising
up again one after the other.
"What did I tell you?" cried Bois-Rose. "Here are the tracks of a white
man's feet, and I swear it is not ten minutes since he was here. These
footmarks lead towards yonder cotton-trees."
"In any case he is alone," suggested Fabian.
All three were advancing towards the trees, when Bois-Rose halted.
"Let me go first," said he; "this hedge may hide the enemy. But no, the
man who has left these footprints has only pulled open the vines and
glanced through--he has not gone further in that direction."
So saying, Bois-Rose, in his turn, pulled aside the branches and the
climbing network which was interwoven with them, and after a short
examination, which had no particular result, he retired and left the
branches to reclose of themselves. He then tried to follow the tracks
but further on the ground became stony, and all traces disappeared.
"Let us go round this conical rock," suggested Bois-Rose.
"Come, Pepe; Fabian will wait here for us."
The two hunters strode off, and Fabian remained alone and pensive. This
Golden Valley, of whose possession he had dreamt at that time when his
heart nourished sweet hopes, was now near to him. What had been a dream
was now a reality, and still he was more unhappy than at the time when
hopeful love caused him to scoff at poverty. It is thus that happiness
flies just as we are about to seize it. Sometimes in the silence of the
forest, the traveller lends a greedy ear to the notes of the
mocking-bird, and advances with precaution towards the place where,
hidden under the foliage, the bird of the solitudes utters its sweet
song. Vain hope! he advances, and the singer flies, his voice still as
distant and himself as invisible as ever! Thus man often hears in the
distance voices which sing to him of happiness; seduced by their charm
he rushes toward them; but they fly at his approach; and his whole life
is passed in pursuing, without ever reaching, the happiness promised by
these delusive sounds.
For Fabian, happiness lay no longer in the Golden Valley. It existed
nowhere. No voice now sang for him; he had no aim to pursue; no flying
but charming image which he hoped to overtake. He was in one of those
moods that God in His mercy makes rare in our lives--during which all is
dark, as when at sea the light that guides the sailor becomes suddenly
obscured.
He advanced mechanically towards the thick row of trees that formed an
almost impenetrable hedge before him, but scarcely had he made a passage
for himself when he stopped motionless with surprise. The sunlight
shone on the stones thick as those on a beach, and discovered
innumerable glancing objects. Any other than a gold-seeker might have
been deceived by these stones, which looked like vitrifications at the
foot of a volcano; but the practised eye of Fabian instantly recognised
the virgin gold under its clayey envelope, as it is brought down by the
torrents from the gold-producing mountains. Before his eyes lay the
richest treasure that was ever displayed to the view of man.
If the breeze could have brought to the ears of the young Count of
Mediana the accents of Rosarita's voice, when she recalled him back to
the hacienda, he would gladly have quitted all these treasures to run
towards her. But the breeze was mute, and there is in gold so
irresistible an attraction that Fabian, in spite of his sadness, was for
the moment fascinated.
However, the soul of Fabian was not one to be intoxicated by success;
and after a few minutes of this enthusiasm, he called his two
companions. They came at his call.
"Have you found him?" said Pepe.
"The treasure, but not the man. See!" added he, pushing aside the
trees.
"What! those shining stones!"
"Are pure gold--treasures which God has hidden during centuries."
"My God!" exclaimed Pepe.
And with ardent eyes fixed upon the mass of riches before him, the
ex-carabinier fell upon his knees. Passions long kept under seemed to
rush back into his heart; a complete transformation took place in him,
and the sinister expression of his face recalled to mind the hour of
crime, when twenty years before he had bargained for the price of blood.
"Now," said Fabian, looking sadly at the gold, as he thought that all
these riches were not worth to him a smile or look from her who had
disdained him, "I understand how these two rivers, in their annual rise,
and by their torrents that descend from the Misty Mountains, covering
this narrow valley, bring down gold with them; the position of this
valley is perhaps unique in all the world."
But the Spaniard heard him not. Riches--which the rough lesson he had
received, and the life of independence and the savage happiness he had
enjoyed, had taught him during the last ten years to disdain--suddenly
resumed their terrible influence over his soul.
"You could not have imagined, could you, Pepe?" continued Fabian, "that
so much gold could be collected in one place? I, who have been so long
a gold-seeker, could not have imagined it, even after all I had heard."
Pepe did not reply; his eye wandered eagerly over the blocks of gold,
and cast a strange glance on Fabian and on Bois-Rose. The hitter,
standing in his favourite attitude, his arm resting on his rifle, amidst
all these treasures, looked only at what was dearest to him--the young
man restored to him by heaven. Pepe had before him, on one side, his
old companion in danger--in a hundred different battles they had uttered
their war-cry together, like those brothers in arms in ancient chivalric
times, who fought always under the same banner--who shared cold, hunger,
and thirst together.
On the other side, the young man, partly orphaned by his crime--a crime
which had occasioned him remorse through so many years--the love and
sole thought of his only friend in the world; and the demon of cupidity
at his heart effaced all these souvenirs, and he already began to
think--
A shudder passed through his frame as strange thoughts crossed his mind.
A struggle took place within him, a struggle of the feelings of youth
with the more noble ones developed by the life of nature, where man
seems brought near to God; but this struggle was short: the old outlaw
disappeared, and there remained only the man purified by repentance and
solitude. Still kneeling on the ground, Pepe had closed his eyes, and a
furtive tear, unperceived by his companions, stole from his eyes, and
rolled down his bronzed cheeks.
"Senor Don Fabian de Mediana!" cried he, starting up, "you are now a
rich and powerful lord, for all this gold belongs to you alone."
So saying, he advanced and bowed respectfully to Fabian, who appeared
somewhat surprised by the manner of his salutation.
"God forbid," cried Fabian, "that you, who have shared the peril, should
not share the treasure. What do you say, Bois-Rose? do you not rejoice
to become in your old age rich and powerful?"
But Bois-Rose, unmoved before all the riches, contented himself with
shaking his head, while a smile of tenderness for Fabian testified to
the only interest that he took in that marvellous spectacle!
"I think like Pepe," said he, after a pause, "what could I do with this
gold that the world covets? If it has for us an inestimable value, it
is because it is to belong to you; the possession of the least of these
stones would take away in our eyes from the value of the service we have
rendered you. But the time for action has arrived; for certainly we are
not alone in these solitudes."
Pepe now began to pull aside the branches, but scarcely had he entered
the valley when the sound of a gun was distinctly heard. In a moment
his voice reassured his anxious comrades.
"It is the devil," cried he, "forbidding us to encroach on his domains;
but at all events it is a devil whose aim is not infallible."
Before entering the valley Bois-Rose and Fabian raised their eyes to the
top of the hill, whence the shot as well as the voice had proceeded.
But the remains of the fog at that moment covered the top of the rock,
and all three rushed simultaneously towards the isolated mass where they
believed their enemy to be hidden. The sides, although steep, were
covered with brushwood, which rendered them easier to climb; but it was
a dangerous attempt, for the fog prevented them from seeing what enemies
were above. Fabian wished to go first, but the vigorous arm of the
Canadian held him back, and meanwhile Pepe was half-way towards the
summit. Bois-Rose followed, begging Fabian to keep behind him.
Pepe mounted boldly, undismayed by the foes that might be concealed
behind that mass of vapour, and soon disappeared under the mist. A cry
of triumph soon warned his friends that he had arrived in safety. Both
hastened to join him, but found no one on the rock except Pepe himself!
Just as, disappointed at their want of success, they were preparing to
descend again, a sudden gust of wind drove off the fog, and allowed them
to see to a distance. To the right and left the plain presented the
most complete picture of the desert in its dreary sadness. They beheld
arid steppes over which whirled clouds of sand, a burnt and sterile
ground, everywhere silence, everywhere solitude. At some distance off
two men on horseback were seen advancing towards the rock, but at the
distance at which they were, it was impossible to distinguish either
their dress or the colour of their skin.
"Must we sustain a new siege here?" said Bois-Rose. "Are these white
men or Indians?"
"White or red, they are enemies," said Pepe.
While the three friends bent down, so as not to be observed, a man,
until then invisible, cautiously entered the lake. He lifted with care
the floating leaves of the water lilies, and forming of them a shelter
over its head, remained motionless, and the surface of the lake soon
after appeared as if undisturbed. This man was Cuchillo, the jackal,
who, led by his evil destiny, had ventured to hunt on the ground of the
lion.