THE BIVOUAC.
For some moments the bandit's hurried footsteps were audible, and then
all became silent once again.
"You wished it," Stronghand then said, looking at Don Ruiz from under
his bent brows. "Now, be certain that you have at least one implacable
enemy on the prairie; for you are not so simple, I assume, as to
believe in the gratitude of such a man?"
"I pity him, if he hates me for the good I have done him in return for
the harm he wished to do me, but honour ordered me to let him escape."
"Yours will be a short life, Señor, if you are obstinate in carrying
out such philanthropic precepts in our unhappy country."
"My ancestors had a motto to which they never proved false."
"And pray what may that motto be, Caballero?"
"Everything for honour, no matter what may happen," the young man said,
simply.
"Yes," Stronghand answered, with a harsh laugh; "the maxim is noble,
and Heaven grant it prove of service to you; but," he continued, after
looking round him, "the darkness is beginning to grow less thick, the
night is on the wane, and within an hour the sun will be up. You know
my name, which, as I told you beforehand, has not helped you much."
"You are mistaken, Caballero," Don Ruiz interrupted him, eagerly; "for
I have frequently heard the name mentioned, of which you fancied me
ignorant."
Stronghand bent a piercing glance on the young man.
"Ah!" he said, with a slight tremor in his voice; "And doubtless,
each time you heard that name uttered, it was accompanied by far from
flattering epithets, which gave you but a poor opinion of the man who
bears it."
"Here again you are mistaken, Señor; it has been uttered in my presence
as the name of a brave man, with a powerful heart and vast intellect,
whom unknown and secret sorrow has urged to lead a strange life, to
fly the society of his fellow men, and to wander constantly about the
deserts; but who, under all circumstances, even spite of the examples
that daily surrounded him, managed to keep his honour intact and retain
a spotless reputation, which even the bandits, with whom the incidents
of an adventurous life too often bring him into contact, are forced
to admire. That, Señor, is what this name, which you supposed I was
ignorant of, recalls to my mind, and the way in which I have ever heard
the man who bears it spoken of."
Stronghand smiled bitterly.
"Can the world really be less wicked and unjust than I supposed it?" he
muttered, in self-colloquy.
"Do not doubt it," the young man said, eagerly. "God, who has allowed
the good and the bad to dwell side by side on this earth, has yet
willed that the amount of good should exceed that of bad, so that,
sooner or later, each should be requited according to his works and
merits."
"Such words," he answered, ironically, "would be more appropriate in
the mouth of a priest or missionary, whose hair has been blanched, and
back bowed by the weight of the incessant struggles of his apostolic
mission, than in that of a young man who has scarce reached the dawn
of life, whom no tempest has yet assailed, and who has only tasted the
honey of life. But no matter; your intention is good, and I thank you.
But we have far more serious matters to attend to than losing our time
in philosophical discussions which would not convince either of us."
"I was wrong, Caballero, I allow," Don Ruiz answered; "it does not
become me, who am as yet but a child, to make such remarks to you; so,
pray pardon me."
"I have nothing to pardon you, Señor," Stronghand replied with a smile;
"on the contrary, I thank you. Now let us attend to the most pressing
affair--that is to say, what you purpose doing to get out of your
present situation."
"I confess to you that I am greatly alarmed," Don Ruiz replied,
with a slight tinge of sadness, as he looked at the girl, who was
still sleeping. "What has happened to me, the terrible danger I have
incurred, and from which I only escaped, thanks to your generous help--"
"Not a word more on that subject," Stronghand interrupted him quickly.
"You will disoblige me by pressing it further."
The young man bowed.
"Were I alone," he said, "I should not hesitate to continue my journey.
A brave man, and I believe myself one, nearly always succeeds in
escaping the perils that threaten him, if he confront them: but I have
my sister with me--my sister, whose energy the terrible scene of this
night has broken, and who, in the event of a second attack from the
pirates of the prairies, would become an easy prey to the villains--the
more so because, too weak to save her, I could only die with her."
Stronghand turned away, murmuring to himself compassionately.
"That is true, poor child;" then he said to Don Ruiz, "Still, you must
make up your mind."
"Unfortunately I have no choice; there is only one thing to be done:
whatever may happen, I shall continue my journey at sunrise, if my
sister be in a condition to follow me."
"That need not trouble you. When she awakes, her strength will be
sufficiently recovered for her to keep on horseback without excessive
fatigue; but from here to Arispe the road is very long."
"I know it: and it is that which frightens me for my poor sister."
"Listen to me. Perhaps there is a way for you to get out of the scrape,
and avoid up to a certain point the dangers that threaten you. Two
days' journey from here there is a military post, placed like an
advanced sentry to watch the frontier, and prevent the incursions of
the Indios bravos, and other bandits of every description and colour,
who infest these regions. The main point for you is to reach this post,
when it will be easy for you to obtain from the Commandant an escort to
protect you from any insult for the rest of your journey."
"Yes; but, as you remark, I must reach the post."
"Well?"
"I do not know this country: one of the two peons who accompanied me
acted as guide; and now he is dead, it is utterly impossible for me to
find my way. I am in the position of a sailor, lost without a compass
on an unknown sea."
Stronghand looked at him with surprise mingled with compassion.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "How improvident is youth! What! Imprudent boy!
You dared to risk yourself in the desert, and entrust to a peon your
sister's precious life?" But, recollecting himself immediately, he
continued, "Pardon me; reproaches are ill suited at this moment; the
great thing is to get you out of the danger in which you are."
He let his head fall on his hands, and plunged into serious
reflections, while Don Ruiz looked at him with mingled apprehension and
hope. The young man did not deceive himself as to his position: the
reproaches which Stronghand spared him, he had already made himself,
cursing his improvident temerity; for things had reached such a point,
that if the man to whom he owed his life, refused to afford him his
omnipotent protection, he and his sister were irremediably lost.
Stronghand, after a few minutes, which seemed to last an age, rose,
seized his rifle, went up to his horse, saddled it, mounted, and said
to Don Ruiz, who followed all his movements with anxious curiosity--
"Wait for me, however long my absence may be; do not stir from here
till I return."
Then, without waiting for the young man's answer, he bent lightly over
his horse's neck, and started at a gallop. Don Ruiz watched the black
outline, as it disappeared in the gloom; he listened to the horse's
footfalls so long as he could hear them, and then turned back and
seated himself pensively at the fire, and looked with tearful eyes at
his sleeping sister.
"Poor Marianita!" he murmured, with a heart-rending outburst of pity.
He bowed his head on his chest, and with pale and gloomy face awaited
the return of Stronghand--a return which, in his heart, he doubted,
although, with the obstinacy of desperate men, who try to deceive
themselves by making excuses whose falsehood they know, he sought to
prove its certainty.
We will take advantage of this delay in our narrative to trace rapidly
the portraits of Don Ruiz de Moguer and his sister Marianita. We will
begin with the young lady, through politeness.
Doña Mariana--or rather Marianita, as she was generally called at
the convent, and by her family--was a charming girl scarce sixteen,
graceful in her movements, and with black lustrous eyes. Her hair had
the bluish tinge of the raven's wing; her skin, the warm and gilded
hues of the sun of her country; her glance, half veiled by her long
brown eyelashes, was ardent; her straight nose, with its pink flexible
nostrils, was delicious; her laughing mouth, with its bright red lips,
gave her face an expression of simple, ignorant candour. Her movements,
soft and indolent, had that indescribable languor and serpentine
undulation alone possessed in so eminent a degree by the women of Lima
and Mexico, those daughters of the sun in whose veins flows the molten
lava of the volcanoes, instead of blood. In a word, she was a Spanish
girl from head to foot--but Andalusian before all. Hers was an ardent,
wild, jealous, passionate, and excessively superstitious nature. But
this lovely, splendid statue still wanted the divine spark. Doña
Mariana did not know herself; her heart had not yet spoken; she was as
yet but a delicious child, whom the fiery breath of love would convert
into an adorable woman.
Physically, Don Ruiz was, as a man, the same his sister was a woman.
He was a thorough gentleman, and scarce four years older than Doña
Mariana. He was tall and well built; but his elegant and aristocratic
form denoted great personal strength. His regular features--too regular
perhaps, for a man--bore an unmistakable stamp of distinction; his
black eye had a frank and confident look; his mouth, which was rather
large, but adorned with splendid teeth, and fringed by a fine brown
moustache, coquettishly turned up, still retained the joyous, careless
smile of youth; his face displayed loyalty, gentleness, and bravery
carried to temerity;--in a word, all his features offered the most
perfect type of a true-blooded gentleman.
Brother and sister, who, with the exception of a few almost
imperceptible variations, had the most perfect physical likeness, also
resembled each other morally. Both were equally ignorant of things of
the world. With their pure and innocent hearts they loved each other
with the holiest of all loves, fraternal affection, and only lived
through and for each other.
Hence, Doña Mariana had felt a great delight and great impatience to
quit the convent, when Don Ruiz, in obedience to his father's commands,
came to fetch her from the Rosario. This impatience obliged Don Ruiz
not to consent to wait for an escort on his homeward journey, for fear
of vexing his sister. It was an imprudence that caused the misfortunes
we have already described, and for which, now they had arrived, Don
Ruiz reproached himself bitterly. He cursed the weakness that had made
him yield to the whims of a girl, and accused himself of being, through
his weakness, the sole cause of the frightful dangers from which she
had only escaped by a miracle, and of those no less terrible, which,
doubtless, still threatened her on the hundred and odd leagues they
had still to go before reaching the hacienda del Toro, where dwelt her
father, Don Hernando de Moguer.
Still the hours, which never stop, continued to follow each other
slowly. The sun had risen; and, through its presence on the horizon,
immediately dissipated the darkness and heated the ground, which was
chilled by the abundant and icy dew of morning.
Doña Marianita, aroused by the singing of the thousands of birds
concealed beneath the foliage, opened her eyes with a smile. The calm
sleep she had enjoyed for several hours restored not only her strength,
which was exhausted by the struggles of the previous evening, but also
her courage and gaiety. The girl's first glance was for her brother,
who, anxious and uneasy, was attentively watching her slumbers, and
impatiently awaiting the moment for her to awake.
"Oh, Ruiz," she said, in her melodious voice, and offering her hand and
cheek simultaneously to the young man, "what a glorious sleep I have
had."
"Really, sister," he exclaimed, kissing her, gladly, "you have slept
well."
"That is to say," she continued, with a smile, "that at the convent I
never passed so delicious a night, accompanied by such charming dreams;
but it is true there were two of you to watch over my slumbers--two
kind and devoted hearts, in whom I could trust with perfect confidence."
"Yes, sister; there were two of us."
"What?" she asked in surprise mingled with anxiety. "You were--What do
you mean, Ruiz?"
"What I say; nothing else, dear sister."
"But I do not see the caballero to whom we have incurred so great an
obligation. Where is he?"
"I cannot tell you, little sister. About two hours ago he mounted his
horse and left me, telling me not to stir from here till his return."
"Oh, in that case I am quite easy. His absence alarmed me; but now that
I know he will return--"
"Do you believe so?" he interrupted.
"Why should I doubt it?" she continued with some animation in her
voice; "Did he not promise to return?"
"Certainly."
"Well! A caballero never breaks his pledged word. He said he would
come, and he will come."
"Heaven grant it!" Don Ruiz muttered.
And he shook his head sadly, and gave a profound sigh. The maiden felt
herself involuntarily assailed by anxiety. This persistency undoubtedly
terrified her.
"Come, Ruiz," she said, turning very pale, "explain yourself. What has
happened between this caballero and yourself?"
"Nothing beyond what you know, sister. Still, in spite of the man's
promise, I know not why, but I fear. He is a strange, incomprehensible
being--at one moment kind, at another cruel--changing his character,
and almost his face, momentarily. He frightens and repels, and yet
attracts and interests me. I am afraid he will abandon us, and fear
that he will return. A secret foreboding seems to warn me that this man
will have a great influence over your future and mine. Perhaps it is
our misfortune that we have met him."
"I do not understand you, Ruiz. What means this confusion in your
ideas? Why this stern and strange judgment of a man whom you do not
know, and who has only done you kindness?"
At the moment when Don Ruiz was preparing to answer, the gallop of a
horse became audible in the distance.
"Silence, brother!" she exclaimed, with an emotion she could not
repress; "Silence, here he comes!"
The young man looked at his sister in amazement.
"How do you know it?" he asked her.
"I have recognised him," she stammered, with a deep blush. "Stay--Look!"
In fact, at this moment the shrubs parted, and Stronghand appeared in
the open space. Don Ruiz, though surprised at the singular remark which
had escaped his sister, had not time to ask her for an explanation.
Without dismounting, Stronghand, after bowing courteously to the young
lady, said, hurriedly--
"To horse!--To horse! Make haste! Time presses!"
Don Ruiz at once saddled his own horse and his sister's, and a few
minutes later the two young people were riding by the hunter's side.
"Let us start!" the latter continued. "_Cuerpo de Cristo_, Caballero, I
warned you that you were doing an imprudent action in liberating that
villain. If we do not take care, we shall have him at our heels within
an hour."
These words sufficed to give the fugitives wings, and they started at
full gallop after the bold wood ranger. An hour elapsed ere a word
was exchanged between the three persons; bent over the necks of their
steeds they devoured the space--looking back anxiously from time to
time, and only thinking how to escape the unknown dangers by which
they felt themselves surrounded. About eight o'clock in the morning,
Stronghand checked his horse, and made his companions a sign to follow
his example.
"Now," he said, "we have nothing more to fear. When we have crossed
that wood, which stretches out in front of us like a curtain of
verdure, we shall see the Port of San Miguel, whose walls will offer us
a certain shelter against the attacks of all the bandits of the desert,
were there ten thousand of them."
"Last night I fancy that you spoke to me of a more distant post," Don
Ruiz said.
"Yes; for I fancied San Miguel abandoned, if not in ruins. Before I
gave you what might prove a fallacious hope, I wished to assure myself
of the truth of the case."
"Do you believe that the Commandant will consent to receive us?" the
young lady asked.
"Certainly, Señorita, for a thousand reasons. In the first place, the
frontier posts are only established for the purpose of watching over
the safety of travellers; and then, again, San Miguel is commanded by
one of your relations--or, at any rate, an intimate friend of your
family."
The young people looked at each other in surprise.
"Do you know this Commandant's name?" Don Ruiz asked.
"I was told it: he is Don Marcos de Niza."
"Oh!" Doña Mariana exclaimed, joyfully; "I should think we do know him:
Don Marcos is a cousin of ours."
"In that case, all is for the best," the hunter answered, coldly. "Let
us continue our journey; for there is a cloud of dust behind us that
forebodes us no good, if it reaches us before we have entered the post."
The young people, without answering, resumed their gallop, crossed the
wood, and entered the little fort.
"Look!" Stronghand said to Don Ruiz and his sister, the moment the gate
closed upon them. They turned back. A numerous band of horsemen issued
from the wood at this moment, and galloped up at full speed, uttering
ferocious yells.
"This is the second time you have saved our lives, Caballero," Doña
Mariana said to the partizan, with a look of gratitude.
"Why count them, Señorita?" he replied, with a sadness mingled with
bitterness. "Do I do so?"
The maiden gave him a look of undefinable meaning, turned her head away
with a blush, and silently followed her brother.
The Spaniards, whatever may be the opinion the Utopians of the old
world express about their mode of civilization, and the way in which
they treated the Indians of America, understood very well how to
enhance the prosperity of the countries they had been endowed with by
the strong arms of those heroic adventurers who were called Cortez,
Pizarro, Bilboa, Alvadaro, &c., and whose descendants, if any by
chance exist, are now in the most frightful wretchedness, although
their ancestors gave a whole world and incalculable riches to their
ungrateful country.
When the Spanish rule was established in America, the first care of
the conquerors--after driving back the Indians who refused to accept
their iron yoke into frightful deserts, where they hoped want would
put an end to them--was to secure their frontiers, and prevent those
indomitable hordes, impelled by hunger and despair, from entering the
newly conquered country and plundering the towns and the haciendas.
For this purpose they established along the desert line a cordon of
presidios and military posts, which were all connected together, and
could, in case of need, assist each other, not so much through their
proximity--for they were a great distance apart, and scattered over
a great space--but by means of numerous patrols of lanceros, who
constantly proceeded from one post to the other.
At present, since the declaration of independence, owing to the neglect
of the governments which have succeeded each other in this unhappy
country, most of the presidios and forts no longer exist. Some have
been burned by the Indians, who became invaders in their turn, and are
gradually regaining the territory the Europeans took from them; while
others have been abandoned, or so badly kept up, that they are for
the most part in ruins. Still, here and there you find a few, which
exceptionable circumstances have compelled the inhabitants to repair
and defend.
As these forts were built in all the colonies on the same plan, in
describing the post of San Miguel, which still exists, and which we
have visited, the reader will easily form an idea of the simple and yet
effective defence adopted by the Europeans to protect them from the
surprises of their implacable and crafty foes.
The post of San Miguel is composed of four square pavilions, connected
together by covered ways, the inner walls of which surround a courtyard
planted with lemon trees, peach trees, and algarrobas. On this court
opens the room intended for travellers, the barracks, &c. The outer
walls have only one issue, and are provided with loopholes, which can
only be reached by mounting a platform eight feet high and three wide.
All the masonry is constructed of _adobes_, or large blocks of earth
stamped and baked in the sun.
Twenty feet beyond this wall is another, formed of cactuses, planted
very closely together, and having their branches intertwined. This
vegetable wall, if we may be allowed the use of the expression, is
naturally very thick, and protected by formidable prickles, which
render it impenetrable for the half-clad and generally badly-armed
Indians. The only entrance to it is a heavy gate, supported by posts
securely bedded in the ground. The soldiers, standing at the loopholes
of the second wall, fire in perfect shelter, and command the space
above the cactuses.
On the approach of the Indians, when the Mexican Moon is at hand--that
is to say, the invariable season of their invasions--the sparse
dwellers on the border seek refuge inside San Miguel, and there in
complete safety wait till their enemies are weary of a siege which can
have no result for them, or till they are put to flight by soldiers
sent from a town frequently fifty leagues off.
Don Marcos de Niza was a man of about forty, short and plump, but
withal active and quick. His regular features displayed a simplicity
of character, marked with intelligence and decision. He was one of
those educated honest professional officers, of whom the Mexican army
unfortunately counts too few in its ranks. Hence, as he thoroughly
attended to his duties, and had never tried to secure promotion by
intrigue and party manoeuvres, he had remained a captain for ten years
past, without hope of promotion, in spite of his qualifications (which
were recognised and appreciated by all) and his irreproachable conduct.
The post he occupied at this moment as Commandant of the Blockhouse
of San Miguel proved the value the Governor of the province set upon
him; for the frontier posts, constantly exposed to the attacks of the
Redskins, can only be given to sure men, who have long been accustomed
to Indian warfare.