THE WOUND.
At sunrise, Don Miguel, mounted on an excellent horse, left the Paso,
and proceeded toward the hacienda where he resided with his family. It
was situated a few miles from the Presidio of San Elezario, in a
delicious position, and was known as the _Hacienda de la Noria_ (the
Farm of the Well). The estate inhabited by Don Miguel stood in the
centre of the vast delta formed by the Del Norte and the Rio San Pedro,
or Devil's River. It was one of those strong and massive buildings which
the Spaniards alone knew how to erect when they were absolute masters of
Mexico.
The hacienda formed a vast parallelogram, supported at regular distances
by enormous cross walls of carved stone. Like all the frontier
habitations, which are rather fortresses than houses, it was only
pierced on the side of the plain with a few narrow windows resembling
loopholes, and protected by solid iron bars. This abode was begirt by a
thick wall of circumvallation, defended on the top by that fretwork
called _almenas_, which indicated the nobility of the owner. Within this
wall, but separated from the chief apartments, were the stables,
outhouses, barns and cabins for the peons.
At the extremity of the courtyard, in an angle of the hacienda, was the
tall square belfry of the chapel, rising above its terraced roof. This
chapel was served by a monk called Fray Ambrosio. A magnificent plain
closed in this splendid farm. At the end of a valley more than fifty
miles in length were cactus trees of a conical shape, loaded with fruit
and flowers, and whose stems were as much as six feet in diameter.
Don Miguel employed a considerable number of peons in the cultivation of
the sugar cane, which he carried on upon a very large scale. As
everybody knows, the cane is planted by laying it horizontally in
furrows half a foot deep. From each knot springs a shoot which reaches a
height of about three yards, and which is cut at the end of a year to
extract the juice.
Nothing can be more picturesque than the sight of a field of sugar
canes. It was one of those superb American mornings during which nature
seems to be holding a festival. The _centzontle_ (American nightingale)
frequently poured forth its harmonious notes; the red throstled
cardinals, the blue birds, the parakeets, chattered gaily beneath the
foliage; far away on the plain galloped flocks of light antelopes and
timid ashatas, while on the extreme verge of the horizon rushed startled
_manadas_ of wild horses, which raised clouds of impalpable dust beneath
the vibration of their rapid hoofs. A few alligators, carelessly
stretched out on the river mud, were drying their scales in the sun, and
in mid air the grand eagles of the Sierra Madre hovered majestically
above the valley.
Don Miguel advanced rapidly at the favourite pace of the Mexican
_jinetes,_ and which consists in making the horse raise its front legs,
while the hind ones almost graze the ground--a peculiar sort of amble
which is very gentle and rapid. The hacendero only employed four hours
in traversing the distance separating him from the hacienda, where he
arrived about nine in the morning. He was received on the threshold of
the house by his daughter, who, warned of his arrival, had hastened to
meet him.
Don Miguel had been absent from home a fortnight; hence, he received his
daughter's caresses with the greatest pleasure. When he had embraced her
several times, while continuing to hold her tightly clasped in his arms,
he regarded her attentively during several seconds.
"What is the matter, _mi querida_ Clara?" he asked with sympathy. "You
seem very sad. Can you feel vexed at the sight of me?" he added, with a
smile.
"Oh, you cannot believe that, father!" she answered quickly; "for you
know how happy your presence must render me."
"Thanks, my child! But whence, in that case, comes the sorrow I see
spread over your features?"
The maiden let her eyes sink, but made no reply.
Don Miguel threw a searching glance around.
"Where is Don Pablo?" he said. "Why has he not come to greet me? Can he
be away from the hacienda?"
"No, father, he is here."
"Well, then, what is the reason he is not by your side?"
"Because--" the girl said, with hesitation.
"Well?"
"He is ill."
"My son ill!" Don Miguel exclaimed.
"I am wrong," Doña Clara corrected herself.
"Explain yourself, in Heaven's name!"
"My father, the fact is that Pablo is wounded."
"Wounded!" the hacendero sharply said; and thrusting his daughter
aside, he rushed toward the house, bounded up the few steps leading to
the porch, crossed several rooms without stopping, and reached his son's
chamber. The young man was lying, weak and faint, on his bed; but on
perceiving his parent he smiled, and held his hand to him. Don Miguel
was fondly attached to his son, his sole heir, and walked up to him.
"What is this wound of which I have heard?" he asked him in great
agitation.
"Less than nothing, father," the young man replied, exchanging a meaning
glance with his sister, who entered at the moment. "Clara is a foolish
girl, who, in her tenderness, wrongly alarmed you."
"But, after all, you are wounded?" the father continued.
"But I repeat that it is a mere nothing."
"Come, explain yourself. How and when did you receive this wound?"
The young man blushed, and maintained silence.
"I insist on knowing," Don Miguel continued pressingly.
"Good heavens, father!" Don Pablo replied with an air of ill-humour, "I
do not understand why you are alarmed for so futile a cause. I am not a
child, whom a scratch should make frightened; and many times have I been
wounded previously, and you have not disturbed yourself so much."
"That is possible; but the mode in which you answer me, the care you
seem trying to take to keep me ignorant of the cause of this wound--in a
word, everything tells me that this time you are trying to hide
something grave from me."
"You are mistaken, father, and shall convince yourself."
"I wish nothing more: speak. Clara, my child, go and give orders to have
breakfast prepared, for I am dying of hunger."
The girl went out.
"Now it is our turn," Don Miguel continued. "In the first place, where
are you wounded?"
"Oh! I have merely a slight scratch on my shoulder: if I went to bed it
was more through indolence than any other motive."
"Hum! and what scratched your shoulder?"
"A bullet."
"What! A bullet! Then you must have fought a duel, unhappy boy!" Don
Miguel exclaimed with a shudder.
The young man smiled, pressed his father's hand, and bending toward him,
said,--
"This is what has happened."
"I am listening to you," Don Miguel replied, making an effort to calm
himself.
"Two days after your departure, father," Don Pablo continued, "I was
superintending, as you wished me to do, the cutting of the cane crop,
when a hunter whom you will probably remember having seen prowling about
the estate, a man of the name of Andrés Garote, accosted me at the
moment I was about to return home after giving my orders to the
majordomo. After saluting me obsequiously as his wont, the scamp smiled
cunningly, and lowering his voice so as not to be overheard by those
around us, said, 'Don Pablo, I fancy you would give half an ounce to the
man who brought you important news?' 'That depends,' I answered; for,
having known the man a long time, I was aware much confidence could not
be placed in him. 'Bah! Your grace is so rich,' he continued
insidiously, 'that a miserable sum like that is less than nothing in his
pocket, while in mine it would do me a deal of good.'
"Apart from his defects, this scamp had at times done us a few small
services; and then, as he said, a half-ounce is but a trifle, so I gave
it to him. He stowed it away in his pockets, and then bent down to my
ear. 'Thanks, Don Pablo,' he said to me. 'I shall not cheat you of your
money. Your horse is rested, and can stand a long journey. Proceed to
Buffalo Valley, and there you will learn something to interest you.' It
was in vain that I urged him to explain himself more clearly; I could
draw no more from him. He merely added before parting from me, 'Don
Pablo, you have good weapons; so take them with you, for no man knoweth
what may happen.' Somehow the scamp's veiled confidence aroused my
curiosity: hence I resolved to go to Buffalo Valley, and gain the clue
of this riddle."
"Andrés Garote is a villain, who laid a snare for you, into which you
fell," Don Miguel interrupted.
"No, father, you are mistaken. Andrés was honest towards me, and I have
only thanks to give him. Still he should have explained himself,
perhaps, more distinctly."
The hacendero shook his head with a doubting air.
"Go on," he said.
"I entered my house, procured the weapons, and then, mounted on Negro,
my black charger, I proceeded toward Buffalo Valley. As you are aware,
father, the place we call so, and which belongs to us, is an immense
forest of cedars and maples, nearly forty miles in circumference, and
traversed almost through its entire length by a wide confluent of the
Rio San Pedro."
"Of course I know it, and I intend next year to fell some of the wood
there."
"You need not take the trouble," the young man said with a smile, "for
someone has done it for you."
"What do you mean?" the hacendero asked wrathfully. "Who dared?"
"Oh! One of those wretched heretic squatters, as they call themselves.
The villain found the spot to suit him, and has quietly settled there
with his three whelps--three big fellows with hang-dog faces, who
laughed at me when I told them the forest was mine, and answered, while
aiming at me, that they were North Americans, who cared as little for me
as they did for a coyote; that the ground belonged to the first comer;
and that I shall afford them lively pleasure by being off at full speed.
What more shall I tell you, father? I take after you. I have hot blood,
and I cordially hate that race of Yankee pirates, who, for some years
back, have settled on our lovely country like a swarm of mosquitoes. I
saw our forest plundered, our finest trees cut down. I could not remain
unmoved in the presence of these scoundrels' insolence, and the quarrel
became so sharp that they fired at me."
"_Virgen Santísima_!" Don Miguel exclaimed in fury, "They shall pay
dearly for the affront they have offered you I swear it! I will take
exemplary vengeance."
"Why be so angry, father?" the young man replied, visibly annoyed at the
effect his story had produced. "The harm these people do us is really
very trifling. I was in the wrong to let my passion carry me away."
"On the contrary, you were right. I will not have these Northern thieves
come and commit their plunder here. I will put a stop to it."
"I assure you that, if you will leave me to act, I feel certain of
arranging this affair to your entire satisfaction."
"I forbid you taking the slightest steps, for this matter concerns me
now. Whatever may occur, I do not wish you to interfere. Will you
promise me this?"
"As you insist, I do so, father."
"Very good. Get cured as speedily as possible, and keep your mind at
rest. The Yankees shall pay me dearly for the blood they have shed."
With these words Don Miguel retired, and his son fell back on his bed
stifling a sigh, and uttering a hoarse exclamation of passion.