THE REVOLT.
Don Miguel Zarate had marched rapidly on the Paso, and an hour after
leaving Valentine he saw flashing in the distance the lights that shone
in the village windows. The greatest calmness prevailed in the vicinity;
only at times could be heard the barking of the dogs baying at the moon,
or the savage miawling of the wild cats hidden in the shrubs. At about
one hundred yards from the village a man suddenly rose before the small
party.
"Who goes there?" he shouted.
"_Méjico e independencia!_" the hacendero answered.
"_¿Qué gente?_" the stranger continued.
"Don Miguel Zarate."
At these words twenty men hidden in the brushwood rose suddenly, and
throwing their rifles on their shoulders, advanced to meet the horsemen.
They were the hunters commanded by Curumilla, who, by Valentine's
orders, were awaiting the hacendero's arrival to join him.
"Well," Don Miguel asked the chief, "is there anything new?"
Curumilla shook his head.
"Then we can advance?"
"Yes."
"What is the matter, chief? Have you seen anything alarming?"
"No; and yet I have a feeling of treachery."
"How so?"
"I cannot tell you. Apparently everything is as usual: still there is
something which is not so. Look you, it is scarce ten o'clock: generally
at that hour all the mesones are full, the ventas are crammed with
gamblers and drinkers, the streets flocked with promenaders. This night
there is nothing of the sort: all is closed--the town seems abandoned.
This tranquillity is factitious. I am alarmed, for _I hear the silence_.
Take care."
Don Miguel was involuntarily struck by the chief's remarks. He had known
Curumilla for a long time. He had often seen him display in the most
dangerous circumstances a coolness and contempt for death beyond all
praise: hence some importance must be attached to the apprehensions and
anxiety of such a man. The hacendero ordered his party to halt,
assembled his friends, and held a council. All were of opinion that,
before venturing to advance further, they should send as scout a clever
man to traverse the town, and see for himself if the fears of the Indian
chief were well founded.
One of the hunters offered himself. The conspirators concealed
themselves on either side the road, and awaited, lying in the shrubs,
the return of their messenger. He was a half-breed, Simon Muñez by
name, to whom the Indians had given the soubriquet of "Dog-face," owing
to his extraordinary likeness to that animal. This name had stuck to the
hunter, who, _nolens volens_, had been compelled to accept it. He was
short and clumsy, but endowed with marvellous strength; and we may say
at once that he was an emissary of Red Cedar, and had only joined the
hunters in order to betray them.
When he left the conspirators he proceeded toward the village whistling.
He had scarce taken a dozen steps into the first street ere a door
opened, and a man appeared. This man stepped forward and addressed the
hunter.
"You whistle very late, my friend."
"A whistle to wake those who are asleep," the half breed made answer.
"Come in," the man continued.
Dog-face went in, and the door closed upon him. He remained in the house
half an hour, then went out, and hurried back along the road he had
traversed.
Red Cedar, who wished before all to avenge himself on Don Miguel Zarate,
had discovered, through Fray Ambrosio, the conspirators' new plan.
Without loss of time he had taken his measures in consequence, and had
managed so well that, although the general, the governor, and the
criminal judge were prisoners, Don Miguel must succumb in the contest he
was preparing to provoke. Fray Ambrosio, to his other qualities, joined
that of being a listener at doors. In spite of the distrust which his
patron was beginning to display toward him on Valentine's
recommendation, he had surprised a conversation between Don Miguel and
General Ibañez. This conversation, immediately reported to Red Cedar,
who, according to his usual custom, had appeared to attach no importance
to it, had been sufficient, however, to make the squatter prepare his
batteries and countermine the conspiracy.
Dog-face rejoined his companions after an hour's absence.
"Well?" Don Miguel asked him.
"All is quiet," the half-breed answered; "the inhabitants have retired
to their houses, and everybody is asleep."
"You noticed nothing of a suspicious nature?"
"I went through the town from one end to the other, and saw nothing."
"We can advance, then?"
"In all security: it will only be a promenade."
On this assurance the conspirators regained their courage, Curumilla was
treated as a visionary, and the order was given to advance. Still
Dog-face's report, far from dissipating the Indian chief's doubts, had
produced the contrary effect, and considerably augmented them. Saying
nothing, he placed himself by the hunter's side, with the secret
intention of watching him closely.
The plan of the conspirators was very simple. They would march directly
on the Cabildo (Town hall), seize it, and proclaim a Provisional
Government. Under present circumstances nothing appeared to be easier.
Don Miguel and his band entered the Paso, and nothing occurred to arouse
their suspicions. It resembled that town in the "Arabian Nights," in
which all the inhabitants, struck by the wand of the wicked enchanter,
sleep an eternal sleep. The conspirators advanced into the town with
their rifle barrels thrust forward, with eye and ear on the watch, and
ready to fire at the slightest alarm; but nothing stirred. As Curumilla
had observed, the town was too quiet. This tranquillity hid something
extraordinary, and must conceal the tempest. In spite of himself Don
Miguel felt a secret apprehension which he could not master.
To our European eyes Don Miguel will perhaps appear a poor conspirator,
without foresight or any great connection in his ideas. From our point
of view that is possible; but in a country like Mexico, which counts its
revolutions by hundreds, and where _pronunciamentos_ take place, in most
cases, without sense or reason because a colonel wishes to become a
general, or a lieutenant a captain, things are not regarded so closely;
and the hacendero, on the contrary, had evidenced tact, prudence, and
talent in carrying out a conspiracy which, during the several years it
had been preparing, had only come across one traitor. And now it was too
late to turn back: the alarm had been given, and the Government was on
its guard. They must go onwards, even if they succumbed in the struggle.
All these considerations had been fully weighed by Don Miguel; and he
had not given the signal till he was driven into his last intrenchments,
and convinced that there was no way of escape left him. Was it not a
thousand fold better to die bravely with arms in their hands, in support
of a just cause, than wait to be arrested without having made an attempt
to succeed? Don Miguel had sacrificed his life, and no more could be
expected of him.
In the meanwhile the conspirators advanced. They had nearly reached the
heart of the town; they were at this moment in a little, dirty, and
narrow street, called the Calle de San Isidro, which opens out on the
Plaza Mayor, when suddenly a dazzling light illumined the darkness;
torches flashed from all the windows; and Don Miguel saw that the two
ends of the street in which he was were guarded by strong detachments of
cavalry.
"Treachery!" the conspirators shouted in terror.
Curumilla bounded on Dog-face, and buried his knife between his
shoulders. The half-breed fell in a lump, quite dead, and not uttering a
cry. Don Miguel judged the position at the first glance: he saw that he
and his party were lost.
"Let us die!" he said.
"We will!" the conspirators resolutely responded.
Curumilla with the butt of his rifle beat in the door of the nearest
house, and rushed in, the conspirators following him. They were soon
intrenched on the roof. In Mexico all the houses have flat roofs, formed
like terraces. Thanks to the Indian chief's idea, the rebels found
themselves in possession of an improvised fortress, where they could
defend themselves for a long time, and sell their lives dearly.
The troops advanced from each end of the street, while the roofs of all
the houses were occupied by soldiers. The battle was about to begin
between earth and heaven, and promised to be terrible. At this moment
General Guerrero, who commanded the troops, bade them halt, and advanced
alone to the house on the top of which the conspirators were intrenched.
Don Miguel beat up the guns of his comrades, who aimed at the officer.
"Wait," he said to them; and, addressing the general, "What do you
want?" he shouted.
"To offer you propositions."
"Speak."
The general came a few paces nearer, so that those he addressed could
not miss one of his words.
"I offer you life and liberty if you consent to surrender your leader,"
he said.
"Never!" the conspirators shouted in one voice.
"It is my place to answer," Don Miguel said; and then turning to the
general, "What assurance do you give me that these conditions will be
honourably carried out?"
"My word of honor as a soldier," the general answered.
"Very good," Don Miguel went on; "I accept. All the men who accompany me
will leave the town one after the other."
"No, we will not!" the conspirators shouted as they brandished their
weapons; "we would sooner die."
"Silence!" the hacendero said in a loud voice. "I alone have the right
to speak here, for I am your chief. The life of brave men like you must
not be needlessly sacrificed. Go, I say; I order you--I implore it of
you," he added with tears in his voice. "Perhaps you will soon take your
revenge."
The conspirators hung their heads mournfully.
"Well?" the general asked.
"My friends, accept. I will remain alone here. If you break your word I
will kill myself."
"I repeat that you hold my word," the general answered.
The conspirators came one after the other to embrace Don Miguel, and
then went down into the street without being in any way interfered with.
Things happen thus in this country, where conspiracies and revolutions
are on the order of the day, as it were. The defeated are spared as far
as possible, from the simple reason that the victors may find themselves
tomorrow fighting side by side with them for the same cause. Curumilla
was the last to depart.
"All is not ended yet," he said to Don Miguel. "Koutonepi will save you,
father."
The hacendero shook his head sadly.
"Chief," he said in a deeply moved voice, "I leave my daughter to
Valentine, Father Seraphin, and yourself. Watch over her: the poor child
will soon have no father."
Curumilla embraced Don Miguel silently and retired; he had soon
disappeared in the crowd, the general having honourably kept his word.
Don Miguel threw down his weapons and descended.
"I am your prisoner," he said.
General Guerrero bowed, and made him a sign to mount the horse a soldier
had brought up.
"Where are we going?" the hacendero said.
"To Santa Fe," the general answered, "where you will be tried with
General Ibañez, who will doubtless soon be a prisoner like yourself."
"Oh!" Don Miguel muttered thoughtfully, "who betrayed us this time?"
"It was still Red Cedar," the general answered.
The hacendero let his head sink on his chest, and remained silent. A
quarter of an hour later the prisoner left the Paso del Norte, escorted
by a regiment of dragoons. When the last trooper had disappeared in the
windings of the road three men left the shrubs that concealed them, and
stood like three phantoms in the midst of the desolate plain.
"O heavens!" Don Pablo cried in a heart-rending voice, "my father, my
sister--who will restore them to me?"
"I!" Valentine said in a grave voice, as he laid his hand on his
shoulder. "Am I not the TRAIL-HUNTER?"
PART II.--EL PRESIDIO DE SANTA FE.
CHAPTER I.
EL RANCHO DEL COYOTE.
About a month after the events we have described in the first part of
this veracious history, two horsemen, well mounted, and carefully
enwrapped in their cloaks, entered at a smart trot the town of Santa Fe
between three and four o'clock in the afternoon.
Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico, is a pretty town, built in the
midst of a laughing and fertile plain. One of its sides occupies the
angle formed by a small stream: it is surrounded by the _adobe_ walls of
the houses by which it is bordered. The entrance of each street is
closed by stakes in the form of palisades; and like the majority of
towns in Spanish America, the houses, built only one story high in
consequence of the earthquakes, are covered with terraces of well-beaten
earth, called _azoteas,_ which are a sufficient protection in this
glorious climate, where the sky is constantly pure.
In the time of the Castilian rule Santa Fe enjoyed a certain importance,
owing to its strategic position, which allowed an easy defence against
the incursions of the Indians; but since the emancipation of Mexico this
city, like all the other centres of population in his unhappy country,
has seen its splendour vanish forever, and despite the fertility of its
soil and the magnificence of its climate, it has entered into such a
state of decadence that the day is at hand when it will be only an
uninhabited ruin. In a word, this city, which fifty years back contained
more than ten thousand inhabitants, has now scarcely three thousand,
eaten up by fevers and the utmost wretchedness.
Still during the last few weeks Santa Fe had appeared to emerge, as if
by magic from the lethargy into which it is ordinarily plunged; a
certain degree of animation prevailed in its usually deserted streets;
in short, a new life circulated in the veins of this population, to
whom, however, all must appear a matter of indifference. The fact was
that an event of immense importance had recently taken place in this
town. The two leaders of the conspiracy lately attempted had been
transferred to safe keeping at Santa Fe.
The Mexicans, ordinarily so slow when justice has to be dealt, are the
most expeditious people in the world when a conspiracy has to be
punished. Don Miguel and General Ibañez had not pined long in prison. A
court martial, hurriedly convened, had assembled under the presidency of
the governor, and the two conspirators were unanimously condemned to be
shot.
The hacendero, through his name and his position, and especially on
account of his fortune, had numerous partisans in the province: hence
the announcement of the verdict had caused a profound stupor, which
almost immediately changed into anger, among the rich land owners and
the Indians of New Mexico. A dull agitation prevailed throughout the
country; and the governor, who felt too weak to hold head against the
storm that threatened him, and regretted that he had carried matters so
far, was temporising, and trying to evade the peril of his position
until a regiment of dragoons he had asked of the Government arrived, and
gave strength to the law. The condemned men, whom the governor had not
yet dared to place in _capilla_, were still provisionally detained in
the prison.
The two men of whom we have spoken, rode without stopping through the
streets of the town, deserted at this hour, when everybody is at home
enjoying his siesta, and proceeded toward an unpretending rancho, built
on the banks of the stream, at the opposite end of the town from that by
which they entered.
"Well," one of the horsemen said, addressing his comrade, "was I not
right? You see everyone is asleep: there is nobody to watch us. We have
arrived at a capital moment."
"Bah!" the other answered in a rough voice, "Do you believe that? In
towns there is always somebody watching to see what does not concern
him, and report it after his fashion."
"That is possible," the first said, shrugging his shoulders
disdainfully. "I care about it as little as I do for a stringhalt
horse."
"And I, too," the other said sharply. "Do you imagine that I care more
than you do for the gossips? But stay; I fancy we have reached the
rancho of Andrés Garote. This must be the filthy tenement, unless I am
mistaken."
"It is the house. I only hope the scamp has not forgotten, the meeting I
gave him. Wait a minute, señor padre; I will give the agreed-on signal."
"It is not worth while, Red Cedar. You know that I am always at your
excellency's orders when you may please to give them," a mocking voice
said from inside the rancho, the door of which immediately opened to
give admission to the newcomers, and allowed a glimpse of the tall
figure and intelligent face of Andrés Garote himself.
"_Ave Maria purísima!_" the travellers said, as they dismounted and
entered the rancho.
"_Sin pecado concebida!_" Andrés replied, as he took the bridles of the
horses and led them to the corral, where he unsaddled them and gave each
a truss of alfalfa.
The travellers, fatigued by a long journey, sat down on butacas arranged
against the wall, and awaited the host's return, while wiping their dank
foreheads and twisting a maize cigarette between their fingers. The room
in which they were had nothing extremely attractive about it. It was a
large chamber with two windows, protected by iron bars, the greasy panes
allowing but a doubtful light to pass. The naked and smoky walls were
covered with clumsily-painted pictures, representing various holy
objects. The furniture only consisted of three or four halting tables,
the same number of benches, and a few butacas, the torn and harsh
leather of which evinced lengthened use. As for the floor, it was merely
of beaten earth, but rendered uneven by the mud incessantly brought in
upon the feet of visitors. A door carefully closed led to an inner room,
in which the ranchero slept. Another door was opposite to it, and
through this Andrés speedily entered after giving the horses their
provender.
"I did not expect you yet," he said as he entered; "but you are welcome.
Is there anything new?"
"My faith, I know nothing but the affair that brings us. It is rather
serious, I fancy, and prevents us attending to anything else," Red Cedar
remarked.
"_Caspita_! what vivacity, compadre!" Andrés exclaimed. "But, before
talking, I hope you will take some refreshment at any rate. There is
nothing like a cup of mezcal or pulque to clear the brain."
"Not to forget," Fray Ambrosio said, "that it is infernally hot, and my
tongue is glued to my palate, as I have swallowed so much dust."
"_Cuerpo de Dios_!" Andrés said as he went to look for a bottle among
several others arranged on a sort of bar, and placed it before the
travellers. "Pay attention to that, señor padre; for it is serious, and
you run a risk of death, _caray!_"
"Give me the remedy, then, chatterer," the monk replied as he held out
his glass.
The mezcal, liberally poured out, was swallowed at a draught by the
three men, who put back their glasses on the table with a "hum" of
satisfaction, and that clinking of the tongue peculiar to topers when
they are swallowing anything that tickles the throat.
"And now suppose we talk seriously," Red Cedar said.
"At your orders, señores caballeros," Andrés replied. "Still, if you
prefer a hand at monte, you know that I have cards at your service."
"Presently, señor Andrés, presently. Everything will have its turn. Let
us first settle our little business," Fray Ambrosio judiciously
observed.
Andrés Garote bowed his head in resignation, while thrusting back into
his pocket the pack of cards he had already half drawn out. The three
men made themselves as comfortable as they could, and Red Cedar, after
casting a suspicious glance around him, at length took the word.
"You know, caballeros," he said, "how, when we thought we had nothing to
do but proceed straight to Apacheria, the sudden desertion of nearly all
our gambusinos checked us. The position was most critical for us, and
the abduction of Doña Clara compelled us to take the utmost
precautions."
"That is true," Andrés Garote observed with an air of conviction.
"Although certain influential persons protect us under the rose," Red
Cedar continued, "we are compelled to keep in the shade as far as we
can. I therefore sought to remedy the gravest points in the business. In
the first place, the girl was hidden in an inaccessible retreat, and
then I began looking for comrades to take the place of those who
abandoned us so suddenly."
"Well?" the two men interrupted him sharply.
"At this moment," Red Cedar calmly continued, "when the placers of
California call away all the men belonging to the profession, it was
certainly no easy task to collect one hundred men of the sort we want,
the more so as we shall have to fight the Indios Bravos in our
expedition. I did not care to enlist novices, who at the sight of the
first Apache or Comanche savages, would bolt in terror, and leave us in
the lurch on the prairies. What I wanted were resolute men, whom no
fatigue would disgust, and who, once attached to our enterprise, would
follow it out to the end. I have, therefore, during the past month, been
running about to all the frontier presidios; and the devil has come to
my help tolerably well, for the evil is now repaired, and the band
complete."
"I hope, Red Cedar," Fray Ambrosio asked, "that you have not spoken
about the placer to your men?"
"Do you take me for a fool! No, padre," the squatter answered sharply,
"no, no. A hundred thousand reasons urge us to be prudent, and keep the
expedition secret. In the first place, I do not wish to make the fortune
of the Government while making our own. An indiscretion would ruin us
now, when the whole world only dreams of mines and placers, and Europe
sends us a mob of lean and starving vagabonds, greedy to grow fat at our
expense."
"Famously reasoned," said Andrés.
"No, no, trust to me. I have assembled the finest collection of picaros
ever brought together for an expedition, all food for the gallows,
ruined by monte, who do not care for hard blows, and on whom I can fully
count, while being very careful not to drop a word that can enlighten
them as to the spot whither we propose leading them; for, in that case,
I know as well as you do that they would abandon us without the
slightest scruples, or, as is even more probable, assassinate us to gain
possession of the immense treasures we covet."
"Nothing can be more just," Fray Ambrosio answered. "I am quite of your
opinion, Red Cedar. Now what have you resolved on?"
"We have not an instant to lose," the squatter continued. "This very
evening, or tomorrow at the latest, we must set out. Who knows whether
we have not already delayed our start too long? Perhaps one of those
European vagabonds may have discovered our placer, for those scoundrels
have a peculiar scent for gold."
Fray Ambrosio cast a suspicious glance at his partner.
"Hum!" he muttered, "that would be very unlucky, for hitherto the
business has been well managed."
"For that reason," Red Cedar hastened to add, "I only suggest a doubt
--nothing more."
"Come, Red Cedar," the monk said, "you have yourself narrated all the
embarrassments of our position, and the countless difficulties we shall
have to surmount before reaching our object. Why, then, complicate the
gravity of our situation still more, and create fresh enemies
needlessly?"
"I do not understand you, señor padre. Be good enough to explain
yourself more clearly."
"I allude to the young girl you carried off."
"Ah, ah!" Red Cedar said with a grin, "Is that where the shoe pinches
you, comrade? I am vexed at it; but I will not answer your question. If
I carried off that woman, it was because I had pressing reasons to do
so. These reasons still exist; that is all I can tell you. All the
better if these explanations are sufficient for you; if not, you must
put up with them, for you will get no others."
"Still it appears to me that, regarding the terms on which we stand to
each other--"
"What can there be in common between the abduction of Doña Clara and the
discovery of a placer in the heart of Apacheria? Come, you are mad, Fray
Ambrosio; the mezcal is getting to your head."
"Still--" the monk insisted.
"Enough of that!" Red Cedar shouted as he roughly smote the table with
his clenched fist. "I will not hear another word on the subject."
At this moment two smart blows were heard on the carefully-bolted door.
The three men started, and Red Cedar broke off.
"Shall I open?" Andrés asked.
"Yes," Fray Ambrosio answered: "hesitation or refusal might give an
alarm. We must foresee everything."
Red Cedar consented with a toss of his head, and the ranchero went with
an ill grace toward the door, which was being struck as if about to be
beaten in.
CHAPTER II.
THE CUCHILLADA.
So soon as the door was opened two men appeared on the threshold. The
first was Curumilla; the other, wrapped up in a large cloak, and with
his broad-brimmed hat drawn over his eyes, entered the room, making the
Indian chief a sign to follow him. The latter was evidently a Mexican.
"_Santas tardes!_" he said as he raised his hand to his hat, but not
removing it.
"_Dios las de a usted buenas!_" the ranchero answered. "What shall I
serve to your excellencies?"
"A bottle of mezcal," the stranger said.
The newcomers seated themselves at the end of the room, at a spot which
the light reached in such a weakened state that it was almost dark. When
they were served each poured out a glass of liquor, which he drank; and
leaning his head on his hands, the Mexican appeared plunged in deep
thought, not occupying himself the least in the world about the persons
near him. Curumilla crossed his arms on his chest, half closed his eyes,
and remained motionless.
Still the arrival of these two men, especially the presence of the
stranger, had suddenly frozen the eloquence of our three friends. Gloomy
and silent, they instinctively felt that the newcomers were enemies, and
anxiously waited for what was about to occur. At length Red Cedar,
doubtless more impatient than his comrades, and wishful to know at once
what he had to expect, rose, filled his glass, and turned toward the
strangers.
"Señores caballeros," he said, imitating that exquisite politeness which
the Mexicans possess in the highest degree. "I have the honor of
drinking to your health."
At this invitation Curumilla remained insensible as a granite statue:
his companion slowly raised his head, fixed his eye for a moment on the
speaker, and answered in a loud and firm voice,--
"It is needless, señor, for I shall not drink to yours. What I say to
you," he added, laying a stress on the words, "your friends can also
take for themselves if they think proper."
Fray Ambrosio rose violently.
"What do you say?" he exclaimed in a threatening voice. "Do you mean to
insult me?"
"There are people whom a man cannot mean to insult," the stranger
continued in a cutting voice. "Remember this, señor padre--I do not wish
to have any dealings with you."
"Why so?"
"Because I do not please--that is all. Now, gentlemen, do not trouble
yourselves about me, I beg, but continue your conversation: it was most
interesting when I arrived. You were speaking, I believe, about an
expedition you are preparing: there was a question too, I fancy, when I
entered, about a girl your worthy friend, or partner--I do not know
which he is--carried off with your assistance. Do not let me disturb
you. I should, on the contrary, be delighted to learn what you intend
doing with that unhappy creature."
No words could render the feeling of stupor and terror which seized on
the three partners at this, crushing revelation of their plans. When
they fancied they had completely concealed them by their cunning and
skill, to see them thus suddenly unveiled in all their extent by a man
whom they did not know, but who knew them, and in consequence could only
be an enemy--this terrified them to such a degree that for a moment they
fancied they had to do with the spirit of evil. The two Mexicans crossed
themselves simultaneously, while the American uttered a hoarse
exclamation of rage.
But Red Cedar and Fray Ambrosio were men too hardened in iniquity for
any event, however grave in its nature, to crush them for long. The
first moment past, they recovered themselves, and amazement gave way to
fury. The monk drew from his vaquera boot a knife, and posted himself
before the door to prevent egress; while Red Cedar, with frowning brow
and a machete in his hand, advanced resolutely toward the table, behind
which their bold adversary, standing with folded arms, seemed to defy
them by his ironical smile.
"Whoever you may be," Red Cedar said, stopping two paces from his
opponent, "chance has made you master of a secret that kills, and you
shall die."
"Do you really believe that I owe a knowledge of your secrets to
chance?" the other said with a mocking accent.
"Defend yourself," Red Cedar howled furiously, "If you do not wish me to
assassinate you; for, _con mil diablos!_ I shall not hesitate, I warn
you."
"I know it," the stranger replied quietly. "I shall not be the first
person to whom that has happened: the Sierra Madre and El Bolsón de
Mapimi have often heard the agonising cries of your victims, when
Indians were wanting to fill up your number of scalps."
At this allusion to his frightful trade the squatter felt a livid pallor
cover his face, a tremor agitated all his limbs, and he yelled in a
choking voice,--
"You lie! I am a hunter."
"Of scalps," the stranger immediately retorted, "unless you have given
up that lucrative and honourable profession since your last expedition to
the village of the Coras."
"Oh!" the squatter shouted with an indescribable burst of fury, "He is a
coward who hides his face while uttering such words."
The stranger shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and let the folds of
his mantle fall sharply.
"Do you recognise me, Red Cedar, since your conscience has not yet
whispered my name to you?"
"Oh!" the three men exclaimed in horror, and instinctively recoiling
"Don Pablo de Zarate!"
"Yes," the young man continued, "Don Pablo, who has come, Red Cedar, to
ask of you an account of his sister, whom you carried off."
Red Cedar was in a state of extraordinary agitation: with eyes dilated
by terror, and contracted features, he felt the cold perspiration
beading on his temples at this unexpected apparition.
"Ah!" he said in a hollow voice, "Do the dead, then, leave the tomb?"
"Yes," the young man shouted loudly, "they leave their tomb to tear your
victims from you. Red Cedar, restore me my sister!"
The squatter leaped like a hyena on the young man, brandishing his
machete.
"Dog!" he yelled, "I will kill you a second time."
But his wrist was suddenly seized by a hand of iron, and the bandit
tottered back to the wall of the rancho, against which he was forced to
lean, lest he should roll on the ground. Curumilla, who had hitherto
remained an impassive witness of the scene that took place before him,
had thought the moment for interference, had arrived, and had sharply
hurled him back. The squatter, with eyes injected with blood, and lips
clenched by rage, looked around him with glaring worthy of a wild beast.
Fray Ambrosio and the ranchero, held in check by the Indian chief, did
not dare to interfere. Don Pablo walked with slow and measured step
toward the bandit. When he was ten paces from him he stopped, and looked
fixedly at him.
"Red Cedar," he repeated in a calm voice, "give me back my sister."
"Never!" the squatter answered in a voice choked by rage.
In the meanwhile the monk and the ranchero had treacherously approached
the young man, watching for the propitious moment to fall on him. The
five men assembled in this room offered a strange and sinister scene by
the uncertain light that filtered through the windows, as each stood
with his hand on his weapon, ready to kill or be killed, and only
awaiting the opportunity to rush on his enemy. There was a moment of
supreme silence. Assuredly these men were brave. In many circumstances
they had seen death under every aspect; and yet their hearts beat as if
to burst their breasts, for they knew that the combat about to commence
between them was without truce or mercy. At length Don Pablo spoke
again.
"Take care, Red Cedar," he said. "I have come to meet you alone and
honourably. I have asked you for my sister several times, and you have
not answered; so take care."
"I will sell your sister to the Apaches," the squatter howled. "As for
you, accursed one, you shall not leave this room alive. May I be
eternally condemned if your heart does not serve as a sheath to my
knife!"
"The scoundrel is mad!" the young man said contemptuously.
He fell back a pace, and then stopped.
"Listen," he continued. "I will now retire, but we shall meet again; and
woe to you then, for I shall be as pitiless to you as you have been to
me. Farewell!"
"Oh! you shall not go in that way, my master," replied the squatter, who
had regained all his boldness and impudence. "Did I not tell you I would
kill you?"
The young man fixed upon him a glance of undefinable expression, and
crossed his arms boldly on his chest.
"Try it," he said in a voice rendered harsh by the fury boiling in his
heart.
Red Cedar uttered a yell of rage, and bounded on Don Pablo. The latter
calmly awaited the attack; but, so soon as the squatter was within reach
he suddenly took off his mantle, and threw it over his enemy's head,
who, blinded by the folds of the thick garment, rolled about on the
ground, unable to free himself from the accursed cloth that held him
like a net. With one bound the young man was over the table, and
troubling himself no further about Red Cedar, proceeded toward the door.
At this moment Fray Ambrosio rushed upon him, trying to bury his knife
in his chest. Feeling not the slightest alarm, Don Pablo seized his
assailant's wrist, and with a strength he was far from anticipating,
twisted his arm so violently that his fingers opened, and he let the
knife fall with a yell of pain. Don Pablo picked it up, and seized the
monk by the throat.
"Listen, villain!" he said to him. "I am master of your life. You
betrayed my father, who took pity on you, and received you into his
house. You dishonour the gown you wear by your connection with
criminals, whose ill deeds you share in. I could kill you, and perhaps
ought to do so; but it would be robbing the executioner to whom you
belong, and cheating the garrote which awaits you. This gown, of which
you are unworthy, saves your life; but I will mark you so that you shall
never forget me."
And placing the point of the knife on the monk's livid face, he made two
gashes in the shape of a cross along the whole length and breadth of his
face.
"We shall meet again!" he added in a thundering voice, as he threw the
knife away in disgust.
Andrés Garote had not dared to make a move: terror nailed him motionless
to the ground beneath the implacable eye of the Indian warrior. Don
Pablo and Curumilla then rushed from the room and disappeared, and ere
long the hoofs of two horses departing at full speed from the town could
be heard clattering over the pavement.
By the aid of the ranchero, Red Cedar presently succeeded in freeing
himself from the fold of the cloak that embarrassed him. When the three
accomplices found themselves alone again an expression of impotent rage
and deadly hatred distorted their faces.
"Oh!" the squatter muttered, grinding his teeth, and raising his fist to
heaven, "I will be revenged."
"And I too," said Fray Ambrosio in a hollow voice, as he wiped away the
blood that stained his face.
"Hum! I do not care," Andrés Garote said to himself aside. "That family
of the Zarates is a fine one; but, _caray_! it must be confessed that
Don Pablo is a rough fellow."
The worthy ranchero was the only one chance had favoured in this meeting
by letting him escape safe and sound.
CHAPTER III.
THE HUNTERS.
At about two leagues from Santa Fe, in a clearing situated on the banks
of the stream which borders that town, and on the evening of the same
day, a man was seated before a large fire, which he carefully kept up,
while actively engaged in making preparations for supper. A frugal meal,
at any rate, this supper! It was composed of a buffalo hump, a few
potatoes, and maize tortillas baked on the ashes, the whole washed down
with pulque.
The night was gloomy. Heavy black clouds coursed athwart the sky, at
times intercepting the sickly rays of the moon, which only shed an
uncertain light over the landscape, which was itself buried in one of
those dense mists that, in equatorial countries, exhale from the ground
after a hot day. The wind blew violently through the trees, whose
branches came in contact, with plaintive moans: and in the depths of the
woods the miawling of the wild cats was mingled with the snarl of the
coyotes and the howls of the pumas and jaguars. All at once the sound of
galloping horses could be heard in the forest, and two riders burst into
the clearing. On seeing them the hunter uttered an exclamation of joy,
and hurried to meet them. They were Don Pablo and Curumilla.
"Heaven be praised!" the hunter said. "Here you are at last. I was
beginning to grow alarmed at your long absence."
"You see that nothing has happened to me," the young man answered,
affectionately pressing the hunter's hands.
Don Pablo had dismounted, and hobbled his own horse and Curumilla's near
Valentine, while the Indian chief busied himself in preparing the
supper.
"Come, come," the hunter said gaily, "to table. You must be hungry, and
I am dying of inanition. You can tell me all that has occurred while we
are eating."
The three men went to the table; that is, they seated themselves on the
grass in front of the fire, and vigorously assailed their meagre repast.
Desert life has this peculiarity--that in whatever position you may find
yourself, as the struggles you go through are generally physical rather
than moral, nature never resigns her claims: you feel the need of
keeping up your strength, so as to be ready for all eventualities. There
is no alarm great enough to prevent you from eating and drinking.
"Now," Valentine asked presently, "what have you done? I fancy you
remained much longer than was necessary in that accursed town."
"We did, my friend. Certain reasons forced me to remain longer than I
had at first intended."
"Proceed in regular order, if you have no objection. I fancy that is the
only way of understanding each other."
"Act as you please, my friend."
"Very good: the chief and I will light our Indian pipes while you make
your cigarette. We will sit with our backs to the fire, so as to watch
the neighbourhood, and in that way can converse without apprehension.
What do you say, Pablo?"
"You are always right, my friend. Your inexhaustible gaiety, your honest
carelessness, restore me all my courage, and make me quite a different
man."
"Hum!" Valentine said, "I am glad to hear you speak so. The position is
serious, it is true; but it is far from being desperate. The chief and I
have many times been in situations were our lives only depended on a
thread: and yet we always emerged from them honourably--did we not,
chief?"
"Yes," the Indian answered laconically, drawing in a mouthful of smoke,
which he sent forth again from his mouth and nostrils.
"But that is not the question of the moment. I have sworn to save your
father and sister, Pablo, and will do so, or my carcass shall be food
for the wild beasts of the prairie; so leave me to act. Have you seen
Father Seraphin?"
"Yes, I have. Our poor friend is still very weak and pale, and his wound
is scarce cicatrised. Still, paying no heed to his sufferings, and
deriving strength from his unbounded devotion to humanity, he has done
all we agreed on. For the last week he has only left my father to hasten
to his judges. He has seen the general, the governor, the
bishop--everybody, in short--and has neglected nothing. Unfortunately
all his exertions have hitherto been fruitless."
"Patience!" the hunter said with a smile of singular meaning.
"Father Seraphin believes for certain that my father will be placed in
the capilla within two days. The governor wishes to have done with
it--that is the expression he employed; and Father Seraphin told me that
we have not a moment to lose."
"Two days are a long time, my friend; before they have elapsed many
things may have occurred."
"That is true; but my father's life is at stake, and I feel timid."
"Good, Don Pablo; I like to hear you speak so. But reassure yourself;
all is going on well, I repeat."
"Still, my friend, I believe it would be wise to take certain
precautions. Remember it is a question of life or death, and we must
make haste. How many times, under similar circumstances, have the best
arranged plans failed! Do you think that your measures are well taken?
Do you not fear lest an unhappy accident may derange all your plans at
the decisive moment?"
"We are playing at this moment the devil's own game, my friend,"
Valentine answered coldly. "We have chance on our side; that is to say,
the greatest power that exists, and which governs the world."
The young man lowered his head, as if but slightly convinced. The hunter
regarded him for a moment with a mixture of interest and tender pity,
and then continued in a soothing voice,--
"Listen, Don Pablo de Zarate," he said. "I have said that I will save
your father, and mean to do so. Still I wish him to leave the prison in
which he now is, like a man of his character ought to leave it, in open
day, greeted by the applause of the crowd, and not by escaping furtively
during the night, like a vile criminal. Hang it all! Do you think it
would have been difficult for me to enter the town, and effect your
father's escape by filing the bars or bribing the jailer? I would not do
it. Don Miguel would not have accepted that cowardly and shameful
flight. Your father shall leave his prison, but begged to do so by the
governor himself, and all the authorities of Santa Fe. So regain your
courage, and no longer doubt a man whose friendship and experience
should, on the contrary, restore your confidence."
The young man had listened to these words with even increasing interest.
When Valentine ceased speaking he seized his hand.
"Pardon me, my friend," he answered him. "I know how devoted you are to
my family; but I suffer, and grief renders me unjust. Forgive me."
"Child, let us forget it all. Was the town quiet today?"
"I cannot tell you, for I was so absorbed in thought that I saw nothing
going on around me. Still I fancy there was a certain agitation, which
was not natural, on the Plaza Mayor, near the governor's palace."
Valentine indulged once again in that strange smile that had already
played round the corners of his delicate lips.
"Good!" he said. "And did you, as I advised, try to gain any information
about Red Cedar?"
"Yes," he answered with a start of joy, "I did; and I have positive
news."
"Ah, ah! How so?"
"I will tell you."
And Don Pablo described the scene that had taken place in the rancho.
The hunter listened to it with the utmost attention, and when it was
finished he tossed his head several times with an air of
dissatisfaction.
"All young people are so," he muttered; "they always allow their passion
to carry them beyond the bounds of reason. You were wrong, extremely
wrong, Don Pablo," he then added. "Red Cedar believed you dead, and that
might have been of great use to us presently. You do not know the
immense power that demon has at his disposal: all the bandits on the
frontier are devoted to him. Your outbreak will be most injurious to
your sister's safety."
"Still, my friend--"
"You acted like a madman in arousing the slumbering fury of the tiger.
Red Cedar will persist in destroying you. I have known the wretch for a
long time. But that is not the worst you have done."
"What is it, then?"
"Why, madman as you are, instead of keeping dark, watching your enemies
without saying a word--in short, seeing through their game--by an
unpardonable act of bravado you have unmasked all your batteries."
"I do not understand you, my friend."
"Fray Ambrosio is a villain of a different stamp from Red Cedar, it is
true; but I consider him even a greater scoundrel than the scalp hunter.
At any rate, the latter is purely a rogue, and you know what to expect
from him: all about him bears the stamp of his hideous soul. Had you
stabbed that wild beast, who perspires blood by every pore, and dreams
of naught but murder, I might possibly have pardoned you; but you have
completely failed, not only in prudence, but in good sense, by acting as
you have done with Fray Ambrosio. That man is a hypocrite. He owes all
to your family, and is furious at seeing this treachery discovered. Take
care, Don Pablo. You have made at one blow two implacable enemies, the
more terrible now because they have nothing to guard against."
"It is true," the young man said; "I acted like a fool. But what would
you? At the sight of those two men, when I heard from their very lips
the crimes they had committed, and those they still meditate against us,
I was no longer master of myself. I entered the rancho, and you know the
rest."
"Yes, yes, the cuchillada was a fine one. Certainly the bandit deserved
it; but I fear lest the cross you so smartly drew on his face will cost
you dearly some day."
"Well, let us leave it in the hand of Heaven. You know the proverb, 'It
is better to forget what cannot be remedied.' Provided my father escape
the fate that menaces him, I shall be happy. I shall take my precautions
to defend myself."
"Did you learn nothing further?"
"Yes; Red Cedar's gambusinos are encamped a short distance from us. I
know that their chief intends starting tomorrow at the latest."
"Oh, oh! Already? We must make haste and prepare our ambuscade, if we
wish to discover the road they mean to follow."
"When shall we start?"
"At once."
The three men made their preparations; the horses were saddled, the
small skins the horseman always carries at his saddle-bow in these dry
countries were filled with water, and five minutes later the hunters
mounted. At the moment they were leaving the clearing a rustling of
leaves was heard, the branches parted, and an Indian appeared. It was
Unicorn, the great sachem of the Comanches. On seeing him the three men
dismounted and waited. Valentine advanced alone to meet the Indian.
"My brother is welcome," he said. "What does he want of me?"
"To see the face of a friend," the chief answered in a gentle voice.
The two men then bowed after the fashion of the prairie. After this
ceremony Valentine went on:
"My father must approach the fire, and smoke from the calumet of his
white friends."
"I will do so," Unicorn answered.
And drawing near the fire, he crouched down in Indian fashion, took his
pipe from his belt, and smoked in silence. The hunters, seeing the turn
this unexpected interview was taking, had fastened up their horses, and
seated themselves again round the fire. A few minutes passed thus, no
one speaking, each waiting till the Indian chief should explain the
motive of his coming. At length Unicorn shook the ashes from his
calumet, returned it to his belt, and addressed Valentine.
"Is my brother setting out to hunt buffaloes again?" he said. "There are
many this year on the prairies of the Rio Gila."
"Yes," the Frenchman replied, "we are going hunting. Does my brother
intend to accompany us?"
"No; my heart is sad.
"What means the chief? Has any misfortune happened to him?"
"Does not my brother understand me, or am I really mistaken? It is that
my brother only really loves the buffaloes, whose meat he eats, and
whose hides he sells at the _toldería_?"
"Let my brother explain himself more clearly; then I will try to answer
him."
There was a moment of silence. The Indian seemed to be reflecting
deeply: his nostrils were dilated, and at times his black eye flashed
fire. The hunters calmly awaited the issue of this conversation, whose
object they had not yet caught. At length Unicorn raised his head,
restored all the serenity to his glance, and said in a soft and
melodious voice,--
"Why pretend not to understand me, Koutonepi? A warrior must not have a
forked tongue. What a man cannot do alone, two can attempt and carry
out. Let my brother speak: the ears of a friend are open."
"My brother is right. I will not deceive his expectations. The hunt I
wish to make is serious. I am anxious to save a woman of my colour; but
what can the will of one man effect?"
"Koutonepi is not alone: I see at his side the best two rifles of the
frontier. What does the white hunter tell me? Is he no longer the great
warrior I knew? Does he doubt the friendship of his brother Haboutzelze,
the great sachem of the Comanches?"
"I never doubted the friendship of my brother. I am an adopted son of
his nation. At this very moment is he not seeking to do me a service?"
"That service is only half what I wish to do. Let my brother speak the
word, and two hundred Comanche warriors shall join him to deliver the
virgin of the palefaces, and take the scalps of her ravishers."
Valentine started with joy at this noble offer.
"Thanks, chief," he said eagerly. "I accept; and I know that your word
is sacred."
"Michabou protects us," the Indian said. "My brother can count on me. A
chief does not forget a service. I owe obligations to the pale hunter,
and will deliver to him the gachupino robbers."
"Here is my hand, chief: my heart has long been yours."
"My brother speaks well. I have done what he requested of me."
And, bowing courteously, the Comanche chief withdrew without adding a
word.
"Don Pablo," Valentine exclaimed joyously, "I can now guarantee your
father's safety: this night--perhaps tomorrow--he will be free."
The young man fell into the hunter's arms, and hid his head on his
honest chest, not having the strength to utter a word. A few minutes
later, the hunters left the clearing to go in search of the gambusinos,
and prepare their ambuscade.
CHAPTER IV.
SUNBEAM.
We will now go a little way back, in order to clear up certain portions
of the conversation between Valentine and Unicorn, whose meaning the
reader can not have caught.
Only a few months after their arrival in Apacheria the Frenchman and
Curumilla were hunting the buffalo on the banks of the Rio Gila. It was
a splendid day in the month of July. The two hunters, fatigued by a long
march under the beams of the parching sun, that fell vertically on their
heads, had sheltered themselves under a clump of cedar wood trees, and,
carelessly stretched out on the ground, were smoking while waiting till
the great heat had passed, and the evening breeze rose to enable them to
continue their hunt. A quarter of elk was roasting for their dinner.
"Eh, _penni_," Valentine said, addressing his comrade, and rising on his
elbow, "the dinner seems to be ready; so suppose we feed? The sun is
rapidly sinking behind the virgin forest, and we shall soon have to
start again."
"Eat," Curumilla answered, sharply.
The meat was laid on a leaf between the two hunters, who began eating
with good appetite, and indulging in cakes of _hautle_. These cakes,
which are very good, are certainly curious. They are made of the pounded
eggs of a species of water bug, collected by a sort of harvest in the
Mexican lakes. They are found on the leaves of the _toule_ (bulrush),
and the farina is prepared in various ways. It is an Aztec preparation
_par excellence_, for so long back as 1625 they were sold on the
marketplace of the Mexican capital. They form the chief food of the
Indians, who consider them as great a dainty as the Chinese do their
swallow nests, with which this article of food has a certain resemblance
in taste. Valentine had taken a third bite at his hautle cake when he
stopped, with his arm raised and his head bent forward, as if an unusual
sound had suddenly smitten his ear. Curumilla imitated his friend, and
both listened with that deep attention that only results from a
lengthened desert life; for on the prairie every sound is
suspicious--every meeting is feared, especially with man.
Some time elapsed ere the noise which startled the hunters was repeated.
For a moment they fancied themselves deceived, and Valentine took
another bite, when he was again checked. This time he had distinctly
heard a sound resembling a stifled sigh, but so weak and hollow that it
needed the Trail-hunter's practised ear to catch it. Curumilla himself
had perceived nothing. He looked at his friend in amazement, not knowing
to what he should attribute his state of agitation. Valentine rose
hurriedly, seized his rifle, and rushed in the direction of the river,
his friend following him in all haste.
It was from the river, in fact, that the sigh heard by Valentine had
come, and fortunately it was but a few paces distant. So soon as the
hunters had leaped over the intervening bushes they found themselves on
the bank, and a fearful sight presented itself to their startled eyes. A
long plank was descending the river, turning on its axis, and borne by
the current, which ran rather strongly at this point. On this plank was
fastened a woman, who held a child in her clasped arms. Each time the
plank revolved the unhappy woman plunged with her child into the stream,
and at ten yards at the most from it an enormous cayman was swimming
vigorously to snap at its two victims.
Valentine raised his rifle. Curumilla at the same moment glided into the
water, holding his knife blade between his teeth, and swam toward the
plank. Valentine remained for a few seconds motionless, as if changed
into a block of marble. All at once he pulled the trigger, and the
discharge was re-echoed by the distant mountains. The cayman leaped out
of the water, and plunged down again; but it reappeared a moment later,
belly upwards. It was dead. Valentine's bullet had passed through its
eye.
In the meanwhile Curumilla, had reached the plank with a few strokes,
without loss of time he turned it in the opposite direction from what it
was following; and while holding it so that it could not revolve, he
pushed it onto the sand. In two strokes he cut the bonds that held the
hapless woman, seized her in his arms, and ran off with her to the
bivouac fire.
The poor woman gave no signs of life, and the two hunters eagerly sought
to restore her. She was an Indian, apparently not more than eighteen,
and very beautiful. Valentine found great difficulty in loosening her
arms and removing the baby; for the frail creature about a year old, by
an incomprehensible miracle, had been preserved--thanks, doubtless to
its mother's devotion. It smiled pleasantly at the hunter when he laid
it on a bed of dry leaves.
Curumilla opened the woman's mouth slightly with his knife blade, placed
in it the mouth of his gourd, and made her swallow a few drops of
mezcal. A long time elapsed ere she gave the slightest move that
indicated an approaching return to life. The hunters, however, would not
be foiled by the ill-success of their attentions, but redoubled their
efforts. At length a deep sigh burst painfully from the sufferer's
oppressed chest, and she opened her eyes, murmuring in a voice weak as a
breath!
"_Xocoyotl_ (My child)!"
The cry of the soul--this first and supreme appeal of a mother on the
verge of the tomb--affected the two men with their hearts of bronze.
Valentine cautiously lifted the child, which had gone to sleep
peacefully on the leaves, and presented it to the mother, saying in a
soft voice:
"_Nantli joltinemi_ (Mother, he lives)!"
At these words, which restored her hope, the woman leaped up as if moved
by a spring, seized the child, and covered it with kisses, as she burst
into tears. The hunters respected this outpouring of maternal love: they
withdrew, leaving food and water by the woman's side. At sunset the two
men returned. The woman was squatting by the fire, nursing her child,
and lulling it to sleep by singing an Indian song. The night passed
tranquilly, the two hunters watching in turn over the slumbers of the
woman they had saved, and who reposed in peace.
At sunrise she awoke; and, with the skill and handiness peculiar to the
women of her race, she rekindled the fire and prepared breakfast. The
two men looked at her with a smile, then threw their rifles over their
shoulders, and set out in search of game. When they returned to the
bivouac the meal was ready. After eating, Valentine lit his Indian pipe,
seated himself at the foot of a tree, and addressed the young woman.
"What is my sister's name?" he asked.
"Tonameyotl (the Sunbeam)," she replied, with a joyous smile that
revealed the double row of pearls that adorned her mouth.
"My sister has a pretty name," Valentine answered. "She doubtless
belongs to the great nation of the Apaches."
"The Apaches are dogs," she said in a hollow voice, and with a flash of
hatred in her glance. "The Comanche women will weave them petticoats.
The Apaches are cowardly as the coyotes: they only fight a hundred
against one. The Comanche warriors are like the tempest."
"Is my sister the wife of a cacique?"
"Where is the warrior who does not know Unicorn?" she said proudly.
Valentine bowed. He had already heard the name of this terrible chief
pronounced several times. Mexicans and Indians, trappers, hunters, and
warriors, all felt for him a respect mingled with terror.
"Sunbeam is Unicorn's wife," the Indian girl continued.
"Good!" Valentine answered. "My sister will tell me where to find the
village of her tribe, and I will lead her back to the chief."
The young woman smiled.
"I have in my heart a small bird that sings at every instant of the
day," she said in her gentle and melodious voice. "The swallow cannot
live without its mate, and the chief is on the trail of Sunbeam."
"We will wait the chief here, then," Valentine said.
The hunter felt great pleasure in conversing with this simple child.
"How was my sister thus fastened to the trunk of tree, and thrown into
the current of the Gila, to perish there with her child? It is an
atrocious vengeance."
"Yes, it is the vengeance of an Apache dog," she answered. "Aztatl (the
Heron), daughter of Stanapat, the great chief of the Apaches, loved
Unicorn--her heart bounded at the mere name of the great Comanche
warrior; but the chief of my nation has only one heart, and it belongs
to Sunbeam. Two days ago the warriors of my tribe set out for a great
buffalo hunt, and the squaws alone remained in the village. While I
slept in my hut four Apache thieves, taking advantage of my slumber,
seized me and my child, and delivered us into the hands of Stanapat's
daughter. 'You love your husband,' she said with a grin: 'you doubtless
suffer at being separated from him. Be happy: I will send you to him by
the shortest road. He is hunting on the prairies down the river, and in
two hours you will be in his arms, unless,' she added with a laugh, 'the
caymans stop you on the road.'--'The Comanche women despise death,' I
answered her. 'For a hair you pluck from me, Unicorn will take the
scalps of your whole tribe; so act as you think proper;' and I turned my
head away, resolved to answer her no more. She herself fastened me to
the log, with my face turned to the sky, in order, as she said, that I
might see my road; and then she hurled me into the river, yelling:
'Unicorn is a cowardly rabbit, whom the Apache women despise. This is
how I revenge myself.' I have told my brother, the pale hunter,
everything as it happened."
"My sister is a brave woman," Valentine replied: "she is worthy to be
the wife of a renowned chief."
The young mother smiled as she embraced her child, which she presented,
with a movement full of grace, to the hunter, who kissed it on the
forehead. At this moment the song of the maukawis was heard at a short
distance off. The two hunters raised their heads in surprise, and looked
around them.
"The quail sings very late, I fancy," Valentine muttered suspiciously.
The Indian girl smiled as she looked down, but gave no answer. Suddenly
a slight cracking of dry branches disturbed the silence. Valentine and
Curumilla made a move, as if to spring up and seize their rifles that
lay by their side.
"My brothers must not stir," the squaw said quickly: "it is a friend."
The hunters remained motionless, and the girl then imitated with rare
perfection the cry of the blue jay. The bushes parted, and an Indian
warrior, perfectly painted and armed for war, bounded like a jackal over
the grass and herbs that obstructed his passage, and stopped in face of
the hunters. This warrior was Unicorn. He saluted the two men with that
grace innate in the Indian race; then he crossed his arms on his breast
and waited, without taking a glance at his squaw, or even appearing to
have seen her. On her side the Indian woman did not stir.
During several moments a painful silence fell on the four persons whom
chance had assembled in so strange a way. At length Valentine, seeing
the warrior insisted on being silent, decided he would be the first to
speak.
"Unicorn is welcome to our camp," he said. "Let him take a seat by the
fire of his brothers, and share with them the provisions they possess."
"I will take a seat by the fire of my paleface brother," he replied;
"but he must first answer me a question I wish to ask of him."
"My brother can speak: my ears are open."
"Good!" the chief answered. "How is it the hunters have with them
Unicorn's wife?"
"Sunbeam can answer that question best," Valentine said gravely.
The chief turned to his squaw.
"I am waiting," he remarked.
The Indian woman repeated, word for word, to her husband the story she
had told a few minutes before. Unicorn listened without evincing either
surprise or wrath: his face remained impassive, but his brows were
imperceptibly contracted. When the woman had finished speaking, the
Comanche chief bowed his head on his chest, and remained for a moment
plunged in serious thought. Presently he raised his head.
"Who saved Sunbeam from the river when she was about to perish?" he
asked her.
The young woman's face lit up with a charming smile.
"These hunters," she replied.
"Good!" the chief said, laconically, as he bent on the two men glances
full of the most unspeakable gratitude.
"Could we leave her to perish?" Valentine said.
"My brothers did well. Unicorn is one of the first sachems of his
nation. His tongue is not forked: he gives his heart once, and takes it
back no more. Unicorn's heart belongs to the hunters."
These simple words were uttered with the majesty and grandeur the
Indians know so well how to assume when they think proper. The two men
vowed their gratitude, and the chief continued:--
"Unicorn is returning to his village with his wife: his young men are
awaiting him twenty paces from here. He would be happy if the hunters
would consent to accompany him there."
"Chief," Valentine answered, "we came into the prairie to hunt the
buffalo."
"Well, what matter? My brothers will hunt with me and my young men; but
if they wish to prove to me that they accept my friendship, they will
follow me to my village."
"The chief is mounted, while we are on foot."
"I have horses."
Any further resistance would have been a breach of politeness, and the
hunters accepted the invitation. Valentine, whom accident had brought on
to the prairies of the Rio Gila and Del Norte, was in his heart not
sorry to make friends there, and have allies on whose support he could
reckon in case of need. The squaw had by this time risen: she timidly
approached her husband, and held up the child, saying in a soft and
frightened voice,--
"Kiss this warrior."
The chief took the frail creature in his muscular arms, and kissed it
repeatedly with a display of extraordinary tenderness, and then returned
it to the mother. The latter wrapped the babe in a small blanket, then
placed it on a plank shaped like a cradle, and covered with dry moss,
fastened a hoop over the place where its head rested, to guard it from
the burning beams of the sun, and hung the whole on her back by means of
a woolen strap passing over her forehead.
"I am ready," she said.
"Let us go," the chief replied.
The hunters followed him, and they were soon on the prairie.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE ADOPTION.
Some sixty Comanche warriors were lying in the grass awaiting their
sachem, while the tethered horses were nibbling the tall prairie grasses
and the tree shoots. It could be seen at the first glance that these men
were picked warriors, selected for a dangerous expedition. From the
heels of all dangled five or six wolf tails--marks of honor which only
renowned warriors have the right to wear.
On seeing their chief, they hurriedly rose and leaped into their
saddles. All were aware that their sachem's wife had been carried off,
and that the object of their expedition was to deliver her. Still, on
noticing her, they evidenced no surprise, but saluted her as if she had
left them only a few moments previously. The war party had with it
several horses, which the chief ordered to be given to his squaw and his
new friends; then, at a signal from him, the whole party started at full
speed, for the Indians know no other pace than the gallop.
After about two hours' ride they reached the vicinity of the village,
which could be smelt some time before reaching, owing to the habit the
Comanches have of placing their dead on scaffoldings outside the
villages, where they moulder away: these scaffoldings, composed of four
stakes planted in the ground, terminated in a fork, while from poles
stuck up near them hung skins and other offerings made by the Indians to
the genius of good.
At the entrance of the village a number of horsemen were assembled,
awaiting the return of the sachem. So soon as they perceived him they
burst into a formidable yell, and rushed forward like a whirlwind,
shouting, firing guns, and brandishing their weapons. Unicorn's band
followed this example, and there was soon a most extraordinary
confusion.
The sachem made his entry into the village in the midst of shouts,
barking of dogs, and shots; in short, he was accompanied to the square
by an indescribable row. On reaching it the warriors stopped. Unicorn
begged the hunters to dismount, and guided them to his cabin, which he
made them enter before him.
"Now," he said to them, "brothers, you are at home: rest in peace, eat
and drink. This evening I will come and talk with you, and make you a
proposal which I sincerely hope you will not reject."
The two hunters, wearied by the long ride they had made, fell back with
extreme satisfaction on the beds of dried leaves which awaited them.
"Well," Valentine asked Curumilla, "penni, what do you say about what is
happening to us?"
"It may be good."
"Can it not?"
"Yes."
On which Curumilla fell asleep, and Valentine soon followed his example.
As he had promised, toward evening Unicorn entered the cabin.
"Have my brothers rested?" he asked.
"Yes," Valentine answered.
"Are they disposed to listen to me?"
"Speak, chief; we are listening."
The Comanche sachem then squatted near the fire, and remained for
several minutes, with his head bent forward and his eyes fixed on the
ground, in the position of a man who is reflecting. At length he raised
his head, stretched forth his arm as if to give greater authority to the
words he was about to utter, and began thus:--
"Brother, you and your friend are two brave warriors. The prairies
rejoice at your arrival among us; the deer and the buffaloes fly at your
approach; for your arm is strong, and your eye unerring. Unicorn is only
a poor Indian; but he is a great warrior among the Comanches, and a much
feared chief of his tribe. You have saved his wife, Sunbeam, whom the
Apache dogs threw into the Gila, and whom the hideous alligators were
preparing to devour. Since his wife, the joy of his hearth, and his son,
the hope of his old days, have been restored to him, Unicorn has sought
in his heart the means to prove to you his gratitude. He asked the Chief
of Life what he could do to attach you to him. Unicorn is terrible in
combat; he has the heart of the grizzly bear for his enemies--he has the
heart of the gazelle for those he loves."
"Chief," Valentine answered, "the words you utter at this moment amply
repay us for what we have done. We are happy to have saved the wife and
son of a celebrated warrior: our reward is in our hearts, and we wish
for no other."
The chief shook his head.
"No," he said; "the two hunters are no longer strangers for the
Comanches; they are the brothers of our tribe. During their sleep
Unicorn assembled round the council fire the chiefs of his nation, and
told them what has passed. The chiefs have ranged themselves on
Unicorn's side, and have ordered him to make known to the hunters the
resolution they have formed."
"Speak, then, chief," Valentine said, "and believe that the wishes of
the council will be commands to us."
A smile of joy played round the chief's lips.
"Good!" he said. "This is what was agreed on among the great chiefs. My
brothers the hunters will be adopted by the tribe, and be henceforth
sons of the great Comanche nation. What say my brothers?"
A lively feeling of pleasure made Valentine quiver at this unexpected
proposition. To be adopted by the Comanche tribe, was obtaining the
right of hunting over the whole extent of the immense prairies which
that powerful nation holds through its indomitable courage and the
number of its warriors. The hunter exchanged a glance with his silent
comrade and rose.
"I accept for myself and friend," he said as he held out his hand to the
chief, "the honor the Comanches do us in admitting us into the number of
the sons of their warlike nation. We shall prove ourselves worthy of
this marked favour."
Unicorn smiled.
"Tomorrow," he said as he rose, "my brothers will be adopted by the
nation."
After bowing gracefully to the hunters he took leave of them and
withdrew. The next daybreak the chiefs entered the cabin. Valentine and
Curumilla were ready, and had long been acquainted with the trials they
would have to undergo. The neophytes were conducted into the great
medicine hut, where a copious meal was prepared. It consisted of dog
meat boiled in bear fat, tortillas, maize, and hautle cakes. The chiefs
squatted in a circle, while the squaws waited on them.
When the meal was ended all rose. Unicorn placed himself between the
hunters, laid his hands on their heads, and struck up the great war
song. This song was repeated in chorus by the company to the sound of
the war whistles, the drums and the _chikikouis._ The following is the
translation of the song:--
"Master of Life, regard us with a favourable eye.
We are receiving two brothers in arms who appear to have sense.
They display vigour in their arms.
They fear not to expose their bodies to the blows of their enemies."
It is impossible for anyone who has not been present at the ceremony to
form even a distant idea of the frightful noise produced by their hoarse
voices mingled with the shrill and discordant instruments: it was enough
to produce a deafness. When the song was ended each took his seat by the
council fire.
The hunters were seated on beaver skins, and the great war calumet was
presented to them, from which each took several puffs, and it went the
round. Unicorn then rose, and fastened round the neck of each a wampum
collar, and another made of the claws of the grizzly bear. The Indians,
during this time, had built near the medicine lodge a cabin for the
sweating, and when it was finished the hunters took off their clothes
and entered it. The chiefs then brought two large stones which had been
previously made red hot, and after closing the hut carefully, left the
neophytes in it.
The latter threw water on the stones, and the steam which arose almost
immediately produced a profuse perspiration. When this was at its height
the hunters ran out of the hut, passed through the double row of
warriors, and leaped into the river, according to the usual fashion.
They were immediately drawn from the water, wrapped in blankets, and led
to Unicorn's hut, in order to undergo the final trial, which is also the
most painful. The hunters were laid on their backs, then Unicorn traced
on their chests with a sharp stick dipped in water in which gunpowder
had been dissolved, the figure of the animal serving as _totem_
(protector) to the tribe. Then with two spikes fastened to a small piece
of wood, and dipped in vermillion, he proceeded to prick the design.
Whenever Unicorn came to a place that was too hard he made an incision
in the flesh with a gun-flint. The places that were not marked with
vermillion were rubbed in with powder, so that the result was a red and
blue tattooing. During the course of this operation the war songs and
chikikouis were constantly heard, in order to drown the cries which the
atrocious pain might draw from the patients; but the latter endured it
all without even a contraction of the eyebrows evidencing the pain they
must have felt.
When the tattooing was over the wounds were cauterised with rotten wood
to prevent suppuration; they were washed with cold water, in which had
been infused a herb resembling box, a great deal of which the Indians
mix with their tobacco to reduce the strength. The trial we have
described is so painful to endure, that nearly always it is only
accomplished at intervals, and often lasts a week. This time the hunters
endured it bravely during the six hours it lasted, not uttering a cry,
or giving a sign of weakness. Hence the Indians, from this moment,
regarded them with a species of respect; for with them courage is the
first of qualities.
"My brothers are children of the tribe," the chief said, offering each a
horse. "The prairie belongs to them. These coursers will bear them to
the most remote limits of the desert, chasing the wild beasts, or
pursuing the Apache dogs."
"Good!" Valentine answered.
At one bound the two hunters were in their saddles, and made their
horses perform the most elegant and graceful curvets. This last and
heroic deed, after all they had suffered during the course of the day,
raised to their full height the joy and enthusiasm of the Comanches, who
applauded with frenzied shouts and yells all they saw their new brothers
execute. After remaining nearly an hour on horseback they dismounted,
and followed the chiefs into the medicine lodge; and when each had taken
his seat round the council fire, and the calumet had again been smoked,
Unicorn rose.
"The Master of Life loves His Comanche sons, since He gives them for
brothers such warriors as Koutonepi and Curumilla. Who can equal their
courage! Who would dare to contend with them! On their approach the
grizzly bear hides at the extremity of its den; the jaguar bounds far
away on seeing them; the eagle itself, which looks the sun in the face,
flies from their unerring bullet. Brothers, we congratulate ourselves on
counting you among our warriors. Henceforth we shall be invincible.
Brothers, give up the names you have up to this day borne, and assume
those we now give you. You, Koutonepi, are henceforth Quauhtli, and bear
the name of that eagle, whose courage and strength you possess. You,
Curumilla, will be called Vexolotl, and the cock will be proud to see
that you have taken possession of its name."
The two hunters warmly thanked their new brothers, and were led back by
the chiefs to their cabin, who wished them a pleasant night after so
rude a day. Such was the way in which Valentine and Curumilla, to whom
we shall continue to give their old names, formed the acquaintance of
Unicorn, and the result of it.
CHAPTER VI.
THE MISSIONARY.
With time the relations existing between the hunters and the Indians
were drawn closer, and became more friendly. In the desert physical
strength is the quality most highly esteemed. Man, compelled to struggle
incessantly against the dangers of every description that rise each
moment before him, is bound to look only to himself for the means to
surmount them. Hence the Indians profess a profound contempt, for sickly
people, and weak and timid nerves.
Valentine easily induced Unicorn to seize, during the hunt of the wild
horses, the Mexican magistrates, in order to make hostages of them if
the conspiracy were unsuccessful. What the hunter foresaw happened. Red
Cedar had opposed stratagem to stratagem; and, as we have seen, Don
Miguel was arrested in the midst of his triumph, at the very moment when
he fancied himself master of the Paso del Norte.
After Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo had seen, from their hiding
place in the bushes, the mournful escort pass that was taking Don Miguel
as a prisoner to Santa Fe, they held a council. Moments were precious;
for in Mexico conspirators have the sad privilege over every other
prisoner of being tried quickly, and not left to pine. The prisoner must
be saved. Valentine, with that promptitude of decision which formed the
salient point of his character, soon arranged in his head one of those
bold schemes which only he could discover.
"Courage!" he said to Don Pablo. "As long as the heart beats in the
breast there is hope, thank Heaven! The first hand is lost, I allow; but
now for the second game."
Don Pablo had entire faith in Valentine: he had often been in the
position to try his friend. If these words did not completely reassure
him, they at least almost restored his hope, and gave him back that
courage so necessary to him at this supreme moment, and which had
abandoned him.
"Speak, my friend," he said. "What is to be done?"
"Let us attend to the most important thing first, and save Father
Seraphin, who devoted himself for us."
The three men started. The night was a gloomy one. The moon only
appeared at intervals: incessantly veiled by thick clouds which passed
over its disc, it seemed to shed its sickly rays regretfully on the
earth. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, which
uttered mysterious murmurs as they came into collision. The coyotes
howled in the plain, and at times their sinister form shot athwart the
skyline. After a march of about an hour the three men approached the
spot where the missionary had fallen from the effect of Red Cedar's
bullet; but he had disappeared. An alarm mingled with a frightful agony
contracted the hunter's hearts. Valentine took a despairing glance
around; but the darkness was too dense for him possibly to distinguish
anything.
"What is to be done?" Don Pablo asked sadly.
"Seek," Valentine replied sharply: "he cannot be far."
Curumilla had already taken up the trail, and had disappeared in the
gloom. The Araucano had never been a great speaker naturally: with age
he had grown almost dumb, and never uttered a word save when absolutely
necessary. But if the Indian did not talk, he acted; and in critical
situations his determination was often worth long harangues. Don Pablo,
obedient to Valentine's orders, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and
prepared to execute them.
"Where are you going?" the hunter asked him, as he seized his arm.
"To look for Father Seraphin."
"Wait."
The two men stood motionless, listening to the mysterious sounds of the
desert, that nameless melody which plunges the soul into a soft reverie.
Nearly an hour passed thus, nothing revealing to the hunters that
Curumilla's search had proved successful. Valentine, growing impatient
at this long delay, was also preparing to go on, at once the weak,
snapping cry of the walkon rose in the air.
"What's that?" Don Pablo asked in surprise.
"Silence!" Valentine muttered.
A second time the walkon sang, but this time stronger, and much nearer.
Valentine raised his fingers to his lips, and imitated the sharp, shrill
yell of the ocelot twice, with such perfection that Don Pablo started
involuntarily, and looked round for the wild beast, whose eyes he
fancied he could see flashing behind a thicket. Almost immediately the
note of the walkon was heard a third time. Valentine rested the butt of
his rifle on the ground.
"Good!" he said. "Do not be alarmed, Don Pablo. Curumilla has found
Father Seraphin."
The young man looked at him in amazement. The hunter smiled.
"They will both arrive directly," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Child!" Valentine interrupted him, "In the desert the human voice is
more injurious than useful. The song of birds, the cry of wild beasts,
serve us as a language."
"Yes," the young man answered simply, "that is true. I have often heard
it stated; but I was not aware you could understand one another so
easily."
"That is nothing," the hunter answered good-humouredly: "you will see
much more if you only pass a month in our company."
In a few moments the sound of footsteps became audible, at first faint,
then gradually coming nearer, and two shadows were dimly drawn on the
night.
"Halloa!" Valentine shouted as he Raised and cocked his rifle, "friend
or foe?"
"_Pennis_ (brothers)," a voice answered.
"It is Curumilla," said Valentine. "Let us go to meet him."
Don Pablo followed him, and they soon reached the Indian, who walked
slowly, obliged as he was to support, almost carry, the missionary.
When Father Seraphin fell off his horse he almost immediately lost his
senses. He remained for a long time lying in the ditch, but by degrees
the night cold had brought him round again. At the first moment the poor
priest, whose ideas were still confused, had cast anxious glances around
him, while asking himself how he came there. He tried to rise; but then
a poignant pain he felt in his shoulder reminded him of what had
occurred. Still he did not despair. Alone, by night in the desert,
exposed to a thousand unknown dangers, of which the least was being
devoured by wild beasts, without weapons to defend himself, too weak,
indeed, to attempt it, even if he had them, he resolved not to remain in
this terrible position, but make the greatest efforts to rise, and drag
himself as well as he could to the Paso, which was three leagues distant
at the most, where he was sure of finding that care his condition
demanded.
Father Seraphin, like the majority of the missionaries who generously
devote themselves to the welfare of humanity, was a man who, under a
Weak and almost feminine appearance, concealed an indomitable energy,
and a resolution that would withstand all trials. So soon as he had
formed his plan he began carrying it out. With extreme difficulty and
atrocious pain he succeeded in fastening his handkerchief round his
shoulder, so as to check the hemorrhage. It took more than an hour
before he could stand on his legs: often he felt himself fainting, a
cold perspiration beaded at the root of his hair, he had a buzzing in
his ears, and everything seemed to be turning round him; but he wrestled
with the pain, clasped his hands with an effort, raised his tear laden
eyes to heaven, and murmured from the bottom of his heart,--
"O God! Deign to support thy servant, for he has set on thee all his
hopes and confidence."
Prayer, when made with faith, produces in a man an effect whose
consequences are immediate; it consoles him, gives him courage, and
almost restores him the strength that has deserted him. This was what
happened to Father Seraphin. After uttering these few words he set out
boldly, supporting his tottering footsteps with a stick, which a
providential chance had placed in his way. He walked thus for nearly
half a league stopping at every instant to draw breath; but human
endurance has limits beyond which it cannot go. In spite of the efforts
he made, the missionary at length felt his legs give way under, him; he
understood that he could not go further; and he sank at the foot of a
tree, certain that he had attempted impossibilities, and henceforth
resigning to Providence the care of saving him.
It was at this moment Curumilla arrived near him. The Indian aided him
to rise, and then warned his comrades of the success of his search.
Father Seraphin, though the chief offered to carry him, refused, and
wished to walk to join his friends; but his strength deserted him a
second time, he lost his senses, and fell into the arms of the Indian,
who watched him attentively; for he noticed his increasing weakness, and
foresaw his fall. Valentine and Curumilla hastily constructed a litter
of tree branches, on which they laid the poor wounded man, and raising
him on their shoulders, went off rapidly. The night passed away, and the
sun was already high on the horizon, and yet the hunters--were marching.
At length, at about eleven o'clock, they reached the cavern which served
Valentine as a shelter, and to which he had resolved to carry his
patient, that he might himself nurse him.
Father Seraphin was in a raging fever; his face was red, his eyes
flashing. As nearly always happens with gunshot wounds, a suppurating
fever had declared itself. The missionary was laid on a bed of furs, and
Valentine immediately prepared to probe the wound. By a singular chance
the ball had lodged in the shoulder without fracturing the blade bone.
Valentine drew it; and then helped by Curumilla, who had quietly pounded
oregano leaves, he formed a cataplasm, which he laid on the wound, after
first carefully washing it. Scarcely had this been done ere the
missionary fell into a deep sleep, which lasted till nightfall.
Valentine's treatment had effected wonders. The fever had disappeared,
the priest's features were calmed, the flush that purpled his cheeks had
given place to a pallor caused by the loss of blood; in short, he was as
well as could be expected. On opening his eyes he perceived the three
hunters watching him anxiously. He smiled, and said in a weak voice,--
"Thanks, my brothers, thanks for the help you have afforded me. Heaven
will reward you. I feel much better."
"The Lord be praised!" Valentine answered. "You will escape, my father,
more cheaply than I had dared to hope."
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes, your wound, though serious, is not dangerous, and in a few days
you can, if you think necessary, resume your avocations."
"I thank you for this new good, my dear Valentine. I no longer count the
times I have owed my life to you. Heaven, in its infinite goodness, has
placed you near me to support me in my tribulations, and succour me in
days of danger."
The hunter blushed.
"Do not speak so, my father," he said; "I have only performed a sacred
duty. Do you feel strong enough to talk for a few minutes with me?"
"Yes. Speak, my friend."
"I wished to ask your advice."
"My talents are very slight: still you know how I love you, Valentine.
Tell me what vexes you, and perhaps I may be able to be useful to you."
"I believe it, my father."
"Speak, then, in Heaven's name, my friend; for, if you have recourse to
me, the affair must be very serious."
"It cannot be more so."
"Go on: I am listening."
And the missionary settled himself on his bed to hear as comfortably as
he could the confession the hunter wished to make to him.
CHAPTER VII.
THE INTERVIEW.
At daybreak the next morning Curumilla started for Unicorn's village. At
sunset he returned to the cavern, accompanied by the Comanche chief. The
sachem entertained the most profound respect for Father Seraphin, whose
noble character he could appreciate, and felt pained at the state in
which he found him.
"Father," he said to him as he kissed his hand. "Who are the villains
who thus wounded you, to whom the Master of Life has imparted the secret
to make us happy? Whoever they may be, these men shall die."
"My son," the priest answered gently, "I will not pronounce before you
the name of the unhappy man who, in a moment of madness, raised his hand
against me. My God is a God of peace; He is merciful, and recommends His
creatures to forget injuries, and requite good for evil."
The Indian looked at him in amazement. He did not understand the soft
and touching sublimity of these precepts of love. Educated in the
sanguinary principles of his race--persuaded, like all redskins, that a
warrior's first duty is revenge--he only admitted that atrocious law of
the prairies which commands, "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth"--a terrible
law, which we do not venture, however, utterly to condemn in these
countries, where ambushes are permanent, and implacable death stands at
every corner of the road.
"My son," Father Seraphin continued, "you are a great warrior. Many a
time you have braved the atrocious tortures of the stake of blood, a
thousand fold more terrible than death itself. Often have you, with a
pleasure I excuse (for it is in your nature), thrown down your enemy,
and planted your knee on his chest. Have you never pardoned anybody in
fight?"
"Never!" the Indian answered, his eye sparkling with satisfied pride.
"Unicorn has sent many Apache dogs to the happy hunting grounds: their
scalps are drying at the door of his cabin."
"Well," the missionary said gently, "try clemency once, only once, and
you will know one of the greatest pleasures God has granted to man on
earth--that of pardoning."
The chief shook his head.
"No," he said; "a dead enemy is no longer to be feared. Better to kill
than leave him means to avenge himself at a later date."
"My son, you love me, I believe?"
"Yes. My father is good; he has behaved well to the Comanches, and they
are grateful. Let my father command, and his son will obey."
"I have no right to give you an order, my son. I can only ask a favour of
you."
"Good! My father can explain himself. Unicorn will do what he desires."
"Well, then," said the missionary with a lively feeling of joy, "promise
me to pardon the first unhappy man, whoever he may be, who falls into;
your hands, and you will render me happy."
The chief frowned, and an expression of dissatisfaction appeared on his
features. Father Seraphin anxiously followed on the Comanche's
intelligent countenance the different shadows reflected on it as in a
mirror. At length the Indian regained his stoicism, and his face grew
serene again.
"Does my father demand it?" he asked in a gentle voice.
"I desire it."
"Be it so: my father shall be satisfied. I promise him to pardon the
first enemy whom the Manitou causes to fall beneath the point of my
lance."
"Thanks, chief," the missionary exclaimed joyfully, "thanks! Heaven will
reward you for this good idea."
The Indian bowed silently and turned to Valentine, who had been
listening to the conversation.
"My brother called me, and I came. What does he want of Unicorn?"
"My brother will take his seat at the council fire, and smoke the
calumet with his friend. Chiefs do not speak without reflecting on the
words they are about to utter."
"My brother speaks well, and I will take my seat at his fire."
Curumilla had lighted a large fire in the first grotto of the cavern.
The four men left Father Seraphin to take a few moments' rest, and
seated themselves round the fire, when the calumet passed from hand to
hand. The Indians never undertake anything important, or commence a
discussion, without first smoking the calumet in council, whatever may
be the circumstances in which they are placed. When the calumet had gone
the round Valentine rose.
"Every day," he said, bowing to the chief, "I appreciate more and more
the honor the Comanches did me in adopting me as a son. My brother's
nation is powerful; its hunting grounds cover the whole surface of the
earth. The Apaches fly before the Comanche warriors like cowardly
coyotes before courageous men. My brother has already several times done
me a service with that greatness of soul which distinguishes him, and
can only belong to a warrior so celebrated as he is. Today I have again
a service to ask of my brother, and will he do it me? I presume so; for
I know his heart, and that the Great Spirit of the Master of Life dwells
in him."
"Let my brother explain," Unicorn answered. "He is speaking to a chief;
he must remove the skin from his heart and let his blood flow red and
bright before a friend. The great white hunter is a portion of myself. I
should have to be prevented by an arrant impossibility if I refused any
request emanating from him."
"Thanks, brother," Valentine said with emotion. "Your words have passed
from your lips into my breast, which they have rejoiced. I am not
mistaken. I see that I can ever count on your well-tried friendship and
honest aid. Acumapicthzin de Zarate, the descendant of the Mexican
kings, the friend of the redskins, whom he has ever protected, is a
prisoner to the gachupinos. They have carried him to Santa Fe in order
to put him to death, and deprive the Indians of the last friend left
them."
"And what does my brother want?"
"I wish to save my friend."
"Good!" the chief answered. "My brother claims my help to succeed in
that project, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Good! The descendant of the Tlatoanis shall be saved. My brother can
feel reassured."
"I can count, then, on my brother's aid?" Valentine asked quickly.
The chief smiled.
"Unicorn holds in his hands Spaniards who will answer for the life of
the prisoner."
"That is true!" Valentine exclaimed as he struck his forehead. "Your
idea is a good one, chief."
"My brother will leave me to act. I answer for success on my head."
"_Caramba!_ Act as you please, chief. Still, were it only form's sake, I
should not be sorry to know what you intend doing."
"My brother has a white skin, but his heart is Indian. Let him trust to
the prudence of a chief; Unicorn knows how to treat with the
gachupinos."
"Doubtless."
"Unicorn will go to Santa Fe to speak with the chief of the white men."
Valentine looked at him in amazement. The chief smiled.
"Have I not hostages?" he said.
"That is true," Valentine remarked.
The chief went on:--
"The Spaniards are like chattering old women, prodigal of seductive
words, but Unicorn knows them. How many times already has he trodden the
warpath on their territory at the head of his warriors! They will not
dare to deceive him. Ere the sun has twice accomplished its revolution
round the tortoise whose immense shell supports the world, the chief of
the Comanches will carry the bloody arrows to the whites, and propose to
them peace or war. Is my brother satisfied?"
"I am. My heart is full of gratitude toward my red brother."
"Good! What is that to Unicorn? Less than nothing. Has my brother
anything else to ask of me?"
"One thing more."
"Let my brother explain himself as quickly as possible, that no cloud
may remain between him and his red brother."
"I will do so. Men without fear of the Great Spirit, urged by some mad
desire, have carried off Doña Clara, the daughter of the white chief
whom my brother pledged to save."
"Who are these? Does my brother know them?"
"Yes, I know them only too well. They are bandits, at the head of whom
is a monster with a human face, called Red Cedar."
At this name the Indian started slightly, his eye flashed fire, and a
deep wrinkle hollowed his forehead.
"Red Cedar is a ferocious jaguar," he said with concentrated passion.
"He has made himself the scourge of the Indians, whose scalps he
desires. This man has no pity either for women or children, but he
possesses no courage: he only attacks his enemies in the dark, twenty
against one, and when he is sure of meeting with no resistance."
"My brother knows this man, I see."
"And this man has carried off the white gazelle?'
"Yes."
"Good! My brother wishes to know what Red Cedar has done with his
prisoner?"
"I do wish it."
The Indian rose.
"Time is slipping away," he said. "Unicorn will return to his friends.
My brother the hunter need not feel alarmed: a chief is watching."
After uttering these few words the chief went down into the cavern,
mounted his horse, and disappeared in direction of the desert. Valentine
had every reason to be satisfied with his interview with the Comanche
chief; but Father Seraphin was less pleased than the hunter. The worthy
priest, both through his nature and his vocation, was not disposed to
employ violent measures, which were repugnant to him: he would have
liked, were it possible, to settle everything by gentleness, and without
running the risk of bloodshed.
Three weeks elapsed, however, ere Unicorn appeared to be effectually
carrying out the plan he had explained to Valentine, who only learnt
indirectly that a strong party of Comanche warriors had invaded the
Mexican frontiers. Father Seraphin, though not yet completely cured, had
insisted on proceeding to Santa Fe to take some steps to save Don
Miguel, whose trial had gone on rapidly, who was on the point of being
executed. For his part Don Pablo, half mad with uneasiness, also
insisted, in spite of Valentine's entreaties and remarks, on entering
Santa Fe furtively, and trying to see his father.
The night on which we found Valentine in the clearing Unicorn visited
him for the first time in a month: he came to inform him of the success
of the measures he had taken. Valentine, used to Indian habits,
understood half a word: hence he had not hesitated to announce to Don
Pablo as a positive fact that his father would soon be free.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRISON.
Don Miguel had been transferred to the prison of Santa Fe. Europeans,
accustomed to philanthropic manners, and regarding human life as of some
value, cannot imagine what atrocities the word "prison" contains in
Mexico. In countries beyond sea the penitentiary system is not even in
its infancy; for it is completely ignored, and has not even been
suggested yet. With the exception of the United States, prisons are in
America what they were at the period of the Spanish dominion; that is to
say, filthy dens, where the wretched prisoners suffer a thousand
tortures.
Among ourselves, so long as a man is not proved guilty, he is assumed to
be innocent; but over there, so soon as a man is arrested, he is
considered guilty, and consequently every consideration and all pity
vanish, to make room for brutal and barbarous treatment. Thrown on a
little straw in fetid holes, often inhabited by serpents and other
unclean animals, the prisoners have more than once been found dead at
the expiration of twenty-four hours, and half devoured. We have
witnessed scores of times atrocious tortures inflicted by coarse and
cruel soldiers on poor fellows whose crimes, in our country, would have
merited a slight chastisement at the most. Still, in the great centres
of populations, the prisons are better managed than in the towns and
villages; and in this land, where money is the most powerful lever, a
rich man easily succeeds in obtaining all he wishes, and rendering his
position at any rate tolerable.
Don Miguel and General Ibañez had managed to be confined together by the
expenditure of many entreaties and a heavy sum of gold. They inhabited
two wretched rooms, the entire furniture of which consisted in a halting
table, a few leather covered butacas, and two benches which served them
as beds. These two men, so powerful by nature, had endured without
complaint all the humiliation and insults inflicted on them during their
trial, resolved to die as they had lived, with head erect and firm
heart, without giving the judges who had condemned them the satisfaction
of seeing them turn weak at the last moment.
It was toward evening of the same day on which we saw Valentine in the
clearing. Darkness fell rapidly, and the only window, a species of
narrow slit that served to light the prison, allowed but a weak and
dubious light to penetrate. Don Miguel was walking with long strides up
and down his prison, while the general, carelessly reclining on one of
the benches, quietly smoking his cigarette, watching with childish
pleasure the light clouds of bluish smoke which rose in a spiral to the
ceiling, and which he constantly blew asunder.
"Well," Don Miguel said all at once, "it seems it is not for today
either."
"Yes," the general said, "unless (though I do not believe it) they wish
to do us the honor of a torchlight execution."
"Can you at all account for this delay?"
"On my honor, no. I have ransacked my brains in vain to guess the reason
that prevents them shooting us, and I have given it up as a bad job."
"Same with me. At first I fancied they were trying to frighten us by the
continued apprehension of death constantly suspended over our heads like
another sword of Damocles; but this idea seemed to me too absurd."
"I am entirely of your opinion: still something extraordinary must be
occurring."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Why, for the last two days our worthy jailer, Tio Quesada, has become,
not polite to us--for that is impossible--but less brutal. I noticed
that he has drawn in his claws, and attempted a grin. It is true that
his face is so little accustomed to assume that expression, that the
only result he obtains is to make a wretched grimace."
"And you conclude from that?"
"Nothing positive," the general said. "Still I ask myself whence comes
this incomprehensible change. It would be as absurd to attribute it to
the pity he feels for our position as to suppose the governor will come
to ask our pardon for having tried and condemned us."
"Eh?" Don Miguel said with a toss of his head. "All is not over--we are
not dead yet."
"That is true; but keep your mind at rest--we shall be so soon."
"Our life is in God's hands. He will dispose of it at His pleasure."
"Amen!" the general said with a laugh, as he rolled a fresh cigarette.
"Do you not consider it extraordinary that, during the whole month we
have been here, our friends have not given a sign of life?"
The general shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"Hum!" he said, "a prisoner is very sick, and our friends doubtless
feared to make us worse by the sight of their grief: that is why they
have deprived themselves of the pleasure of visiting us."
"Do not jest, general. You accuse them wrongfully, I feel convinced."
"May Heaven grant it! For my part, I heartily forgive them their
indifference, and the oblivion in which; they have left us."
"I cannot believe that Don Valentine, that true-hearted and noble-minded
man, for whom I ever felt so deep a friendship, has not tried to see
me."
"Bah! How, Don Miguel, can you, so near death as you are, still believe
in honourable feelings in any man?"
At this moment there was a great clash of iron outside, and the door of
the room was opened sufficiently to afford passage to the jailer, who
preceded another person. The almost complete obscurity that prevailed in
the prison prevented the condemned men from recognising the visitor, who
wore a long black gown.
"Eh, eh!" the general muttered in his comrade's ear, "I believe that
General Ventura, our amiable governor, has at length made up his mind."
"Why so?" Don Miguel asked in a low voice.
"_Canarios!_ he has sent us a priest, which means that we shall be
executed tomorrow."
"On my word, all the better," Don Miguel could not refrain from saying.
In the meanwhile the jailer, a short, thick-set man, with a ferret face
and cunning eye, had turned to the priest, whom he invited to enter,
saying in a hoarse voice,--
"Here it is, señor padre: these are the condemned persons."
"Will you leave us alone, my friend?" the stranger said.
"Will you have my lantern? It is getting dark, and when people are
talking they like to see one another."