door."
"All right--I will do so;" and he turned to the condemned, to whom he
said savagely, "Well, señores, here is a priest. Take advantage of his
services now you have got him. In your position there is no knowing what
may happen from one moment to the other."
The prisoners shrugged their shoulder's contemptuously, but made no
reply. The jailer went out. When the sound of his footsteps had died
away in the distance, the priest, who had till this moment stood with
his body bent forward and his ear on the watch, drew himself up, and
walked straight to Don Miguel. This manoeuvre on the part of the
stranger surprised the two gentlemen, who anxiously awaited what was
about to happen. The lantern left by the jailer only spread a faint and
flickering light, scarcely sufficient to distinguish objects.
"My father," the hacendero said in a firm voice, "I thank the person
who sent you to prepare me for death, for I anxiously wished to fulfil
my duties as a Christian before being executed. If you will proceed with
me into the adjoining room I will confess my sins to you: they are those
which an honest man ordinarily commits; for my heart is pure, and I have
nothing to reproach myself with."
The priest took off his hat, seized the lantern, and placed it near his
pale face, whose noble and gentle features were suddenly displayed in
the light.
"Father Seraphin!" the prisoners exclaimed with a surprise mingled with
joy.
"Silence!" the priest ordered quickly. "Do not pronounce my name so
loudly, brothers: everyone is ignorant of my being here except the
jailer, who is my confidant."
"He!" Don Miguel said with a stupor; "the man who has been insulting and
humiliating us during a month!"
"That man is henceforth ours. Lose no time, come. I have secure means to
get you out of prison, and to leave the town ere your evasion can be
even suspected: the horses are prepared--an escort is awaiting you.
Come, gentlemen, for the moments are precious."
The two prisoners interchanged a glance of sublime eloquence; then
General Ibañez quietly seated himself on a butaca, while Don Miguel
replied,--
"Thanks, my father. You have undertaken the noble task of soothing all
sorrow, and you do not wish to fail in your duty. Thanks for the offer
you make us, which we cannot, however, accept. Men like us must not give
our enemies right by flying like criminals. We fought for a sacred
principle, and succumbed. We owe it to our countrymen and to ourselves
to endure death bravely. When we conspired we were perfectly well aware
of what awaited us if we were conquered. Once again, thanks; but we will
only quit this prison as free men, or to walk to punishment."
"I have not the courage, gentlemen, to blame your heroic resolution: in
a similar case I should act as you are doing. You have a very slight
hope still left, so wait. Perchance, within a few hours, unforeseen
events will occur to change the face of matters."
"We hope for nothing more, my father."
"That word is a blasphemy in your mouth, Don Miguel. God can do all He
wills. Hope, I tell you."
"I am wrong, father: forgive me."
"Now I am ready to hear your confession."
The prisoners bowed. Father Seraphin shrived them in turn, and gave them
absolution.
"Hola!" the jailer shouted through the door. "Make haste; it is getting
late. It will soon be impossible to leave the city."
"Open the door," the missionary said in a firm voice.
The jailer appeared.
"Well?" he asked.
"Light me and lead me out of the prison. These caballeros refuse to
profit by the chance of safety I came to offer them."
The jailer shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"They are mad," he said.
And he went out, followed by the priest, who turned on the threshold and
pointed to heaven. The prisoners remained alone.
CHAPTER IX.
THE EMBASSY.
On the selfsame day that Father Seraphin went to the prison to propose
an escape to the condemned, a very strange circumstance had aroused the
entire population of Santa Fe. At about midday, at the moment when the
inhabitants were enjoying their siesta, and the streets, calcined by the
beams of a tropical sun, were completely deserted, a formidable whoop,
the terrible war yell of the Comanche Indians, burst forth at the
entrance of the town.
There was a general alarm, and everybody barricaded himself in his
house, believing in a sudden assault of the savages. Presently an
immense clamour, and cries of distress and despair uttered by a
terrified population, could be heard throughout the town. Several times
already the Comanches, in their periodical incursions, had come near
Santa Fe, but never so closely as this time; and the remembrance of the
cruelties they had practised on the hapless Spaniards who fell into
their hands was still present to every mind.
In the meanwhile a few inhabitants, bolder than the rest, or having
nothing to lose, proceeded with the greatest precautions toward the spot
whence the shouts were heard; and a singular spectacle presented itself.
A detachment of dismounted Comanche warriors, about two hundred strong,
was marching in close column, flanked on either wing by two troops, each
of fifty horses. About twenty paces in front caracoled Unicorn.
All these men had a martial aspect which was really remarkable: all were
strangely painted, well adorned, and in their full war costume. The
horsemen were loaded with all sorts of arms and ornaments: they had a
bow and quiver on their backs, their guns slung and decorated with their
medicine bags, and their lances in their hands. They were crowned with
magnificent black and white eagle feathers, with a falling tuft. The
upper part of the body, otherwise naked, was covered by a coyote skin
rolled up and worn across the shoulder; their bucklers were ornamented
with feathers, cloth of different colours, and human scalps. They were
seated on handsome saddlecloth of panthers' skins, lined with red, which
almost covered the horses' backs. According to the prairie fashion, they
had no stirrups.
Unicorn brandished in his right hand the long medicine lance, the
distinctive mark of the powerful "dance of the prairie dogs." It was a
staff in the shape of a crook, covered with an otter skin, and decorated
through its entire length with owl feathers. This talisman, which he had
inherited, possessed the power of bringing under his orders all the
warriors of his nation scattered over the prairies: hence on all grand
occasions he never failed to carry it. He wore a shirt made of the skin
of the bighorn, embroidered on the sleeves with blue flowers, and
adorned on the right arm with long stripes of rolled ermine and red
feathers, and on the left arm with long tresses of black hair cut from
the scalps he had raised. Over his shoulders he had thrown a cloak of
gazelle skin, having at each end an enormous tuft of ermine. On his
forehead the chief had fastened two buffalo horns, which with the blue,
red, and green paint plastered on his face, gave him a terrible aspect.
His magnificent horse, a mustang full of fire, which he managed with
inimitable grace and skill, was painted red in different fashions: on
its legs were stripes like a zebra, and on either side the backbone were
designed arrowhead, lances, beavers, tortoises, &c. The same was the
case with the face and the haunches.
There was something at once imposing and striking in the appearance
presented by this band of ferocious warriors as they advanced though the
deserted streets of the city, brandishing their tremendous weapons, and
uttering at intervals their sinister war cry, which they accompanied by
the shrill sound of long whistles made of human thigh bones, which they
wore suspended by strips of wild beast hide.
By this time the Comanches had penetrated to the heart of the city,
driving before them, though without violence, the few inhabitants who
had ventured to get in their way. They marched in good order, not
turning to the right or left to plunder, and doing no reprehensive
action.
The Spaniards, more and more surprised at the haughty and bold attitude
of the Indians, and their exemplary conduct, asked themselves with
terror what these men wanted, and what reason had led them to invade
their frontiers in so sudden and secret a way, that the scouts the
Mexican Government pays to watch them had no knowledge of their march.
As usually happens in such cases, terror gradually gave way to
curiosity. In the first place the leperos and adventurers dared to
approach the Indians; then the inhabitants, if not completely
tranquilised, still reassured by their peaceful attitude, mingled with
the groups; so that when the Comanche war party arrived on the Plaza
Mayor; it was followed by a crowd of Spaniards, who regarded them with
the restless and stupid curiosity only to be found among the masses.
The Comanches did not appear to notice the excitement they created. As
soon as they were on the Plaza Mayor they halted, and remained
motionless, as if their feet had suddenly grown to the ground. Unicorn
made a sign with his talisman; a warrior quitted the ranks, and rode up
to the sentry standing in front of the governor's palace, who regarded
the singular scene with a dazed air.
"Wah!" the Indian said sarcastically, as he lightly touched the soldier
with the end of his lance. "Is my brother asleep, that he does not hear
a warrior addressing him?"
"I am not asleep," the soldier answered, as he fell back a pace. "What
do you want?"
"The great sachem of the Comanches, the cacique whom the red children
call Haboutzelze, has come to speak to his great white father, the chief
of the frontier palefaces."
"What does he want with him?" the soldier asked, not knowing what he
said, so much had the unexpected sight of the redskin disturbed him.
"Is my brother a chief?" the Indian asked cunningly.
"No," the soldier answered, greatly confused by this lesson.
"Well, then, let him close his ears as regards those the Great Spirit
has set above him, and deliver the message I give him in the sachem's
name."
While the Comanche was exchanging these few words with the sentry,
several persons, drawn out of the palace by the unusual disturbance they
heard, mingled with the crowd. Among them were several officers, one of
whom advanced to the Indian horseman.
"What does my brother want?" he asked him.
The warrior saw at the first glance that this time he had to do with a
chief. He bowed courteously, and answered.
"A deputation of the great Comanche nation desires to be introduced to
my great white father."
"Good! But all the warriors cannot enter the palace," the officer said.
"My brother is right. Their chiefs alone will go in: their young men
will await them here."
"Let my brother be patient. I will go and deliver his message in all
haste."
"Good! My brother is a chief. The Spider will await him."
The officer disappeared in the interior, while the Spider planted the
end of his long lance in the ground, and remained with his eye fixed on
the gate of the palace, not evincing the slightest impatience.
The new governor of Santa Fe was a general of the name of Don Benito
Ventura. He was ignorant as a fish, stupid and haughty as a heathcock.
Like the majority of his colleagues in this eccentric country, he had
gained his general's epaulettes by repeated pronunciamentos, managing
to gain a step by every revolution, while never having seen more fire
than that of the thin husk _pajillo_ he constantly had in his mouth. To
sum him up, he was very rich, a wonderful coward, and more afraid of
blows than aught else in the world. Such he was morally: physically he
was a plump little man, round as a barrel, with a rubicund face, lighted
up by two small grey eyes.
This worthy officer perspired water and blood when the duties of his
station obliged him to put on the uniform, every seam of which was
overlaid with gold lace: his chest literally disappeared under the
infinity of crosses of every description with which each president had
honoured him on attaining power. In a word, General Ventura was a worthy
man, as fit to be a soldier as he was to be a cardinal; and he had only
one object, that of being President of the Republic in his turn; but
this object he ever pursued without Once swerving from his path.
If he accepted the governorship of New Mexico, it was for the simple
reason that, as Santa Fe was a long distance from Mexico, he had
calculated that it would be easy for him to make a _pronunciamento_ in
his own favour, and become, _ipso facto_, president. He was not aware, on
coming to Santa Fe, that the province he was about to govern was
incessantly menaced by Indian forays. Had he known it, however
advantageous the post of governor might, be for his schemes, he would
have refused point blank so perilous an honour.
He had learned with the utmost terror the entrance of the Comanches into
the town, and when the officer intrusted with the Spider's message
presented himself before him he had literally lost his head. It took all
possible trouble to make him comprehend that the Indians came as
friends, that they merely wished to have a palaver with him, and that
since their coming their conduct had been most honourable and exemplary.
Fortunately for the Spanish honour, other officers entered the apartment
in which was the governor, attracted to the palace by the news, which
had spread with the speed of a train of powder through Santa Fe, of the
appearance of an Indian detachment.
When the general saw himself surrounded and supported by the officers of
his staff his terror was slightly toned down, he regained his presence
of mind and it was with a calm and almost dignified demeanor that he
discussed the question whether it was proper to receive the Indian
deputation, and in what manner it should be done. The other officers,
who, in the course of their professional career, had had many a skirmish
with the redskins, felt no inclination to anger them. They produced in
support of their opinions such peremptory reasons, that General Ventura,
convinced by their arguments gave the officer who brought the message
orders to bring the three principal Indian chiefs into the palace.
CHAPTER X.
THE PRESENTATION.
It needed the thorough knowledge the Comanches possessed of the terror
they inspired the Mexicans with to have dared to enter in so small a
body a town like Santa Fe, where they might expect to find a
considerable garrison.
The general officer sent by General Ventura had performed his duty.
Unicorn and two other chiefs dismounted, and followed him into the
palace; while the Indian warriors, in spite of the heat of the sunbeams
that played on their heads, remained motionless on the spot where their
caciques bade them wait.
The general desired, by a certain display of strength, to impose on the
redskin deputies; but unfortunately, as is always the case in Mexico,
the garrison, which on paper represented eight hundred men, was in
reality only composed of sixty at the most--a very small number for a
frontier town, especially under the present circumstances. But if
soldiers were lacking, to make up for it there was no paucity of
officers; for about thirty were assembled at the palace, which allowed
one officer to every two privates. This detail, which might appear
exaggerated, is, however, strictly correct, and shows in what a state of
anarchy this hapless country is plunged. The thirty officers, attired in
their splendid uniforms, that glistened with gold and decorations, were
arranged round the general, while three posts of ten men each held the
doors of the halls of reception.
When the preparations were completed the ambassadors were introduced.
The Indian chiefs, accustomed for a long period to Spanish luxury,
entered without testifying the slightest surprise. They bowed with
dignity to the assembly, and, crossing their arms on their chests,
waited till they were addressed. The general regarded them with an
astonishment pardonable enough, for this was the first time he had found
himself in the presence of these untamable redskins, whose terrible
renown had so often made him shudder.
"What reason can have been so powerful as to oblige my sons to come and
see me?" he asked in a gracious and conciliating tone. "Let them make
their request, and, if I can do so, I shall be most ready to satisfy
it."
This opening, which the governor fancied to be very politic, was, on the
contrary, most awkward, as it offended the pride of those he addressed,
and whom he had the greatest interest in humouring. Unicorn took a step
forward. A sarcastic smile played on his lips, and he replied in a voice
slightly tinged with irony,--
"I have heard a parrot speak. Are the words addressed to me?"
The general blushed up to the eyes at this insult, which he did not dare
retaliate.
"The chief has not understood my words," he said. "My intentions are
good, and I only wish to be agreeable to him."
"The Comanches do not come here to ask a favour," Unicorn answered,
haughtily. "They know how to avenge themselves when insulted."
"What do my sons want then?"
"To treat with my father for the ransom of the white chiefs who are in
their power. Five palefaces inhabit the cabin of the Comanches. The
young men of the tribe demand their punishment, for the blood of the
palefaces is agreeable to the Master of Life. Tomorrow the prisoners
will have ceased to live if my father does not buy them off today."
After these words, uttered in a firm and peremptory tone, there was a
moment of supreme silence. The Mexican officers reflected sadly on the
fearful fate that threatened their friends. Unicorn continued:--
"What does my father say? Shall we fasten our prisoners to the stake of
blood, or restore them to liberty?"
"What ransom do you ask?" the general said.
"Listen, all you chiefs of the palefaces here present, and judge of the
clemency and generosity of the Comanches. We only, wish, for the life of
these five men, the life of two men."
"That is little, I allow," the general remarked; "and who are the two
men whose lives you ask?"
"The palefaces call them, the first, Don Miguel Zarate; the second,
General Ibañez."
The general started.
"These two men cannot be delivered to you," he answered; "they are
condemned to death, and will die tomorrow."
"Good! My prisoners will be tortured this night," the chief replied
stoically.
"Confound it!" the general sharply exclaimed, "Is there no other
arrangement possible? Let my brothers ask me a thing I can grant them,
and--"
"I want those two men," the chief quickly interrupted. "If not, my
warriors will themselves deliver them; and in that case the Comanche
chiefs cannot prevent the injury their warriors may commit in the town."
One of the officers present at this interview was aroused by the tone
Unicorn had affected since the beginning of the audience. He was a brave
old soldier, and the cowardice of his comrades shamed him. He rose at
this point.
"Chief," he said in a firm voice, "your words are very haughty and
foolish for the mouth of an ambassador. You are here, at the head of
scarce two hundred warriors, in the heart of a town peopled by brave
men. Despite all my desire to be agreeable to you, if you do not pay
greater respect to your audience, prompt and severe justice shall be
inflicted on your insolence."
The Indian chief turned toward the new speaker, whose remarks had
aroused a sympathetic murmur.
"My words are those of a man who fears nothing, and holds in his hands
the life of five men."
"Well," the officer retorted sharply, "what do we care for them? If they
were such fools as to let you capture them, they must suffer the
consequences of their madness; we cannot pay for them. Besides, as you
have already been told, those you claim must die."
"Good! We will retire," Unicorn said haughtily. "Longer discourse is
needless; our deeds shall speak for us."
"A moment!" the general exclaimed. "All may yet be arranged. An affair
like the present cannot be settled all in a hurry; we must reflect on
the propositions made to us. My son is a chief, and will grant us
reasonable time to offer him a reply."
Unicorn bent a suspicious glance on the governor.
"My father has spoken wisely," he presently made answer. "Tomorrow at
the twelfth hour, I will come for the final answer of the palefaces. But
my father will promise me not to order the punishment of the prisoners
till he has told me the decision he has come to."
"Be it so," the general answered. "But what will the Comanches do till,
then?"
"They will leave the town as they entered it, and bivouac on the plain."
"Agreed on."
"The Master of Life has heard my father's promise. If he break his word
and possess a forked tongue, the blood shed will fall on his head."
The Comanche uttered these words in a significant tone that made the
general tremble inwardly; then he bowed to the assembly, and left the
hall with his companions. On reaching the square the chiefs remounted
their horses and placed themselves at the head of their warriors. An
hour later the Comanches had left the town, and camped within two
gunshots of the walls, on the banks of the river. It was after this
interview that Unicorn had the conversation with Valentine which we
recently described.
Still, when the Mexican officers were alone with the general, their
courage returned all at once, and they reproached him for the little
dignity he had displayed before the Indians, and specially for the
promise he had made them. The general listened to them calmly, with a
smile on his lips, and contented himself with answering them, in a tone,
of indescribable meaning,--
"The promise you allude to pledges me to nothing. Between this and
tomorrow certain things will happen to free us from the Comanches, and
let us dispense with surrendering the prisoners they demand so
insolently."
CHAPTER XI.
PSYCHOLOGICAL.
About half a league to the west of Santa Fe three men and a woman were
seated behind a dense clump of trees, which sheltered while rendering
them unseen, over a _bois-de-vache_ fire, supping with good appetite,
and chatting together. The three men were Red Cedar's sons; the female
was Ellen. The maiden was pale and sad: her dreamy eye wandered around
with a distraught expression. She listened hardly to what her brothers
said, and would certainly have been greatly embarrassed to describe the
conversation, for her mind was elsewhere.
"Hum!" Sutter said, "what the deuce can keep the old one so long? He
told us he should be back by four o'clock at the latest; but the sun is
just disappearing on the horizon, and he has not come yet."
"Pshaw!" Nathan said with a shrug of the shoulders. "Are you afraid that
something has happened to him? The old chap has beak and nails to defend
himself; and since his last turn up with Don Miguel, the fellow who is
to be shot tomorrow at Santa Fe, he has kept on his guard."
"I care very little," Sutter replied brusquely, "whether father is here
or not; but I believe we should do well not to wait longer, but return
to the camp, where our presence is doubtless necessary."
"Nonsense! Our comrades can do without us," Shaw observed. "We are all
right here, so suppose we stop the night. Tomorrow it will be day. Well,
if father has not returned by sunrise, we will go back to camp. Harry
and Dick can keep good order till our return."
"In truth, Shaw is right," Nathan said. "Father is at times so strange,
that he might be angry with us for not having waited for him; for he
never does anything lightly. If he told us to stay here, he probably had
his reasons."
"Let us stay, then," Sutter remarked carelessly. "I ask for nothing
better. We shall only have to keep the fire up, and so one of us will
watch while the others sleep."
"Agreed on," Nathan replied. "In that way, if the old man comes during
our sleep, he will see that we waited for him."
The three brothers rose. Sutter and Nathan collected a pile of dry wood
to maintain the fire, while Shaw intertwined a few branches to make his
sister a sufficient shelter for the night. The two elder brothers thrust
their feet toward the fire, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and
went to sleep, after advising Shaw to keep a bright lookout, not only
against wild beasts, but to announce the old squatter's approach. Shaw,
after stirring up the fire, threw himself at the foot of a larch tree,
and letting his head sink on his chest, plunged into deep and painful
meditation.
This poor boy, hardly twenty years of age, was a strange composite of
good and evil qualities. Reared in the desert, he had grown up like one
of its native trees, thrusting out here and there branches full of
powerful sap. Nothing had ever thwarted his instincts, no matter what
their nature might be. Possessing no cognizance of justice and
injustice, he had never been able to appreciate the squatter's conduct,
or see the injury he did society by the life he led. Habituated to
regard as belonging to himself all that he wished for, allowing himself
to be guided by his impressions and caprices, never having felt any
other fetter than his father's despotic will, this young man had at once
a nature expansive and reserved, generous and avaricious, gentle and
cruel: in a word, he possessed all the qualities of his vices; but he
was, before all, a man of sensations. Endowed with a vast intellect,
extreme audacity, and lively comprehensions, he would have been
indubitably a remarkable man, had he been born in a different position.
His sister Ellen was the only member of his family for whom he
experienced sympathy; and yet it was only with extreme reserve that he
intrusted his boyish secrets to her--secrets which, during the last few
days, had acquired an importance he did not himself suspect, but which
his sister, with the innate intelligence of woman, had already divined.
Shaw, as we have said, was thinking. The young savage's indomitable
nature revolted against an unknown force which had suddenly sprung up in
his heart--mastered and subdued him in spite of all his efforts. He was
in love! He loved, ignorant even of the meaning of the word love, which
comprises in this nether world all earthly joy and suffering. Vainly he
sought to explain his feelings; but no light flashed across his mind, or
illumined the darkness of his heart. He loved without desire and without
hope, involuntarily obeying that divine law which compels even the
roughest man to seek a mate. He was dreaming of Doña Clara. He loved
her, as he was capable of loving, with that passionate impetuosity, that
violence of feeling, to which his uncultivated mind adapted him. The
sight of the maiden caused him a strange trouble, which he did not
attempt to account for. He did not try to analyse his feelings, for that
would have been impossible; and yet at times he was a prey to cold and
terrible fury, when thinking that the haughty maiden, who was even
unconscious of his existence, would probably only spurn and despise him
if she knew it. He was yielding to these crushing thoughts, when he
suddenly felt a hand laid on his shoulder. On turning, Ellen stood
before him, upright and motionless, like the white apparitions of the
German legends. He raised his head, and bent an inquiring glance on his
sister.
"You are not asleep, Ellen?"
"No," she answered in a voice soft as a bird's song. "Brother, my heart
is sad."
"What is the matter, Ellen? Why not enjoy a few hours of that repose so
necessary for you?"
"My heart is sad, I tell you, brother," she went on. "In vain do I seek
sleep--it flies far from me."
"Sister, tell me the cause of your sufferings, and perhaps I can appease
the grief that devours you."
"Can you not guess it?"
"I do not understand you."
She looked at him so sternly that he could not let his eyes fall.
"On the contrary, you understand me too well, Shaw," she said with a
sigh. "Your heart rejoices at this moment at the misfortune of the woman
you should defend."
The young man blushed.
"What can I do?" he murmured faintly.
"Everything, if you have the firm will," she exclaimed energetically.
"No," Shaw went on, shaking his head with discouragement; "the person of
whom you speak is the old man's prisoner. I cannot contend against my
father."
Ellen smiled contemptuously.
"You seek in vain to hide your thoughts from me," she said harshly. "I
read your heart as an open book: your sorrow is feigned, and you really
rejoice at the thought that in future you will constantly be by Doña
Clara's side."
"I!" he exclaimed with an angry start.
"Yes, you only see in her captivity a means to approach her. Your
selfish heart is secretly gladdened by that hope."
"You are harsh to me, sister. Heaven is my witness that, were it
possible, I would at once restore her the liberty torn from her."
"You can if you like."
"No, it is impossible. My father watches too closely over his prisoner."
"He will not distrust you, but allow you to approach her freely."
"What you ask of me is impossible."
"Because you will not, Shaw. Remember that women only love men in
proportion to the sacrifices they make for them: they despise cowards."
"But how to save her?"
"That is your affair, Shaw."
"At least give me some advice which will help me to escape from the
difficult position in which I find myself."
"In such serious circumstances your heart must guide you, and you must
only ask counsel of it."
"But the old one?" Shaw said hesitatingly.
"Our father will not know your movements. I take on myself to prevent
him noticing them."
"Good!" the young man remarked, half convinced; "but I do not know where
the maiden is hidden."
"I will tell you, if you swear to do all in your power to save her."
There was a moment of silence.
"I swear to obey you, Ellen. If I do not succeed in carrying the girl
off, I will at any rate employ all my intellect to obtain that result.
Speak, then, without fear."
"Doña Clara is confined at the Rancho del Coyote: she was intrusted to
Andrés Garote."
"Ah, ah!" the young man said, as if speaking to himself, "I did not
fancy her so near us."
"You will save her?"
"At all events I will try to free her from the hands of the man who
guards her."
"Good!" the maiden remarked; "I now recognise you. Lose no time: my
father's absence alarms me. Perhaps at this moment he is preparing a
safer hiding place for his prisoner."
"Your idea is excellent, sister. Who knows whether it is not too late
now to tear from the old man the prey he covets?"
"When do you intend to start?"
"At once: I have not a moment to lose. If the old man returned I should
be compelled to remain here. But who will keep watch while my brothers
sleep?"
"I will," the maiden answered resolutely.
"Whence arises the interest you feel in this woman, sister, as you do
not know her?" the young man asked in surprise.
"She is a woman, and unhappy. Are not those reasons sufficient?"
"Perhaps so," Shaw remarked doubtfully.
"Child!" Ellen muttered, "Can you not read in your own heart, the motive
of my conduct toward this stranger?"
The young savage started at this remark.
"It is true!" He exclaimed passionately. "Pardon me, sister! I am mad;
but I love you, and you know me better than I do myself."
And rising hurriedly, he kissed his sister, threw his rifle over his
shoulder, and ran off in the direction of Santa Fe.
When he had disappeared in the gloom, and the sound of his footsteps had
died out in the distance, the girl fell on the ground, muttering in a
low, sad voice:
"Will he succeed?"
CHAPTER XII.
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.
Red Cedar did not remain long under the effect of the startling insult
he had received. Pride, wrath, and, before all, the desire to avenge
himself restored his strength, and a few minutes after Don Pablo
Zarate's departure the squatter had regained all his coolness and
audacity.
"You see, señor padre," he said, addressing the monk, "that our little
plans are known to our enemies; we must, therefore, make haste if we do
not wish to see persons break in here, from whom it is of the utmost
importance to conceal ourselves. Tomorrow night at the latest, perhaps
before, we shall start. Do not stir from here till my return. Your face
is too well known at Santa Fe for you to venture to show it in the
streets without imprudence."
"Hum!" the monk muttered, "That demon, whom I fancied dead, is a rude
adversary. Fortunately we shall soon have nothing more to fear from his
father, for I hardly know how we should get out of it."
"If the son has escaped us," Red Cedar said with an ugly smile, "that is
fortunately not the case with the father. Don't be alarmed; Don Miguel
will cause us no further embarrassment."
"I wish it most earnestly, _canarios!_ for he is a determined man; but I
confess to you that I shall not be entirely at my ease till I have seen
him fall beneath the bullets of the soldiers."
"You will not have long to wait. General Ventura has ordered me to go
and meet the regiment of dragoons he expects, in order to hurry them on,
and bring them into the town this very night, if possible. So soon as
the governor has an imposing force at his disposal he will no longer
fear a revolt on the part of the troops, and give the order for
execution without delay."
"May Heaven grant it! But," he added with a sigh of regret, "what a pity
that most of our scamps deserted us! We should have almost arrived at
the placer by this time, and been safe from the vengeance of our
enemies."
"Patience, señor padre; all is for the best, perhaps, trust to me.
Andrés, my horse."
"You will start at once, then?"
"Yes. I recommend you to watch carefully over our prisoner."
The monk shrugged his shoulders.
"Our affairs are tolerably well embarrassed already; then why burden
ourselves with a woman?"
The squatter frowned.
"That is my business," he exclaimed in a peremptory tone. "Keep all
stupid observations to yourself. A thousand devils! I know what I am
about. That woman will possibly prove our safeguard at a later date."
And mounting his horse, Red Cedar galloped out of Santa Fe.
"Hum!" Andrés Garote said as he watched him depart, "what a diabolical
eye! Though I have known him several years, I never saw him like that
before. How will all this end?"
Without further remarks he arranged matters in the rancho, repairing as
well as he could the disorder caused by the previous struggle; then he
took a look round him. The monk, with his elbows on the table and a
cigarette in his mouth, was drinking the fluid left in the bottle,
doubtless to console himself for the _navajada_ with which Don Pablo had
favoured him.
"Why, señor padre," the ranchero said in an insinuating voice, "do you
know that it is hardly five o'clock?"
"Do you think so?" the other answered for the sake of saying something.
"Does not the time seem to you to go very slowly?"
"Extraordinarily so."
"If you liked we could easily shorten it."
"In what way?"
"Oh, for instance, with these."
And Andrés drew from his boot a pack of greasy cards, which he
complacently spread out on the table.
"Ah! That is a good idea," the monk exclaimed with sparkling eyes. "Let
us have a game of monte."
"At your orders."
"Don Andrés, you are a most worthy gentlemen. What shall we play for?"
"Ah, hang it! That is true; we must play for something," the ranchero
said, scratching his head.
"The merest trifle, simply to render the game interesting."
"Yes, but to do that man must possess the trifle."
"Do not let that trouble you. If you permit me I will make you a
proposal."
"Do so, señor. You are a remarkable clever man, and can have none but
bright ideas."
The monk bowed to his flattering insinuation.
"This is it: we will play, if you like for the share of the gold we
shall receive when we reach the placer."
"Done!" the ranchero shouted enthusiastically.
"Well," the monk said, drawing from his pocket a pack of cards no less
dirty than the others, "we can at any rate kill time."
"What! You have cards too?" the ranchero remarked.
"Yes, and quite new, as you see." Andrés bowed with an air of
conviction.
The game began at once, and soon the two men were completely absorbed in
the combinations of the _seis de copas,_ the _as de bastos_, the _dos de
oro_, and the _cuatro d'espadas_. The monk, who had no necessity to
feign at this moment, as he was in the company of a man thoroughly
acquainted with him, yielded frenziedly to his ruling passion. In
Mexico, and throughout Spanish America, the _angelus_ rings at sunset.
In those countries, where there is no twilight, night arrives without
transition, so that ere the bell has done tinkling the gloom is dense.
At the last stroke of the angelus the game ceased, as if by common
agreement between the two men, and they threw their cards on the table.
Although Garote was a passed master in trickery, and had displayed all
his science, he found in the monk so skilful an adversary that, after
more than three hours of an obstinate struggle, they both found
themselves as little advanced as at the outset. The monk, however, on
coming to the rancho, had an object which Red Cedar was far from
suspecting.
Fray Ambrosio rested his arms on the table, bent his body slightly
forward, and while carelessly playing with the cards, which he amused
himself by sorting, he said to the ranchero, as he fixed a scrutinising
glance upon him,--
"Shall we talk a little, Don Andrés?"
"Willingly," the latter replied, who had partly risen, but now fell back
on his chair.
By a secret foreboding Andrés Garote had guessed that the monk wished to
make some important proposal to him. Hence, thanks to that instinctive
intuition which rogues possess for certain things, the two men read each
other's thoughts. Fray Ambrosio bit his lips, for the gambusino's
intelligence startled him. Still the latter bent upon him a glance so
full of stupid meaning, that he continued to make a confidant of him, as
it were involuntarily.
"Señor Don Andrés," he said in a soft and insinuating voice, "what a
happiness that your poor brother, on dying, revealed to me the secret of
the rich placer, which he concealed even from yourself!"
"It is true," Andrés answered, turning slightly pale; "it was very
fortunate, señor padre. For my part, I congratulate myself on it daily."
"Is it not so? For without it the immense fortune would have been lost
to you and all else."
"It is terrible to think of."
"Well, at this moment I have a horrible fear."
"What is it, señor padre?"
"That we have deferred our departure too long, and that some of those
European vagabonds we were speaking of just now may have discovered our
placer. Those scoundrels have a peculiar scent for finding gold."
"_Caray_, señor padre!" Andrés said, striking the table with a feigned
grief (for he knew very well what the monk was saying was only a clever
way of attaining his real point), "that would drive me mad--an affair so
well managed hitherto."
"That is true," Fray Ambrosio said in corroboration. "I could never
console myself."
"_Demonios_! I have as great an interest in it as yourself, señor
padre," the gambusino replied with superb coolness. "You know that an
uninterrupted succession of unfortunate speculations robbed me of my
fortune, and I hoped thus to regain it at a stroke."
At these words Fray Ambrosio had incredible difficulty in repressing a
smile; for it was a matter of public notoriety that señor Don Andrés
Garote was a lepero, who, as regarded fortune, had never possessed a
farthing of patrimony; that throughout his life he had never been aught
but an adventurer; and that the unlucky speculations of which he
complained were simply an ill luck at monte, which had recently stripped
him of 20,000 piastres, acquired Heaven alone knew how. But señor Don
Andrés Garote was a man of unequalled bravery, gifted with a fertile and
ready mind, whom the accidents of life had compelled to live for a
lengthened period on the _llanos_ (prairies), whose paths he knew as
thoroughly as he did the tricks of those who dwelt on them. Hence, and
for many other reasons, Andrés Garote was an invaluable comrade for Fray
Ambrosio, who had also a bitter revenge to take on the monte table,
because he pretended to place the most sincere faith in what it pleased
his honourable mate to say touching his lost fortune.
"However," he said, after an instant's reflection, "supposing that the
placer is intact, and that no one has discovered it, we shall have a
long journey to reach it."
"Yes," the gambusino remarked, significantly; "the road is difficult and
broadcast with perils innumerable."
"We must march with our chins on our shoulders, and finger on the rifle
trigger--"
"Fight nearly constantly with wild beasts or Indians--"
"In a word, do you not believe that the woman Red Cedar has carried off
will prove a horrid bore?"
"Dreadfully so," Andrés made answer, with an intelligent glance.
"What is to be done?"
"Hang it! That is difficult to say."
"Still we cannot run the risk, on account of a wretched woman, of having
our hair raised by the Indians."
"That's true enough."
"Is she here?"
"Yes," the gambusino said, pointing to a door; "in that room."
"Hum!"
"You remarked--"
"Nothing."
"Could we not--"
"What?"
"It is perhaps difficult," Andrés continued, with feigned hesitation.
"Explain yourself."
The gambusino seemed to make up his mind.
"Suppose we restore her to her family?" he said.
"I have thought of that already."
"That is strange."
"It must be all managed very cleverly."
"And the relations pay a proper ransom."
"That is what I meant to say.".
There was a silence.
Decidedly these two honourable persons were made to understand one
another.
"But who is to undertake this delicate mission?" asked the monk.
"I, _con mil demonios!_" the gambusino exclaimed, his eyes sparkling
with greed at the thought of the rich ransom he would demand.
"But if Red Cedar were to find out," the monk remarked, "that we
surrendered his prisoner?"
"Who will tell him?"
"I am sure I shan't."
"Nor I."
"It is very easy; the girl will have escaped."
"Quite true."
"Do not let us lose time, then. You have a horse?"
"I have two."
"Bravo! You will place Doña Clara on one, and mount the other yourself."
"And go straight to the Hacienda de la Noria."
"That is it. Don Pablo will be delighted to recover his sister, whom he
expected never to see again, and will not haggle over the price he pays
for her deliverance."
"Famous! In that way we run no risk of not reaching the placer, as our
party will only consist of men."
"Excellently reasoned!"
Andrés Garote rose with a smile which would have caused the monk to
reflect, had he seen it; but at the same moment the latter was rubbing
his hands, saying in a low voice, and with a most satisfied air,--
"Now, my scamp, I've got you."
What secret thought possessed these two men, who were carrying on a
mutual deceit, none save themselves could have said. The gambusino
approached the door of the room where Doña Clara was confined, and put
the key in the lock. At this moment two vigorous blows were dealt on the
door of the rancho, which had been carefully bolted after Red Cedar's
departure. The two accomplices started.
"Must I open?" Andrés asked.
"Yes," the monk answered; "hesitation or refusal might create alarm. In
our position we must foresee everything."
The ranchero went to open the door, which the newcomer threatened to
break in. A man walked in, who took a careful glance around, then doffed
his hat and bowed. The confederates exchanged a glance of vexation on
recognising him, for he was no other than Shaw, Red Cedar's youngest
son.
"I am afraid I disturb you, gentlemen," the young man said, with an
ironical smile.
"Not at all," Andrés made answer; "on the contrary, we are delighted to
see you."
"Thanks!"
And the young man fell back into a butaca.
"You are very late at Santa Fe," the monk remarked.
"It is true," the American said, with some embarrassment; "I am looking
for my father, and fancied I should find him here."
"He was so a few hours back, but he was obliged to leave us."
"Ah!"
This exclamation was rather drawn from the young man by the necessity he
felt of replying, than through any interest he took in the information
afforded him. He was evidently preoccupied; but Fray Ambrosio did not
appear to notice it, as he continued,--
"Yes: it appears that his Excellency the Governor ordered your father to
go and meet a regiment of dragoons intended to reinforce the garrison,
and hasten its march."
"That is true; I forgot it."
The monk and the miner did not at all understand the American's conduct,
and lost themselves in conjectures as to the reasons that brought him to
the rancho. They guessed instinctively that what he said about his
father was only a pretext or means of introduction; and that a powerful
motive, he would not or dared not avow, had brought him. For his part,
the young man, in coming to the Rancho del Coyote, where he knew that
Doña Clara was imprisoned, expected to find Andrés alone, with whom he
hoped to come to an understanding in some way or another. The presence
of the monk disturbed all his plans. Still, time was slipping away he
must make up his mind, and, before all, profit by Red Cedar's
providential absence, which offered him an opportunity he could hardly
dare to hope again.
CHAPTER XIII.
A STORMY DISCUSSION.
Shaw was not timid, as we have said--he ought rather be accused of the
opposite excess; he was not the man, once his resolution was formed, to
let anything soever turn him from it. His hesitation was not long; he
suddenly rose, and violently stamping his rifle butt on the ground,
looked at the two men, while saying in a firm voice,--
"Be frank, my presence here at this hour astonishes you, and you ask
yourselves what cause can have brought me."
"Sir," the monk said, with a certain degree of hesitation rendered
highly natural by the young man's tone.
"Pardon me," Shaw exclaimed, interrupting him, "the cause you will seek
in vain. I will tell you: I have come to deliver Doña Clara."
"Can it be possible?" the two men exclaimed with stupefaction.
"It is so; whether you like it or not, I care little. I am the man to
hold my own against both of you, and no one can prevent me restoring the
maiden to her father, as I have resolved on doing."
"What do I hear?" said Fray Ambrosio.
"Hum!" the young man continued quickly, "Believe me, do not attempt any
useless resistance, for I have resolved, if needs must, to pass over
your bodies to success."
"But we have not the slightest wish--"
"Take care," he interrupted him in a voice full of menace and frowning,
"I will only leave this house accompanied by her I wish to save."
"Sir," the monk remarked, in an authoritative voice which momentarily
quelled the young savage, "two words of explanation."
"Make haste!" he answered, "For I warn you that my patience is
exhausted."
"I do not insist on your listening any length of time. You have come
here, you say, with the intention of delivering Doña Clara?"
"Yes," he answered impatiently, "and if you attempt to oppose it--"
"Pardon me," the monk interrupted, "such a determination on your part
naturally surprises us."
"Why so?" the young man said, raising his head haughtily.
"Because," Fray Ambrosio answered tranquilly, "You are the son of Red
Cedar, and it is at least I strange that--"
"Enough talking," Shaw exclaimed violently; "will you or not give me up
her I have come to seek?"
"I must know, in the first place, what you intend doing with her.
"How does that concern you?"
"More than you imagine. Since that girl has been a prisoner I
constituted myself--if not her guardian, for the dress I wear forbids
that--her defender; in that quality I have the right of knowing for what
reason you, the son of the man who tore her from her family, have come
so audaciously to demand her surrender to you, and what your object is
in acting thus?"
The young man had listened to those remarks with an impatience that
became momentarily more visible; it could be seen that he made
superhuman efforts to restrain himself. When the monk stopped, he looked
at him for a moment with a strange expression, then walked up so close
as almost to touch him, drew a pair of pistols from his girdle and
pointed them at the monk.
"Surrender Doña Clara to me," he said, in a low and menacing voice.
Fray Ambrosio had attentively followed all the American's movements, and
when the latter put the pistol muzzles to his chest, the monk, with an
action rapid as lightning, also drew two pistols from his girdle, and
placed them, on his adversary's chest. There was a moment of supreme
expectation, of indescribable agony; the two men were motionless, face
to face panting, each with his fingers on a trigger, pale, and their
brows dank with cold perspiration. Andrés Garote, his lips curled by an
ironical smile, and his arms crossed, carelessly leaned against a table,
watching this scene which had for him all the attractions of a play.
All at once the door of the rancho, which had not been fastened again
after the squatter's entry was violently thrown back and a man appeared.
It was Father Seraphin. At a glance he judged the position and boldly
threw himself between the foemen, hurling them back, but not uttering a
word. The two men recoiled, and lowered their weapons, but continued to
menace each other with their glances.
"What!" the missionary said in a deep voice, "Have I arrived just in
time to prevent a double murder, gentlemen? In Heaven's name, hide those
homicidal weapons; do not stand opposite each other like wild beasts
preparing for a leap."
"Withdraw, father; you have nothing to do here. Let me treat this man as
he deserves," the squatter answered, casting at the missionary a
ferocious glance--"his life belongs to me."
"Young man," the priest replied, "the life of a fellow being belongs
only to God, who has the right to deprive, him of it; lower your
weapons"--and turning to Fray Ambrosio, he said to him in a cutting
voice, "and you who dishonour the frock you wear, throw away those
pistols which sully your hands--a minister of the altar should not
employ other weapons than the Gospel."
The monk bowed, and caused his pistols to disappear, saying in a soft
and cautious voice, "My father, I was compelled to defend my life which
that maniac assailed. Heaven is my witness that I reprove these violent
measures, too frequently employed in this unhappy country; but this man
came into the house with threats on his lips; he insisted on our
delivering a wretched girl whom this caballero," he said, pointing to
the gambusino, "and myself did not think proper to surrender."
Andrés corroborated the monk's words by a nod of the head.
"I wish to save that young girl from your hands," Shaw said, "and
restore her to her father."
"Of whom are you speaking, my friend?" the missionary asked with a
secret beating of his heart.
"Of whom should I speak, save Doña Clara de Zarate, whom these villains
retain here by force?"
"Can it be possible?" Father Seraphin exclaimed in amazement. "Doña
Clara here?"
"Ask those men," Shaw answered, roughly, as he angrily struck the butt
of his rifle against the ground.
"Is it true?" the priest inquired.
"It is," the gambusino answered.
Father Seraphin frowned, and his pale forehead was covered with febrile
ruddiness.
"Sir," he said, in a voice choking with indignation. "I summon you, in
the name of that God whom you serve, and whose minister you lay claim to
being, to restore at once to liberty the hapless girl whom you have so
unworthily imprisoned, in defiance of all laws, human and divine. I
engage to deliver her into the hands of those who bewail her loss."
Fray Ambrosio bowed; he let his eyes fall, and said in a hypocritical
voice--
"Father, you are mistaken as regards myself. I had nothing to do with
the carrying off of that poor child, which on the contrary, I opposed to
the utmost of my power; and that is so true, father," he added, "that at
the moment when this young madman arrived, the worthy gambusino and
myself had resolved, at all risks, on restoring Doña Clara to her
family."
"I should wish to believe you, sir; if I am mistaken, as you say, you
will forgive me, for appearances were against you; it only depends on
yourself to produce a perfect justification by carrying out my wishes."
"You shall be satisfied, father," the monk replied. At a signal from him
Garote left the room. During the few words interchanged between the two
men, Shaw remained motionless, hesitating, not knowing what he ought to
do; but he suddenly made up his mind, threw his rifle over his shoulder,
and turned to the missionary.
"Father," he said respectfully, "my presence is now needless here.
Farewell; my departure will prove to you the purity of my intentions."
And turning suddenly on his heel, he hurried out of the rancho. A few
moments after his departure the gambusino returned, Doña Clara following
him.
Doña Clara no longer wore the dress of the whites, for Red Cedar, in
order to render her unrecognizable, had compelled her to don the Indian
garb, which the maiden wore with an innate grace which heightened its
strange elegance. Like all Indian squaws, she was attired in two white
chemises of striped calico--the one fastened around the neck, fell to
the hips; while the other, drawn in at the waist, descended to her
ankles. Her neck was adorned with collars of fine pearls, mingled with
those small shells called wampum, and employed by the Indians as money.
Her arms and ankles were surrounded by wide circles of gold, and a small
diadem of the same metal relieved the pale tint of her forehead.
Moccasins of deer hide, embroidered with wool and beads of every colour
imprisoned her small and high-arched feet.
As she entered the room, a shadow of melancholy and sadness spread over
her face, adding, were that possible, a further charm to her person. On
seeing the missionary, Doña Clara uttered a cry of joy, and rushed
toward him, fell into his arms, and murmured in a heart-rending voice:--
"Father! save me! save me!"
"Be calm, my daughter!" the priest said to her, gently. "You have
nothing more to fear now that I am near you."
"Come!" she exclaimed, wildly, "Let us fly from this accursed house, in
which I have suffered so greatly."
"Yes, my daughter, we will go; set your mind at rest."
"You see, father," Fray Ambrosio said, hypocritically, "that I did not
deceive you."
The missionary cast at the monk a glance of undefinable meaning.
"I trust that you spoke truly," he replied; "the God who gauges hearts
will judge you according to works. I will rescue this maiden at once."
"Do so, father; I am happy to know her under your protection."
And picking up the cloak which Don Pablo left after blinding Red Cedar,
he placed it delicately on the shuddering shoulders of Doña Clara, in
order to conceal her Indian garb. Father Seraphin drew her arm through
his own, and led her from the rancho. Ere long they disappeared in the
darkness. Fray Ambrosio looked after them as long as he could see them,
and then re-entered the room, carefully bolting the door after him.
"Well," Andrés Garote asked him, "what do you think, señor Padre, of all
that has happened?"
"Perhaps things are better as they are."
"And Red Cedar?"
"I undertake to render ourselves as white in his sight as the snows of
the Caffre de Perote."
"Hum! it will be difficult."
"Perhaps so."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MYSTERY.
On leaving the Rancho del Coyote, Red Cedar dug his spurs into his
horse's flanks, and galloped in a south-western direction. So soon as he
was out of the town he turned to the left, took a narrow path that ran
round the walls, pulled up his horse, and advanced with the utmost
caution. Throwing suspicious glances on either side, he went on thus for
about three-quarters of an hour, when he reached a house, in one of the
windows of which burned three wax tapers.
The lights thus arranged were evidently a signal for the squatter, for
so soon as he came to the house he stopped and dismounted, attached his
horse to a larch-tree, and prudently concealing himself behind a
thicket, imitated thrice at equal intervals the hu-hu of an owl. The
lights burning in the window were extinguished, as if by enchantment.
The night was gloomy, only a few stars studded the vault of heaven; a
leaden silence brooded over the plain, which appeared quite solitary. At
this moment a voice could be heard from the house which Red Cedar was
watching so carefully. The squatter listened; the speaker leaned for a
second out of the window looked cautiously round, and disappeared
muttering loud enough for the American to overhear--
"All is quiet in the neighbourhood."
"Still," the squatter said, without showing himself, "the coyotes prowl
about the plain."
"Are you coming or going?" the man at the window continued.
"Both," the squatter answered, still hidden behind his bush.
"You can come on, for you are expected."
"I know it; hence here I am."
While making this answer, the squatter left his hiding place, and placed
himself before the door with folded arms, like a man who has nothing to
fear.
The door was cautiously opened; a man emerged, carefully wrapped up in,
a wide cloak, which only allowed eyes to be seen, that flashed in the
gloom like a jackal's. This person walked straight up to Red Cedar.
"Well," he asked, in a low voice, "have you reflected?"
"Yes."
"And what is the result of your reflections?"
"I refuse."
"Still?"
"More than ever."
"Take care."
"I do not care, Don Melchior, for I am not afraid of you."
"No names!" the stranger exclaimed, impatiently.
"We are alone."
"No one is ever alone in the desert."
"That is true," Red Cedar muttered. "Let us return to our business."
"It is simple--give and give."
"Hum! You get to work very fast; unfortunately it cannot be so."
"Why not?"
"Why, because I am growing tired of constantly taking in my nets game by
which others profit, and which I ought to keep as a safeguard."
"You call that girl a guarantee?"
"By Heaven! what else do you mean to make of her?"
"Do not compare me with you, scoundrel!"
"Where is the difference between us? I am a scoundrel, I grant; but, by
heaven, you are another, my master, however powerful you may be."
"Listen, caballero!" the stranger answered, in a cutting voice. "I will
lose no more of my time in discoursing with you. I want that girl, and
will have her, whatever you may do to prevent me."
"Good; in that case you declare war against me?" the squatter said, with
a certain tinge of alarm, which he tried in vain to conceal.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders.
"We have known one another long enough to be perfectly well acquainted;
we can only be friends or foes. Is not that your opinion?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, hand Doña Clara over to me, and I will give you the papers
which--"
"Enough!" the squatter said, sharply. "Have you those papers about you?"
The stranger burst into a laugh.
"Do you take me for such a fool?" he said.
"I do not understand you."
"I will not insult you by believing you. No, I have not those papers
about me. I am not such an ass as to risk assassination at your hands."
"What would your death profit me?"
"Hang it all! If it were only my scalp you would be sure to receive at
least fifty dollars for it."
At this mournful jest the squatter began laughing.
"I did not think of that," he said,
"Listen to me, Red Cedar, and print the words on your memory."
"Speak."
"In a month from today, hour for hour, day for day, wherever you may be,
I shall present myself to you."
"For what purpose?' the squatter asked impudently.
"To repeat my demand with reference to the prisoner."
"Then, as now, I shall reply No, my master."
"Perhaps so. Live and learn. Now good-bye, and may the devil, your
patron saint, preserve you in good health until our next meeting. You
know that I have you tight; so consider yourself warned."
"Good, good! Threats do not frighten me. _Demonios_, since I have been
traversing the desert, I have found myself opposed to enemies quite as
dangerous as you, and yet I managed to get quit of them."
"That is possible, Red Cedar; but believe me, meditate carefully on my
words."
"I repeat that your threats do not frighten me."
"I do not threaten, I warn you."
"Hum! Well, then, listen in your turn. In the desert, every man armed
with a good rifle has nothing to fear from whomsoever."
"What next?" the stranger interrupted him, in a sarcastic voice.
"Well, my rifle is excellent, I have a sure aim, and I say no more."
"Nonsense, you are mad! I defy you to kill me!"
"Hang it, though, what can be your motive for wishing to have this girl
in your power?"
"That is no affair of yours. I have no explanations due to you. Enough
for you to know that I want her."
"You shall not have her."
"We shall see. Good-bye, Red Cedar."
"Good-bye, Don Melchior, or whatever be the name you please to bear."
The stranger made no reply, but turned his head with a gesture of
contempt, and whistled. A man emerged from the house, holding a horse by
the bridle; at one bound the stranger reached the saddle, and ordered
the servant to withdraw.
"Farewell, _Compadre_, remember our appointment."
And loosing his reins, the stranger started at a gallop, not
condescending even to turn his head. Red Cedar looked after him with an
indescribable expression of rage.
"Oh," he muttered in a low voice, "demon! Shall I never free myself from
your clutches?"
And with a motion rapid as thought he shouldered his rifle, and aimed at
the departing man. All at once the latter turned his horse, and stood
right opposite Red Cedar.
"Mind not to miss me!" he cried, with a burst of laughter that caused a
cold perspiration to bead on the bandit's forehead.
The latter let his rifle fall, saying in a hollow voice: "He is right,
and I am mad! If I only had the papers!"
The stranger waited for a moment calm and motionless; then he started
again and soon disappeared in the darkness. Red Cedar stood with his
body bowed forward, and his ears on the watch, so long as the horse's
hoofs could be heard; then he returned to his own steed, and bounded
into the saddle.
"Now to go and warn the dragoons," he said, and pushed on.
The squatter had scarce departed ere several men appeared from either
side; they were Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo on the right;
Unicorn and Eagle-wing on the left. Valentine and his friends were
astonished at meeting the Comanche chief, whom they believed gone back
to his camp; but the sachem explained to them, in a few words, how, at
the moment he was crossing the spot where they now were, he had heard
Red Cedar's voice, and concealed himself in the shrubs in order to
overhear the squatter's colloquy with his strange friend. Valentine had
done the same; but, unfortunately, the party had been greatly
disappointed, for the squatter's conversation remained to them an
enigma, of which they sought the key in vain.
"'Tis strange," Valentine remarked, as he passed his hand several times
across his forehead. "I do not know where I have seen the man just now
talking here with Red Cedar, but I have a vague reminiscence of having
met him before, where and under what circumstance I try, though in vain,
to recall."
"What shall we do?" Don Pablo asked.
"Hang it, what we agreed on;" and turning to the chief, he said, "Good
luck, brother, I believe we shall save our friend."
"I am sure of it," the Indian replied, laconically.
"May heaven hear you, brother," Valentine continued. "Act! While, on
your side, you watch the town for fear of treason. We then will ambush
ourselves on the road the gambusinos must take, in order to know
positively the direction in which they are proceeding. Till tomorrow,
chief!"
"Stop!" a panting voice exclaimed, and a man suddenly appeared in the
midst of them.
"Father Seraphin!" Valentine said in a surprise. "What chance brings you
this way?"
"I was looking for you."
"What do you want with me?"
"To give you some good news."
"Speak! Speak quickly, father! Has Don Miguel left his prison?"
"Alas! Not yet; but his daughter is free!"
"Doña Clara free!" Valentine shouted joyously. "Heaven be blessed! Where
is she?"
"She is temporarily in safety, be assured of that; but let me give you a
warning, which may perhaps prove useful to you."
"Speak! Speak!"
"By order of the governor, Red Cedar has gone to meet the regiment of
dragoons, coming up to reinforce the Santa Fe garrison."
"_Caramba_," Valentine said, "are you sure of your statement, father?"
"I am: in my presence, the men who carried off Doña Clara spoke about
it."
"All is lost if these soldiers arrive."
"Yes," the missionary said; "but, how to prevent it?"
Curumilla lightly touched the leader's arm.
"What do you want, chief!"
"The Comanches are warriors," Curumilla answered, curtly.
"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed, and tapping his forehead with delight, "that
is true, chief; you save us."
Curumilla smiled with pleasure.
"While you go in pursuit of the soldiers," said Don Pablo, "as I can be
of no service to you, I will accompany Father Seraphin to my poor
sister, whom I have not seen so long, and am eager to embrace."
"Do so," Valentine answered. "At daybreak you will bring Doña Clara to
the camp, that I may myself deliver her to her father."
"That is agreed."
Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn rushed out in the plain, while Father
Seraphin and Don Pablo returned to the town. The two gentlemen, anxious
to join the girl, did not perceive that they were closely watched by an
individual, who followed their every movement, while careful not to be
seen by them. It was Nathan, Red Cedar's eldest son.
How was that man there?
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE AMBUSCADE.
The nigh breeze had swept the clouds away; the sky, of a deep azure, was
studded with an infinity of stars; the night was limpid, the atmosphere
so transparent as to allow the slightest varieties of the landscape to
be distinguished. About four leagues from Santa Fe, a numerous band of
horsemen was following a path scarce traced in the tall grass, which
approached the town with countless turns and windings. These horsemen,
who marched in rather decent order, were nearly 600 in number, and
formed the regiment of dragoons so anxiously expected by General
Ventura.
About ten paces ahead rode four or five officers gaily chatting
together, among whom was the colonel. The regiment continued its march
slowly, advancing cautiously, through fear of losing its way in a
perfectly strange country. The colonel and his officers who had always
fought in the States bordering the Atlantic, found themselves now for
the first time in these savage countries.
"Caballeros," the colonel suddenly remarked, "I confess to you that I am
completely ignorant as to our whereabouts. Can any one of you throw a
light on the subject? This road is fearful, it seems to lead nowhere,
and I am afraid we have lost our way."
"We are all as ignorant as yourself on that head, colonel," an officer
answered, "not one of us could say where we are."
"On my word!" the colonel went on, taking a glance of satisfaction
around, "We are not in a hurry to reach Santa Fe. I suppose it makes
little difference whether we get there today or tomorrow. I believe that
the best thing for us to do is to bivouac here for the rest of the
night; at sunrise we will start again."
"You are right, colonel," the officer said, whom he seemed to address
most particularly, "a few hours' delay is of no consequence, and we run
the risk of going out of our course."
"Give the order to halt."
The officer immediately obeyed; the soldiers, wearied with a long
night's march, greeted with shouts of joy the order to stop. They
dismounted. The horses were unsaddled and picketed, campfires were
lighted, in less than an hour the bivouac was arranged.
The colonel, in desiring to camp for the night, had a more serious fear
than that of losing his way; it was that of falling in with a party of
_Indios bravos._
The colonel was brave, and had proved it on many occasions; grown gray
in harness, he was an old soldier who feared nothing in the world
particularly; but accustomed to warfare in the interior of the Republic,
had never seen opposed to him any but civilised foes, he professed for
the Indians that instinctive fear which all the Mexicans entertain, and
he would not risk a fight with an Apache or Comanche war party in the
middle of the night, in a country whose resources he did not know, and
run the risk of having his regiment cut to pieces by such Protean
enemies. On the other hand, he was unaware that the governor of Santa Fe
had such pressing need of his presence, and this authorised him in
acting with the utmost precaution. Still, as soon as the bivouac was
established, and the sentries posted, the colonel sent off a dozen
resolute men under an Alferez, to trot up the country and try to procure
a guide.
We will observe, in passing, that in Spanish America, so soon as you
leave the capitals, such as Lima, or Mexico, roads, such as we
understand them in Europe, no longer exist; you only find paths traced,
in nine cases out of ten, by the footprints of wild beasts, and which
are so entangled one with the other, that, unless you have been long
accustomed to them, it is almost impossible to find your way. The
Spaniards, we grant, laid out wide and firm roads, but since the War of
Independence, they had been cut up, deteriorated and so abandoned by the
neglect of the ephemeral governments that have followed each other in
Mexico, that with the exception of the great highways of communication
in the interior of the country, the rest had disappeared under the
herbage.
The little squad of troopers sent out to beat up the country had started
at a gallop, but it soon reduced its pace, and the soldiers and sergeant
began laughing and talking, caring little for the important mission with
which they were intrusted. The moon rose on the horizon, shedding her
fantastic rays over the ground. As we have said, it was one of those
lovely nights of the American desert full of strange odours. A majestic
silence hovered over the plain, only disturbed at intervals by those
sounds, without any known cause, which are heard on the savannahs, and
which seem to be the respiration of the sleeping world. Suddenly the
mockingbird sung twice, and its plaintive and soft song resounded
melodiously through the air.
"Hallo," one of the dragoons said, addressing his comrade, "that's a
bird that sings very late."
"An evil omen," the other said with a shake of his head.
"_Canarios_! What omen are you talking about, comrade?"
"I have always heard say," the second, speaker remarked sententiously,
"that when you hear a bird sing on your left at night it predicts
misfortune."
"The deuce confound you and your prognostics."
At this moment the song, which appeared previously some distance off,
could be heard much more close, and seemed to come from some trees on
the side of the path the dragoons were following. The Alferez raised his
head and stopped, as if mechanically trying to explain the sound that
smote his ears; but all became silent again, so he shook his head and
continued his conversation. The detachment had been out more than an
hour. During this long stroll, the soldiers had discovered nothing
suspicious; as for the guide they sought, it is needless to say that
they had not found him, for they had not met a living soul. The Alferez
was about to give orders to return to camp, when one of the troopers
pointed out to him some heavy, black forms, apparently prowling about
unsuspiciously.
"What on earth can that be?" the officer asked, after carefully
examining what was pointed out to him.
"_Caspita_," one of the dragoons exclaimed, "that is easy to see; they
are browsing deer!"
"Deer!" said the Alferez, in whom the hunter's instinct was suddenly
aroused, "there are at least thirty; suppose we try to catch some."
"It is difficult."
"Pshaw!" another soldier shouted, "It is light enough for each of us to
send them a bullet."
"You must by no means use your carbines," the Alferez interposed
sharply; "if our shots, re-echoed through the mountains, caught the ears
of the Indians, who are probably ambushed in the thickets, we should be
ruined."
"What is to be done, then?"
"Lasso them, _caspita_, as you wish to try and catch them."
"That is true; I did not think of that."
The dragoons, delighted at the opportunity of indulging in their
favourite sport, dismounted, fastened their horses to the roadside trees
and seized their lassos. They then advanced cautiously toward the deer,
which continued grazing tranquilly, without appearing to suspect that
enemies were so near them. On arriving at a short distance from the
game, the dragoons separated in order to have room for whirling their
lassos, and making a covering of each tree, they managed to approach
within fifteen paces of the animals. Then they stopped, exchanged
glances, carefully calculated the distance, and, at a signal from their
leader, sent their lassos whizzing through the air.
A strange thing happened at this moment, however. All the deer hides
fell simultaneously to the ground, displaying Valentine, Curumilla, and
a dozen Comanche warriors, who, profiting by the stupor of the troopers
at their extraordinary metamorphosis, hunted the hunters by throwing
lassos over their shoulders and hurled them to the ground. The ten
dragoons and their leader were prisoners.
"Well, my friends," Valentine said with a grin, "how do you like that
sort of fun?"
The startled dragoons made no reply, but allowed themselves to be bound;
one alone muttered between his teeth:--
"I was quite sure that villain of a mockingbird would bring us ill luck;
it sang on our left. That never deceives, _Canarios!_"
Valentine smiled at this sally. He then placed two fingers in his mouth
and imitated the cry of the mockingbird with such perfection, that the
soldier looked up at the trees. He had scarce ended, when a rustling was
heard among the bushes, and a man leaped between the hunters and their
prisoners. It was Eagle-wing, the sachem of the Coras.
CHAPTER XVI.
A FRIENDLY DISCUSSION.
After leaving his enemy (for the mysterious man with whom he had so
stormy a discussion could be nothing else), Red Cedar set out to join
the regiment, and hasten its arrival according to the orders he had
received. In spite of himself, the squatter was suffering from
extraordinary nervousness, and involuntarily he went over the various
points of the conversation with the person who took such precautions in
communicating with him. The threats he had proffered recurred to his
mind. It appeared as if the bandit, who feared nothing in the world, had
good reason, however, for trembling in the presence of the man who, for
more than an hour, had crushed him with his irony. What reason could be
so powerful as to produce so startling a change in this indomitable
being? No one could have said; for the squatter was master of his
secret, and would have mercilessly killed anybody he suspected of having
read even a portion of it.
The reason was, at any rate, very powerful; for after a few minutes of
deep thought, his hand let go the reins and his head fell on his breast:
the horse, no longer feeling the curb, stopped and began nibbling the
young tree shoots. The squatter did not notice this halt; he was
thinking, and hoarse exclamations now and then came from his chest, like
the growling of a wild beast. At length he raised his head.
"No," he shouted, as he directed a savage glance at the starlit sky,
"any struggle with that demon is impossible. I must fly, so soon as
possible, to the prairies of the far west. I will leave this implacable
foe; I will fly from him, as the lion does, carrying off my prey in my
claws. I have not a moment to lose. What do I care for the Spaniards and
their paltry disputes? General Ventura will seek another emissary, for
more important matters claim my attention. I must go to the Rancho del
Coyote, for there alone I shall find my revenge. Fray Ambrosio and his
prisoner can supply me with the weapons I need for the terrible contest
I am compelled to wage against that demon who comes straight from hell,
and whom I will send back there."
After having uttered these words in a low voice, in the fashion of men
wont to live in solitude, Red Cedar appeared to regain all his boldness
and energy. He looked savagely around, and, burying his spurs in his
horse's flanks, he started with the speed of an arrow in the direction
of the rancho, which he had left but a few hours previously, and where
his two accomplices still remained.
The monk and the gambusino, delighted at the unforeseen termination of
the scene we recently narrated, delighted above all at having got rid of
Doña Clara without being immediately mixed up in her escape, tranquilly
resumed their game of _monte_, and played with that mental satisfaction
produced by the certainty of having nothing to reproach themselves with,
disputing with the utmost obstinacy for the few reals they still
happened to have in their pockets. In the midst of a most interesting
game, they heard the furious gallop of a horse up the paved street.
Instinctively they stopped and listened; a secret foreboding seemed to
warn them that this horse was coming to the rancho, and that its rider
wanted them.
In truth, neither Fray Ambrosio nor Andrés Garote had a quiet
conscience, even supposing, which was very doubtful, that either had a
conscience at all, for they felt they were responsible to Red Cedar for
Doña Clara. Now that the maiden had escaped like, a bird flying from its
cage, their position with their terrible ally appeared to them in all
its desperate gravity. They did not conceal from themselves that the
squatter would demand a severe account of their conduct, and despite
their cunning and roguishness, they knew not how they should get out of
it. The sharp gallop of the approaching horse heightened their
perplexity. They dared not communicate their fears to each other, but
they sat with heads bent forward, foreseeing that they would soon have
to sustain a very firm attack.
The horse stopped short before the rancho; a man dismounted, and the
door shook beneath the tremendous blows of his fists.
"Hum!" the gambusino whispered, as he blew out the solitary candle that
illumined the room. "Who the deuce can come at this advanced hour of the
night! I have a great mind not to open."
Strange to say, Fray Ambrosio had apparently regained all his serenity.
With a smiling face, crossed arms, and back leaned against the wall, he
seemed to be a perfect stranger to what perplexed his mate so furiously.
At Garote's remark an ironical smile played round his pale lips for a
second, and he replied with the most perfect indifference--
"You are at liberty to act as you please, gossip; still I think it my
duty to warn you of one thing?"
"What is it?"
"That, if you do not open your door, the man, whoever he may be, now
battering it, is very capable of breaking it in, which would be a
decided nuisance for you."
"You speak very much at your ease, señor Padre," the gambusino answered,
ill-temperedly. "Suppose it be Red Cedar?"
"The greater reason to open the door. If you hesitate, he will begin to
suspect you; and then take care, for he is a man capable of killing you
like a dog."
"That is possible; but do you think that, in such a case, you will
escape with clean hands?"
Fray Ambrosio looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, but made no further
answer.
"Will you open, _demonios_?" a rough voice shouted.
"Red Cedar!" both men whispered.
"I am coming," Andrés replied, in a voice which terror caused to
tremble.
He rose unwillingly, and walked slowly towards the door, which the
squatter threatened to tear from its hinges.
"A little patience, caballero," the gambusino said, in that honeyed
voice peculiar to Mexicans when they meditate some roguery. "Coming,
coming."
And he began unbarring the door.
"Make haste!" the squatter howled, "For I am in a hurry."
"Hum! It is surely he!" the gambusino thought. "Who are you?" he asked.
"What! Who am I?" Red Cedar exclaimed, bounding with wrath. "Did you not
recognise me, or are you having a game with me?"
"I never have a game with anyone," Andrés replied, imperturbably: "but I
warn you that, although I fancy I recognise your voice, I shall not open
till you mention your name. The night is too far advanced for me to risk
receiving a suspicious person into my house."
"I will break the door down."
"Try it," the gambusino shouted boldly, "and by our Lady of Pilar I will
send a bullet through your head."
At this threat the squatter rushed against the door in incredible fury,
with the evident intention of breaking it in; but, contrary to his
expectations, though it creaked and groaned on its hinges, it did not
give way. Andrés Garote had indulged in a line of reasoning which was
far from being illogical, and revealed a profound knowledge of the human
heart. He had said to himself, that, as he must face Red Cedar's anger,
it would be better to let it reach its paroxysm at once so as to have
only the decreasing period to endure. He smiled at the American's
sterile attempts, then, and repeated his request.
"Well, then," the other said, furiously, "I am Red Cedar. Do you
recognise me now, you devil's own Gachupino?"
"Of course; I see that I can open without danger to your Excellency."
And the gambusino hurriedly drew back the bolts.
Red Cedar rushed into the room with a yell of fury, but Andrés had put
out the light. The squatter stopped, surprised by the gloom which
prevented him distinguishing any object.
"Hallo!" he said. "What is the meaning of this darkness? I can see
nothing."
"_Caspita_!" Andrés replied, impudently, "Do you think I amuse myself o'
nights by watching the moon? I was asleep, compadre, when you came to
arouse me with your infernal hammerings."
"That is possible," the squatter remarked; "but that was no reason for
keeping me so long at your door."
"Prudence is the mother of security. We must not let every comer enter
the rancho."
"Certainly not; I approve of that. Still, you must have recognised my
voice."
"True. Still I might be mistaken; it is difficult to know anyone through
the thickness of a door; that is why I wished you to give your name."
"Very good, then," Red Cedar said, as if tired of combating arguments
which did not convince him. "And where is Fray Ambrosio?"
"Here, I suppose."
"He has not left the rancho?"
"No; unless he took advantage of your arrival to do so."
"Why should he do that?"
"I don't know; you question, and I answer; that's all."
"Why does he not speak, if he is here?"
"He is possibly asleep."
"After the row I made, that is highly improbable."
"Hang it, he may be a hard sleeper."
"Hum!" the squatter snorted, suspiciously; "Light the candle."
Andrés struck a match, and Red Cedar looked eagerly round the room Fray
Ambrosio had disappeared.
"Where is the monk?" the American asked.
"I do not know: probably gone."
The squatter shook his head.
"All this is not clear," he muttered; "there is treachery behind it."
"That is possible," the gambusino answered, calmly.
Red Cedar bent on Andrés eyes that flashed with fury, and roughly seized
him by the throat.
"Answer, scoundrel?" he shouted. "What has become of Doña Clara?"
The gambusino struggled, though in vain, to escape from the clutch of
the squatter, whose fingers entered his flesh, and pressed him as in a
vice.
"Let me loose," he panted, "you are choking me!"
"Where is Doña Clara?"
"I do not know."
The squatter squeezed more tightly.
"You do not know!" he yelled.
"Aie!" Andrés whined, "I tell you I do not know."
"Malediction!" Red Cedar went on. "I will kill you, _picaro_, if you are
obstinate."
"Let that man go, and I will tell you all you wish to know," was said in
a firm voice by a hunter, who at this moment appeared on the threshold.
The two men turned in amazement.
"Nathan!" Red Cedar shouted on recognising his son. "What are you doing
here?"
"I will tell you, father," the young man said, as he entered the room.
CHAPTER XLI.
NATHAN.
Nathan was not asleep, as Ellen supposed, when she urged on Shaw to
devote himself to liberate Doña Clara, and he had listened attentively
to the conversation. Nathan was a man of about thirty years of age, who,
both physically and morally, bore a marked resemblance to his father.
Hence the old squatter had concentrated in him all the affection which
his uncultivated savage nature was capable of feeling. Since the fatal
night, when the chief of the Coras had avenged himself for the burning
of his village and the murder of its inhabitants, Nathan's character had
grown still more gloomy; a dull and deep hatred boiled in his heart
against the whole human race; he only dreamed of assassination: he had
sworn in his heart to revenge on all those who fell into his hands the
injury one man had inflicted on him; in a word, Nathan loved none and
hated everything.
When Shaw had disappeared among the bushes, and Ellen, after taking a
final glance around to convince herself that all was in order,
re-entered the hut that served her as a shelter, Nathan rose cautiously,
threw his rifle over his shoulder, and rushed after his brother. Another
reason urged him to foil Shaw and Ellen's plans; he had a double grudge
against Don Miguel--the first for the stab the Mexican gentlemen had
given his father; the second because Don Miguel had compelled him to
leave the forest in which his family had so daringly installed itself.
Convinced of the importance of the affair, and knowing the value the
squatter attached to carrying off the maiden, who was a most precious
hostage for him, Nathan did not lose a moment, but reached Santa Fe by
the most direct route, bounding with the agility of a tiger cat over the
obstacles that beset his path. Presently he reached an isolated house,
not far from which several men were conversing together in a low voice.
Nathan stopped and listened; but he was too far off, and could
distinguish nothing. The squatter's son, reared in the desert, was
thoroughly versed in all its stratagems; with the piercing eye of a man
accustomed to night journeys in the prairie, he recognised well-known
persons, and his mind was at once made up.
He laid himself on the ground, and following the shadow cast by the
moon, lest he might be perceived by the speakers, he advanced, inch by
inch, crawling like a serpent, stopping at intervals lest the waving of
the grass might reveal his presence, in short, employing all the
precautions usual under such circumstances. At length he reached a clump
of Peru trees only a few yards distant from the spot where the men he
wished to overhear were standing. He then got up, leaned against the
largest tree, and prepared to listen. His expectations were not
deceived; though a few words escaped him here and there, he was near
enough perfectly to catch the sense of the conference. This conversation
was, in truth, most interesting to him; a sinister smile lit up his
face, and he eagerly clenched the barrel of his rifle.
Presently the party broke into two. Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn,
took the road leading to the open country, while Don Pablo and Father
Seraphin returned toward the town. Valentine and his two friends almost
touched the young man as they passed, and he instinctively carried his
hands to his pistols; they even stopped for a moment and cast suspicious
glances at the clump that concealed their foe. While conversing in
whispers, Unicorn drew a few branches aside and peered in; for some
seconds Nathan felt an indescribable agony; a cold perspiration stood at
the root of his hair and the blood coursed to his heart; in a word, he
was afraid. He knew that if these men, his mortal enemies, discovered
him, they would be pitiless to him and kill him like a dog. But this
apprehension did not last longer than a lightning flash. Unicorn
carelessly let the leafy curtain fall again, saying only one word to his
comrades:--
"Nothing."
The latter resumed their march.
"I do not know why," said Valentine, "but I fancy there is someone
hidden there."
"No," the chief answered, "there is nobody."
"Well, be it so," the hunter muttered, with a toss of his head.
So soon, as he was alone, Nathan drew two or three deep breaths, and
started in pursuit of Don Pablo and the missionary, whom he soon caught
up. As they did not suppose they were followed, they were conversing
freely together.
In Spanish America, where the days are so warm and the nights so fresh,
the inhabitants, shut up at home so long as the sun calcines the ground,
go out at nightfall to breathe a little pure air; the streets, deserted
in consequence of the heat, are gradually peopled; benches are placed
before the doors, on which persons recline to smoke and gossip, drink
orangeade, strum the guitar, and sing. Frequently the entire night is
passed in these innocent amusements, and folks do not return home till
dawn, in order to indulge in the sleep so grateful after this long
watch. Hence the Hispano-American towns must be especially visited by
night, if you wish to judge truthfully the nature of this people--a
strange composite of the most discordant contrasts, who only live for
enjoyment, and only accept from existence the most intoxicating
pleasures. Still, on the night to which we refer, the town of Santa Fe,
usually so laughing and chattering, was plunged into a gloomy sadness,
the streets were deserted, the doors closed; no light filtered through
the hermetically closed windows; all slept or at least feigned to sleep.
The fact was, that Santa Fe was at this moment in a state of mortal
agitation, caused by the condemnation of Don Miguel Zarate, the richest
land owner in the province--a man who was loved and revered by the whole
population. The agitation took its origin in the unexpected apparition
of the Comanche war detachment--those ferocious enemies whose cruelties
have become proverbial on the Mexican frontier, and whose presence
presaged nothing good.
Don Pablo and his companion walked quickly, like persons anxious to
reach a place where they knew they are expected, exchanging but a few
words at intervals, whose meaning, however, caught up by the man who
followed them, urged them still more not to let them out of sight. They
thus traversed the greater part of the town, and on reaching the Calle
de la Merced, they stopped at their destination--a house of handsome
aspect.
A weak light burned at the window of a ground floor room. By an
instinctive movement, the two gentlemen turned round at the moment of
entering the house but Nathan had slipped into a doorway, and they did
not perceive him. Father Seraphin tapped gently; the door was at once
opened, and they went in. Nathan stationed himself in the middle of the
street, with his eye ardently fixed on the only window of the house lit
up. Ere long, shadows crossed the curtains.
"Good!" the young man muttered; "But how to warn the old one that the
dove is in her nest?"
All at once, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and Nathan turned,
fiercely clutching a bowie knife. A man was before him, gloomy, silent
and wrapped in the thick folds of his cloak. The American started.
"Go your way," he said in a menacing voice.
"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked.
"How does that concern you? The street is free to all."
"No."
This word was pronounced with a sharp accent. Nathan tried in vain to
scan the features of the man with whom he had to deal.
"Give way," he said, "or blood will surely be shed between us."
As sole reply, the stranger took a pistol in his right hand, a knife in
his left.
"Ah!" Nathan said, mockingly, "You mean fighting."
"For the last time, withdraw."
"Nonsense, you are mad, señor Caballero; the road belongs to all, I tell
you. This place suits me, and I shall remain."
"I wish to be alone here."
"You mean to kill me, then?"
"If I must, yes, without hesitation."
The two speakers had exchanged these words in a low and hurried voice,
in less time than we have employed to write them. They stood but a few
paces apart with flashing eyes, ready to rush on each other. Nathan
returned his pistol to his belt.
"No noise," he said; "the knife will do; besides, we are in a country
where that is the only weapon in use."
"Be it so," the stranger replied; "then, you will not give way to me?"
"You would laugh at me if I did," the American said with a grin.
"Then your blood will be on your own head."
"Or on yours."
The two foemen each fell back a pace, and stood on guard, with their
cloaks rolled round their left arms. The moon, veiled by clouds, shed no
light; the darkness was perfect; midnight struck from the cathedral; the
voice of the _serenos_ chanting the hour could be heard in the distance,
announcing that all was quiet. There was a moment's hesitation, which
the enemies employed in scrutinising each other. Suddenly Nathan uttered
a hoarse yell rushed on his enemy, and threw his cloak in his face, to
put him on his guard. The stranger parried the stroke dealt him, and
replied by another, guarded off with equal dexterity. The two men then
seized each other round the waist, and wrestled for some minutes,
without uttering a word; at length the stranger rolled on the ground
with a heavy sigh; Nathan's knife was buried in his chest. The American
rose with a yell of triumph--his enemy was motionless.
"Can I have killed him?" Nathan muttered.
He returned his knife to his vaquera boot, and bent over the wounded
man. All at once he started back, for he had recognised his brother
Shaw.
"What is to be done now?" he said; but then added carelessly, "Pshaw!
all the worse for him. Why did he come across my path?"
And, leaving there the body of the young man, who gave no sign of life--
"Well, Heaven knows, I ought not, and could not have hesitated," he
said.
Shaw lay to all appearance dead, with pale and drawn cheeks, in the
centre of the street.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE WOUNDED MAN.
Nathan proceeded straight to the Rancho del Coyote, where his unexpected
arrival was a blessing for Andrés Garote, whom the old squatter was
treating very roughly. On hearing his son's words, Red Cedar let go of
the gambusino, who tottered back against the wall.
"Well," he asked, "where is Doña Clara?"
"Come with me, father," the young man answered; "I will lead you to
her."
"You know her hiding place, then?"
"Yes."
"And so do I," Fray Ambrosio shouted, as he rushed into the room with
discomfited features; "I felt sure I should discover her."
Red Cedar looked at him in amazement, but the monk did not wince.
"What has happened to her?" the squatter said presently, as he looked
suspiciously from the monk to the gambusino.
"A very simple matter," Fray Ambrosio answered, with an inimitably
truthful accent; "about two hours back your son Shaw came here."