"Yes, the youngest of your sons; he is called so, I think?"
"Yes; go on."
"Very good. He presented himself to us as coming from you to remove our
prisoner."
"And what did you do?" the squatter asked, impatiently.
"What could we do?"
"Why, oppose the girl's departure."
"_Caspita_! Do you fancy we let her go so?" the monk asked,
imperturbably.
The squatter looked at him in surprise--he no longer understood
anything. Like all men of action, discussion was to him almost a matter
of impossibility; especially with an adversary so crafty as the one he
had before him. Deceived by the monk's coolness and the apparent
frankness of his answers, he wished to make an end of it.
"Come," he said, "how did all this finish?"
"Thanks to an ally who came to your son's help, and to whom we were
obliged to bow--"
"An ally! What man can be so bold as to dare--"
"Eh!" the monk sharply interrupted Red Cedar, "that man is a priest, to
whom you have already bowed many a time."
"You are jesting, señor Padre," the squatter exclaimed, savagely.
"Not the least in the world. Had it been anyone else, I should have
resisted; but I, too, belong to the Church; and, as Father Seraphin is
my superior, I was forced to obey him."
"What!" the squatter said, with a groan, "Is he not dead?"
"It appears," the monk remarked, ironically, "as if those you kill are
all in good state of health, Red Cedar."
At this allusion to Don Pablo's death, the squatter stifled a cry of
anger, and clenched his fists.
"Good!" he said; "If I do not always kill, I know how to take my
revenge. Where is Doña Clara, at this moment?"
"In a house no great distance from here," Nathan answered.
"Have you seen her?" the squatter asked.
"No; but I followed Don Pablo and the missionary to that house, which
they entered, and as they were ignorant that I was close to them, their
conversation left me no doubt as to the whereabouts of the girl."
An ill-omened smile momentarily lit up the old bandit's features.
"Good!" he said; "as the dove is in her nest, we shall be able to find
her. What o'clock is it?"
"Three in the morning," Andrés interjected. "Day will soon break."
"We must make haste, then. Follow me, all of you." Then he added, "But
what has become of Shaw? Does anyone of you know?"
"You will probably find him at the door of Doña Clara's house," Nathan
said, in a hollow voice.
"How so? Has my son entered into a compact with my enemies?"
"Yes; as he arranged with them to carry off your prisoner."
"Oh! I will kill him if he prove a traitor!" the squatter shouted with
an accent that made the blood run cold in the veins of his hearers.
Nathan fell back two steps, drew his knife from his boot, and showed it
to his father.
"That is done," he said, harshly. "Shaw tried to stab me, so I killed
him."
After these mournful words, there was a moment of silence in the rancho.
All these men, though their hearts were steeled by crime, shuddered
involuntarily. Without, the night was gloomy; the wind whistled sadly;
the flickering light of the candle threw a weird light over the scene,
which contained a certain degree of terrible poetry. The squatter passed
his hard hand over his dank brow. A sigh, like a howl, painfully forced
its way from his oppressed chest.
"He was my last born," he said, in a voice broken by an emotion he could
not control. "He deserved death, but he ought not to have received it at
his brother's hands."
"Father!" Nathan muttered.
"Silence!" Red Cedar shouted, in a hollow voice, as he stamped his foot
passionately on the ground; "What is done cannot be undone; but woe to
my enemies' family! Oh! I feel now that I can take such vengeance on
them as will make all shudder who hear it spoken of!"
After uttering these words, which were listened to in silence, the
squatter walked a few steps up the rancho. He approached a table, seized
a bottle half full of mezcal that stood on it, and emptied it at a
draught. When he had finished drinking, he threw down the bottle, which
broke with a crash, and said to his mates in a hollow voice--
"Let us be off! We have wasted too much time here already!"
And he rushed out of the rancho, the others following close at his
heels.
In the meanwhile, Don Pablo and Father Seraphin were in the house. The
priest had taken the maiden to the house of an honest family which owed
him great obligations, and was too happy to receive the poor sufferer.
The missionary did not intend, however, to let her be long a burthen to
these worthy people. At daybreak he intended to deliver her to certain
relations of her father, who inhabited a hacienda a few leagues from
Santa Fe.
Doña Clara had been placed in a comfortable room by her hosts. Their
first care had been to make her doff the Indian robes for others more
suitable to her birth and position. The maiden worn out by poignant
emotions of the scene she had witnessed, was on the point of retiring to
bed, when Father Seraphin and Don Pablo tapped at the door of her room.
She hastily opened it, and the sight of her brother, whom she had not
hoped to see so speedily, overwhelmed her with joy.
An hour soon slipped away in pleasant chat. Don Pablo was careful not to
tell his sister of the misfortune that had befallen her father; for he
did not wish to dull by that confession the joy the poor girl promised
herself for the morrow. Then, as the night was advancing, the two men
withdrew, so as to allow her to enjoy that rest so needed to strengthen
her for the long journey to the hacienda, promising to come and fetch
her in a few hours. Father Seraphin generously offered Don Pablo to pass
the night with him by sharing the small lodging he had not far from the
Plaza de la Merced, and the young man eagerly accepted. It was too late
to seek a lodging at a locanda, and in this way he would be all the
sooner with his sister next morning. After a lengthened leave-taking,
they, therefore, left the house, and, so soon as they were gone, Doña
Clara threw herself, ready dressed, into a hammock hanging at one end of
the room, when she speedily fell asleep.
On reaching the street, Don Pablo saw a body lying motionless in front
of the house.
"What's this?" he asked, in surprise.
"A poor wretch whom the ladrones killed in order to plunder him," the
missionary answered.
"That is possible."
"Perhaps he is not quite dead," the missionary went on; "it is our duty
to succour him."
"For what good?" Don Pablo said, with an air of indifference; "if a
sereno were to pass he might accuse us of having killed the man."
"Nay, sir," the missionary observed, "the ways of the Lord are
impenetrable. If He allowed us to come across this unhappy man, it was
because He judged in His wisdom that we might prove of use to him."
"Be it so," the young man said; "let us look at him, as you wish it. But
you know that in this country good actions of such a nature generally
entail annoyance."
"That is true, my son. Well, we will run the risk," said the missionary,
who had already bent over the wounded man.
"As you please," Don Pablo said, as he followed him.
Shaw, for it was he, gave no signs of life. The missionary examined him,
then rose hastily, seized Don Pablo's arm, and drew him to him, as he
whispered--
"Look!"
"Shaw!" the Mexican exclaimed, in surprise; "What could that man be
doing here?"
"Help me, and we shall learn. The poor fellow has only fainted; and the
loss of blood has produced this semblance to death."
Don Pablo, greatly perplexed by this singular meeting, obeyed the
missionary without further remark. The two men raised the wounded lad,
and carried him gently to Father Seraphin's lodging, where they proposed
to give him all the help his condition required.
They had scarce turned the corner of the street, when several men
appeared at the other extremity. They were Red Cedar and his
confederates. On arriving in front of the house they stopped: all the
windows were in the deepest obscurity.
"Which is the girl's room?" the squatter asked in a whisper.
"This one," Nathan said, as he pointed to it.
Red Cedar crawled up to the house, drove his dagger into the wall,
raised himself to the window, and placed his face against a pane.
"All is well! She sleeps!" he said, when he came down. "You, Fray
Ambrosio, to one corner of the street; you, Garote, to the other, and do
not let me be surprised."
The monk and the gambusino went to their allotted posts. When Red Cedar
was alone with his son he bent and whispered in his ear--
"What did you do with your brother after stabbing him?"
"I left him on the spot where he fell."
"Where was that?"
"Just where we now stand."
The squatter stooped down to the ground, and walked a few steps,
carefully examining the bloody traces left on the pebbles.
"He has been carried off," he said, when he rose again. "Perhaps he is
not dead."
"Perhaps so," the young man observed, with a shake of his head.
His father gave him a most significant look.
"To work," he said coldly.
And they prepared to escalade the window.
CHAPTER XLIII.
INDIAN DIPLOMACY.
We will return, for the present, to Valentine and his comrades.
The sudden apparition of the sachem of the Coras had produced a certain
degree of emotion among the hunters and the Comanches. Valentine, the
first to recover from his surprise, addressed Eagle-wing.
"My brother is welcome," he said, as he held out his hand, which the
Indian warmly pressed, "What news does the chief bring us?"
"Good," the Coras answered laconically.
"All the better," the hunter said gaily; "for some time past all we have
received has been so bad that my brother's will create a diversion."
The Indian smiled at this sally, but made no remark.
"My brother can speak," Valentine continued; "he is surrounded by none
but friends."
"I know it," the chief answered, as he bowed gracefully to the company.
"Since I left my brother two months have passed away: I have worn out
many moccasins amid the thorns and brambles of the desert; I have been
beyond the Great Lakes to the villages of my nation."
"Good; my brother is a chief; he was doubtless well received by the
sachems of the Coras of the Great Lakes."
"Mookapec is a renowned warrior among his people," the Indian answered
proudly; "his place by the council fire of the nation is pointed out.
The chiefs saw him with joy: on his road he had taken the scalps of
seven gachupinos: they are now drying before the great medicine lodge."
"It was your right to do so, chief, and I cannot blame you. The
Spaniards have done you harm enough for you to requite them."
"My brother speaks well; his skin is white, but his heart is red."
"Hum," observed Valentine; "I am a friend to justice; vengeance is
permissible against treachery. Go on, chief."
The hunter's comrades had drawn nearer, and now formed a circle round
the two speakers. Curumilla was occupied silently, as was his wont, in
completely stripping each Spanish prisoner, whom he then bound in such a
way that the slightest movement was impossible.
Valentine, although time pressed, knew too well the Redskin character to
try and hurry Eagle-wing on. He felt certain that the chief had
important news to communicate to him; but it would have been no use
trying to draw it from him; hence he allowed him to act as he pleased.
Unicorn, leaning on his rifle, listened attentively, without evincing
the slightest impatience.
"Did my brother remain long with his tribe," Valentine continued.
"Two suns. Eagle-wing had left behind him friends to whom his heart drew
him."
"Thanks, chief, for the pleasant recollections of us."
"The chiefs assembled in council to hear the words of Eagle-wing," the
Coras continued. "They shuddered with fury on hearing of the massacre of
their children; but Mookapec had formed his plan, and two hundred
warriors are assembled beneath his _totem_."
"Good!" said Valentine, "the chief will avenge himself."
The Indian smiled.
"Yes," he said, "my young men have their orders, they know what I mean
to do."
"Very good; in that case they are near here?"
"No," the chief replied, with a shake of his head. "Eagle-wing does not
march with them; he has hidden himself under the skin of an Apache dog."
"What does my brother say?" Valentine asked with amazement.
"My white brother is quick," Unicorn said, sententiously; "he will let
Mookapec speak. He is a great sachem, and wisdom dwells in him."
Valentine shook his head, however, and said--
"Hum! Answering one act of treachery by another, that is not the way in
which the warriors of my nation behave."
"The nation of my brother is great, and strong as the grizzly bear,"
Unicorn said; "it does not need to march along hidden paths. The poor
Indians are weak as the beaver, but like him they are very cunning."
"That is true," Valentine replied, "cunning must be allowed you in
dealing with the implacable enemies who surround you. I was wrong; so go
on, chief; tell us what deviltry you have invented, and if it is
ingenious. Well, I will be the first to applaud it."
"Wah, my brother shall judge. Red Cedar is about to enter the desert, as
my brother doubtless knows?"
"Yes."
"Does my brother know the _Gringo_ has asked the Apaches for a guide?"
"No, I did not."
"Good. Stanapat, the great chief of the Apaches, sent a Navajo warrior
to act as guide to Red Cedar."
"Well?"
"The Navajo was scalped by Eagle-wing."
"Ah, ah! Then Red Cedar cannot set out?"
"Yes, he can do so when he likes."
"How so?"
"Because Eagle-wing takes the place of the guide."
Unicorn smiled.
"My brother has a deal of wisdom," he said.
"Hum!" Valentine remarked, with some show of ill-humour. "It is
possible, but you play for a heavy stake, chief. That old villain is as
crafty as ten monkeys and ten opossums united. I warn you that he will
recognise you."
"No."
"I wish it; for if he does, you are a lost man."
"Good, my brother can be easy. Eagle-wing is a warrior; he will see the
white hunter again in the desert."
"I wish so, chief; but I doubt. However, act as you please. When will
you join Red Cedar?"
"This night."
"You are going to leave us?"
"At once. Eagle-wing has nothing more to confide to his brother."
And, after bowing courteously to the company, the Coras chief glided
into the thicket, in which he disappeared almost instantaneously.
Valentine looked after him for some time.
"Yes," he said at last, with a thoughtful air, "his project is a daring
one, such as might be expected from so great a warrior. May heaven
protect him, and allow him to succeed! Well, we shall see; perhaps all
is for the best so."
And he turned to Curumilla.
"The clothes?" he said.
"Here they are," the Aucas answered, laconically, as he pointed to an
enormous heap of clothing.
"What does my brother mean to do with them?" Unicorn asked.
"My brother will see," Valentine said, with a smile, "each of us is
going to put on one of those uniforms."
The Comanche drew himself up hastily.
"No," he said, "Unicorn does not put off the dress of his people. What
need have we of this disguise?"
"In order to enter the camp of the Spaniards without being discovered."
"Wah! For what good? Unicorn will summon his young men to cut a passage
through the corpses of the gachupinos."
But Valentine shook his head mournfully.
"It is true," he remarked, "we could do so. But why shed blood
needlessly? No; let my brother put confidence in me."
"The hunter will act rightly. Unicorn knows it, and he leaves him free;
but Unicorn is a chief, he cannot put on the clothes of the palefaces."
Valentine no longer insisted, as it would have been unavailing; so he
agreed to modify his plan. He made each of his comrades put on a dragoon
uniform, and himself donned the clothes stripped from the Alferez. When
all this metamorphosis was as complete as possible, he turned to
Unicorn.
"The chief will remain here," he said, "to guard the prisoners."
"Good," the Comanche answered. "Is Unicorn, then, a chattering old
woman, that warriors place him on one side?"
"My brother does not understand me. I do not wish to insult him, but he
cannot enter the camp with us."
The chief shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"The Comanche warriors can crawl as well as serpents. Unicorn will
enter."
"Let my brother come, then, since he wishes it."
"Good; my brother is vexed; a cloud has passed over his face. He is
wrong; his friend loves him."
"I know it, chief, I know it. I am not vexed, but my heart is sad to see
a warrior thus run the risk of being killed without any necessity."
"Unicorn is a sachem; he must give an example to his young men on the
warpath."
Valentine gave a nod of assent.
"Here are the horses of the palefaces," Curumilla said; "my brother will
need them."
"That is true," the hunter answered, with a smile; "my brother is a
great chief--he thinks of everything."
Everyone mounted, Unicorn alone remaining a-foot. Valentine placed the
Alferez by his side.
"Caballero," he said to him, "you will act as our guide to the camp. We
do not wish to take the lives of your countrymen; our intention is
simply to prevent them following us at present. Pay attention to my
words: if you attempt to deceive us, I blow out your brains. You are
warned."
The Spaniard bowed, but made no reply. As for the prisoners, they had
been so conscientiously tied by Curumilla that there was no chance of
their escaping. The little band then set out, Unicorn disappearing among
the trees. When they came a short distance from the bivouac, a sentry
challenged, "Who goes there?"
"Answer," Valentine whispered the Alferez.
He did so. They passed, and the sentry, suddenly seized by Curumilla,
was bound and gagged in the twinkling of an eye, all the other sentinels
sharing the same fate. The Mexicans keep up a very bad watch in the
field, even in the presence of an enemy; the greater reason, then, for
them to neglect all precaution when they fancy themselves in safety.
Everybody was asleep, and Valentine and his friends were masters of the
camp. The regiment of dragoons had been surprised without striking a
blow.
Valentine's comrades dismounted; they knew exactly how to act, and did
not deviate from the instructions given by their leader. They proceeded
from picket to picket, removing the horses, which were led out of camp.
Within twenty minutes all had been carried off. Valentine had anxiously
followed the movements of his men. When they had finished, he raised the
curtain of the colonel's tent, and found himself face to face with
Unicorn, from whose waist-belt hung a reeking scalp. Valentine could not
repress a movement of horror.
"What have you done, chief?" he asked, reproachfully.
"Unicorn has killed his enemy," the Comanche replied, peremptorily.
"When the leader of the antelopes is killed, his flock disperses; the
gachupinos will do the same."
Valentine drew near the colonel. The unhappy man, fearfully mutilated,
with his brain laid bare, and his heart pierced by the knife of the
implacable Indian, lay stark dead, in a pool of blood, in the middle of
the tent. The hunter vented a sigh at this sorry sight.
"Poor devil!" he said, with an air of compassion.
After this short funeral oration, he took away his sabre and epaulettes,
left the tent, followed by the Indian chief, and rejoined his comrades.
The horses were led to the Comanche camp, after which Valentine and his
party wrapped themselves in their blankets, and slept calmly till
daybreak. The dragoons were no longer to be feared.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE STRANGER.
Father Seraphin and Don Pablo we left bearing the wounded man to the
missionary's lodging. Although the house to which they were proceeding
was but a short distance off, yet the two gentlemen, compelled to take
every precaution, employed considerable time on the journey. Nearly
every step they were compelled to halt, so as not to fatigue too greatly
the wounded man, whose inert limbs swayed in every direction.
"The man is dead," Don Pablo remarked, during a halt they made on the
Plaza de la Merced.
"I fear so," the missionary answered, sadly; "still, as we are not
certain of it, our conscience bids us to bestow our care on him, until
we acquire the painful conviction that it avails him nought."
"Father, the love of one's neighbour often carries you too far; better
were it, perhaps, if this wretch did not come back to life."
"You are severe, my friend. This man is still young--almost a boy.
Trained amid a family of bandits, never having aught but evil examples
before him, he has hitherto only done evil, in a spirit of imitation.
Who knows whether this fearful wound may not offer him the means to
enter the society of honest people, which he has till now been ignorant
of? I repeat to you, my friend, the ways of the Lord are inscrutable."
"I will do what you wish, father. You have entire power over me. Still,
I fear that all our care will be thrown away."
"God, whose humble instruments we are, will prove you wrong, I hope.
Come, a little courage, a few paces further, and we shall have arrived."
"Come on then," Don Pablo said with resignation.
Father Seraphin lodged at a house of modest appearance, built of adobes
and reeds, in a small room he hired from a poor widow, for the small sum
of nine reals a month. This room, very small, and which only received
air from a window opening on an inner yard, was a perfect conventual
cell, as far as furniture was concerned, for the latter consisted of a
wooden frame, over which a bull hide was stretched, and served as the
missionary's bed; a butaca and a prie-dieu, above which a copper
crucifix was fastened to the whitewashed wall. But, like all cells, this
room was marvellously clean. From a few nails hung the well-worn clothes
of the poor priest, and a shelf supported vials and flasks which
doubtless contained medicaments; for, like all the missionaries, Father
Seraphin had a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, and took in charge
both the souls and bodies of his neophytes.
The father lit a candle of yellow tallow standing in an iron
candlestick, and, aided by Don Pablo, laid the wounded man on his own
bed; after which the young man fell back into the butaca to regain his
breath. Father Seraphin, on whom, spite of his fragile appearance, the
fatigue had produced no apparent effect, then went downstairs to lock
the street door, which he had left open. As he pushed it to, he felt an
opposition outside, and a man soon entered the yard.
"Pardon, my reverend father," the stranger said; "but be kind enough not
to leave me outside."
"Do you live in this house?"
"No," the stranger coolly replied, "I do not live in Santa Fe, where I
am quite unknown."
"Do you ask hospitality of me, then?" Father Seraphin continued, much
surprised at this answer.
"Not at all, reverend father."
"Then what do you want?" the missionary said, still more surprised.
"I wish to follow you to the room where you have laid the wounded man,
to whose aid you came so generously a short time back."
"This request, sir--" the priest said, hesitating.
"Has nothing that need surprise you. I have the greatest interest in
seeing with my own eyes in what state that man is, for certain reasons
which in no way concern you."
"Do you know who he is?"
"I do."
"Are you a relation or friend of his?"'
"Neither one nor the other. Still, I repeat to you, very weighty reasons
compel me to see him and speak with him, if that be possible."
Father Seraphin took a searching glance at the speaker.
He was a man of great height, apparently in the fullest vigour of life.
His features, so far as it was possible to distinguish them by the pale
and tremulous moonbeams, were handsome, though an expression of
unbending will was the marked thing about them. He wore the dress of
rich Mexican hacenderos, and had in his right hand a magnificently
inlaid American rifle. Still the missionary hesitated.
"Well," the stranger continued, "have you made up your mind, father?"
"Sir," Father Seraphin answered with firmness, "do not take in ill part
what I am going to say to you."
The stranger bowed.
"I do not know who you are; you present yourself to me in the depths of
the night, under singular circumstances. You insist, with strange
tenacity, on seeing the poor man whom Christian charity compelled me to
pick up. Prudence demands that I should refuse to let you see him."
A certain annoyance was depicted on the stranger's features.
"You are right, father," he answered; "appearances are against me.
Unfortunately, the explanation you demand from me justly would make us
lose too much precious time, hence I cannot give them to you at this
moment. All I can do is to swear, in the face of Heaven, on that
crucifix you wear round your neck, and which is the symbol of our
redemption, that I only wish well to the man you have housed, and that I
am this moment seeking to punish a great criminal."
The stranger uttered these words with such frankness, and such an air of
conviction, his face glistened with so much honesty, that the missionary
felt convinced: he took up the crucifix and offered it to this
extraordinary man.
"Swear," he said.
"I swear it," he replied in a firm voice.
"Good," the priest went on, "now you can enter, sir; you are one of
ourselves; I will not even insult you by asking your name."
"My name would teach you nothing, father," the stranger said sadly.
"Follow me, sir."
The missionary locked the gate and led the stranger to his room, on
entering which the newcomer took off his hat reverently, took up a post
in a corner of the room, and did not stir.
"Do not trouble yourself about me, father," he said in a whisper, "and
put implicit faith in the oath I took."
The missionary only replied by a nod, and as the wounded man gave no
sign of life, but still lay much in the position he was first placed in,
Father Seraphin walked up to him. For a long time, however, the
attention he lavished on him proved sterile, and seemed to produce no
effect on the squatter's son. Still, the father did not despair,
although Don Pablo shook his head. An hour thus passed, and no
ostensible change had taken place in the young man's condition; the
missionary had exhausted all his stock of knowledge, and began to fear
the worst. At this moment the stranger walked up to him.
"My father," he said, touching him gently on the arm, "you have done all
that was humanly possible, but have not succeeded."
"Alas! No!" the missionary said sadly.
"Will you permit me to try in my turn?"
"Do you fancy you will prove, more successful than I?" the priest asked
in surprise.
"I hope so," the stranger said softly.
"Still, you see I have tried everything that the medical art prescribes
in such a case."
"That is true, father; but the Indians possess certain secrets known
only to themselves, and which are of great efficacy."
"I have heard so. But do you know those secrets?"
"Some of them have been revealed to me; if you will permit me, I will
try their effects on this young man, who, as far as I can judge, is in a
desperate condition."
"I fear he is, poor fellow."
"We shall, therefore, run no risk in trying the efficacy of my superior
remedy upon him."
"Certainly not."
The stranger bent over the young man, and regarded him for a moment with
fixed attention; then he drew from his pocket a flask of carved crystal,
filled with a fluid as green as emerald. With the point of his dagger he
slightly opened the wounded man's closed teeth, and poured into his
mouth four or five drops of the fluid contained in the flask. A strange
thing then occurred; the young man gave vent to a deep sigh, opened his
eyes several times, and suddenly, as if moved by supernatural force, he
sat up and looked around him with amazement. Don Pablo and the
missionary were almost inclined to believe in a miracle so extraordinary
did the fact appear to them. The stranger returned to his dark corner.
Suddenly the young man passed his hand over his dank forehead, and
muttered in a hollow voice:--
"Ellen, my sister, it is too late. I cannot save her. See, see, they are
carrying her off; she is lost!"
And he fell back on the bed, as the three men rushed towards him.
"He sleeps!" the missionary said in amazement.
"He is saved?" the stranger answered.
"What did he want to say, though?" Don Pablo inquired anxiously.
"Did you not understand it?" the stranger asked of him.
"No."
"Well, then, I will tell you."
"You!"
"Yes, I; listen! That lad wished to deliver your sister!"
"How do you know?"
"Is it true?"
"It is; go on."
"He was stabbed at the door of the house when she sought shelter."
"What next?"
"Those who stabbed him wished to get him out of the way, in order to
carry her off a second time."
"Oh, that is impossible!"
"It is the fact."
"How do you know it?"
"I do not know it, but I can read it plainly."
"Ah!" Don Pablo exclaimed in despair, "my father--let us fly to my
sister's aid!"
The two gentlemen rushed from the house with a presentiment of
misfortune. When the stranger found himself alone with the wounded man,
he walked up to him, wrapped him in his cloak, threw him over his
shoulders as easy as if he were only a child, and went out in his turn.
On reaching the street, he carefully closed the door, and went off at a
great rate, soon disappearing in the darkness. At the same instant the
melancholy voice of the sereno could be heard chanting--
_"Ave Maria purísima! Los cuatro han dado! Viva Méjico! Todo es
quieto!_"[1]
What irony on the part of accident was this cry after the terrible
events of the night!
[1] Hail, most pure Mary! It has struck four. Long live Mexico! All is
quiet.
CHAPTER XLV.
GENERAL VENTURA.
It was about six in the morning. A dazzling sun poured down its
transparent rays on the streets of the Presidio of Santa Fe, which were
already full of noise and movement at that early hour of the morning.
General Ventura was still plunged in a deep sleep, probably lulled by
agreeable dreams, judging from the air of beatitude spread over his
features. The general, reassured by the speedy arrival of the dragoons
promised him, fancied he had nothing more to fear from mutineers who had
hitherto inspired him with lively apprehensions. He thought, too, that
by the aid of the reinforcements, he could easily get rid of the
Comanche, who, on the previous day, had so audaciously bearded him in
the very heart of his palace.
He slept, then, that pleasant morning sleep, in which the body, entirely
rested from its fatigue, leaves the mind the entire liberty of its
faculties. Suddenly the door of the sleeping room in which the worthy
governor reposed, was torn violently open, and an officer entered.
General Ventura, aroused with a start, sat up in his bed, fixing on the
importunate visitor a glance, at first stern, but which at once became
uneasy on seeing the alarm depicted on the officer's features.
"What is the matter, señor Captain Don Lopez?" he asked, trying in vain
to give firmness to his voice, which trembled involuntarily from a
foreboding of evil.
Captain Lopez was a soldier of fortune, who had grown grey in harness,
and contracted a species of rough frankness, that prevented him toning
the truth down under any circumstances, which fact made him appear, in
the General's eyes, a bird of very evil omen. The captain's arrival,
therefore, doubly disquieted the governor. In the first place, through
his alarmed face; and secondly, the reputation he enjoyed. To the
general's query the captain only replied the following three storm laden
words--
"Nothing that's good."
"What do you mean? Have the people rebelled??"
"On my word, no! I do not fancy they even dream of such a thing."
"Very well, then," the general went on, quite cheered by the good news,
"what the deuce have you to tell me, captain?"
"I have not come to tell you anything," the other said, roughly. "There
is a soldier outside who has just come from I don't know where, and who
insists on speaking with you. Shall I bring him, or send him about his
business."
"One moment," exclaimed the general, whose features had suddenly become
gloomy; "who is the soldier?"
"A dragoon, I fancy."
"A dragoon! Let him come in at once. May heaven bless you, with all your
circumlocution! The man, doubtless, brings me news of the arrival of the
regiment I am expecting, and which should have been here before."
The captain shrugged his shoulders with an air of doubt.
"What is it now?" the general said, whom this expressive pantomime
eminently alarmed; "What are you going to say?"
"Nothing, except that the soldier looks very sad to be the bearer of
such good news."
"We shall soon know what we have to depend on. Let him come in."
"That is true," said the captain, as he went off.
During this conversation the general had leaped from his bed, and
dressed himself with the promptness peculiar to soldiers. He now
anxiously awaited the appearance of the trooper whom Don Lopez had
announced to him. In vain he tried to persuade himself that the captain
was mistaken, and that the soldier had been sent to tell him of the
arrival of the regiment. In spite of himself, he felt in his heart a
species of alarm which he could not account for, and yet nothing could
dissipate.
A few minutes were thus passed in febrile restlessness. All at once a
great noise was heard in the Plaza Major. The general went to a window,
pulled aside a curtain, and looked out. A tumultuous and dense crowd was
thronging every street leading to the square and uttering sharp cries.
This crowd, momentarily increasing, seemed urged on by something
terrible, which the general could not perceive.
"What is this?" the general exclaimed; "And what can be the meaning of
this disturbance?"
At this moment the shouts grew louder, and the detachment of Comanche
warriors appeared debouching by the Calle de la Merced, and marching in
good order, and at quick step, upon the palace. On seeing them the
general could not restrain a start of surprise.
"The Indians again!" he said; "How can they dare to present themselves
here? They must be ignorant of the arrival of the dragoons. Such
boldness is incomprehensible."
He let the curtain fall, and turned away. The soldier whom the captain
had announced to him stood before him, waiting the general's pleasure to
question him. The general started on perceiving him. He was pale; his
uniform was torn and stained with mud, as if he had made a long journey
on foot through brambles. The general wished to clear up his doubts;
but, just as he was opening his mouth to ask the man a question, the
door flew back, and several officers, among whom was Captain Don Lopez,
entered the room.
"General," the captain said, "make haste! You are expected in the
council hall. The Indians have come for the answer you promised to give
them this morning."
"Well! Why this startled look, gentlemen?" the general said, severely.
"I fancy the town has not yet been set on fire. I am not at the orders
of those savages, so tell them that I have no time to grant them an
audience."
The officers gazed at the general with a surprise they did not attempt
to conceal, on hearing these strange and incomprehensible words.
"Good, good," Captain Lopez said, roughly, "the town is not yet fired,
'tis true; but it might be so, erelong, if you went on in this way."
"What do you mean?" the general asked, as he turned pale. "Are matters
so serious?"
"They are most serious. We have not a moment to lose, if we wish to
avoid heavy disasters."
The general started.
"Gentlemen," he then said, in an ill-assured voice, "it is our duty to
watch over the safety of the population. I follow you."
And taking no further heed of the soldier he had ordered to be sent in,
he proceeded towards the council hall.
The disorder that prevailed without had at length gained the interior of
the palace. Nothing was to be heard but shrieks or exclamations of anger
and terror. The Mexican officers assembled in the hall were tumultuously
discussing the measures to be adopted in order to save a contest and the
town. The entrance of the governor produced a healthy effect upon them,
in so far that the discussion, which was degenerating into personalities
and reproaches, dictated by individual fear, suddenly ceased, and
calmness was restored.
General Ventura regretted in his heart having counted on imaginary help,
and not having listened to the sensible advice of some of his officers,
who urged him the previous day to satisfy the Indians by giving them
what they asked. In spite of the terror he felt, however, his pride
revolted at being compelled to treat on equal terms with barbarians, and
accept harsh conditions which they would doubtless impose on him, in the
consciousness of having the upper hand.
The governor, in entering the hall, looked around the assembly
anxiously. All had taken their places, and, externally at least, had
assumed that grace and stern appearance belonging to men who are
penetrated with the grandeur of the duties they have to perform, and are
resolved to carry them out at all hazards. But this appearance was very
deceptive. If the faces were impassive the hearts were timorous. All
these men, habituated to a slothful and effeminate life, did not feel
capable of waging a contest with the rude enemies who menaced them so
audaciously, even at the doors of the governor's palace.
Under present circumstances, however, resistance was impossible. The
Indians, by the fact of their presence on the square, were masters of
the town. There were no troops to oppose to them; hence, the only hope
was to make the easiest terms possible with the Comanches. Still, as all
these men wished to save appearances at any rate, the discussion began
anew. When everyone had given his opinion, the governor rose, and said
in a trembling voice--
"Caballeros, all of us here present: are men of courage, and have
displayed that quality in many difficult circumstances. Certainly, if
the only thing, was to sacrifice our lives to save the hapless townsmen,
we would not hesitate to do so, for we are too well imbued with the
soundness of our duties tot hesitate; but, unhappily, that sacrifice
would not avail to save those whom we wish before all to protect. Let us
treat, then, with the barbarians, as we cannot conquer them. Perhaps in
this way we shall succeed in protecting our wives; and children from the
danger that menaces them. In acting thus, under the grave circumstances
in which we find ourselves, we shall at least have the consolation of
having done our duty, even if we do not obtain all we desire."
Hearty applause greeted this harangue, and the governor, turning to the
porter, who stood motionless at the door, gave orders to introduce the
principal Indian chiefs.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE COMANCHES.
Valentine and his friends awoke at daybreak. The Comanches were already
prepared to start; and Unicorn, dressed in his great war costume,
presented himself to the hunter.
"Is my brother going?" Valentine asked him.
"Yes," the sachem answered. "I am returning to the Presidio to receive
the answer of the chief of the palefaces."
"What is my brother's intention, should his demand be rejected?"
Unicorn smiled.
"The Comanches have long lances," he said; "the palefaces will not
refuse."
"My anxiety will be extreme till you return, chief; the Spaniards are
perfidious; take care they have not planned some treachery."
"They would not dare," Unicorn said, haughtily. "If the chief, whom my
brother loves, is not delivered to me safe and sound, the Spanish
prisoners shall be tortured on the plaza of Santa Fe, the town burned
and sacked. I have spoken; my brother's mind may be at rest."
"Good! Unicorn is a wise chief; he will do what is necessary."
In the meantime the Comanche warriors had formed their ranks, and only
awaited the signal of the sachem to start. The Spanish prisoners taken
during the night were placed in the centre bound and half naked.
Suddenly a disturbance was heard in the camp, and two men rushed panting
toward the spot where stood Valentine, the sachem and Curumilla. They
were Don Pablo and Father Seraphin, their clothes in disorder, their
features haggard, and their faces glistening with perspiration. On
reaching their friends, they fell, almost in a fainting state, on the
ground. The proper attentions were at once paid them, and the missionary
was the first to recover. Don Pablo seemed stupefied; the tears poured
incessantly down his cheeks, and he could not utter a word. Valentine
felt strangely alarmed.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "What has happened? Don Miguel--?"
The missionary shook his head.
"No," he said, "nothing has happened to him, as far as I know."
"Heaven be praised! But what is the matter, father? What misfortune have
you to announce to me?"
"A frightful one, indeed, my son," the missionary replied, as he buried
his face in his hands.
"Speak, in Heaven's name! Your delay is killing me."
"Doña Clara--"
"Well!" he hunter said, sharply.
"Was captured again last night by Red Cedar, and torn from the refuge
where I placed her."
"Oh!" Valentine exclaimed, with concentrated fury, as he stamped his
foot, "Always that demon--that accursed Red Cedar. My curses on him! But
take courage, father; let us first save Don Miguel, and then I swear to
you that I will restore his daughter to him."
Unicorn advanced.
"Master of prayer," he said to Father Seraphin, in a soft and impressive
voice, "your heart is good. The Comanches love you. Unicorn will help
you. Pray to your God. He will protect us in our researches, since He
is, as you say, so powerful."
Then the chief turned to Don Pablo, and laid his hand firmly on his
shoulder.
"Women weep," he said; "men avenge themselves. Has not my brother his
rifle?"
On feeling the Comanche's hand laid on him--on hearing these words--the
young man quivered as if he had received an electric shock. He drew
himself up, and fixed on the chief his eyes burning with the fever of
sorrow.
"Yes," he said, in a broken voice, "you are right, chief, and," passing
his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of rage, "let us leave tears to
women, who have no other weapons to protect their weakness. I am a man,
and will avenge myself."
"Good. My brother speaks well: he is a warrior; Unicorn esteems him; he
will become great on the war path."
Don Pablo, crushed for a moment, had regained all his energy; he was no
longer the same man; he looked around him.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To Santa Fe, to deliver your father."
"I will go with you."
"Come," said Unicorn.
"No," Valentine interposed, authoritatively. "Your place is not there,
Don Pablo; leave the Comanche warriors to act as they please; they do
not need your help to carry out their plans properly. Remain with me."
"Command me, my friend," the young man said with resignation; "I have
perfect confidence in your experience."
"Good. You are reasonable. Brother," he added, turning to the chief,
"you can start. The sun is already high in the horizon; may Heaven grant
that you may succeed!"
Unicorn gave the signal for departure. The Comanches uttered their war
yell, while brandishing their arms, and started at a quick amble, the
only pace they know. Curumilla then rose, and wrapped himself in his
buffalo robe; Valentine watching him, inquiringly.
"Does my brother leave us?" he said.
"Yes," the Araucano answered, laconically.
"For long?"
"For a few hours?"
"Where is my brother going?"
"To look for the camp of Red Cedar's gambusinos," the Indian replied
with a cunning smile.
"Good," Valentine said, gleefully. "My brother is a wise chief; he
forgets nothing."
"Curumilla loves his brother; he thinks for him," the chief answered,
simply.
After uttering these words, the Unicorn bowed gracefully, and proceeded
in the direction of the Paso del Norte, soon disappearing in the
windings of the road. Valentine looked after him for a long while. When
he no longer saw him, he let his head fall pensively on his chest,
murmuring in a low voice--
"Good, intelligent fellow! Heart of gold! The only friend left me! The
only one remaining of my old and faithful comrades! Louis, my poor
Louis, where are you now?" A deep sigh burst from his bosom, and he
remained absorbed in a gloomy reverie.
At length Valentine raised his head, passed his hand over his brow, as
if to dispel these sad thoughts, and turned to his friends.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I, at times, give way to my thoughts in that
fashion. Alas! I, too, have suffered; but let us leave that," he added,
gaily. "Bygones must be bygones. Let us attend to your affairs."
He made them a sign to sit down by his side on the grass, rummaged his
alforjas and produced some slight food, which he laid before them.
"Eat," he said to them; "we do not know what awaits us within the next
few hours, and we must recruit our strength. When you have satisfied
your appetite, you will tell me all about Doña Clara being carried off
again, for I must have the fullest details."
We will leave the three now conversing, and join the Comanches and
Unicorn again.
When the Comanches reached the Plaza Mayor, opposite the Cabildo, they
halted. At an order from Unicorn, the prisoners were completely stripped
of their clothing and placed some distance in front of the first rank of
Indians, each of them having at his side a fully armed Indian ready to
massacre him mercilessly at the slightest sign from Unicorn. When the
preparations were completed, and the Comanches had stationed sentinels
at each corner of the streets, opening in the square, in order not to be
taken in reverse, and surrounded by the Spaniards, if they felt any
inclination for fighting, the Spider, the chief who had already
performed the duty of flag of truce, pranced up to the gate of the
palace, and demanded speech with the governor.
The officer of the guard, who was no other than Don Lopez, politely
requested the Indian warrior to wait a few moments, and then proceeded
in all haste to General Ventura. We have seen what took place, and,
after a delay of nearly half an hour, Captain Don Lopez returned. It was
time, for the Comanches were beginning to grow tired of waiting, and
were preparing to force the passage which was not voluntarily granted
them. After some preliminary explanations, Captain Lopez informed the
Spider that the general, surrounded by his staff, was awaiting, in the
hall of audience, the sachem of the nation and his three principal
warriors.
The Spider communicated this answer to Unicorn, who gave a nod of
assent, dismounted, and entered the Cabildo.
CHAPTER XXIII.
NEGOTIATIONS.
When Unicorn entered the council chamber, preceded by Captain Lopez, and
followed by the three Indian chiefs, the deepest silence prevailed among
the Spanish officers assembled to meet him. The governor, seated in a
chair placed in the centre of the hall, was looking nervously round him,
while tapping on the arm of the chair with the fingers of his right
hand. Still, his countenance was tolerably composed; nothing externally
revealed the terror that devoured him. He answered by a nod the
ceremonious bow of the Comanches, and drew himself up as if intending to
address them; but if such were his desire, Unicorn did not grant him
time to do so. The sachem draped himself in his buffalo robe with that
majestic grace possessed by all those untamed sons of the desert, drew
his head up proudly, and walked toward General Ventura, who watched him
approach with an anxious eye. On coming within four paces of the
governor, Unicorn stopped, crossed his arms on his chest, and took the
word.
"I salute my father!" he said, in a loud and fierce voice. "I have come,
as was agreed on yesterday, to fetch the answer he owes me."
The general hesitated for an instant.
"I am waiting!" the Indian went on, with a frown that augured ill.
The general, forced almost into his last entrenchments, saw that the
hour for surrender had at length arrived, and that no way of escape was
left him.
"Chief," he answered, in anything but a firm voice, "your behavior
naturally surprises me. To my knowledge the Spaniards are not at war
with your nation; the whites have not done anything of which you have a
right to complain. For what reason do you come, then, against the sworn
faith, and when nothing authorises you, to invade a defenceless town,
and interfere in matters that only concern ourselves?"
The sachem understood that the Spaniard was trying to shift the question
on to other ground; he saw the snare offered him, and was not to be
caught.
"My father does not answer my request," he said. "Still, in order to
have finished at once with the recriminations he brings up, I will
answer his questions peremptorily, separating them one from the other.
In the first place, my father knows very well that the palefaces and
redskins have been in a constant state of warfare since the arrival of
white men in America. This war may have slightly relaxed at intervals,
but has never really ceased. Our two races are hostile; the struggle
will not end between them until one of the two families, whether white
or red, has given place to the other by its general extinction.
Secondly, my father said that nothing has been done of which we had a
right to complain. My father is mistaken, we have a cause, the
imprisonment of Don Miguel Zarate, who, himself an Indian, has never
belied his origin. Hence my father must no longer ask by what right I am
here, for that is perfectly established; it is that which every honest
man possesses of defending an innocent person who is oppressed. Now that
fact is cleared up, let us pass to another. When I came here yesterday,
my father gave me to understand that my propositions would be accepted,
and the exchange of prisoners carried out."
"It is possible, chief," the general replied; "but things are so in this
world, no one knows today what he will do tomorrow. With night
reflection has come, and, in short, your propositions have appeared to
me unacceptable."
"Wah!" the Indian said, though not testifying his surprise otherwise.
"Yes," the general continued, growing animated, "I should be ashamed to
grant them, for I should have the appearance of only yielding to
threats. No, it cannot be. The two gentlemen you claim are guilty, and
shall die; and if you venture to oppose the execution of the just
sentence of the court, we will defend ourselves, and God will protect
the good cause."
The Mexican officers warmly applauded this haughty response, which they
were far from expecting. They felt their courage rekindled, and did not
despair of obtaining better conditions. A smile of disdain played round
the chiefs haughty lips.
"Good," he said; "my father speaks very loudly. The coyotes are bold
when they hunt the buffalo in packs. My father has carefully reflected,
and is determined to accept the consequences of his answer. He wishes
for war, then?"
"No," the general quickly interposed, "heaven forbid! I should be glad
to settle this matter amicably with you, chief, but honor forbids me
subscribing those disgraceful proposals which you did not fear to lay
before me."
"Is it really honour that has dictated my father's answer?" the Indian
asked, ironically. "He will permit me to doubt it. In short, whatever be
the reason that guides him, I can but withdraw; but, before doing so, I
will give him news of a friend whom he doubtless impatiently expects."
"What means that word, doubtless?"
"This," the Indian said, sharply. "The warriors whom my father expected
to arrive to his aid this day have been dispersed by my young men, as
the autumn breeze sweeps away the leaves. They will not come."
A murmur of surprise, almost of terror, ran through the assembly. The
sachem let the long folds of his buffalo robe fall back, tore from his
girdle the bleeding scalp that hung there, and threw it at the general's
feet.
"That," he said, gloomily, "is the scalp of the man who commanded my
father's warriors! Does the chief of the palefaces recognise it? This
scalp was raised by me from the head of the man who was to arrive, and
who, at this hour, has set out for the happy hunting grounds of his
nation."
A shudder of terror ran round the room at the sight of the scalp; the
general felt the small dose of courage that had still animated him
oozing out.
"Chief," he exclaimed, in a trembling voice "is it possible you have
done that?"
"I have done it," the sachem answered, coldly. "Now, farewell. I am
about to join my young men, who are impatient at my long absence."
With these words the Comanche haughtily turned his back on the governor,
and walked toward the door.
"A few moments longer, chief," the general said; "perhaps we are nearer
an understanding than you suppose."
The Comanche gave the speaker a glance which made him quiver.
"Here is my last word," he said. "I insist on the two prisoners being
handed over to me."
"They shall be."
"Good; but no perfidity, no treachery."
"We will act honourably," the general replied, not dreaming, of resenting
the insult conveyed in the Indian's words.
"We shall see. My warriors and myself will remain on the square till my
father has performed his promise. If, within an hour, the palefaces are
not free, the prisoners I hold will be pitilessly massacred, and the
_altepetl_ plundered. I have spoken."
A gloomy silence greeted these terrible threats. The pride of the
Mexicans was quelled, and they at length recognised that nothing could
save them from the vengeance of the Comanche chief. The general bowed in
assent, not having strength to answer otherwise. The sight of the scalp
had paralyzed in him all desire to contend longer. Unicorn left the
hall, mounted his horse again, and calmly awaited the fulfilment of the
promise made to him.
When the Indians had left the council chamber, the Mexicans rose
tumultuously, for each feared the execution of the chief's threats.
General Ventura was pressed on all sides to make haste, and run no risk
of breaking his word. When the governor saw that his officers were as
terrified as himself, he re-assumed his coolness, and cleverly profited
by this state of mind, in order to throw the responsibility off himself,
and appear only to act under the impulse of others.
"Caballeros," he said, "you have heard this man. You understood as well
as I did the menaces he dared to offer us. Shall such an insult be left
unpunished? Will you allow yourselves to be thus braved in the heart of
the town by a handful of scoundrels, and not attempt to inflict on them
the chastisement they deserve? To arms, caballeros, and let us die
bravely, if it must be so, sooner than suffer this stain on the old
Spanish honor our fathers transmitted to us!"
This warm address produced the effect the general anticipated from it;
that is to say, it redoubled, were that possible, the terror of the
hearers, who had long been acquainted with their chiefs cowardice, and
knew how little he could be depended on. This sudden warlike order
seemed to them so unusual, and before all so inopportune, that they
pressed him to accept without delay the proposals dictated by the
sachem.
This was all the governor wanted. He had the minutes of the council at
once drawn up, when it was signed by all present, he put it in his
pocket.
"As you insist," he said, "and nothing can induce you to offer an
honourable resistance, I will myself proceed to the prison, in order to
avoid any misunderstanding, and have the doors opened for Don Miguel
Zarate and General Ibañez."
"Make haste, pray?" the officers answered.
The general, glad in his heart at having got out of the scrape so well,
left the Cabildo, and walked across the square to the prison, which
stood on the opposite side. The Comanches were motionless as statues of
Florentine bronze, leaning on their weapons, with their eyes fixed on
the chief, ready to carry out his orders.
CHAPTER XXIV.
FREE.
Don Miguel and General Ibañez were completely ignorant of what was going
on outside, and the rumours of the town did not reach their ears. Had
they deigned to question their jailer, the latter, who was beginning to
fear for himself the effects of the ill-treatment he had made the two
gentlemen undergo, would doubtless not have hesitated to give them all
possible information, for the sake of regaining their favour; but each
time this man presented himself before them, and opened his mouth to
speak, they turned their backs contemptuously, giving him a sign to
withdraw at once, and be silent.
On this day, according to their wont, the two prisoners had risen at
sunrise, and then, with incredible coolness, began conversing on
indifferent topics. Suddenly a great noise was heard in the prison; a
clang of arms reached the prisoners' ears, and hurried footsteps
approached the rooms in which they were confined. They listened.
"Oh, oh!" said Ibañez, "I fancy it is for today at last."
"Heaven be praised!" Don Miguel answered; "I am glad they have made up
their minds to bring matters to a conclusion."
"On my honour, and so am I," the general said, gaily; "time was
beginning to hang heavy in this prison, where a man has not the
slightest relaxation. We are going to see again that splendid sun which
seems afraid of showing itself in this den. _Viva Cristo_! I feel
delighted at the mere thought, and gladly pardon my judges."
Still the noise drew nearer and nearer, and confused voices were mingled
with the echoing steps in the passage, and the rattling of sabres.
"Here they are," said Don Miguel; "we shall see them in a minute."
"They are welcome if they bring us death, that supreme solace of the
afflicted."
At this moment a key creaked in the lock, and the door opened. The two
prisoners fell back in surprise on seeing the general, who rushed into
the cell followed by two or three officers. Assuredly, if the prisoners
expected to see anybody, it was not the worthy General Ventura. Ibañez'
surprise was so great at this unexpected apparition, that he could not
refrain from exclaiming, with that accent of caustic gaiety which formed
the basis of his character--
"What the deuce do you want here, Señor Governor? Have you, too,
suddenly become a frightful conspirator, such as we are accused of
being?"
Before answering, the general fell back into a chair, wiping away the
perspiration that trickled down his forehead, such speed had he
displayed in coming to the prison. Three or four officers stood
motionless on the threshold of the widely open door. The condemned men
could not at all understand the affair.
"Have you by any chance, my dear governor," General Ibañez said, gaily,
though not believing a word of it, "come to restore us to liberty? That
would be a most gallant action, and I should feel deeply indebted to you
for it."
General Ventura raised his head, fixed on the prisoners eyes sparkling
with joy, and said, in a panting voice--
"Yes, my friends, yes; I _would_ come myself to tell you that you are
free; I would not yield to anyone else the pleasure of announcing the
good news."
The prisoners fell back in amazement.
"What!" General Ibañez exclaimed, "You are speaking seriously?"
Don Miguel attentively looked at the governor, trying to read in his
face the reasons of his conduct.
"Come, come," General Ventura cried, "this hole is frightful; do not
remain any longer in it."
"Ah!" Don Miguel remarked, bitterly, "You find it frightful; you have
been a long time in discovering the fact; for we have lived in it nearly
a month, and the thought never once occurred to you of disturbing our
repose."
"Do not be angry with me, Don Miguel," the governor answered eagerly,
"it was greatly against my will you were detained so long; had it only
depended on me you would have been free; but, thanks to Heaven, all is
settled now, and I have succeeded in having justice done you. Come away;
do not remain a moment longer in this pestilential den."
"Pardon me, Caballero," Don Miguel said coldly, "but, with your
permission, we will remain a few moments longer in it."
"Why so?" General Ventura asked, opening his eyes to their fullest
extent.
"I will tell you."
Don Miguel pointed to a chair, and sat down himself. Ibañez following
his example. There was a moment of deep silence between these three men
as they strove to read each other's real secret thoughts.
"I am waiting your pleasure to explain yourself," the governor at last
said, as he was anxious to get away, and time pressed.
"I am about doing so," Don Miguel answered; "you have come to tell us we
are free, sir; but you do not say on what conditions."
"What do you mean by conditions?" the general asked, not understanding
him.
"Of course," Ibañez went on, supporting his friend; "and these
conditions, too, must suit us; you must see, my dear sir, we cannot
leave this delightful place without knowing the why or wherefore. _Viva
Cristo_! We are not vagabonds to be got rid of in that way; we must know
if we are justified in accepting the proposals you have just made."
"The general is right, sir," the hacendero said in his turn; "the care
of our honor does not permit us to accept a liberation which might stain
it; hence, we shall not leave this prison until you have given us an
explanation."
The governor hardly knew whether he was on his head or his heels; he had
never before had to deal with such obstinate prisoners. He racked his
brains in vain to discover why it was that men condemned to death could
so peremptorily decline their liberty. His ideas were too narrow, his
heart was too cowardly for him to comprehend the grandeur and nobility
in this determination on the part of two men, who preferred an honourable
death to a branded life which they only owed to the pity of their
judges. Still, he must induce them to quit the prison, for time was fast
slipping away, and their obstinacy might ruin everything. Hence, General
Ventura made up his mind like a man.
"Gentlemen," he said, with feigned admiration, "I understand what
nobleness there is in your scruples, and am happy to see that I was not
mistaken in the greatness of your character. You can leave this prison
in full security, and take once more the station that belongs to you in
the world. I will lay no conditions on you; you are free, purely and
simply. Here are the documents connected with your trial, the proofs
produced against you; take them and destroy them, and accept my sincere,
apologies for all that has passed."
While saying this, the governor drew from his breast an enormous bundle
of papers, which he offered Don Miguel. The latter declined them with an
air of disgust; but General Ibañez, less scrupulous or wiser in his
generation, eagerly clutched them, looked through them to see that the
governor was not deceiving him, and then threw them into the _brasero_,
standing in the middle of the room. In less than four minutes, all this
undigested mass was consumed. General Ibañez watched them burning with a
certain degree of pleasure, for he began to feel himself really free.
"I am waiting for you, gentlemen," said the governor.
"One word more, by your leave," the hacendero remarked.
"Speak, sir."
"On leaving this prison, where are we to go?"
"Wherever you please, gentlemen. I repeat to you that you are perfectly
free, and can act as you think proper. I do not even ask your word of
honor to enter into no further conspiracy."
"Good sir," Don Miguel said, holding out his hand to General Ventura,
"your conduct affects me--thanks."
The governor blushed.
"Come, come," he said, to hide his embarrassment on receiving this so
ill-deserved praise.
The prisoners no longer hesitated to follow him.
In the meanwhile, the news of Don Miguel's deliverance had spread
through the town with the rapidity of a train of gunpowder. The
inhabitants, reassured by the continence of the Comanches, and knowing
that they had only come to save a man, in whose fate the entire
population felt interested, had ventured to leave their houses, and at
length thronged the streets and squares; the windows and roofs were
filled with men, women, and children, whose eyes, fixed on the prison,
awaited the moment of Don Miguel's appearance. When he did so,
tremendous shouts greeted him.
Unicorn walked up to the governor.
"My father has kept his promise," he said, gravely, "I will keep mine;
the white prisoners are free; I now depart."
The governor listened to these words with a blush; the sachem returned
to the head of his war party, which rapidly retired, followed by the
shouts of a mob intoxicated with joy. Don Miguel, perplexed by the scene
which had taken place in his presence, and who began to suspect a
mystery in the governor's conduct, turned to him to ask an explanation
of the Indian chief's words--an explanation the governor luckily
escaped, owing to the eagerness of the people who flocked up to
congratulate the prisoners on their release.
On reaching the gate of the Cabildo, General Ventura bowed courteously
to the two gentlemen, and hurried into his palace, happy at having
escaped so cheaply, and not tearing with his own hands the cloak of
generosity which he had paraded in the sight of his prisoners.
"What do you think of all that?" the hacendero asked his friend.
"Hum!" General Ibañez muttered, "The governor's conduct seems to me
rather queer; but, no matter, we are free. I confess to you, my friend,
that I should have no objection to go a little distance from this place,
the air of which, despite General Ventura's protestations, appears to me
remarkably unhealthy for us."
At this moment, and ere Don Miguel could answer, the general felt a
slight touch on his shoulders; he turned and saw Curumilla before him,
with a smiling face. Don Miguel and the general suppressed a cry of joy
at the sight of the grave and excellent Indian.
"Come!" he said to them, laconically.
They followed him, with some difficulty, through the crowd that
accompanied them with shouts, and whom they were obliged to stop and
thank. On reaching a small street near the square, and which was nearly
deserted, Curumilla led them to a house before which he stopped.
"It is here," he said, as he tapped twice.
The door opened, and they entered a courtyard, in which were three ready
saddled horses, held by a groom, which they at once mounted.
"Thanks, brother," the hacendero said, warmly, as he pressed the chiefs
hand; "but how did you learn our deliverance?"
The Araucano smiled pleasantly. "Let us go," he said, making no other
answer.
"Where to?" Don Miguel asked.
"To join Koutonepi."
The three men started at full speed. Ten minutes later they were out of
the town, and galloping across the plain.
"Oh!" General Ibañez said, gaily, "How pleasant the fresh air is! How
good it is to inhale it after remaining for two months stifled between
the walls of a prison!"
"Shall we soon arrive? Don Miguel asked.
"In an hour," the chief answered.
And they went on with renewed speed.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE MEETING.
On reaching a spot where the trail they were following formed a species
of fork, Curumilla stopped, and the two gentlemen imitated him.
"That is your road," the Araucano chief said. "At the end of that path
you will see Koutonepi's bivouac fire. I must leave you here."
After uttering these words, Curumilla turned his horse and started,
after giving them a parting wave of the hand. The Unicorn was not much
of a talker naturally; generally, he did more than he said. His friends,
convinced that urgent necessity could alone have forced him thus to
break through his habits, made no observation, but let him go. When they
were alone, they gently relaxed the pace of their horses, and proceeded
at a canter.
General Ibañez was radiant. He inhaled the fresh air Of the desert,
which dilated his wide chest, revelling in his liberty. He thought of
nothing but enjoying the present, regardless of the past, which, with
his careless character, he had already forgotten, only to dream of the
future, which he gazed on through a prism of brilliant hues. Don Miguel,
on the contrary, felt, during the last few moments, a sad melancholy
invade his mind. Not able to account for the emotion he experienced, he
had a species of secret presentiment that a misfortune was suspended
over his head. In vain did he try to dispel these ideas, but they
constantly returned more obstinately than ever and it was with a sort of
dread that he advanced in the direction where he was to meet Valentine,
although he was his best friend, so much did he fear that he would greet
his arrival with evil tidings.
The two gentlemen went on thus for nearly half an hour without
exchanging a syllable; but, just as they turned a corner in the path,
they saw a horseman about thirty paces in front of them, barring the
road, and apparently waiting for them. The Mexicans examined him
attentively. He was a tall man, well armed, and wearing the garb of the
rich hacenderos; but, singularly enough, a black velvet mask prevented
them distinguishing his features. By an instinctive movement Don Miguel
and his friend moved a hand to their holsters, but they were empty.
"What is to be done?" the hacendero asked the general.
"Go on, of course. We have just escaped too great a peril for us to fear
this. Even in the event of the mysterious being planted there before us,
like an equestrian statue, trying to play us a trick, which is not
impossible."
"Let us trust to Heaven," Don Miguel muttered, and pushed on.
The distance separating them from the stranger was soon cleared. On
coming within five yards of him, they stopped.
"_Santas tardes_, caballeros," said the stranger, in a friendly voice.
"_Santas tardes_!" the gentlemen answered, in accord.
"I salute you, Don Miguel Zarate, and you, General Ibañez," the stranger
then said. "I am happy to see you at length safe and sound out of the
claws of that worthy General Ventura, who, if he could, would certainly
have played you a trick."
"Caballero," Don Miguel made answer, "I thank you for the kind words you
address to me, and which can only come from a friend's lips. I should be
pleased if you would take off the mask that conceals your features, so
that I may recognise you."
"Gentlemen, if I removed my mask you would be disappointed, for my
features are unfamiliar to you. Do not be angry with me for keeping it
on; but, be assured that you are not mistaken with regard to me, and I
am really your friend."
The two Mexicans bowed courteously to each other, and the stranger went
on.
"I knew that so soon as you were free you would hasten to join that
worthy hunter Valentine, whom the trappers and gambusinos along the
frontier have christened the 'Trail-hunter.' I placed myself here, where
you must infallibly pass, in order to make you a communication of the
utmost importance, which interests you extremely."
"I am listening, sir," Don Miguel responded with secret alarm; "and I
beg you to accept, beforehand, my sincere thanks for the step you have
taken on my behalf."
"You will thank me when the proper time comes, Don Miguel. Today I only
warn you: at a later date I hope to aid you, and my help will not prove
useless."
"Speak, sir! You excite my curiosity to the highest pitch, and I am
anxious to learn the news of which you have condescended to be the
bearer."
The stranger shook his head sadly, and there was a moment's silence.
This meeting of three horsemen, one of whom was masked, in this deserted
place, where no sound troubled the imposing silence of solitude, had
something strange about it. At length the mask spoke again.
"Two months have elapsed, Don Miguel, since, through the treachery of
Red Cedar, you were arrested and made prisoner at the Paso del Norte.
Many events of which you are ignorant have occurred since then; but
there is one I must inform you of at once. On the very night of your
arrest, at the moment you laid down your arms, your daughter was carried
off by Red Cedar."
"My daughter!" the hacendero exclaimed; "And Valentine to whom I
confided her, and who was responsible for her safety?"
"Valentine attempted impossibilities to save her; but what can one man
effect against twenty?"
Don Miguel shook his head mournfully.
"After researches, long, sterile, and extraordinary efforts, a man
providentially aided by Father Seraphin, at length succeeded last night
in taking Doña Clara from her ravishers; but Red Cedar, advised by some
extraordinary chance, entered the house where the maiden had sought
shelter, and carried her off again."
"Oh! I will avenge myself on that man!" the hacendero shouted,
passionately.
The stranger's eyes flashed with a lurid light though the holes in his
mask.
"You will find your son and Father Seraphin with Valentine. Red Cedar
intends to start this evening at the head of a band of gambusinos, to go
into the deserts of the Rio Gila in search of a placer, which his
accomplice, Fray Ambrosio, had indicated to him."
"Fray Ambrosio!" the hacendero repeated, in stupor.
"Yes. Your former chaplain, who served as spy to the squatter, revealed
your plans to him, and provided him the means to enter the hacienda and
carry off your daughter."
"Good," Don Miguel said, in a hollow voice. "I will remember."
"Red Cedar, I know not with what design, is taking your daughter with
him into the desert."
"I will follow him, were it for a thousand leagues," Don Miguel said,
resolutely. "Thanks to you for having instructed me so fully. But whence
comes the interest you take in me so gratuitously, since, as you say, I
do not know you?"
"You shall learn at a later date, Don Miguel. Now, before I leave you,
one last word--an earnest warning."
"I listen attentively, caballero."
"Do not tell anyone--not even the French hunter, not even your son--of
our meeting. Let this secret be buried in your breast. When you reach
the far west, if you see before you, at one of your bivouacs, a piece of
mahogany bearing the impress of a horse's shoe, rise at midnight, and
leave the camp, not letting anyone see you. When you have gone one
hundred paces in the tall grass, whistle thrice; a similar whistle will
answer you, and then you will learn many things important for you to
know, but which I cannot tell you today."
"Good. Thanks. I will do what you tell me."
"You promised it?"
"I swear it on my word as a gentleman," Don Miguel said, as he took off
his hat.
"I accept your oath. Farewell."
"Farewell."
The stranger dug his spurs into his horse's sides and the animal started
off as if impelled by a tornado.
The two gentlemen looked after him for a long time, admiring the grace
and ease of his movements; at length, when horse and rider had
disappeared in the distance, Don Miguel went on again pensively, while
saying to the general--
"Who can that man be?"
"I know no more than you do. _Viva Cristo_!" his friend answered, "but I
assure you I will know, even if to do so I have to search all the
thickets and caverns in the desert."
"What," Don Miguel exclaimed, "do you intend to come with me?"
"Did you ever doubt it, Don Miguel? If so, you insulted me. You will
need all your friends to go in search of your daughter, and inflict on
that demon of a gringo squatter the chastisement he deserves. No, no; I
will not leave you under such circumstances, for that would be
committing a bad action; besides, I shall not be sorry," he added with a
smile, "to get out of the sight of the government for a time."
"My friend, I thank you," the hacendero said, as he took his hand. "I
have long known that you were entirely devoted to me; I am pleased to
receive this new proof of your friendship."
"And you accept it?" the general asked gaily.
"Most heartily; the help of an iron arm like yours must be most useful
to me under the painful circumstances in which I am placed."
"That is settled, then; we will start together, _Mil rayas!_ and I swear
we will deliver Doña Clara."
"May Heaven grant it," the hacendero said, sadly.
The conversation then dropped, and the two friends proceeded in silence.
A quarter of an hour later they reached the Trail-hunter's bivouac.
CHAPTER XXVI.
DOÑA CLARA.
Valentine had been warned, nearly an hour previously, by Unicorn of the
result of the negotiations with the governor of Santa Fe, and the
immediate liberation of the prisoners; he was, therefore, expecting
them. Though they were ignorant where to find him, Valentine presumed
that the chief would leave some Indian to direct them, and, therefore,
did not feel at all surprised at seeing them. So soon as he noticed
their approach he walked to meet them, followed by Don Pablo and the
missionary, while the hacendero and his comrade on their side pricked
on to join them sooner.
A few hours were spent, after the first greetings were over, in a
conference, of which the poor child so audaciously carried off was the
sole subject. Valentine drew up with his friends the plan of the
campaign against Red Cedar, which was so daring that it would have made
a European nervous; but the free adventurers who were about to carry it
out in no way feared the mysterious dangers of the desert which they
were going to confront. We say, free, because Father Seraphin had taken
leave of his friends and found Unicorn, with whom he wished to go to the
Comanche villages, in the hope of spreading the light of the Gospel
there. Still, he did not despair about, meeting his friends in the
prairies, whither he was himself proceeding. Toward evening, Curumilla
arrived. The Araucano was covered with dust, and his face damp with
perspiration; Not uttering a word, he sat down by the fire, took his
calumet from his girdle, and began smoking. Valentine let him do so
without asking a question, but so soon as he saw him absorbed in his
pipe, he laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Well?" he said to him.
"Curumilla has seen them."
"Good; are they numerous?"
"Ten times the number of fingers on my two hands, and one more."
"_Caramba!_" Valentine exclaimed, "Are they so many as that? We shall
have a tough job in that case."
"They are bold hunters," the chief added.
"Hum! Do you know when they will start?"
"This evening, when the new moon rises."
"Ah, ah! I read their plan," the hunter said. "They intend crossing the
ford of the Toro before day."
Curumilla bowed his head in affirmation.
"That is true," Valentine remarked; "once the ford is passed they will
be in the desert, and have comparatively nothing to fear, or at least
they suppose so. I must confess," he added, addressing his friends,
"that Red Cedar is a remarkably clever scoundrel; nothing, escapes him,
but this time he has a' tough adversary. I have my revenge to take on
him, and, with the help of Heaven, it shall be exemplary."
"What shall we do?" Don Miguel asked.
"Sleep," Valentine answered, "we have still several hours before us, so
let us profit by them; in the new life we are beginning, we must neglect
nothing, the body and mind must repose, so that we may act vigorously."
Curumilla had slipped away but now returned, bringing with him two
rifles, pistols, and knives.
"My brothers had no weapons," he said, as he laid his load before the
Mexicans.
The latter thanked him heartily; for, owing to the foresight of
Curumilla, who thought of everything, they could now enter the desert
boldly. Two minutes later the five men were fast asleep, and we will
take advantage of their slumber to return to Red Cedar, whom we left on
the point of climbing through Doña Clara's window, while Fray Ambrosio
and Andrés Garote were watching at either end of the street.
At one bound the bandit was in the room, after breaking open the window
with a blow of his fist. Doña Clara, suddenly aroused, leaped from the
bed, uttering fearful cries at the sight of the terrible apparition
before her.
"Silence," Red Cedar said to her, in a threatening voice, as he placed
the point of his knife on her chest, "one cry more, and I kill you like
a dog."
The maiden, trembling with fright, looked pitifully at the bandit; but
Red Cedar's face wore such an expression of cruelty, that she understood
how little she had to hope from this man. She addressed a silent prayer
to Heaven, and resigned herself to her fate. The bandit gagged the poor
child with the rebozo that lay on the bed, threw her over his shoulder,
and clambered out of the window again. So soon as he put foot on the
ground, he whistled lightly for his comrades to rejoin him, which they
did immediately, and, still carrying his burthen, he proceeded with them
in the direction of the Rancho del Coyote.
During the walk, which was not a long one, the bandits did not meet a
soul. Andrés opened the door and lit a candle; the ruffians entered, and
the door was carefully bolted again. Thus, after only a few hours of
liberty, the wretched girl had fallen once more into the hands of her
ravishers, and placed again by them in the wretched room where she had
spent so many days in prayer and weeping. Red Cedar carried Doña Clara,
who was in a half-fainting state, to her room, removed the rebozo, and
then returned to the bar.
"There;" he said, with satisfaction, "that is all right; the sheep has
returned to the fold. What do you say, reverend father? This time let us
hope she will not escape us."
The monk smiled.
"We shall do well in not remaining here long," he said.
"Why so?"
"Because this hiding place is known and will soon be visited."
The squatter shrugged his shoulders.
"Listen! Fray Ambrosio," he said, with a sinister grimace, which he
intended for a smile. "I predict that, rogue as you are, you run a great
chance of dying in a fool's skin, if you are not flayed beforehand,
which may easily be the case."
The monk shuddered. Red Cedar's gaiety had the peculiarity of being even
more fearful than his anger. The squatter sat down on a bench, and
turned to the gambusino.
"Drink!" he said roughly.
Garote fetched a jar of mezcal, which he placed before his terrible
accomplice. The latter, not taking the trouble to pour the liquor into a
glass, raised the jar to his lips, and drank till breath failed him.
"Hum!" he said, with a click of his tongue, "That's pleasant tipple when
you're thirsty. Listen to my orders, my dear children, and try to carry
them out to the letter; or, if not, your roguish hides will bear the
blame."
The three men bowed silently.
"You, Nathan," he went on, "will come with me, for you are not wanted
here, but your presence is necessary at. Cerro Prieto, where our
comrades are encamped."
"I will follow you," the young man replied, laconically.
"Good! Now, you others, bear this carefully in mind:--Our enemies will
never suppose that I have made such a mistake as to bring my prisoner
back here; for that is so absurd, that the idea will never enter their
heads; so you can be at ease, and no one will trouble your peace of
mind. Tomorrow, so soon as the moon rises, you will make the girl put on
an Indian dress, mount her, and come to me at Cerro Prieto. Immediately
after your arrival we shall start."
"Good!" Fray Ambrosio answered. "We will take care."
"I expect so; for, if you do not, I wouldn't give a _cuartillo_ for your
accursed hide, my reverend friend."
After uttering these friendly words, the squatter seized the jar of
mezcal, emptied it at a draught, and sent it flying across the room,
where it broke to pieces.
"Good bye till tomorrow," he then said, "come, Nathan."
"Till tomorrow," they answered.
The squatter and his son left the rancho, and walked on silently side by
side, plunged in gloomy reflections produced by the events of the night.
They soon left the town. The night was gloomy, but darkness did not
exist for squatters accustomed to find their way anywhere, and never
dreaming of going astray. They walked thus for a long time, with slung
rifle, not exchanging a word, but listening to the slightest noise and
sounding, the darkness with their tiger-cat eyes. All at once they heard
the firm footfall of a man coming towards them. They cocked their
rifles, ready for any emergency. A voice was then heard, though the
person to whom it belonged was invisible.
"My brothers must not fire; they would kill a friend."
The words were Apache--a language well known to the squatters.
"Tis an Indian," said Nathan.
"Do you think I did not recognise him?" Red Cedar replied, brutally;
"then," he added, in the same dialect, "there are no friends in the
shadow of the desert. My brother must get out of my path, or I will kill
him like a coyote."
"Is it thus," the Indian continued, "that the 'maneater' receives the
guide whom Stanapat, the Great Chief of the Apaches, sends him? In that
case, good-bye. I will retire."
"One moment," the squatter said, sharply, as he lowered his rifle, and
made his son a sign to follow his example. "I could not guess who you
were. Advance without fear and be welcome, brother, for I was anxiously
expecting you."
The Indian stepped forward. He wore the costume and characteristic paint
of the Apache warriors; in a word, he was so well disguised, that
Valentine himself could not, have recognised in him his friend,
Eagle-wing the Chief of the Coras, though it was he.
Red Cedar, delighted at the arrival of his guide, received him in the
most affable manner. He had long been acquainted with Stanapat, the most
ferocious warrior of all the Indian nations that traverse the immense
regions of the Rio Gila, and whom we shall presently visit. After
several questions, which Eagle-wing answered without hesitation or once
tripping, Red Cedar, convinced that he was really the man the Apache
chief had promised to send him, dismissed all doubt, and conversed with
him in the most friendly spirit, inquiring after certain warriors he had
formerly known.
"What is my brother's name?" he asked, in conclusion.
"The Heart of Stone!" Eagle-wing replied.
"Good!" the squatter said, "My brother has a grand name. He must be a
renowned warrior in his tribe."
A short time after, the three men reached the camp of the gambusinos,
established in a formidable position on the top of a rock called the
Cerro Prieto (Black Mountain). The miners greeted Red Cedar's arrival
with the most lively joy, for his presence announced a speedy departure;
and all these semi-savages, the greater part of whose life had been
spent in the prairies, were anxious to quit civilization to re-assume
their adventurous career, which was so full of charms and strange
incidents.
CHAPTER XXVII.
EL VADO DEL TORO.
Red Cedar reasoned correctly when he told Fray Ambrosio and Garote that
Doña Clara was in safety at the rancho, and no one would dream of
seeking her there. In truth, Valentine knew the squatter's cunning too
well to suppose that he would commit the impudence of bringing his
prisoner back to the very spot where she was discovered.
The squatter's two accomplices passed the day quietly in playing, on
credit, at monte; each cheating with a dexterity which did honor to
their knowledge of that noble game. No one came to disturb them, or cast
an indiscreet glance into this famous den, which, in the bright
sunshine, had an air of respectability pleasant to look on, and amply
sufficient to dispel all suspicions. About nine in the evening, the
moon, though new, rose magnificently on a deep blue sky, studded with
brilliant stars.
"I fancy it is time to get ready, gossip," Fray Ambrosio said, "the moon
is peering through the trees in your neighbour's garden."
"You are right, señor Padre, we will be off; but let me, I implore you,
first finish this deal; it is one of the most magnificent I ever
witnessed. _Caspita!_ I will bet a nugget as big as my thumb on the
seven of clubs."
"I'll back the two of spades. Something tells me it will turn up first,
especially if you pull up the sleeves of your jacket, which must be
horribly in the way when dealing."
"Oh dear, no, I assure you; but stay, what did I tell you? There is the
seven of clubs."
"That is really extraordinary," Fray Ambrosio replied, with feigned
surprise, for he was not duped by the gambusino's trickery; "but I fancy
we had better make haste."
"Decidedly," said Andrés, as he hid his greasy cards in his vaquera
boots, and proceeded to the room in which Doña Clara was confined. She
followed him out, weeping bitterly.
"Come, come," the gambusino said to her, "dry your tears, señorita; we
do not mean you any harm. Hang it all! Who knows but this may end
perhaps better than you expect; ask that holy monk what he thinks."
Fray Ambrosio bowed an assent, but the maiden made no response to the
gambusino's consolation; she allowed herself to be disguised
unresistingly, but still continued to weep.
"In truth, it is absurd," the worthy Andrés muttered, in an aside to
himself, while attiring his prisoner and looking covetously at the
pearls with which she was adorned, "to waste gold and pearls in this
fashion; would it not be much better to use them in buying something
serviceable? What she has on her is worth at least three thousand
piastres--what a splendid game of monte a fellow could have with that
sum--and if that demon of a Red Cedar had only been willing--well, we
shall see presently."
While making these judicious reflections, the gambusino had completed
the maiden's Indian toilet. He perfected the disguise by throwing a
zarapé over her shoulders; then giving a parting glance round his
domicile, he put in his pocket a pack of cards accidentally left on the
table, drank a large glass of spirits, and left the room, followed by
Doña Clara and the monk, who, in spite of the varying incidents of the
last few days had regained all his good humour, doubtless owing to the
good company in which he was, and the game of monte--that inveterate
passion in every Mexican.
Doña Clara was placed on a horse; Andrés and the monk also mounted, and
leaving the house to the problemical care of Providence, the gambusino
gave the signal for departure. He made a wide circuit, to avoid passing
through the Presidio, and then started at a gallop in the direction of
the Cerro Prieto.
Red Cedar had lost no time, and all was ready for departure. The
newcomers did not even dismount, but so soon as they were sighted, the
caravan, composed, as we have stated of some hundred and twenty resolute
men, after forming in Indian file, started in the direction of the
prairies, having first prudently detached two scouts to watch the
neighbourhood.
Nothing is so mournful as a night march in an unknown country, covered
with snares of every description, when you fear least the ever-watchful
enemy may pounce on you from every bush. Thus, the gambusinos, restless,
and starting at the slightest rustling of the leaves, advanced silently
and gloomily, with their eyes fixed on the clumps that grew along the
wayside, rifle in hand, ready to fire at the slightest suspicious
movement. They marched, however, for upwards of three hours, and nothing
happened to justify their fears; a solemn calmness continued to prevail
around them. Gradually these apprehensions were dissipated; they began
talking in a suppressed voice, and laughing at their past terrors, when
they reached, on the banks of the Del Norte, the _vado_, or Ford del
Toro.
In the interior of Southern America, and specially in New Mexico, a
country still almost entirely unknown, the means of communication are
_nil_, and consequently bridges may be looked for in vain. There are
only two methods of crossing even the widest rivers--looking for a ford,
or, if you are in a great hurry, forcing your horse into the oft-times
rapid current, and trying to reach the other bank by swimming.
The squatter had selected the first method, and in a few minutes the
whole party was in the water. Although the ground of the ford was
uneven, and at times the horses were up to their chests, and compelled
to swim, the gambusinos managed to get across safely. The only persons
left on the bank were Red Cedar, Eagle-wing, the guide, Doña Clara, and
Andrés Garote.
"It is our turn now, Heart of Stone," the squatter said, addressing
Eagle-wing; "you see that our men are in safety, and only await us to
set out again."
"The squaw first," the Indian replied, laconically.
"That is true, chief," the squatter said, and, turning to the prisoner,
"Go across," he said to her, coarsely.
The maiden, not deigning to answer, boldly made her horse enter the
river, and the three men followed. The night was dark, the sky covered
with clouds, and the moon, constantly veiled, only shone forth at
lengthened intervals, which rendered the passage difficult and even
dangerous, as it did not allow objects to be distinguished, even at a
distance. Still, after a few seconds, Red Cedar fancied he saw that Doña
Clara's horse was not following the line traced by the ford, but was
turning to the left, as if carried away by the current. He pushed his
horse forward, to assure himself of the reality of the fact; but
suddenly a vigorous hand seized his right leg, and before he could even
think of resisting, he was hurled back into the water, and his throat
seized by an Indian. Andrés Garote hurried to his assistance.
During this time, Doña Clara's horse, probably obeying a hidden impulse,
was proceeding still further from the spot where the gambusinos had
landed. Some of them, at the head of whom were Dick, Harry, and the
squatter's three sons, perceiving what was going on, returned to the
water, to proceed to their chiefs help, while the others, guided by Fray
Ambrosio, galloped down the river bank, in order to cut off retreat,
when Doña Clara's horse landed.
Andrés Garote, after several fruitless efforts, succeeded in catching
Red Cedar's horse, which he brought to him at the moment when the latter
had scalped his enemy. The American got into his saddle again, reached
the bank, and tried to restore some order among his band, while actually
watching the incidents of the silent drama being played in the river
between Eagle-wing and the young Spanish girl.
The Coras sachem had urged his steed in pursuit of Doña Clara's, and
both were following almost the same line down the stream, the former
striving to catch up the latter, who, for her part, was doing her utmost
to widen the distance between them. Suddenly the Coras horse gave a
leap, while uttering a snort of pain, and began madly beating the water
with its forelegs, while the river was tinged with blood around it. The
chief, perceiving that his horse was mortally wounded, leaped from the
saddle, and leant over the side, ready to leap off. At this moment, a
hideous face appeared flush with water, and a hand was stretched out to
grasp him. With that imperturbable coolness that never deserts the
Indians, even under the most critical circumstances, the Coras seized
his tomahawk, split his enemy's skull open, and glided into the river.
A formidable war yell was, at this moment, heard from the forest, and
some fifty shots were fired from both banks at once, illumining the
scene with their fugitive flashes. A multitude of redskins rushed on the
gambusinos, and a terrible fight commenced. The Mexicans, taken
unawares, defended themselves at first poorly, giving ground and seeking
shelter behind trees; but, obeying the thundering voice of the squatter,
who performed prodigies of valor while exciting his comrades to sell
their lives dearly, they regained courage, formed in close column, and
charged the Indians furiously, beating them down with the butts of their
muskets, or slashing them with their machetes.
The combat was short; the redskins, who were only a party of marauding
Pawnees, seeing the ill-result of their surprise, grew discouraged, and
disappeared as rapidly as they had come. Two minutes later calmness and
silence were so perfectly re-established, that had it not been for a few
wounded gambusinos, and several Indians stretched dead on the
battlefield, the strange scene would have appeared as a dream.
So soon as the Indians were routed, Red Cedar bent an eager glance up
the river; on that side the struggle was also over, and Eagle-wing,
mounted behind the young lady, was guiding her horse to the bank, which
it soon reached.
"Well?" the squatter asked.
"The Pawnees are cowardly coyotes," the Coras answered, pointing to two
human scalps that hung all bloody from his girdle; "they fly like old
women, so soon as they see the war plume of a warrior of my nation."
"Good!" the squatter said, gleefully, "My brother is a great warrior; he
has a friend."
The Coras bowed with a smile of indescribable meaning. His object was
gained; he had acquired the confidence of the man he meant to destroy.
Doña Clara, Ellen, and the squatter's wife were placed in the centre of
the caravan, and the band started again.
An hour later, a second party of horsemen also crossed the Vado del
Toro. It was much less numerous than the first, as it consisted of only
five men, but they were Valentine, Curumilla, Don Miguel, his son, and
General Ibañez. The real struggle was about to commence: behind them
they left the civilised world, to find themselves face to face on the
desert with their enemies.
(Those of our readers who take an interest in the Trail-hunter, we must
ask to follow his adventures through a second volume, to be called--THE
PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES.)
THE END