THE TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER
STORY OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD.
AUTHOR OF "PRAIRIE FLOWER," "PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK
158, FLEET STREET.
MDCCCLXI.
CONTENTS.
I. The Jacal
II. Inside the Cabin
III. A Conversation
IV. A Backward Glance
V. The Hacienda Quemada
VI. The Apaches
VII. The Hill of the Mad Buffalo
VIII. Black Cat and Unicorn
IX. The Meeting
X. A War Stratagem
XI. In the Forest
XII. The Missionary
XIII. Return to Life
XIV. An Old Acquaintance of the Reader
XV. Convalescence
XVI. An Accomplice
XVII. Mother and Son
XVIII. The Consultation
XIX. Bloodson
XX. Red Cedar
XXI. Curumilla
XXII. El Mal Paso
XXIII. El Rastreador
XXIV. The Camp in the Mountains
XXV. A Game at Hazard
XXVI. Nathan Paints Himself
XXVII. A Trail in the Air
XXVIII. The Fight with the Grizzly
XXIX. A Mother's Love
XXX. The Sorcerer
XXXI. White Gazelle
XXXII. The Escape
XXXIII. Plot and Counterplot
XXXIV. Cousin Bruin
XXXV. The Hunt Continued
XXXVI. The Last Refuge
XXXVII. The Casket
XXXVIII. Smoke in the Mountains
XXXIX. The Boar at Bay
XL. Lynch Law
PREFACE.
In the present volume another series of Indian adventures is concluded,
and the further career of the hero is described in the series beginning
with the "Tiger-slayer." It must be understood, however, that the
stories are not arbitrarily connected--each is complete in itself; but
those who have read one volume will, I hope, be sufficiently interested
in the hero to desire to know more of his career. The following,
therefore, is the order in which the volumes should be read:--
1. TRAIL HUNTER.
2. PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES.
3. THE TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER.
4. TIGER SLAYER.
6. GOLD SEEKERS.
7. INDIAN CHIEF.
In all probability, M. Aimard will favour us with other volumes; but, in
the mean time, the above can be read collectively or separately, with
equal interest.
LASCELLES WRAXALL
THE TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER BY GUSTAVE AIMARD
CHAPTER I.
THE JACAL.
About three in the afternoon, a horseman, dressed in the Mexican
costume, was galloping along the banks of a stream, an affluent of the
Gila, whose capricious windings compelled him to make countless detours.
This man, while constantly keeping his hand on his weapons, and watching
for every event, urged his horse on by shouts and spur, as if anxious to
reach his journey's end.
The wind blew fiercely, the heat was oppressive, the grasshoppers
uttered their discordant cries under the herbage that sheltered them;
the birds slowly described wide circles in the air, uttering shrill
notes at intervals: coppery clouds were incessantly passing athwart the
sun, whose pale, sickly beams possessed no strength; in short, all
presaged a terrible storm.
The traveller seemed to notice nought of this; bowed over his horse's
neck, with his eyes fixed ahead, he increased his speed, without
noticing the heavy drops of rain that already fell, and the hoarse
rolling of distant thunder which began to be heard.
Still this man, had he wished it, could easily have sheltered himself
under the thick shade of the aged trees in the virgin forest which he
had been skirting for more than an hour, and thus let the heaviest part
of the storm pass; but a weightier interest, doubtless, urged him on,
for, while increasing his speed, he did not think of drawing his zarapé
over his shoulders to protect him from the rain, but contented himself,
as each gust of wind howled past him, with drawing his hat a little
tighter on his head, while repeating to his horse, in a sharp tone:
"Forward! Forward!"
In the meanwhile, the stream, whose banks the traveller was following,
grew gradually narrower, and at a certain spot the bank was completely
obstructed by an undergrowth of shrubs and interlaced creepers, which
completely prevented any approach. On reaching this point the traveller
stopped; he dismounted, carefully inspected the vicinity, took his horse
by the bridle, and led it into a copse, where he concealed it; attaching
it with his lasso to the trunk of a large tree, after removing the
_bozal_ to let it browse at liberty.
"Rest here, Negro," he said, as he softly patted it; "do not neigh, for
the enemy is at hand--I shall soon return."
The intelligent animal seemed to comprehend the words its master
addressed to it, for it stretched out his head and rubbed it against his
chest.
"Good, good, Negro! Wait awhile!"
The stranger then took from his holsters a brace of pistols, which he
placed in his girdle, threw his rifle on his shoulder, and started
hurriedly in the direction of the river. He buried himself without
hesitation in the shrubs that bordered the stream, carefully separating
the branches which at each step barred his progress. On reaching the
edge of the water he stopped for a moment, bent forward, seemed to be
listening, and then drew himself up, muttering:
"There is no one; all is safe."
He then stepped on a mass of intertwined lianas, which extended from one
bank to the other, and formed a natural bridge. This bridge, apparently
so slight, was firm, and though it oscillated under the traveller's
footsteps, he crossed it in a few seconds. He had scarce reached the
other bank, when a girl emerged from a clump of trees which concealed
her.
"At last!" she said, as she ran up to him: "oh! I was afraid you would
not come, Don Pablo."
"Ellen," the young man answered, with his whole soul in his glance,
"death alone would keep me away."
The traveller was Don Pablo Zarate; the girl, Ellen, Red Cedar's
daughter.[1]
"Come," she said.
The Mexican followed her, and they walked on for some time without
exchanging a word. When they had passed the chaparral which bordered the
river, they saw a short distance before them a wretched _jacal_, which
leant solitary and silent against a rock.
"There is my home," the maiden said, with a sad smile.
Don Pablo sighed, but made no reply, and they continued to walk in the
direction of the jacal, which they soon reached.
"Sit down, Don Pablo," the maiden went on, as she offered her comrade a
stool, on which he sank. "I am alone; my father and two brothers went
off this morning at sunrise."
"Are you not afraid," Don Pablo answered, "of remaining thus alone in
the desert, exposed to innumerable dangers, so far from all help?"
"What can I do? Has not this life been ever mine?"
"Does your father go away often?"
"Only during the last few days. I know not what he fears, but he and my
brothers seem sad and preoccupied, they go on long journeys, and when
they return quite worn out, the words they address to me are harsh and
snappish."
"Poor child!" said Don Pablo, "I can tell you the cause of these long
journeys."
"Do you fancy I have not guessed it?" she replied; "No, no, the horizon
is too gloomy around us for me not to perceive the gathering storm which
will soon burst over us; but," she added, with an effort, "let us speak
of ourselves, the moments are precious; what have you done?"
"Nothing," the young man said, mournfully; "all my researches have been
in vain."
"That is strange," Ellen muttered; "and yet the coffer cannot be lost."
"I am as convinced of that as you are; but into whose hands has it
fallen? That is what I cannot say."
The maiden reflected.
"When did you notice its disappearance?" Don Pablo went on a moment
after.
"Only a few minutes after Harry's death; frightened by the sounds of the
fight and the fearful uproar of the earthquake, I was half mad. Still, I
can remember a circumstance which will doubtless put us on the right
track."
"Speak, Ellen, speak, and whatever is to be done I will do."
The girl looked at him for a moment with an indefinable expression. She
bent over to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said, in a voice soft as
a bird's song:
"Don Pablo, a frank and loyal explanation between us is indispensable."
"I do not understand you," the young man stammered, as he let his eyes
fall.
"Yes you do," she replied, with a sad smile; "you understand me, Don
Pablo; but no matter, as you pretend to be ignorant of what I wish to
say to you, I will explain myself in such a way that any further
misconception will be impossible."
"Speak! Ellen; though I do not suspect your meaning, I have a foreboding
of misfortune."
"Yes," she continued, "you are right; a misfortune is really concealed
under what I have to say to you, if you do not consent to grant me the
favour I implore of you."
Don Pablo rose.
"Why feign longer? Since I cannot induce you to give up your plan,
Ellen, the explanation you ask of me is needless. Do you believe," he
went on, as he walked in great agitation up and down the jacal, "that I
have not already regarded the strange position in which we find
ourselves from every side? Fatality has impelled us toward each other by
one of those accidents which human wisdom cannot foresee. I love you,
Ellen, I love you with all the strength of my soul, you, the daughter of
the enemy of my family, of the man whose hands are still red with my
sister's blood, which he shed by assassinating her coldly, in the most
infamous manner. I know that, I tremble at thinking of my love, which,
in the prejudiced eyes of the world, must seem monstrous. All that you
can say to me, I have said repeatedly to myself; but an irresistible
force drags me on this fatal incline. Will, reason, resolution, all are
broken before the hope of seeing you for a moment and exchanging a few
words with you. I love you, Ellen, so as to leave for your sake,
relatives, friends, family, aye, the whole universe."
The young man uttered these words with sparkling eye, and in a sharp
stern voice, like a man whose resolution is immovable. Ellen let her
head droop, and tears slowly ran down her pallid cheeks.
"You weep!" he exclaimed, "Oh Heavens! Can I be mistaken? You do not
love me?"
"I love you, Don Pablo!" she replied in a deep voice; "yes, I love you
more than myself; but alas! That love will cause our ruin, for an
insurmountable barrier separates us."
"Perhaps," he exclaimed impetuously; "no, Ellen, you are mistaken, you
are not, you cannot be the daughter of Red Cedar. Oh, that coffer, that
accursed coffer, I would give half the time Heaven will still grant me
to live, could I recover it. In it, I feel certain, are the proofs I
seek."
"Why cheat ourselves with a wild hope, Don Pablo? I believed too lightly
in words uttered unmeaningly by the squatter and his wife: my childhood
recollections deceived us, that is unhappily too certain. I am now
convinced of it: all proves it to me, and I am really that man's
daughter."
Don Pablo stamped his foot angrily.
"Never, never," he shouted, "it is impossible, the vulture does not pair
with the dove, demons cannot be betrothed to angels. No, that villain is
not your father! Listen, Ellen; I have no proof of what I assert--all
seems, on the contrary, to prove that I am wrong; appearances are quite
against me; but still, mad as it may seem, I am sure that I am right,
and that my heart does not deceive me when it tells me that man is a
stranger to you."
Ellen sighed.
Don Pablo continued.
"See, Ellen, the hour has arrived for me to leave you. Remaining longer
with you would compromise your safety; give me then the information I am
awaiting."
"For what good?" she murmured despairingly, "The coffer is lost."
"I am not of your opinion; I believe, on the contrary, that it has
fallen into the hands of a man who intends to make use of it, for what
purpose I am ignorant, but I shall know it, be assured."
"As you insist on it, listen to me, then, Don Pablo, though what I have
told you is extremely vague."
"A gleam, however weak it may be, will suffice to guide me, and perhaps
enable me to discover what I seek."
"May Heaven grant it!" she sighed; "This is all I can tell you, and it
is quite impossible for me to say certainly whether I am not mistaken,
for, at the moment, terror so troubled my senses that I cannot say
positively I saw what I fancied I saw."
"Well, go on," the young man said, impatiently.
"When Harry fell, struck by a bullet, and was writhing in the last
throes, two were near him, one already wounded, Andrés Garote the
ranchero, the other, who stooped over his body, and seemed riffling his
clothes--"
"Who was he?"
"Fray Ambrosio. I even fancy I can remember seeing him leave the poor
hunter with a badly restrained movement of joy, and hiding in his bosom
something which I could not distinguish."
"No doubt but he had seized the coffer."
"That is probable, but I cannot say positively, for I was, I repeat, in
a condition which rendered it impossible for me to perceive anything
clearly."
"Well," said Don Pablo, pursuing his idea; "what became of Ambrosio?"
"I do not know; after the earthquake, my father and his comrades rushed
in different directions, each seeking his safety in flight. My father,
more than any other, had an interest in concealing his trail, the monk
left us almost immediately, and I have not seen him since."
"Has Red Cedar never spoken about him before you?"
"Never."
"That is strange! No matter. I swear to you, Ellen, that I will find him
again, if I have to pursue him to hell; it is that scoundrel who has
stolen the coffer."
"Don Pablo," the maiden said as she rose, "the sun is setting, my father
and brothers will soon return, we must part."
"You are right, Ellen, I leave you."
"Farewell, Don Pablo, the storm is bursting; who knows if you will reach
your friends' bivouac safe and sound?"
"I hope so, Ellen, but if you say to me farewell, I reply that we shall
meet again: believe me, dear girl, put your trust in Heaven, for if we
have been permitted to love, it is because that love will produce our
happiness."
At this moment lightning flashed across the sky, and the thunder burst
ominously.
"There is the storm," the maiden exclaimed; "go, go, in Heaven's name!"
"Good bye, my well-beloved, good bye," the young man said, as he rushed
from the jacal; "put your trust in Heaven, and in me."
"Oh, Heaven!" Ellen exclaimed, as she fell on her knees, "Grant that my
presentiments have not deceived me, or I shall die of despair."
[Footnote 1: See the Trail Hunter and Pirates of the Prairies.]