THE HACIENDA QUEMADA.
It was a strange group formed by this charming creature and this rough
wood ranger, at the top of this devastated hill, troubled by the
thunder, and illumined by the coruscating lightning.
White Gazelle had fallen back again, pale and inanimate. Bloodson gazed
out into the night, and reassured by the silence, bent a second time
over the girl. Pallid as an exquisite lily laid prostrate by the
tempest, the poor child seemed scarce to breathe. Bloodson raised her in
his nervous arms, and bore her to a piece of broken wall, at the foot of
which he laid his zarapé, and placed her on this softer couch. The
girl's head hung senseless on his shoulder. Then he gazed at her for a
long time: grief and pity were painted on Bloodson's face.
He, whose life had hitherto been but one long tragedy, who had no belief
in his heart, who was ignorant of softer feelings and sweet sympathies;
he, the avenger and slayer of the Indians, was affected, and felt
something new stirring within him. Tears ran down his cheeks.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed anxiously, "Can she be dead? Yes," he added,
"I was cowardly and cruel toward this poor creature, and God punishes
me."
The name, which he only used to blaspheme, he now pronounced almost with
respect; it was a species of prayer, a cry from his heart. This
indomitable man was at length conquered, he believed.
"How to help her?" he asked himself.
The rain that continued to fall in torrents, and inundated the girl, at
length recalled her to life; she partly opened her eyes, and muttered
softly:
"Where am I? What has happened? Oh, I fancied I was dying."
"She speaks, she lives, she is saved," Bloodson exclaimed.
"Who is that?" she asked, as she raised herself with difficulty.
At the sight of the hunter's bronzed face, she was frightened, closed
her eyes again, and fell back. She was beginning to remember.
"Take courage, my child," Bloodson said softening his rough voice, "I am
your friend."
"You my friend!" she exclaimed, "what means that word on your lips?"
"Oh, pardon me, I was mad, I knew not what I did."
"Pardon you, why? Am I not born to sorrow?"
"What must she have endured?" Bloodson muttered.
"Oh, yes," she continued, speaking as in a dream. "I have suffered
greatly. My life, though I am still very young, has, up to the present,
been one long suffering; still, I can remember having been happy
once--long, long ago. But the worst pain in this world is the
remembrance of happiness in misfortune."
A sigh escaped from her overladen chest, she let her head fall in her
hands, and wept. Bloodson listened to and gazed on her; this voice,
these features, all he saw and heard augmented the suspicions in his
heart, and gradually converted them into certainty.
"Oh, speak--speak again!" he continued, tenderly; "What do you remember
of your youthful years?"
The girl looked at him, and a bitter smile curled her lips.
"Why, in misery, think of past joys?" she said, shaking her head
mournfully; "Why should I tell you of these things--you, above all, who
are my direst enemy? Do you wish to inflict fresh tortures on me?"
"Oh!" he said, with horror, "Can you have such thoughts? Alas! I have
been very guilty toward you, I allow it, but pardon me--pardon me, I
conjure you! I would lay down my life to spare you any pain."
White Gazelle regarded with amazement, mingled with terror, this rough
man, almost prostrate before her, and whose face was bathed in tears.
She did not understand his remarks after the way in which he had
hitherto acted towards her.
"Alas!" she murmured, "My life is that of all unfortunate beings: there
was a time when, like other children, I had the songs of birds to lull
me to sleep, and flowers that smiled on me when I awoke; I had, too, a
sister who shared in my sports, and a mother, who loved and embraced me.
All that has fled forever."
Bloodson put up two poles, on which he suspended skins to shelter the
girl from the storm, which was gradually clearing off. She watched him
as he did so.
"I do not know," she said, sadly, "why I feel a necessity to tell you
all this, when you have done me so much harm; whence comes the feeling
which the sight of you produces in me? I ought to hate you."
She did not complete the sentence, but hid her face in her hands,
sobbing violently.
"It is Heaven which permits it to be so, poor child," Bloodson replied,
as he raised his eyes upward, and fervently made the sign of the cross.
"Perhaps so," she said, softly; "well, listen; whatever may happen, I
wish to relieve my heart. One day I was playing on my mother's knees,
my father was near us with my sister; all at once a terrible yell was
heard at the gate of our hacienda; the Apache Indians were attacking us.
My father was a resolute man, he seized his weapons, and rushed to the
walls. What happened then? I cannot tell you. I was hardly four years of
age at this time, and the terrible scene I witnessed is enveloped within
my mind in a blood-stained cloud. I can only remember how my mother, who
wept as she embraced us both, suddenly fell upon us, covering us with
blood; in vain did I try to recall her to life by my caresses--she was
dead."
There was a silence. Bloodson listened eagerly to this story with pallid
face, frowning brow, convulsively pressing the barrel of his rifle, and
wiping away at intervals the perspiration that poured down his face.
"Go on, child," he muttered.
"I remember nothing further; men resembling demons rushed into the
hacienda, seized my sister and myself, and set out at the full speed of
their horses. Alas, since that period I have never again seen my
mother's sweet face, or my father's kindly smile; henceforth I was alone
among the bandits who carried me off."
"But your sister, girl, your sister, what became of her?"
"I do not know; a violent quarrel broke out among our ravishers, and
blood was shed. After this quarrel they separated. My sister was taken
in one direction, I in another; I never, saw her again."
Bloodson seemed to make an effort over himself, then fixing his
tear-laden eyes on her, he exclaimed, fervently--
"Mercedés! Mercedés! it is really you? Do I find, you again after so
many years?"
White Gazelle raised her head quickly.
"Mercedés," she repeated, "that is the name my mother gave me."
"It is I, I, Stefano, your uncle! your father's brother!" Bloodson said,
as he pressed her, almost mad with joy, to his breast.
"Stefano! My uncle! Yes, yes, I remember--I know."
She fell lifeless in Bloodson's arms.
"Wretch that I am, I have killed her--Mercedés, my beloved child, come
to yourself!"
The girl opened her eyes again, and threw herself on Bloodson's neck,
weeping with joy.
"Oh, my uncle! My uncle! I have a family at last, then. Thank God!" The
hunter's face became grave.
"You are right, child," he said, "thank God, for it is He who has done
everything, and who decreed that I should find you again on the tomb of
those whom we have both been lamenting for so many years."
"What do you mean, uncle?" she asked, in surprise.
"Follow me, girl," the wood ranger replied; "follow me, and you shall
know."
The girl rose with difficulty, leant on his arm, and followed him. By
the accent of Don Stefano's voice, Mercedés understood that her uncle
had an important revelation to make her. They found some difficulty in
walking through the ruins, obstructed with grass and creepers, but at
length reached the cross, where Bloodson stopped.
"On your knees, Mercedés," he said in a mournful voice; "on this spot
your father and mother were buried by me fifteen years ago, on such a
night as this."
The girl fell on her knees without replying, and Don Stefano imitated
her. Both prayed for a long time with tears and sobs, and then they rose
again. Bloodson made his niece a sign to sit down at the foot of the
cross, placed himself by her, an after passing his hand over his
forehead as if to collect his thoughts, he spoke in a dull voice, with
an accent which, in spite of all his resolution, sorrow caused to
tremble.
"Listen to me, child," he said, "for what you are about to hear will
perhaps help us to find the murderers of your parents, if they still
live."
"Speak, uncle," she said in a firm voice; "yes, you are right: Heaven
willed it that our meeting should take place thus. Be assured that the
murderers will not be suffered to go much longer unpunished."
"So be it," said Don Stefano; "for fifteen years I have been awaiting
the hour of vengeance. Heaven will sustain me, I hope, till the moment
when it strikes. Your father and I resided at the spot where we now are.
This hill was occupied by a vast hacienda, which we built; the
surrounding fields belonging to us, and were cleared by two hundred
persons in our pay. Heaven blessed our labour, which prospered; everybody
loved and respected us around, for our abode was always open to those
whom misfortune struck. But if our countrymen esteemed us and applauded
our efforts, the owners of an adjoining hacienda had vowed us an
implacable hatred. For what reason? That I never succeeded in
discovering. Was it jealousy or base envy? In any case these men hated
us. There were three of them, and they did not belong to the Spanish
race; they were North Americans, or, at any rate, I can for certainty
say one of them, of the name of Wilkes, was so. Still, although the
hatred that kept us apart was fierce, it was dull, and nothing led to
the supposition that it would ever burst into life. About this time,
important business compelled me to take a journey of several days. Your
father, poor child, and myself, could not separate, for a secret
presentiment seemed to warn us. When I returned, the hacienda was
utterly destroyed, and only a few pieces of the walls still smoked. My
brother and our whole family, as well as the servants, had been
murdered."
Bloodson stopped.
"Terminate this sad story, uncle," the girl said, hastily, "I must know
all, in order to take my share of the vengeance."
"That is true," Don Stefano replied; "but I have little more to say, and
will be brief; during a whole night I traversed these smoky ruins,
seeking the corpses of those I loved; and when, after infinite
difficulty, I succeeded in finding them, I interred them piously, and
took an oath to avenge them over their tomb. This oath I have
religiously kept during fifteen years; unhappily, though I have punished
many culprits, up to the present the leaders have escaped me by some
extraordinary fatality. Your father, whom I found dying, expired in my
arms ere he was able to tell me his assassins; and though I have strong
grounds for accusing Wilkes and his companions, no proof has yet
corroborated my suspicions, and the names of the villains are unknown to
me. It was only the day before yesterday, when the scoundrel Sandoval
fell, that I fancied I had discovered one of them at last."
"You were not mistaken, uncle; that man was really one of our
ravishers," Mercedés replied, in a firm voice.
"And the others?" Don Stefano quickly asked.
"I know them, uncle."
At this revelation, Don Stefano uttered a cry that resembled the howl of
a wild beast.
"At last!" he exclaimed, with such an outburst of fury, that the girl
was almost terrified.
"And now, dear uncle," she went on, "permit me to ask you one question,
after which I will answer yours, if you have any to ask."
"Speak, child."
"Why did you seize me and bring me here?"
"Because I fancied you the daughter of that Sandoval, and wished to
immolate you on the tomb of his victims," Bloodson answered, in a
trembling voice.
"Did you not hear, then, what the man said to me?"
"No; seeing you bent over him, I thought you were watching him die. Your
fainting fit, which I attributed to sorrow, only augmented my certainty;
that is why I rushed on you so soon as I saw you fall."
"But the letter you took from me would have revealed all to you."
"Do you think, then, child, I took the trouble to read it? No, I only
recognised you by the scapulary hung round your neck."
"The finger of God is in all this," the girl said, with an accent of
conviction; "it was really He who directed it all."
"Now it is your turn, Mercedés tell me who the assassins are."
"Give me the letter first, uncle."
"Here it is," he said, handing it to her.
The girl snatched it and tore it into the minutest fragments. Bloodson
saw her do it without understanding her motive; when the last piece of
paper was borne away by the breeze, the girl turned to her uncle.
"You wish to know the names of the assassins of my father, you say,
uncle?"
"Yes."
"You are determined that the vengeance you have been pursuing so long
shall not escape you, now that you are on the point of obtaining it, and
you wish to carry out your oath to the end?"
"Yes; but why all these questions?" he asked, impatiently.
"I will tell you, uncle," she replied, as she drew herself up with
strange resolution; "I, too, have also taken an oath, and do not wish to
break it."
"What is its nature?"
"To avenge my father and mother, but to accomplish it I must be free to
act as I think proper, and hence I will not reveal those means to you
till the time arrives; today I cannot do it."
Such resolution flashed in the girl's jet-black eye, that Bloodson did
not attempt to induce her to do what he desired; he understood that any
pressing on his part would be useless.
"Very good," he answered, "be it so; but you swore to me--"
"That you shall know all when the moment arrives," she said, as she
stretched out her right hand to the cross.
"Your word is enough; but may I at least know what you intend doing?"
"Up to a certain point you may."
"Go on."
"You have a horse?"
"At the foot of the hill."
"Bring it to me, uncle, and let me start; before all, let no one know
the ties that unite us."
"I will be dumb."
"If ever you see or hear anything connected with me, believe nothing,
feel surprised at nothing; say to yourself that I am acting on behalf of
our common vengeance, for that alone will be true."
Don Stefano shook his head, and said:
"You are very young, child, for so rude a task."
"Heaven will help me, uncle," she replied, with a flashing glance; "the
task is just and holy, for I desire to punish my father's assassins."
"Well," he continued, "your will be done: as you have said, it is a holy
task, and I have no right to prevent you accomplishing it."
"Thanks, uncle," the girl said, feelingly; "and now, while I pray at my
father's tomb, do you fetch me your horse, that I may set out without
delay."
Bloodson retired without answering, and the girl fell on her knees at
the foot of the cross. Half an hour later, after tenderly embracing Don
Stefano, she mounted the horse, and started at a gallop in the direction
of the Far West. Bloodson followed her as long as it was possible for
him to see her in the darkness, and, when she had disappeared, he fell
on the tomb on his knees, muttering in a hollow voice:
"Will she succeed? Who knows?" he added with an accent impossible to
describe.
He prayed till day, but with the first beams of the sun he joined his
comrades, and returned with them to the Far West.