AN ACCOMPLICE.
Red Cedar accustomed himself more easily than his daughter thought
possible, to the life prepared for him. After all, no change had taken
place in his existence; with the exception of the mode of procedure, it
was still the same labour, that is to say, a desert life in all its
splendid liberty; hunting and fishing, while Ellen remained at home to
attend to household duties. At night, however, before retiring to rest,
the girl read her father a chapter from a Bible Father Seraphin had
given her. The squatter, with his elbow on the table, and a pipe in his
mouth, listened to her with an attention that surprised himself, and
which each day only increased.
It was an exquisite picture presented in this obscure nook of the great
American desert, amid this grand scenery, in this wretched hut, which
the slightest breath of wind caused to tremble, by this athletic old
man, with his energetic and stern features, listening to this palefaced
and delicate girl, whose fine features and shadowy outline formed so
strong a contrast with those of her hearer.
It was the same life every day; the squatter was happy, or, at least,
fancied himself so; like all men whose life has been but one long drama,
and who are made for action, recollections held but little place in him;
he forgot, and fancied himself forgotten.
Ellen suffered, for she was unhappy; this existence, with no outlet and
no future, was full of disenchantment for her, as it condemned her to
renounce for ever that supreme blessing of every human creature, hope.
Still, through fear of afflicting her father, she carefully shut up in
her heart her sorrow, and only displayed a smiling face in his presence.
Red Cedar yielded more and more to the charms of a life which was
pleasant to him. If, at times, the recollection of his sons troubled the
repose in which he lived, he looked at his daughter, and the sight of
the angel he possessed, and who had devoted herself to his happiness,
drove any other thoughts far away.
In the meanwhile, Father Seraphin visited the tenants of the jacal
several times; and if satisfied with the resignation with which the
squatter accepted his new position, the dull sorrow that undermined the
maiden had not escaped his clear-sighted glance. His experience of the
world told him that a girl of Ellen's age could not thus spend her
fairest years in solitude, without contact with society. Unfortunately,
a remedy was difficult, if not impossible, to find; the good missionary
did not deceive himself on this point, and understood that all the
consolations he lavished on the maiden, were thrown away, and that
nothing could effectually combat the listlessness into which she had
fallen.
As always happens in such cases, Red Cedar did not in the slightest
degree suspect his daughter's grief; she was gentle, affectionate,
attentive to him; he profited by it all, finding himself perfectly
happy, and in his egotism, not seeing further. The days slipped away,
each resembling the other; in the meanwhile, the winter came on, game
became rarer, and Red Cedar's absences from home grew longer. Around the
tops of the mountains were collected the grayish clouds, which daily
descended lower, and would eventually burst over the prairie in the
shape of rain and snow.
Winter is a terrible season in the Far West: all scourges combine to
assail the unhappy man whom his evil destiny has cast into these
disinherited countries without the means to brave their frightful
climate, and, victim to his want of foresight, he presently dies of
hunger and misery, after enduring inconceivable tortures. Red Cedar knew
the Far West too long and too thoroughly not to perceive the arrival of
this season with a species of terror; hence he sought, by all possible
means, to procure the necessary provisions and indispensable furs.
Rising at daybreak, he galloped over the prairie, exploring it in every
direction, and not returning home till night compelled him to give up
the chase. But, as we have said, game was becoming more and more rare,
and consequently his journeys longer.
One morning Red Cedar rose earlier than usual, left the jacal
noiselessly for fear of waking his daughter, saddled his horse, and
started at a gallop. He had found, on the previous evening, the trail of
a magnificent black bear, which he had followed to within a short
distance of the cave to which it retired, and he intended to attack it
in its lair. To do that, he must make haste, for the bear is not like
other wild beasts: it seeks its food during the day, and generally
leaves its abode at an early hour. The squatter, perfectly acquainted
with the animal's habits, had therefore taken up the trail as soon as he
could.
The sun had not yet risen; the sky of a dark blue, was only just
beginning to assume on the extreme verge of the horizon those opaline
tints which presently turn into pink, and are the precursors of sunrise.
The day promised to be splendid: a light breeze slightly bowed the leafy
summits of the trees, and scarce wrinkled the little stream whose bank
the squatter was following. A light fog rose from the ground,
impregnated with those sharp odours which expand the chest so
gloriously. The birds woke one after the other beneath the leaves, and
softly produced the melodious concert they perform each morning to
salute the re-awakening of nature. By degrees the darkness was effaced,
the sun rose brilliantly on the horizon, and the day broke splendidly.
Red Cedar, on reaching the entrance of a narrow gorge, at the end of
which was the bear's den, in the midst of a chaos of rocks, stopped a
few minutes to regain breath, and make his final preparations. He
dismounted, hobbled his horse, and gave it its forage, then, after
assuring himself that his knife played easily in the sheath, and his
rifle was in good order, he entered the defile.
The squatter walked in with outstretched neck, and eye and ear on the
watch, when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a hoarse laugh
smote his ear. He turned with surprise, but this surprise was converted
into terror at the sight of the man who, standing before him with arms
folded on his chest, was regarding him with a look of mockery.
"Fray Ambrosio!" he exclaimed, as he fell back a step.
"Halloh, gossip," the latter said; "on my soul, you must be hard of
hearing: I called you a dozen times, and you did not deign to answer me.
_Satanas!_ I was obliged to touch you before you would see that somebody
wanted you."
"What is your business with me?" the squatter asked in an icy tone.
"What I want, gossip? That's a strange question: don't you know it as
well as I do?"
"I do not understand you," Red Cedar said, still perfectly calm; "so
explain yourself, if you please."
"I will do so, my master," the monk answered, with a mocking smile.
"But make haste, for I warn you that I am in a hurry."
"Can it be possible! Well, I have plenty of time, so you must find some
to listen to me."
The squatter gave a passionate start, which he, however, immediately
checked.
"Yes, it is so," the monk said coolly; "I have been looking for you a
long time."
"Come, a truce to talking! Here I am, explain yourself in two words. I
say again, I am in a hurry."
"And I repeat that I do not care if you are. Oh! You may frown, gossip,
but you must listen to me."
Red Cedar stamped his foot angrily, taking one step to the monk, he laid
his hand on his shoulder, and looked fiercely in his face.
"Why, master," he said in a short, harsh voice, "I fancy, on my side,
that we are changing parts, and that you treat me very curtly; take
care, I am not patient, as you know, and if you do not mind, my patience
might soon fail me."
"That is possible," the monk answered impudently; "but if we have
changed our parts, whose fault is it, pray, mine or yours? Your sons are
right in saying that you have turned monk, and are no longer fit for
anything."
"Villain!" the squatter shouted, and raising his hand--
"That will do! Insults now! Don't be bashful: I like you better that
way, at least I recognise you. Hum! what a change! I must confess that
those French missionaries are real sorcerers: what a misfortune that
since the independence the inquisition no longer exists!"
Red Cedar looked at the monk, who fixed on him his fierce eye with a
diabolical expression; the squatter was suffering from one of those
bursts of cold passion, which are the more terrible, because they are
concentrated. He felt an extraordinary itching to crush the scoundrel
who was mocking him, and made impotent efforts to repress the anger
which was beginning to get the mastery of him. The monk was not so much
at his ease as he pretended to be. He saw the squatter's frown grow
deeper, his face become livid; all this foreboded a storm which he was
not anxious to see burst to his presence.
"Come," he said, in a softer key, "why should old friends quarrel? _Con
mil demonios_--I am only here with a good intent, and to do you a
service."
The squatter laughed contemptuously.
"You do not believe me," the monk continued, with an air of beatitude;
"that does not surprise me, it is always so. Good intentions are
misunderstood, and a man believes his enemies in preference to his
friends."
"A truce to your nonsense," the squatter said, impatiently; "I have
listened to you too long already; let me pass, and you can go to the
devil."
"Thanks for the proposition you make me," the monk said with a laugh;
"but if you have no objection, I will not take advantage of it, at least
for the present. But, jesting apart, there are two persons close by
anxious to see you, and whom I am sure you will be delighted to meet."
"Whom do you mean? I suppose they are rogues of your own sort."
"Probably," the monk said; "however you shall judge for yourself,
gossip."
And, not waiting for the squatter's answer, the monk imitated thrice the
hiss of the coral snake. At the third time a slight movement took place
in the shrubs a short distance off, and two men leaped into the defile.
The squatter uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror, on seeing
them: he had recognised his two sons, Nathan and Sutter. The young men
walked up quickly to their father, whom they saluted with a respect
mingled with irony, which did not escape his notice.
"Ah, there you are, father," Sutter, said, roughly, as he banged the
butt of his rifle on the ground, and rested his hands on the muzzle; "a
man has a hard run before he can catch you up."
"It seems that since our separation father has turned Quaker; his new
religion, probably, orders him not to frequent such bad company as
ours."
"Silence, you villains!" the squatter shouted, stamping his foot; "I do
what I please, and no one that I know of has a right to interfere."
"You are mistaken, father," Sutter, said drily; "I, for instance,
consider your conduct unworthy of a man."
"Not mentioning," the monk supported him, "that you place your
confederates in a fix, which is not right."
"That is not the question," Nathan said; "if father likes to turn
Puritan, that is his business, and I will not find, fault with him; but
there is a time for everything. To my mind, when a man is surrounded by
enemies and tracked like a wild beast, he ought not to put on a
sheepskin, and pretend to be harmless."
"What do you mean?" the squatter asked impatiently; "Explain yourself,
once for all, and let us make an end of this."
"I will do so," Nathan went on; "while you are sleeping in a deceitful
security, your enemies are watching and constantly weaving the web in
which they have hopes of enfolding you shortly. Do you fancy that we
have not known your retreat for a long time? Who can hope to escape
discovery in the desert? We did not wish, however, to disturb your
repose till the moment arrived for doing so, and that is why you did not
see us before today."
"Yes," the monk remarked; "but at present time presses: while you trust
to the fine words of the French missionary, who cured you and lulls you
to sleep, in order always to keep you under his thumb, your enemies are
silently preparing to attack you, and finish with you once for all."
The squatter gave a start of amazement.
"Why, that man saved my life," he said.
The three men burst into a laugh.
"What use is experience?" the monk said, turning to the young men with a
significant shrug of his shoulders. "Here is your father, a man whose
whole life has been spent in the desert, who forgets at once its most
sacred law, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and will not understand that
this man, who, he says, saved his life, merely cured him to torture him
at a later date, and have the pleasure of depriving him of that life
when he is in rude health, instead of the miserable amount left him when
they met."
"Oh, no," the squatter shouted, "you lie! That is impossible!"
"That is impossible!" the monk replied, with pity; "Oh, how blind men
are! Come, reflect, gossip; had not this priest an insult to avenge?"
"It is true," Red Cedar muttered with a sigh; "but he forgave me."
"Forgave you! Do you ever forgive anybody? Nonsense, you are mad,
gossip! I see there is nothing to be got out of you. Do what you
like--we leave you."
"Yes," said the squatter, "leave me; there is nothing I wish more."
The monk and his comrades went away a few paces, but Fray Ambrosio
suddenly returned. Red Cedar was still standing at the same spot with
hanging head and frowning brow. The monk saw the squatter was shaken,
and the moment had arrived to deal the great blow.
"Gossip," he said, "a parting word, or, if you prefer, a last piece of
advice."
"What is there now?" Red Cedar said, nervously.
"Watch over Ellen!"
"What!" the squatter yelled, as he bounded like a panther and seized
Fray Ambrosio by the arm, "What did you say, monk?"
"I said," the other replied, in a firm and marked voice, "that your
enemies wish to punish you through Ellen, and that if that accursed monk
has hitherto appeared to protect you, it was because he feared lest the
victim he covets might escape him."
At these fearful words, a horrible change took place in Red Cedar; a
livid pallor covered his face, his body was agitated by a convulsive
quivering.
"Oh!" he shouted with the roar of a tiger, "let them come, then!"
The monk gave, his comrades a triumphant glance; he had succeeded, and
held his palpitating prey in his hands.
"Come," Red Cedar continued, "do not desert me; we will crush this herd
of vipers. Ah, they fancy they have me," he added, with a nervous laugh;
that almost choked him, "but I will show them that the old lion is not
conquered yet. I can count on you, my lads, and on you, Fray Ambrosio?"
"We are your only friends," the monk replied, "as you know perfectly
well."
"That is true," he went on; "forgive me for having forgotten it for a
moment. Ah, you shall see."
Two hours later the three men reached the jacal, and on seeing them
enter, Ellen felt a shudder of terror run over her; a secret foreboding
warned her of misfortune.