RED CEDAR.
Now that we have explained the incidents that took place during the six
months that had elapsed between Doña Clara's death and the conversation
in the cavern during the storm, we will resume our narrative where we
left it at the end of chapter three.
Only a few minutes after the hacendero's son had left, the door of the
jacal was roughly opened--four men entered. They were Red Cedar, Fray
Ambrosio, Sutter, and Nathan. They appeared sad and gloomy, and the
water poured down from their clothes as if they had come out of the
river.
"Halloh," the monk said; "what! No fire or light, and nothing in the
calli to greet us. You do not care much for us, I fancy."
Red Cedar kissed his daughter on the forehead, and turning to Fray
Ambrosio, to whom he gave a passionate glance, he said roughly--
"You are in my house, my master: do not oblige me to remind you of that
fact; so begin by being civil to my daughter, if you do not wish me to
give you a lesson."
"Hum!" the monk remarked with a growl; "Is this young woman so sacred,
that you should fire up at the slightest word addressed to her?"
"I do not fire up," the squatter replied, sharply, as he struck the
table with his fist; "but your way of speaking does not please me, I
tell you; so do not oblige me to repeat it."
Fray Ambrosio made no answer; he understood that Red Cedar was in a
state of mind unfavourable for a discussion; he therefore prudently
refrained from any remark that might lead to a quarrel, which he seemed
as anxious to avoid as the squatter to pick it. During the exchange of
these few sentences, Ellen, helped by her brothers, had lit a torch of
candle wood, rekindled the fire, the absence of which was felt, and
placed on the table a meal, sufficient, if not luxurious.
"Caballeros," she said in her gentle voice, "you are served."
The four men sat round the table with the eagerness of hungry persons
who are desirous of breaking a long fast. Before raising the first
morsel to his lips, the squatter, however, turned to his daughter.
"Ellen," he said to her kindly, "will you not sit down with us?"
"Thank you, father, but I am not hungry; it would be really impossible
for me to swallow the least morsel."
The squatter sighed, but raising no objection, he began to serve his
guests, while Ellen retired into the darkest corner of the shanty. The
meal was sad; the four men seemed busy in thought, and ate quickly and
silently. When their hunger was appeased, they lit their pipes.
"Father," Nathan suddenly said to Red Cedar, who was sorrowfully
watching the smoke ascend in spirals to the roof; "I have found a
trail."
"So have I," the monk remarked.
"And I, too," the squatter said; "what of that?"
"What of that?" Fray Ambrosio shouted. "Canarios, gossip, you take
things very lightly. A trail in the desert always reveals an enemy."
"What do I care for that?" Red Cedar replied, with a shrug of his
shoulders.
"What?" the monk shouted, as he sprang up; "That is very fine, on my
word; to hear you, one might fancy you were an entire stranger to the
question, and that your life is not at stake like ours."
"Who tells you that I wish to defend it?" the squatter replied, giving
him a look which made his eyes fall.
"Hum!" the monk remarked, after a moment's silence; "I can understand
that you do not cling to life; you have gone through so much, that you
would not regret death; but there is one thing you forget, gossip, not
referring to myself, though I have a right to reproach you."
The squatter carelessly shook the ashes out of his pipe, filled it
again, and went on smoking as if not paying the slightest attention to
the monk's remarks. The latter frowned and clenched his fists, but
recovering his temper almost immediately, he continued, with feigned
indifference, while playing with his knife--
"Yes, you forget one thing, gossip, which however, is worth
remembering."
"What is it?"
"Your children, cospita!"
The squatter gave him an ironical glance.
"Oh, _por Dios santo!_" the monk went on; "I do not refer to your sons,
for they are strong and resolute men, who can always get out of a
scrape; I do not trouble myself about them at all."
"About whom, then?" the squatter asked, looking at him sharply.
"Why, for your daughter Ellen, canarios! What will become of her, if you
die?" the monk said, with that boldness peculiar to timid persons, who
wish to know at once if the mine they have fired will crush them. The
squatter shook his head sadly.
"That is true," he said, with a glance at his daughter.
The monk smiled--the blow had told, so he went on.
"In destroying yourself, you destroy her," he said; "your obstinacy may
cause her death, so take care."
"What is to be done?" the squatter asked.
"Take our precautions, _voto de Dios!_ believe me, we are watched;
remaining longer here would be the utmost imprudence."
The squatter's sons nodded their assent.
"It is evident," Sutter observed, "that our enemies have discovered our
trail."
"And that they will soon be here," Nathan added.
"You hear?" the monk went on.
"Once again I ask, what is to be done?" Red Cedar asked.
"Caspita, be off as speedily as possible."
"Where can we go at this advanced season of the year? The snow will soon
cover the ground, and interrupt all communication; if we leave the
jacal, we run a risk of dying of hunger."
"Yes, if we remain in the desert," the monk observed, in an insinuating
voice.
"Where do you propose going then?" the squatter asked.
"What do I know? There is no lack of towns, I suppose, on the Indian
border; we might, if absolutely necessary, return to the Paso del Norte,
where we have friends, and are certain of a kind reception."
Red Cedar looked him full in the face, and said ironically--
"Out with your whole thought, señor Padre; you have an object in wishing
to return to the Paso, so let me know it."
"Caspita, you are as clever as I am," the monk exclaimed, blushing the
while; "what need have we to humbug one another?"
The squatter rose, and kicked back his stool.
"You are right," he said passionately, "let us deal openly with one
another. I wish nothing better, and to give you an example, listen to
me. You have never lost out of sight the reason that made you enter the
desert; you have only one object, one desire, to reach the rich placer,
the situation of which you learned by assassinating a man. Neither the
fatigue you have endured, nor the peril you have incurred, has made you
renounce your scheme; the hope of a rich crop of gold blinds you, and
makes you mad. Is it so or not?"
"It is true," the monk coolly replied, "what next?"
"When our band was destroyed, and completely dispersed, this was the
reasoning you employed--a reasoning," he added, with a bitter smile,
"which does honour to your sagacity and firmness of character; 'Red
Cedar all but knows the site of the placer. I must induce him to return
with me to the Paso, to form another band, because if I leave him alone
in the desert, so soon as my back is turned, he will go in search of the
treasures, and carelessly discover it.' Have I not guessed aright,
gossip?"
"Nearly so," the monk answered, furious at seeing his plans so clearly
read through.
"I thought so," Red Cedar continued; "but, like all bad men, gangrened
to the heart, you went beyond your object, by attributing to me the same
sordid instincts you possess; and you thought that because I am an
assassin, I may be a thief: that is the error in which you fell, gossip.
Understand me," he said, stamping his foot violently; "were the coveted
treasure at this moment beneath my heel, I would not stoop down to pick
up a nugget. Gold is nothing to me, I despise it. When I consented to
guide you to the placer you naturally assumed that avarice led me to do
so; but you are mistaken; I had a more powerful and nobler
motive--revenge. Now, do not trouble me more about your accursed placer,
for which I care as little as I do for a nut. And with that, good night,
gossip; I am going to sleep, or try to do so, and recommend the same to
you."
And, without awaiting the monk's reply, the squatter turned his back and
stalked into an inner room. For some time past, Ellen had been asleep,
and so the monk remained alone with the squatter's sons. For some
minutes they remained in silence.
"Bah," the monk at length said cautiously, "however much he may
struggle, it must happen."
Sutter shook his head dubiously.
"No," he said, "you do not know the old one; once he has said no, he
sticks to it."
"Hum!" Nathan added, "He has greatly changed lately; of all his old
character, he seems only to have kept his obstinacy; I am afraid you
will fail, señor Padre."
"Live and learn," the latter said gaily; "tomorrow has to come; in the
meanwhile, gentlemen, let us follow his advice, and go to sleep."
Ten minutes later all slept, or seemed to sleep, in the jacal: the storm
lasted the night through, howling furiously. At daybreak, the squatter
rose, and went out to see what sort of weather it was. The day promised
well; the sky was pure, and the sun rose radiantly. Red Cedar,
therefore, started for the corral to saddle his horse, and those of his
comrades. Before leaving the household, however, he looked around, and
suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise as he started back. He had
noticed a horseman coming up at full speed.
"Father Seraphin!" he muttered in astonishment; "What serious reason can
bring him here, at such an hour and in such haste?"
At this moment the other entered the keeping room, and the squatter
heard the sound of the footsteps behind him. He turned quickly.
"Hide yourselves," he said hoarsely.
"What's the matter?" the monk asked furiously, as he stepped forward.
With one blow of his fist, the squatter hurled him to the middle of the
room.
"Did you not hear me?" he said passionately. But, although Red Cedar's
blow had been so powerful, he could not prevent the monk recognising
Father Seraphin.
"Ah, ah," he said, with an ugly smile, "Father Seraphin! If our friend
wished to confess, was not I enough? He need not only have told me,
instead of sending for that European magpie."
Red Cedar here turned as if a viper had stung him, and gave the three
men such a glance of ferocity, that they involuntarily recoiled.
"Villain," he said, in a hollow voice, and a terrible gesture, "I know
not what prevents me killing you, like the dog you are. If one of you
dare utter a syllable against this holy man, by Heaven, I will flay him
alive. Hide yourselves, I insist."
Subjugated by the squatter's accent, the three men left the room without
replying, and ten minutes later Father Seraphin checked his horse, and
dismounted in front of the jacal. Red Cedar and his daughter hurried
forward to meet the father, who walked into the hut, wiping the
perspiration that stood on his forehead. Red Cedar offered him a butaca.
"Sit down, father," he said to him, "you are very hot; will you take
some refreshment?"
"Thanks," the missionary answered, "but we have not a moment to lose, so
listen to me."
"What has happened, father? Why have you come in such haste?"
"Alas!" he went on, "because you are menaced by a terrible misfortune."
The squatter turned pale. "It is but just," he muttered, with a frown;
"the expiation is beginning."
"Courage, my children," the missionary said, affectionately, "your
enemies have discovered your retreat, I know not how; they will be here
tomorrow--perhaps today--you must fly--fly at once."
"For what good?" the squatter remarked; "the hand of God is in this--no
man can escape his destiny; better to wait."
Father Seraphin assumed a serious air, and said in a stern voice--
"God wishes to try you; it would be cowardice, suicide, to surrender
yourself to those who desire your death, and Heaven would not pardon you
for doing so. Every living creature must defend life when attacked.
Fly--I bid you--I order you."
The squatter made no reply.
"Besides," Father Seraphin continued, in a tone he strove to render gay,
"the storm may blow over; your enemies, not finding you here, will
doubtless abandon the pursuit; in a few days, you will be able to
return."
"No," the squatter said disconsolately, "they desire my death. As you
order me to fly, father, I will obey you, but, before all, grant me one
favour."
"Speak, my son."
"I," the squatter went on, with ill-concealed emotion, "am a man; I
can, without succumbing, support the most excessive fatigue, brave the
greatest dangers; but--"
"I understand you," the missionary quickly interrupted him; "I intend to
keep your daughter with me. Be at your ease, she shall want for
nothing."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, father!" he exclaimed, with an accent such a man
might have been thought incapable of.
Ellen had hitherto listened to the conversation in silence, but now she
stepped forward, and placing herself between the two men, said with
sublime dignity:
"I am most grateful to both of you for your intentions with regard to
me, but I cannot abandon my father; I will follow him wherever he goes,
to console him and aid him in suffering the retributions Heaven sends on
him, as a Christian should do."
The two men prepared to interrupt her.
"Stay!" she said, warmly; "hitherto I have suffered through my father's
conduct, for it was guilty; but now that repentance fills his soul, I
pity and love him. My resolution is unchangeable."
Father Seraphin gazed at her in admiration.
"It is well, my child," he said; "Heaven will remember such pure and
noble devotion."
The squatter pressed his daughter to his heart, but had not the strength
to utter a word--he had never felt such sweet emotion before. The
missionary rose.
"Farewell," he said, "and take courage; put your trust in God, who will
not abandon you. I will watch over you at a distance. Farewell, my
children, and bless you. Go, go, without delay."
Then, tearing himself by an effort from Red Cedar's arms, Father
Seraphin remounted, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and started
at full speed, after giving his protégés a parting wave of the hand.
"Oh!" Red Cedar muttered, "That could not last, for I was almost happy."
"Courage, father," Ellen said to him softly.
They re-entered the jacal, where the men were awaiting them.
"Go and saddle the horses," the squatter said, "we are going away."
"Ah!" the monk whispered Sutter, "did I not tell you the demon was on
our side? Canarios! He would not forget us, as we have done so much for
him."
The preparations for quitting the jacal were not long, and an hour
later, the five persons started.
"In what direction do we go?" the monk asked.
"Let us go in the mountains," the squatter answered, laconically, as he
took a melancholy glance at this wretched hut, in which he had perhaps
hoped to end his days, and which fate compelled him to leave forever.
The fugitives had scarce disappeared behind a clump of trees, when a
cloud of dust rose on the horizon, and five horsemen soon appeared,
coming up at full speed. They were Valentine and his friends.
The hunter must have obtained precise information from Bloodson as to
the situation of the jacal, for he did not hesitate a moment, but rode
straight in. Don Pablo's heart beat, as if to burst his chest, though he
apparently remained unmoved.
"Hum!" Valentine said, when about a dozen yards from the jacal,
"Everything is very silent here."
"The squatter is no doubt out hunting," Don Miguel observed, "we shall
only find his daughter."
Valentine began laughing.
"Do you think so?" he said. "No, no, Don Miguel, remember Father
Seraphin's words."
General Ibañez, who was the first to reach the jacal, dismounted and
opened the door.
"Nobody!" he said, in surprise.
"By Jove!" Valentine said, "I suspected that the bird had flown; but
this time he will be very cunning if he escapes us. Forward, forward!
They cannot be far ahead."
They started again. Curumilla remained behind for a second, and threw a
lighted torch into the shanty, which was soon burned down.
"The fox is unearthed," the Indian muttered to himself, while rejoining
his comrades.