THE RED TRACK
A Story of Social life in Mexico
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "ADVENTURERS," "PEARL OF THE ANDES," "TRAIL HUNTER,"
"PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES," "TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER," "TIGER
SLAYER," "GOLD SEEKERS," "INDIAN CHIEF," ETC.
LONDON:
CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW.
PREFACE.
The present volume of GUSTAVE AIMARD'S works is a continuation of the
"Indian Chief," and conclusion of the series comprising that work, the
"Gold Seekers," and the "Tiger Slayer."
At the present moment, when we are engaged in a war with Mexico, I feel
assured that the extraordinary and startling descriptions given in this
volume of the social condition and mode of life in the capital of that
country will be read with universal gratification; for I can assert
confidently that; no previous writer has ever produced such a graphic
and truthful account of a city with which the illustrated papers will
soon make us thoroughly acquainted.
If a further recommendation be needed, it will be found in the fact that
the present volume appears in an English garb before being introduced to
French readers. GUSTAVE AIMARD is so gratified with the reception his
works have found in this country, through my poor assistance, that he
has considered he could not supply a better proof of his thankfulness
than by permitting his English readers to enjoy, on this occasion, the
first fruits of his versatile and clever pen. This is a compliment
which, I trust, will be duly appreciated; for, as to the merits of
the work itself, I have not the slightest doubt. Readers may imagine
it impossible for GUSTAVE AIMARD to surpass his previous triumphs in
the wildly romantic, or that he could invent anything equal to the
"Prairie Flower," a work which I venture to affirm, to be the finest
Indian tale ever yet written, in spite of the great authors who have
preceded AIMARD; but I ask my reader's special admiration for the "RED
TRACK," because in it our favourite author strikes out a new path, and
displays versatility which puts to the blush those bilious critics--few
in number--I grant, among the multitude of encouraging reviewers, who
have ventured an opinion that GUSTAVE AIMARD can only write about Indian
life, or, in point of fact, that he is merely a hunter describing his
own experiences under a transparent disguise.
Well, be it so, I accept the assertion. GUSTAVE AIMARD is but a
hunter; he has seen nought but uncivilized life; he has spent years
among savages, and has returned to his own country to try and grow
Europeanized again. What then? The very objection is a proof of his
veracity; and I am fully of the conviction that every story he has told
us is true. It is not reasonable to suppose that a man who has spent the
greater part of his life in hunting the wild animals of America--who
has been an adopted son of the most powerful Indian tribes--who has for
years never known what the morrow would bring forth, should sit down
to invent. The storehouse of his mind is too amply filled with marvels
for him to take that needless trouble, and he simply repeats on paper
the tales which in olden limes he picked up at the camp fires, or heard
during his wanderings with the wood rangers.
And it is as such that I wish GUSTAVE AIMARD to be judged by English
readers. His eminent quality is truth. He is a man who could not set
down a falsehood, no matter what the bribe might be, he has lived
through the incidents he describes, and has brought back to Europe
the adventures of a chequered life. He does not attempt to fascinate
his readers by a complicated plot. He does not possess the marvellous
invention of a Cooper, who, after a slight acquaintance with a few
powerless Indians, wrote books which all admirers of the English
language peruse. But GUSTAVE AIMARD possesses a higher quality, in the
fact that he only notes down incidents which he has seen, or which he
has received on undoubted evidence from his companions.
The present is the twelfth volume of GUSTAVE AIMARD'S works to which. I
have put my name; and, with the exception of a few captious criticisms
whose motive may be read between the lines, the great body of the
British Press has greeted our joints efforts with the heartiest
applause. The success of this series has been unparalleled in the annals
of cheap literature. Day by day the number of readers increases, and the
publication of each successive volume creates an excitement which cannot
fail to be most gratifying to the publishers.
To please all parties, the proprietors of AIMARD'S copyrights have
projected an Illustrated Series, to which I would invite most earnest
attention. Although by this time I am saturated with Indian life, I
confess that I never thoroughly understood it till I saw the engravings
after a Zwecker, a Huard, and a Corbould. The artists have carefully
studied their subjects, and gone to the fountain-head for information;
and the result is, that they have produced a series of works which only
need to be seen to be appreciated. The last volume illustrated is "The
Freebooters," which was entirely intrusted to Mr. Corbould, and though
I do not wish for a moment to depreciate the other artists, I felt, on
seeing the illustrations, that GUSTAVE AIMARD was worthily interpreted.
All I can urge upon readers is, that they should judge for themselves.
To wind up this unusually long Preface, into which honest admiration for
the author has alone induced me, I wish to say that it affords me an
ever-recurring delight to introduce GUSTAVE AIMARD'S works to English
readers, while it causes me an extra pleasure, on this occasion, to be
enabled to repeat that the present volume appears on this side of the
Channel before it has been introduced to French readers. And, knowing as
I do the number of editions through which AIMARD'S books pass in his own
native land, I can appreciate the sacrifice he has made on this occasion
at its full value.
LASCELLES WRAXALL.
DRAYTON TERRACE, WEST BROMPTON,
_March_, 1862.
CONTENTS.
I. THE SIERRA OF THE WIND RIVER
II. THE DEAD ALIVE
III. THE COMPACT
IV. THE TRAVELLERS
V. THE FORT OF THE CHICHIMÈQUES
VI. THE SURPRISE
VII. THE EXPLANATION
VIII. A DECLARATION OF WAR
IX. MEXICO
X. THE RANCHO
XI. THE PASEO DE BUCARELI
XII. A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION
XIII. DON MARTIAL
XIV. THE VELORIO
XV. THE CONVENT OF THE BERNARDINES
XVI. THE CONFESSOR
XVII. THE BEGINNING OF THE STRUGGLE
XVIII. A VISIT
XIX. ASSISTANCE
XX. EL ZARAGATE
XXI. AFTER THE INTERVIEW
XXII. THE BLANK SIGNATURE
XXIII. ON THE ROAD
XXIV. A SKIRMISH
XXV. LOS REGOCIJOS
XXVI. THE PRONUNCIAMIENTO
XXVII. THE CAPILLA
A BUFFALO HUNT
A MUSTANG
CHAPTER I.
THE SIERRA OF THE WIND RIVER.
The Rocky Mountains form an almost impassable barrier between California
and the United States, properly so called; their formidable defiles,
their rude valleys, and the vast western plains, watered by rapid
streams, are even to the present day almost unknown to the American
adventurers, and are rarely visited by the intrepid and daring Canadian
trappers.
The majestic mountain range called the Sierra of the Wind River,
especially offers a grand and striking picture, as it raises to the
skies its white and snow-clad peaks, which extend indefinitely in a
north-western direction, until they appear on the horizon like a white
cloud, although the experienced eye of the trapper recognizes in this
cloud the scarped outline of the Yellowstone Mountains.
The Sierra of the Wind River is one of the most remarkable of the Rocky
Mountain range; it forms, so to speak, an immense plateau, thirty
leagues long, by ten or twelve in width, commanded by scarped peaks,
crowned with eternal snows, and having at their base narrow and deep
valleys filled with springs, streams, and rock-bound lakes. These
magnificent reservoirs give rise to some of the mighty rivers which,
after running for hundreds of miles through a picturesque territory,
become on one side the affluents of the Missouri, on the other of the
Columbia, and bear the tribute of their waters to the two oceans.
In the stories of the wood rangers and trappers, the Sierra of the
Wind River is justly renowned for its frightful gorges, and the wild
country in its vicinity frequently serves as a refuge to the pirates of
the prairie, and has been, many a time and oft, the scene of obstinate
struggles between the white men and the Indians.
Toward the end of June, 1854, a well-mounted traveller, carefully
wrapped up in the thick folds of a zarapé, raised to his eyes, was
following one of the most precipitous slopes of the Sierra of the
Wind River, at no great distance from the source of the Green River,
that great western Colorado which pours its waters into the Gulf of
California.
It was about seven in the evening: the traveller rode along, shivering
from the effects of an icy wind which whistled mournfully through the
canyons. All around had assumed a saddening aspect in the vacillating
moonbeams. He rode on without hearing the footfall of his horse, as it
fell on the winding sheet of snow that covered the landscape; at times
the capricious windings of the track he was following compelled him to
pass through thickets, whose branches, bent by the weight of snow, stood
out before him like gigantic skeletons, and struck each other after he
had passed with a sullen snap.
The traveller continued his journey, looking anxiously on both sides
of him. His horse, fatigued by a long ride, hobbled at every step, and
in spite of the repeated encouragement of its rider seemed determined
to stop short, when, after suddenly turning an angle in the track, it
suddenly entered a large clearing, where the close-growing grass formed
a circle about forty yards in diameter, and the verdure formed a cheery
contrast with the whiteness that surrounded it.
"Heaven be praised!" the traveller exclaimed in excellent French, and
giving a start of pleasure; "Here is a spot at last where I can camp for
tonight night, without any excessive inconvenience. I almost despaired
of finding one."
While thus congratulating himself, the traveller had stopped his horse
and dismounted. His first attention was paid to his horse, from which
he removed saddle and bridle, and which he covered with his zarapé,
appearing to attach no importance to the cold, which was, however,
extremely severe in these elevated regions. So soon as it was free, the
animal, in spite of its fatigue, began browsing heartily on the grass,
and thus reassured about his companion, the traveller began thinking
about making the best arrangements possible for the night.
Tall, thin, active, with a lofty and capacious forehead, an intelligent
blue eye, sparkling with boldness, the stranger appeared to have been
long accustomed to desert life, and to find nothing extraordinary or
peculiarly disagreeable in the somewhat precarious position in which he
found himself at this moment.
He was a man who had reached about middle life, on whose brow grief
rather than the fatigue of the adventurous life of the desert had formed
deep wrinkles, and sown numerous silver threads in his thick light
hair; his dress was a medium between that of the white trappers and
the Mexican gambusinos; but it was easy to recognize, in spite of his
complexion, bronzed by the seasons, that he was a stranger to the ground
he trod, and that Europe had witnessed his birth.
After giving a final glance of satisfaction at his horse, which at
intervals interrupted its repast to raise its delicate and intelligent
head to him with an expression of pleasure, he carried his weapons and
horse trappings to the foot of a rather lofty rock, which offered him
but a poor protection against the gusts of the night breeze, and then
began collecting dry wood to light a watch fire.
It was no easy task to find dry firewood at a spot almost denuded of
trees, and whose soil, covered with snow, except in the clearing,
allowed nothing to be distinguished; but the traveller was patient, he
would not be beaten, and within an hour he had collected sufficient
wood to feed through the night two such fires as he proposed kindling.
The branches soon crackled, and a bright flame rose joyously in a long
spiral to the sky.
"Ah!" said the traveller, who, like all men constrained to live alone,
seemed to have contracted the habit of soliloquizing aloud, "the fire
will do, so now for supper."
Then, fumbling in the alforjas, or double pockets which travellers
always carry fastened to the saddle, he took from them all the requisite
elements of a frugal meal; that is to say, cecina, pemmican, and several
varas of tasajo, or meat dried in the sun. At the moment when, after
shutting up his alforjas, the traveller raised his head to lay his meat
on the embers to broil, he stopped motionless, with widely-opened mouth,
and it was only through a mighty strength of will that he suppressed a
cry of surprise and possibly of terror. Although no sound had revealed
his presence, a man, leaning on a long rifle, was standing motionless
before him, and gazing at him with profound attention.
At once mastering the emotion he felt, the traveller carefully laid
the tasajo on the embers, and then, without removing his eye from this
strange visitor, he stretched out his arm to grasp his rifle, while
saying, in a tone of the most perfect indifference--
"Whether friend or foe, you are welcome, mate. 'Tis a bitter night, so,
if you are cold, warm yourself, and if you are hungry, eat. When your
nerves have regained their elasticity, and your body its usual strength,
we will have a frank explanation, such as men of honour ought to have."
The stranger remained silent for some seconds; then, after shaking his
head several times, he commenced in a low and melancholy voice, as it
were speaking to himself rather than replying to the question asked him--
"Can any human being really exist in whose heart a feeling of pity still
remains?"
"Make the trial, mate," the traveller answered quickly, "by accepting,
without hesitation, my hearty offer. Two men who meet in the desert must
be friends at first sight, unless private reasons make them implacable
enemies. Sit down by my side and eat."
This dialogue had been held in Spanish, a language the stranger spoke
with a facility that proved his Mexican origin. He seemed to reflect for
a moment, and then instantly made up his mind.
"I accept," he said, "for your voice is too sympathizing and your glance
too frank to deceive."
"That is the way to speak," the traveller said, gaily. "Sit down and eat
without further delay, for I confess to you that I am dying of hunger."
The stranger smiled sadly, and sat down on the ground by the traveller's
side. The two men, thus strangely brought together by accident, then
attacked with no ordinary vigour, which evidenced a long fast, the
provisions placed before them. Still, while eating, the traveller did
not fail to examine his singular companion; and the following was the
result of his observations.
The general appearance of the stranger was most wretched, and his
ragged clothes scarce covered his bony, fleshless body; while his pale
and sickly features were rendered more sad and gloomy by a thick,
disordered beard that fell on his chest. His eyes, inflamed by fever,
and surrounded by black circles, glistened with a sombre fire, and at
times emitted flashes of magnetic radiance. His weapons were in as bad
a condition as his clothes, and in the event of a fight this man, with
the exception of his bodily strength, which must once have been great,
but which privations of every description, and probably endured for
a lengthened period, had exhausted, would not have been a formidable
adversary for the traveller. Still, beneath this truly wretched
appearance could be traced an organization crushed by grief. There was
in this man something grand and sympathetic, which appeared to emanate
from his person, and aroused not only pity but also respect for torture
so proudly hidden and so nobly endured. This man, in short, ere he fell
so low, must have been great, either in virtue or in vice; but assuredly
there was nothing common about him, and a mighty heart beat in his bosom.
Such was the impression the stranger produced on his host, while both,
without the interchange of a word, appeased an appetite sharpened by
long hours of abstinence. Hunters' meals are short, and the present one
lasted hardly a quarter of an hour. When it was over, the traveller
rolled a cigarette, and, handing it to the stranger, said--
"Do you smoke?"
On this apparently so simple question being asked, a strange thing
happened which will only be understood by smokers who, long accustomed
to the weed, have for some reason or other been deprived of it for
a lengthened period. The stranger's face was suddenly lit up by the
effect of some internal emotion; his dull eye flashed, and, seizing the
cigarette with a nervous tremor, he exclaimed, in a voice choked by an
outburst of joy impossible to render--
"Yes, yes; I used to smoke."
There was a rather long silence, during which the two men slowly inhaled
the smoke of their cigarettes, and indulged in thought. The wind howled
fiercely Over their heads, the eddying snow was piling up around them,
and the echoes of the canyons seemed to utter notes of complaint. It was
a horrible night. Beyond the circle of light produced by the flickering
flame of the watch fire all was buried in dense gloom. The picture
presented by these two men, seated in the desert, strangely illumined
by the bluish flame, fend smoking calmly while suspended above an
unfathomable abyss, had something striking and awe-inspiring about it.
When the traveller had finished his cigarette, he rolled another, and
laid his tobacco-pouch between himself and his guest.
"Now that the ice is broken between us," he said in a friendly voice,
"and that we have nearly formed an acquaintance--for we have been
sitting at the same fire, and have eaten and smoked together--the moment
has arrived, I fancy, for us to become thoroughly acquainted."
The stranger nodded his head silently. It was a gesture that could be
interpreted affirmatively or negatively, at pleasure. The traveller
continued, with a good-humoured smile--
"I make not the slightest pretence to compel you to reveal your secrets,
and you are at liberty to maintain your incognito without in any way
offending me. Still, whatever may be the result, let me give you an
example of frankness by telling you who I am. My story will not be long,
and only consists of a very few words. France is my country, and I was
born at Paris--which city, doubtless," he remarked, with a stifled sigh,
"I shall never see again. Reasons too lengthy to trouble you with, and
which would interest you but very slightly, led me to America. Chance,
or Providence, perhaps, by guiding me to the desert, and arousing my
instincts and aspirations for liberty, wished to make a wood ranger of
me, and I obeyed. For twenty years I have been traversing the prairies
and great savannahs in every direction, and I shall probably continue
to do so, till an Indian bullet comes from some thicket to stop my
wanderings for ever. Towns are hateful to me; passionately fond of the
grand spectacles of nature, which elevate the thought, and draw the
creature nearer to his Creator, I shall only mix myself up once again in
the chaos of civilization in order to fulfil a vow made on the tomb of a
friend. When I have done that, I shall fly to the most, unknown deserts,
in order to end a life henceforth useless, far from those men whose
paltry passions and base and ignoble hatred have robbed me of the small
amount of happiness to which I fancied I had a claim. And now, mate, you
know me as well as I do myself. I will merely add, in conclusion, that
my name among the white men, my countrymen, is Valentine Guillois, and
among the redskins, my adopted fathers, Koutonepi--that is to say, 'The
Valiant One.' I believe myself to be as honest and as brave as a man is
permitted to be with his imperfect organization. I never did harm with
the intention of doing so, and I have done services to my fellow men as
often as I had it in my power, without expecting from them thanks or
gratitude."
The speech, which the hunter had commenced in that clear voice and with
that careless accent habitual to him, terminated involuntarily, under
the pressure of the flood of saddened memories that rose from his heart
to his lips, in a low and inarticulate voice, and when he concluded,
he let his head fall sadly on his chest, with a sigh that resembled a
sob. The stranger regarded him for a moment with an expression of gentle
commiseration.
"You have suffered," he said; "suffered in your love, suffered in your
friendship. Your history is that of all men in this world: who of us,
but at a given hour, has felt his courage yield beneath the weight of
grief? You are alone, friendless, abandoned by all, a voluntary exile,
far from the men who only inspire you with hatred and contempt; you
prefer the society of wild beasts, less ferocious than they; but, at any
rate, you live, while I am a dead man!"
The hunter started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.
"I suppose you think me mad?" he continued, with a melancholy smile;
"reassure yourself, it is not so. I am in full possession of my senses,
my head is cool, and my thoughts are clear and lucid. For all that
though, I repeat to you, I am dead, dead in the sight of my relations
and friends, dead to the whole world in fine, and condemned to lead this
wretched existence for an indefinite period. Mine is a strange story,
and that you would recognize through one word, were you a Mexican, or
had you travelled in certain regions of Mexico."
"Did I not tell you that, for twenty years, I have been travelling over
every part of America?" the traveller replied, his curiosity being
aroused to the highest pitch. "What is the word? Can you tell it me?"
"Why not? I am alluding to the name I bore while I was still a living
man."
"What is that name?"
"It had acquired a certain celebrity, but I doubt whether, even if you
have heard it mentioned, it has remained in your memory."
"Who knows? Perhaps you are mistaken."
"Well, since you insist, learn, then, that I was called Martial el
Tigrero."
"You?" the hunter exclaimed, under the influence of the uttermost
surprise; "why that is impossible!"
"Of course so, since I am dead," the stranger answered, bitterly.