THE MANHUNT.
On the next morning at daybreak the little band quitted the Casa Grande
and two hours later entered the Del Norte. At the sight of the desert
the maiden felt her heart contract; a secret presentiment seemed to warn
her that the future would be fatal. She turned back, cast a melancholy
glance on the gloomy forests which chequered the horizon behind her, and
could not repress a sigh.
The temperature was sultry, the sky blue, not a breath of wind was
stirring: on the sand might still be seen the deep footsteps of the
count's free company.
"We are on the right road," the hacendero said; "their trail is
visible."
"Yes," the Tigrero muttered, "and it will remain so till the temporal is
unchained."
"Then," Doña Anita remarked, "may Heaven come to our aid!"
"Amen!" all the travellers exclaimed, crossing themselves, instinctively
responding to the secret voice which each of us has in the depths of our
heart, and which foreboded to their misfortune.
Several hours passed away: the weather remained fine. At times the
travellers saw, at a great distance above their heads, innumerable
swarms of birds proceeding toward the hot regions, or _las tierras
calientes_, as they are called in that country, and hastening to cross
the desert. But everywhere nothing was visible save a grey and
melancholy sand, or gloomy rocks wildly piled on each other like the
ruins of an unknown and antediluvian world, found at times in remote
solitudes.
The caravan, when night set in, camped under the shelter of a block of
granite, lighting a poor fire, hardly sufficient to protect them from
the icy cold which, in these regions, weighs upon nature at night. Don
Martial rode incessantly on the sides of the small band, watching over
their safety with filial solicitude, never remaining a moment at rest,
in spite of the urging of Don Sylva and the entreaties of the maiden.
"No!" he constantly answered; "On my vigilance your safety depends. Let
me act as I think proper. I should never pardon myself if I allowed you
to be surprised."
Gradually the traces left by the troops became less visible, and at
length disappeared entirely. One evening, at the moment the travellers
were forming their camp at the foot of an immense rock, which formed a
species of roof over their heads, the hacendero pointed out to Don
Martial a thin white vapour, which stood out prominently against the
blue sky.
"The sky is losing its brightness," he said; "we shall probably soon
have a change of weather. God grant that a hurricane does not menace
us!"
The Tigrero shook his head.
"No," he said, "you are mistaken. Your eyes are not so accustomed as
mine to consult the sky. That is not a cloud."
"What is it, then?"
"The smoke of a _bois de vâche_ fire kindled by travellers. We have
neighbours."
"Oh!" the hacendero said. "Can we be on the trail of those friends we
have lost so long?"
Don Martial remained silent. He minutely examined the smoke, which was
soon mingled with the atmosphere. At length he said:--
"That smoke bodes us no good. Our friends, as you call them, are
Frenchmen; that is to say, profoundly ignorant of desert life. Were they
near us, it would be as easy to see them as that rock down there. They
would have lighted not one fire, but twenty braseros, whose flames, and,
above all, dense smoke, would have immediately revealed their presence
to us. They do not select their wood: whether it be dry or damp they
care little. They are unaware of the importance in the desert of
discovering one's enemy, while not allowing one's presence to be
suspected."
"You conclude from this?"
"That the fire you discovered has been lit by savages, or at least by
wood rangers accustomed to the habits of Indian life. All leads to this
supposition. Judge for yourself--you who, without any great experience,
though having a slight acquaintance with the desert, took it for a
cloud. Any superficial observer would have committed the same mistake as
yourself, so fine and undulating as it is, and its colour harmonises so
well with all those vapours the sun incessantly draws out of the earth.
The men, whoever they may be, who lit that fire, have left nothing to
chance; they have calculated and foreseen everything, and I am greatly
mistaken if they are not enemies."
"At what distance do you suppose them from us?"
"Four leagues at the most. What is that distance in the desert, when it
can be crossed so easily in a straight line?"
"Then your advice is?" the hacendero asked.
"Weigh well my words, Don Sylva; above all, do not give them an
interpretation differing from mine. By a prodigy almost unexampled in
the Del Norte, we have now been crossing the desert for nearly three
weeks, and nothing has happened to trouble our security: for a week we
have been, moreover, seeking a trail which it is impossible to come on
again."
"Quite true."
"I have, therefore, worked out this conclusion, which I believe to be
correct, and which you will approve, I am convinced. The French only
accidentally formed the resolution of entering the desert: they only did
it to pursue the Apaches. Is not that your view?"
"It is."
"Very good. Consequently, they crossed it in a straight line. The
weather which has favoured us favoured them too: their interest, the
object they wished to attain, everything, in a word, demanded that they
should display the utmost speed in their march. A pursuit, you know as
well as I, is a chase in which each tries to arrive first."
"Then you suppose--?" Don Sylva interrupted him.
"I am certain that the French left the desert long ago, and are now
coursing over the plains of Apacheria: that fire we noticed is a
convincing proof to me."
"How so?"
"You will soon understand. The Apaches have the greatest interest in
driving the French from their hunting grounds. Desperate at seeing them
out of the desert, they have probably lit this fire to deceive them, and
compel their return."
The hacendero was thoughtful. The reasons Don Martial offered him seemed
correct: he knew not what determination to form.
"Well," he said presently, "and what conclusion do you arrive at from
all this?"
"That we should do wrong," Don Martial said resolutely, "in losing more
time here in search of people who are no longer in the desert, and
running the risk of being caught by a tempest, which every passing hour
renders more imminent in a country like this, which is continually
exposed to hurricanes."
"Then you would return!"
"By no means. I would push on, and enter Apacheria as quickly as
possible, for I am convinced I should then be speedily on the trail of
our friends."
"Yes, that appears to me correct enough; but we are long way yet from
the prairies."
"Not so far as you suppose; but let us break off our conversation at
this point. I wish to go out and examine that fire more closely, for it
troubles me greatly."
"Be prudent."
"Is not your safety concerned?" the Tigrero said, as he bent a gentle
and mournful glance on Doña Anita. He rose, saddled his horse in a
second, and started at a gallop.
"Brave heart!" Doña Anita murmured, on seeing him disappear in the mist.
The hacendero sighed, but made no further reply, and his head fell
pensively on his chest.
Don Martial pressed on rapidly by the flickering light of the moon,
which spread its sickly and fantastic rays over the desolate scene. At
times he perceived heavy rocks, dumb and gloomy sentinels, whose
gigantic shadows striped the grey sand for a long distance; or else
enormous ahuehuelts, whose branches were laden with that thick moss
called Spaniard's beard, which fell in long festoons, and was agitated
by the slightest breath of wind.
After nearly an hour and a half's march, the Tigrero stopped his horse,
dismounted, and looked attentively around him. He soon found what he
sought. A short distance from him the wind and rain had hollowed a
rather deep ravine; he drew his horse into it, fastened it to an
enormous stone, bound up its nostrils to prevent its neighing, and went
off, after throwing his rifle on his shoulder.
From the spot where he was this moment standing the fire was visible,
and the red flash it traced in the air stood out clearly in the
darkness. Round the fire several shadows were reclining which the
Tigrero recognised at the first glance as Indians. The Mexican had not
deceived himself, his experience had not failed him. They were certainly
redskins encamped there in the desert at a short distance from his
party. But who were they? Friends or enemies? He must assure himself
about that fact.
This was not an easy matter on this flat and barren soil, where it was
almost impossible to advance without being noticed; for the Indians are
like wild beasts, possessing the privilege of seeing in the night. In
the gloom their pupils expand like those of tigers, and they distinguish
their enemies as easily in the deepest shadow as in the most dazzling
sunshine.
Still Don Martial did not recoil from his task. Not far from the
redskins' bivouac was an enourmous block of granite, at the foot of
which three or four ahuehuelts had sprung up, and in the course of time
so entangled their branches in one another that they formed, at a
certain distance up the rock, a thorough thicket. The Tigrero lay down
on the ground, and gently, inch by inch, employing his knees and elbows,
he glided in the direction of the rock, skilfully taking advantage of
the shadow thrown by the rock itself. It took the Tigrero nearly half an
hour to cross the forty yards that still separated him from the rock. At
length he reached it; he then stopped to draw breath, and uttered a sigh
of satisfaction.
The rest was nothing: he no longer feared being seen, owing to the
curtain of branches that hid him from the sight of the Indians, but only
being heard. After resting a few seconds he began climbing again,
raising himself gradually on the abrupt side of the rock. At length he
found himself level with the branches, into which he glided and
disappeared. From the hiding place he had so fortunately reached he
could not only survey the Indian camp, but perfectly hear their
conversation. We need scarcely say that Don Martial understood and spoke
perfectly all the dialects of the Indian tribes that traverse the vast
solitudes of Mexico.
These Indians Don Martial at once recognised to be Apaches. His
forebodings then were realised. Round a _bois de vâche_ fire, which
produced a large flame, while only allowing a slight thread of smoke to
escape, several chiefs were gravely crouching on their heels, and
smoking their calumets while warming themselves, for the cold was sharp.
Don Martial distinguished in their midst the Black Bear. The sachem's
face was gloomy; he seemed in a terrible passion; he frequently raised
his head anxiously, and fixing his piercing eye on the space,
interrogated the darkness. A noise of horse hoofs was heard, and a
mounted Indian entered the lighted part of the camp. After dismounting,
the Indian approached the fire, crouched near his comrades, lighted his
calumet, and began smoking with a perfectly calm face, although the dust
that covered him, and his panting chest, showed that he must have made a
long and painful journey.
On his arrival the Black Bear gazed fixedly at him, and they went on
smoking without saying a word; for Indian etiquette prescribes that the
sachem should not interrogate another chief before the latter has shaken
into the fire the ashes of his calumet. The Black Bear's impatience was
evidently shared by the other Indians; still all remained grave and
silent. At length the newcomer drew a final puff of smoke, which he sent
forth through his mouth and nostrils, and returned his calumet to his
girdle. The Black Bear turned to him.
"The Little Panther has been long," he said.
As this was not a question the Indian limited himself to replying with a
bow.
"The vultures are soaring in large flocks over the desert," the chief
presently continued; "the coyotes are sharpening their bent claws; the
Apaches scent a smell of blood which makes their hearts bound with joy
in their breasts. Has my son seen nothing?"
"The Little Panther is a renowned warrior of his tribe. At the first
leaves he will be a chief. He has fulfilled the mission his father
entrusted to him."
"Wah! What are the Long-knives doing?"
"The Long-knives are dogs that howl without knowing how to bite: an
Apache warrior terrifies them."
The chiefs smiled with pride at this boast, which they simply regarded
as seriously meant.
"The Little Panther has seen their camp," the Indian continued; "he has
counted them. They cry like women, and lament like weak children. Two of
them will not take their accustomed place this night at the council fire
of their brothers."
And with a gesture marked with a certain degree of nobility, the Indian
raised the cotton shirt which fell from his neck about half way down his
thighs, and displayed two bleeding scalps fastened to his waist belt.
"Wah!" the chiefs exclaimed joyfully, "the Little Panther has fought
bravely!"
The Black Bear made the warrior a sign to hand him the scalps. He
unfastened them and gave them. The sachem examined them attentively. The
Apaches fixed their eyes eagerly upon him.
"_Asch'eth_ (it is good)," he said presently; "my brother has killed a
Long Knife and a Yori."
And he returned the scalps to the warrior.
"Have the palefaces discovered the trail of the Apaches?"
"The palefaces are moles; they are only good in their great stone
villages."
"What has my son done?"
"The Panther executed the orders of the sachem point by point. When the
warrior perceived that the palefaces would not see him, he went towards
them mocking them, and led them for three hours after him into the heart
of the desert."
"Good! My son has done well. What next?"
"When the palefaces had gone far enough the Panther left them, after
killing two in memory of his visit, and then proceeded to the camp of
the warriors of his nation."
"My son is weary: the hour of rest has arrived for him."
"Not yet," the Indian replied seriously.
"Wah! Let my son explain."
At this remark Don Martial, who was listening attentively to all that
was said, felt his heart contract, he knew not why. The Indian
continued,--
"There are others beside the Long-knives in the desert; the Little
Panther has discovered another trail."
"Another trail?"
"Yes. It is not very visible: there are seven horses and three mules in
all. I recognised one of the horses."
"Wah! I await what my brother is about to tell me."
"Six Yori warriors, having a woman with them, have entered the desert."
The chiefs eyes flashed fire.
"A palefaced woman?" he asked.
The Indian bowed in affirmation. The sachem reflected for a moment, and
then his face re-assumed that stoical mask which was habitual to it.
"The Black Bear is not mistaken," he said; "he smelt the scent of blood:
his Apache sons will have a splendid chase. Tomorrow at the _endi-tah_
(sunrise) the warriors will mount. The sachem's lodge is empty. Let us
now leave the Big-knives to their fate," he added, raising his eyes to
heaven; "Nyang, the genius of evil, will take on himself to bury them
beneath the sand. The Master of Life summons the tempest: our task is
fulfilled. Let us follow the track of the Yoris, and return to our
hunting grounds at full speed. The hurricane will soon howl across the
desert. My sons can go to sleep: a chief will watch over them. I have
spoken."
The warriors bowed silently, rose one after the other, and went to lie
down on the sand a short distance off. Within five minutes they were all
in a deep sleep. The Black Bear alone watched. With his head in his
hands, and his elbows on his knees, he looked fixedly at the sky. At
times his face lost that severe expression, and a transient smile played
around his lips. What thoughts thus absorbed the sachem? On what was he
meditating?
Don Martial read his thoughts, and felt a shudder of terror. He remained
another half-hour motionless in his hiding place lest he might run the
risk of discovery. Then he went down again as he had come, employing
even greater precautions; for at this moment, when a leaden silence
brooded over the desert, the slightest sound would have betrayed his
presence to the Indian chief's subtile ear. He feared the discovery now
more than ever, after the revelations he had succeeded in overhearing.
At length he reached again, all safe and sound, the spot where he had
left his horse.
For some time the Tigrero let the bridle hang loosely on his noble
animal's neck, went slowly onwards, revolving in his mind all he had
heard, and searching for the means he should employ to shield his
companions from the frightful danger that menaced them. His perplexity
was extreme: he knew not what to decide on. He knew Don Sylva too well
to suppose that a personal interest, however powerful it might be, would
induce him to abandon his friends in their present peril. But must Doña
Anita be sacrificed to this delicacy--to this false notion of honour;
above all, for a man in every respect unworthy of the interest the
hacendero felt for him?
It was possible to avoid and escape the Apaches by skill and courage;
but how to escape the tempest which in a few hours perhaps, would burst
on the desert, destroy every trace, and render flight impossible?
The girl must be saved at any risk. This thought incessantly returned to
the Tigrero's perplexed mind, and gnawed at his heart like a searing
iron: he felt himself affected by a cold rage on considering the
material impossibilities that rose so implacably before him. How to save
the girl? He constantly asked himself this question, for which he found
no answer. For a long time he went on thus with drooping head, seeking
in vain a method which would enable him to act on his own inspiration,
and escape from the critical position in which he found himself. At
length light dawned on his mind; he raised his head haughtily, cast a
glance of defiance toward the enemies who appeared so sure of seizing
his companions, and digging the spurs into his horse, started at full
speed.
When he reached the camp he found every one asleep save the peon who was
mounting guard. The night was well on--it was about one o'clock in the
morning; the moon spread around a dazzling light, almost as clear as
day. The Apaches would not set out before daybreak, and he had,
therefore, about four hours left him for action. He resolved to profit
by them. Four hours well employed are enormous in a flight.
The Tigrero began by carefully rubbing down his horse to restore the
elasticity to its limbs, for he would need all its speed; then, aided by
the peons, he loaded the mules and saddled the horses. This last
accomplished, he reflected for a moment, and they wrapped round the
horse hoofs pieces of sheep-skin filled with sand. This stratagem, he
fancied, would foil the Indians, who, no longer recognising the traces
they expected, would fancy themselves on a false trail. For greater
security he ordered two or three skins of mezcal to be left on the rock.
He knew the Apaches' liking for strong liquors, and calculated on their
drunken propensities. This done, ho aroused Don Sylva and his daughter.
"To horse! To horse!" he said in a voice that admitted of no reply.
"What's the matter?" the hacendero asked, still half asleep.
"That if we do not start at once we are lost!"
"How--what do you mean?"
"To horse! To horse! Every moment we waste here brings us nearer to
death. Presently I will explain all."
"In Heaven's name tell me what the matter is!"
"You shall know. Come, come."
Without listening to anything, he compelled the hacendero to mount: Doña
Anita had done so already. The Tigrero looked around for the last time,
and gave the signal for departure. The party started at their horses'
topmost speed.