CHAPTER I.

THE GOLD-SEEKERS:

A TALE OF CALIFORNIA

BY

GUSTAVE AIMARD,

AUTHOR OF "PRAIRIE FLOWER," THE "TIGER-SLAYER," ETC.

LONDON

WARD AND LOCK,

158, FLEET STREET.

1861

PREFACE.

The "Gold-Seekers" must be regarded as forming the connecting link

between the "Tiger-Slayer" and the "Indian Chief," the concluding volume

of this series. It must not be forgotten that the author is dealing with

real characters, and that the hero lived and died in the way hereafter

to be described; and the three volumes may be considered a life-history

of a very remarkable man. Although they may be perused separately with

equal interest, I feel confident that those readers who have gone so far

with me will desire to know the conclusion of this strange eventful

history.

LASCELLES WRAXALL.

CONTENTS.

PROLOGUE:--

I. THE MEETING

II. EL MESÓN DE SAN JUAN

III. THE GENTLEMEN OF THE ROAD

IV. THE BARRANCA DEL MAL PASO

I. THE NIGHT HALT

II. FIFTEEN YEARS' SEPARATION

III. A SAD MISTAKE

IV. EXPLANATIONS

V. THE CONSEQUENCES OF A LOVE SONG

VI. DELILAH

VII. A RETROSPECT

VIII. A MEXICAN'S PROGRESS

IX. THE NEXT DAY

X. IN WHICH THE SALE OF THE HERD IS DISCUSSED

XI. A COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION

XII. CONVERSATION

XIII. PREPARATIONS

XIV. VALENTINE'S RETURN

XV. THE DEPARTURE

XVI. TWO MEN MADE TO UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER

XVII. GUAYMAS

XVIII. THE FIRST FORTNIGHT

XIX. PITIC

XX. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND

XXI. THE TAPADA

XXII. THE REVOLT

THE GOLD-SEEKERS

PROLOGUE

I.--THE MEETING.

On the 5th of July, 184-, at about six in the evening, a party of

well-mounted horsemen started at a gallop from Guadalajara, the capital

of the state of Jalisco, and proceeded along the road that traverses the

village of Zapopan, celebrated for its miraculous virgin. After crossing

the escarped summits of the Cordilleras, this road reaches the charming

little town of Tepic, the usual refuge of those Europeans and rich

Mexicans whom business carries to San Blas, but to whom the insalubrity

of the air breathed in that port, the maritime arsenal of the Mexican

union, would be mortal.

We have said that six o'clock was striking as the cavalcade passed the

gateway. The officer of the watch, after bowing respectfully to the

travellers, watched them for a long time, then re-entered the guardroom,

shaking his head, and muttering to himself,--

"Heaven save me! What can Colonel Guerrero be thinking of, to set out on

a Friday, and at such an hour as this? Does he fancy that the

_salteadores_ will allow him to pass? Hum! He will see what they are

about at the _barranca del mal paso_ (the gorge of the evil step)."

The travellers, however, probably unaffected by the superstitious fears

that ruled the worthy officer, rapidly sped on the long poplar alley

that extends from the town to Zapopan, caring neither for the advanced

hour nor the ill-omened day of the week.

They were six in number--Colonel Sebastian Guerrero, his daughter, and

four peons, or Indian criados. The colonel was a tall man, with harsh,

marked features, and a bronzed complexion. The few silvery threads

mingled with his black hair showed that he had passed middle life,

although his robust limbs, upright stature, and the brilliancy of his

glance denoted that years had not yet gained the mastery over this

vigorous organisation. He wore the uniform of a Mexican field officer

with the ease and nonchalance peculiar to old soldiers; but, in addition

to the sabre hanging by his side, his holsters held pistols; and a rifle

laid across the saddle-bow proved that, in case of need, he would offer

a vigorous resistance to any robbers who ventured to attack him.

His daughter, Doña Angela, rode on his right hand. In Europe, where the

growth of girls is not nearly so precocious as in America, she would

only have been a child; for she counted scarce thirteen summers. As far

as could be judged, she was slight, but graceful, and perfectly

proportioned; her features were delicate and noble; her mouth laughing;

her eyes black, quick, and flashing with wit; while her brown hair fell

in two enormous tresses down upon her horse. She was wrapped up

coquettishly in her _rebozo_, and laughed madly at every bound of her

steed, which she maliciously tormented, in spite of her father's

reiterated remonstrances.

The servants were powerfully-built Indians, armed to the teeth, and

appeared capable of defending their master in case of need. They rode

some ten paces behind the colonel, and led two mules loaded with

provisions and baggage--an indispensable precaution in Mexico, if

travellers do not wish to die of hunger by the way.

Mexico combines all the climates of the globe. From the icy peaks of the

Cordilleras, down to the burning coasts of the ocean, the traveller in

that country undergoes every temperature. Hence this vast territory has

been divided into three distinct zones: _las tierras calientes_, or hot

lands, composed of the plains on the seashore, and which produce sugar,

indigo, and cotton in truly tropical abundance; _las tierras templadas_,

or temperate lands, regions formed by the Cordilleras, and which enjoy

an eternal spring, great heat and extreme cold being equally unknown

there; and lastly, _las tierras frias_, or cold lands, which include the

central plateaux, and where the temperature is relatively much lower

than in the other zones.

Still we should remark that in Mexico the expressions "heat," and

"cold," have not an absolute value as in Europe, and that the lofty

plateaux, known as the _tierras frias_, enjoy a temperature like that of

Lombardy, which would seem to any European a very pleasant climate.

Owing to its position, Guadalajara shares in two of the three zones that

divide Mexico. Situated on the limit of the _tierra caliente_ and the

_tierra templada,_ the tepid breezes and pure sky reveal the warm

regions of the seaboard, which extend thus far. The arid sands are

succeeded by fertile and well-cultivated plains, fields of sugar-cane,

Indian corn, bananas, goyaviers, and other productions of the tropical

flora. By degrees the gloomy black oaks and pines, which only grow on

the mountains, become rarer, and eventually disappear entirely, to make

room for poplars, fan-palms, calabash trees, sumachs, Peru trees, and

thousands of others, which proudly wave their superb crowns over the

spontaneous vegetation that surrounds them.

In _las tierras calientes_, where the heat of the day is stifling,

persons generally only travel from five to eleven A.M., and from three

in the afternoon till ten at night, so as to enjoy the morning and

evening freshness. Colonel Guerrero had, therefore, only conformed to

the general custom by commencing his journey in the evening; but, as so

often occurs, he had started later than he wished, owing to those

numberless obstacles which ever supervene at the moment of departure,

and cause a lengthened delay for no visible reason. But the colonel

cared little about the advanced hour: a night march possessed no terrors

for him, as he had been accustomed for years to modify his humour by

circumstances, and yield to the exigencies of the situation in which he

found himself.

The sun set behind the Peak of Teguilla, and the Cerro del Col

disappeared in the centre of the chain of tall, abrupt hills which

borders the Rio Tololotlan: gradually the scene was veiled in darkness.

The travellers progressed gaily conversing together, while following the

winding and accidented course of the Rio Grande del Norte, along whose

banks their road ran. The latter was wide, well made, and easy to

follow. Hence the colonel, after taking a careful glance around to

assure himself there was nothing suspicious in the neighbourhood,

trusted entirely to the vigilance of the criados, and resumed the

conversation with his daughter, which he had for a moment broken off.

"Angela, my child," he said to her, "you are wrong to tease your horse

so. Rebecca is a good beast, very gentle, and very sure-footed; and you

should be more merciful to her than you are."

"I assure you, papa," the pretty girl answered with a laugh, "I am not

in the least teasing Rebecca; on the contrary, I am only tickling her to

render her lively."

"Yes, and to make her dance too, as I can plainly see, little madcap.

That would be all very well if we were only taking a ride for a few

hours, instead of a journey which will last a month. Remember, niña,

that a rider must also treat his horse carefully if he wish to reach his

destination safe, and sound. You would not like, I fancy, to be left on

the road by your horse."

"Heaven forbid, father! If it be so, I will obey you. Rebecca may be at

ease in future; I will not tease her."

And, while speaking thus, she bent over her horse's neck and gently

patted it.

"There!" the colonel continued, "now that peace, as I suppose, is made

between you, what do you think of our way of travelling? Does it please

you?"

"I think it charming, father; the night is magnificent, the moon lights

us as if it were day; the breeze is fresh, and yet not cold. I never was

so happy."

"All the better, my child. I am the more pleased to hear you speak thus,

because I so feared the effects of such a journey for you, that I was on

the point of leaving you at the convent."

"Thank you, father, for having changed your mind, and bringing me with

you. I was so wearied with that wretched convent; and then it is so long

since I have seen my dear mother, whom I long to embrace."

"This time, child, you will have ample leisure to do so for I propose

leaving you with your mother."

"Then I shall not return to Guadalajara with you?"

"No, child; you will live at my large _hacienda_, Aguas Frescas, with

your mother and my most faithful servants, during the period of my

absence; for so soon as I have ended the urgent business that demands my

presence at San Blas, I shall go to Mexico and join General Santa Anna.

His Excellency has done me the honour to send for me."

"Oh!" she said, clasping her hands in entreaty, "you ought to take me

with you to the _ciudad_."

"Little madcap, you know perfectly well that is impossible; but on my

return I will bring you and your mother the finest things from the

Portales des Mercaderes and the Parian, in order that you may eclipse

the most coquettish señoras of Tepic, when it may please you to walk on

the Alameda of the Pueblo."

"Oh! That is not the same thing," she said with a charming pout; "and

yet," she added, suddenly regaining her good humour, "I thank you,

father; for you are kind--you love me; and when you do not satisfy my

whims, it is because you find it impossible."

"I am glad that you recognise that fact, and at length do me justice,

little rattle-brain; for you spend your life in teasing me."

The girl began laughing, and by a sudden impulse letting her reins fall,

she threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed him several times.

"Take care what you are about," the colonel said, at once happy and

alarmed. "If Rebecca were to bolt you would be killed. Take up your

reins at once, I say!"

"Nonsense!" she said, laughing, and shaking her brown tresses

carelessly; "Rebecca is too well trained to behave in such a way."

Still she caught up her reins and settled herself in her saddle.

"Angelita mia," the father continued, perhaps more seriously than the

circumstances demanded, "you are no longer a child. You ought to begin

to grow more reasonable, and moderate the vivacity of your character."

"Do you scold me for loving you, my father?"

"Heaven forbid, my child! I only make a remark which I consider just;

for, if you yield in this way to your first impressions, you will

prepare great grief for yourself at a future day."

"Do not think that, my kind father. I am quick, careless,

impressionable, that is true; but, by the side of those defects, I have

the family pride I derive from you, and which will defend me from many

faults."

"I hope so, my daughter."

"Do not assume that stern air for a harmless act of folly, father, or I

shall fancy that you are angry with me." Then she added, with a laugh,

"I remember that our family descends in a straight line from the Mexican

king, Chimalpopocatzin, who, as his name indicates, had for his emblem a

buckler from which smoke is issuing. You see, father, our character has

not degenerated since that valorous king, and we have ever remained as

firm as he was himself."

"Come, come," the colonel said good-humouredly, "I shall give up

scolding you in future, for I see that it is labour wasted."

The girl smiled maliciously, and was about to reply, when a flash of

light was seen in front of the party.

"What is that?" the colonel asked, raising his voice. "Is there anyone

on the road?"

"I think so, colonel," one of the domestics answered at once, "for that

flash seems to me produced by the flint of a _mechero_.

"That is my opinion too," the colonel said. "Let us hasten on, in order

to see this delayed smoker."

The little band, which had hitherto proceeded at a slow pace, broke into

an amble. At the expiration of an hour, at the same time as the sound of

a horse's hoofs reached the travellers, they also heard the shrill and

discordant sounds of a _jarana_ (guitar), and the refrain of the

following song, so familiar in Mexico, was borne on the breeze:--

"Sin pena vivamos

En calma feliz:

Gozar es mi estrella,

Cantar y reir."[1]

"Bravo!" the colonel shouted, who reached the singer at this moment.

"Bravely and joyously said, comrade!"

The latter, with a husk cigarette in his mouth, bowed his head in

affirmation, and defiantly twanged an air on his jarana; then, throwing

it across his shoulder, where it was held by a species of brace, he

turned to his addresser, and ceremoniously doffed his vicuna-skin hat.

"May God protect you, caballero!" he said politely. "It seems that the

music pleases you."

"Greatly," the colonel answered, scarce able to retain his laughter at

the sight of the singular person before him.

He was a tall fellow of eight-and-twenty at the most, marvellously thin,

dressed in a ragged jacket, and haughtily folded in a cloak, whose

primitive colour it was impossible to recognise, and which was as full

of holes as a sieve. Still, in spite of this apparent wretchedness and

starving face, the man had a joyous and decided expression about him,

which it was a pleasure to look upon. His little black eyes, which

looked as if pierced by an auger, sparkled with humour, and his manner

had something _distingué_ about it. He was mounted on a horse as thin

and lanky as himself, against whose hollow flanks beat the straight

sword called a _machete_, which the Mexicans continually wear at their

side, passed through an iron ring instead of a sheath.

"You are very late on the road, compañero," the colonel continued, whose

escort had by this time caught him up. "Is it prudent for you to travel

alone at this hour?"

"What have I to fear?" the stranger replied. "What salteador would be

such a fool as to stop me?"

"Who knows?" the colonel remarked with a smile. "Appearances are often

deceitful, and it is not a bad plan to pretend poverty, in order to

travel in safety along the high roads of our beloved country."

Though uttered purposelessly, these words visibly troubled the stranger;

still he at once recovered, and continued in a hearty voice,--

"Unfortunately for me, any feint is useless. I am really as poor as I

seem at this moment, although I have seen happier days, and my cloak was

not always so ragged as you now see it."

The colonel, perceiving that the subject of conversation was

disagreeable to his new acquaintance, said,--

"As you did not stop either at San Pedro or at Zapopan, for I presume

that, like myself, you came from Guadalajara----"

"It is true," the stranger interrupted him; "I quitted the city about

three in the afternoon."

"I suppose," the colonel continued, "that you intend to halt at the

mesón of San Juan; so, if you have no objection, we will proceed thither

together, for I intend to halt for the night there."

"The mesón of San Juan is a good hostelry," the other said, respectfully

lifting his hand to his hat; "but what shall I do there? I have not an

_ochavo_ to expend uselessly, and have far to go. I will bivouac on the

road; and while my horse, poor brute, is sucking its bit, I will smoke

cigarettes, and sing that romance of King Rodrigo, which, as you are

aware, commences thus."

And quickly bringing his guitar to the front, he began singing in a loud

voice,--

"Cuando las pintadas aves

Mudas están, y la tierra

Atenta escucha los rio

Que al mar su tributo llevan:

Al escaso resplandor--"[2]

"Eh!" the colonel exclaimed, brusquely interrupting, "what musical rage

possesses you? It is frenzy."

"No," the singer replied in melancholy mood; "it is philosophy."

The colonel examined the poor fellow for a moment; then drawing nearer

to him,--

"I am Colonel Don Sebastian Guerrero de Chimalpos. I am travelling with

my daughter and a few servants. Grant me the honour of your company for

this night: tomorrow we will separate, and go our several ways."

The stranger hesitated for a moment, and frowned. This shade of

dissatisfaction, however, soon disappeared.

"I am a proud fool," he replied with affecting frankness; "misery

renders me so susceptible that I fancy people are ever trying to

humiliate me. I accept your gracious invitation as frankly as it is

offered. Perhaps I may be able to prove my gratitude to you ere long."

The colonel paid no great attention to these words, because, just at the

moment, the party arrived at the mesón of San Juan, whose lighted

windows had revealed its proximity to the travellers for some time past.

[1] Let us live without annoyance in a happy calm: playing is my star,

singing and laughing.

[2] When the spangled birds are dumb, and the attentive earth listens to

the rivers that bear their tribute to the sea by the weak light--.

II.--EL MESÓN DE SAN JUAN.

A great deal has been written about the cool and inhospitable way in

which Spanish and Sicilian landlords receive the travellers whom

Providence sends them; but it is evident to us that those who write in

such wise are not acquainted, even by hearsay, with the _mesoneros_ or

Mexican hosts. Were it so, they would doubtlessly, at their own risk

and peril, have rehabilitated those worthy fellows, to discharge the

whole weight of their indignation on the _huéspedes_ of New Spain.

It is a justice to render to the Spanish and Sicilian landlords, that if

they are utterly unable to satisfy in any way the exigencies of

travellers, by giving the latter the provisions they demand, still they

greet them with so affable a countenance, and veil their refusal under

such an exquisite politeness, that in nine cases out of ten the

traveller is compelled to allow that he was himself to blame for not

laying in the necessary provisions, and therefore sups on apologies.

In Mexico things are very different. On the few high roads formerly

constructed by the Spaniards, and which the neglect of the different

governments that succeeded them has left in such a state that they will

soon disappear completely, there stand, at long distances from each

other, vast buildings which resemble fortresses, for they are nearly all

surrounded by embattled and loopholed walls. These buildings are the

_mesones_, or inns.

The interior is composed, first, of an enormous court, with a _noria_,

or well, intended to water the horses. Corrals for the beasts of burden

occupy the four corners of this yard. In a separate building are the

travellers' _cuartos_; that is to say, miserable dens furnished only

with a frame of oak, covered with a cowhide, which serves as a bed.

These cuartos are numbered, and all open on long corridors. Each

traveller is obliged to bring with him the indispensable bedding, for

the host only supplies the alfalfa for the horses' provender, and water

from the noria.

It was about ten at night when Colonel Guerrero arrived at the door of

the mesón of San Juan, which was hermetically closed. Upon the repeated

blows dealt by one of the servants, a wicket pierced in the wall, about

two paces from the gate, at length opened; an ill-tempered face was

visible, and a rough voice shouted,--

"Who dares to make such a disturbance at the gate of so honest and

respectable a mesón as this?"

"Travellers have arrived, Don Cristoval Saccaplata," the colonel

answered. "Come, open quickly, for we have made a long journey, and are

tired."

"Hum! They all say the same thing," the host growled. "What do I care

for that? I shall not open, it is too late; so go your way, and Heaven

protect you!"

And he prepared to close the wicket.

"One moment. Confound you!" the colonel shouted, "you will not let us

bivouac in front of your door? That would not be at all honourable for

you."

"Bah! A night is soon passed," the host replied with a grin; "besides,

you can go on to the mesón del Salto: they will open to you there."

"Don't you know that is eight miles off?"

"Of course I do."

"Come, open, Señor Saccaplata: you would not have the barbarity to leave

us out here?"

"Why not?"

"Because, if you do open, you will be rewarded in a way which you will

not repent of."

"Yes, yes, all travellers are the same; they make plenty of promises so

long as they are outside; but once in, they are not in a hurry to untie

their purse-strings."

"That will not be the case with us."

"How do I know?" the _huésped_ said, shrugging his shoulders. "My house

is full; I have no room left."

"We will find some, dear Saccaplata."

"Halloh! Who are you, pray, who know me so well? Maybe you are one of

those _caballeros de la noche_ who have been ransacking the country for

some time past."

"You are mistaken grossly, and I will prove it to you," the colonel

answered, anxious to cut short this open-air conversation. "Take that

first," he said, throwing two ounces through the wicket; "and now, to

prevent any misunderstanding, know that I am Don Sebastian Guerrero."

The worthy landlord was only sensible to one argument--that which the

colonel had so judiciously employed to overcome his resistance. He

stooped, picked up the two ounces, which disappeared in a second, and

again addressing the travellers, but this time with a tone which he

strove to render more amiable,--

"Come," he said, "I must e'en do what you wish, I am too good-hearted.

You have provisions, I hope?"

"We have everything we require."

"All the better, for I could not have supplied you. Do not be impatient;

I am coming down."

He disappeared from the wicket, and within five minutes could be heard

unbarring the door, growling fearfully the while. The travellers then

entered the yard of the mesón. The huésped had lied like the true

landlord he was; he only had in the house two or three muleteers with

their animals, and three travellers, who, by their dress, seemed to be

hacenderos from the vicinity.

"Halloh!" Don Sebastian shouted, "someone to take my horse."

"If you begin in that way we shall not be friends long," the huésped

said in the sharp tone he had previously employed. "Here, everyone, big

or little, waits on himself, and attends to his own horse."

The colonel was far from being of a patient temper. If he had previously

endured the host's insolence, it was solely because it was impossible to

chastise him; but that reason no longer existed. Sharply dismounting, he

drew his pistols from his holsters, thrust them in his belt, and walking

boldly toward Señor Saccaplata, seized him by the collar and shook him

roughly.

"Listen, master rogue!" he said to him. "A truce to your insolence, and

wait on me, unless you would repent it."

The host was so amazed at this brusque way of replying to him, and this

assault on his inviolability, that for a moment he remained dumb through

confusion and wrath. His face became crimson, his eyes rolled, and he at

length shouted in a strangled voice,--

"Help! Help me! Such an insult! By the body of Christ, I will not

overlook it! Leave my house at once!"

"I shall not go," the colonel answered peaceably, but firmly; "and you

will attend to me immediately."

"Oh! We shall see that. Here, help, Pedro, Juan, Jacinto! Come, all of

you, and on to these rascals!"

Seven or eight servants rushed from the corrals at the sound of their

master's voice, and ranged themselves behind him.

"Very good," the colonel said, raising his pistols. "I'll blow out the

brains of the first scamp who moves a step toward me with bad

intention."

We need not say that the peons remained motionless, as if they had

suddenly been changed into blocks of granite. One of the colonel's

servants had assisted Doña Angela from her horse, and accompanied her to

a cuarto, in which he installed her; then he returned in all haste to

his master's side, foreseeing that his co-operation would be speedily

needed.

The courtyard of the mesón offered a most singular aspect at this moment

by the light of the torches of ocote wood, passed through iron rings

along the walls. On one side stood the host and his servants; on the

other, Don Sebastian's four footmen, with their hands on their weapons,

and the guitar player, with his jarana on his back, and his hands folded

on his chest; a little on one side, the travellers and arrieros

previously arrived; and in the centre, alone, with his pistols in his

hand, the colonel, with frowning brow and flashing eyes.

"Enough of this, scoundrel!" he shouted. "For a long time you have been

plundering and insulting the travellers whom Providence sends to you.

By heavens! If you do not on the instant demand my pardon for your

insolence, and if you do not serve me with all that politeness I have a

right to demand from you, I will inflict on you, upon the spot, a

correction which you will remember your life long."

"Take care what you are about, my master," the huésped answered

ironically. "You see that I have men to help me. If you do not decamp at

once, all the worse for you. I have witnesses, and the _juez de letras_

shall decide."

"Good heavens!" the colonel shouted, "that is too much, and removes all

my scruples. The scoundrel threatens me with the law. Level your pieces,

men, and fire on the first who stirs!"

The domestics obeyed. Don Sebastian then seized the host, despite his

cries and desperate resistance, and in a second had him down on the

ground.

"I believe I shall do a service to all the travellers whom their evil

star may in future bring to this den," he continued, "by punishing this

scamp as he deserves."

The witnesses of this scene--peons, arrieros, or travellers--had not

made a move to help the host. It was evident that all, for certain

reasons, were in their hearts pleased with what was happening to him.

Not one of them would have dared to take on himself the responsibility

of such an act; but as there was someone ready to do so, they were

careful not to offer the slightest obstacle to him. By the peremptory

order of the colonel, the poor landlord was fastened by two of his own

servants to the long pole of the noria, and debarred from making the

slightest movement.

"Now," the colonel continued, "each of you take a _reata_, and thrash

him till he confesses himself conquered, and consents to do what I ask

of him."

Despite their feigned repugnance, the host's two peons were compelled to

obey the colonel; for his orders were supported by four rifles and two

pistols, whose gaping muzzles were directed point blank at them. To

honour the truth, we must confess that, either through terror or for

some other cause, the two peons conscientiously performed their duty.

The host howled like a bull. He was mad with rage, and writhed like a

viper in the bonds which he tried in vain to break. The colonel stood

stoically by his side, only asking him from time to time, ironically,

how he liked his arguments, and if he would soon make up his mind to

yield. Human strength has limits which it cannot pass. In spite of all

his fury and obstinacy, the host was forced to confess to himself,

aside, that he had to do with a man more obstinate than he was, and

that, if he did not wish to die under the lash, he must resolve to

endure the humiliation imposed on him.

"I surrender," he said, in a voice broken as much by anger as by pain.

"Already!" the colonel remarked coldly. "Pooh! I fancied you braver.

Why, you have hardly received thirty lashes. Stop, you fellows, and

unfasten your master!"

The peons eagerly obeyed. When free, the host tried to rise, but his

strength failed him, and he fell back on the ground, where he lay for

several moments powerless to move. At length he made a desperate effort,

and picked himself up. His face was pale; his features were contracted;

an abundant perspiration stood on his temples, which throbbed as if

ready to burst; he had a buzzing in his ears; and tears of shame poured

from his eyes. He took a few tottering steps toward the colonel.

"I am at your orders, caballero," he said, bowing his head humbly.

"Speak: what must I do?"

"Good!" the latter remarked. "Now you are reasonable; you are much

better so. Give some provender to my horses, and assist my servants to

wait on me."

"Pardon, caballero!" the huésped said. "Will you allow me to say two

words to you?"

The colonel smiled contemptuously.

"To what end? I know them, and I will repeat them myself. You wish to

warn me that, obliged to yield to superior force, you have done so, but

you will avenge yourself on the first opportunity. Is not that it?"

"Yes," he muttered in a hollow voice.

"Very well; you are quite at liberty to do so, master host; but take

your precautions, for I warn you that, if you miss me, I shall not miss

you. So now wait on me, and make haste."

And, shrugging his shoulders, the colonel turned his back on him with a

smile of disdain.

The host watched him depart with a hateful expression, which imparted

something hideous to his face; and when he saw that the colonel was out

of the yard, he shook his head twice or thrice, muttering to himself,--

"Yes, I will avenge myself, demon, and sooner than you imagine."

After this aside, he composed his face and attended to his household

duties with an activity and apparent indifference that caused his

servants to be thoughtful, for they knew his rancorous character. Still

he did not complain; he made no allusion to the cruel punishment he had

undergone, but, on the contrary, waited on the travellers with an

attention and politeness they had not been accustomed to prior to this

unlucky day; and they took advantage of the change, while keeping on

their guard.

Still nothing apparently happened to justify their suspicions--all went

on calmly: the travellers retired to bed one after the other; then the

host made his round to assure himself that all was in order, and retired

to the room reserved for his private use.

The colonel had already been asleep some hours, and was in a deep sleep,

from which he was suddenly aroused by a noise he heard at his door.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Silence!" someone answered outside. "Open; it is a friend."

"Friend or foe, tell me who you are, that I may know with whom I have to

deal."

"I am," the voice made answer, "the man you met on the road."

"Hem! What do you want with me? Why are you not asleep at this hour,

instead of coming to rouse me?"

"Open, in Heaven's name! I have important news to tell you."

The colonel hesitated for a moment, but soon reflecting that this man,

to whom he had done no harm, could have no motive, for being his enemy,

he decided on getting up. Still, through prudence, he cocked one of his

pistols, which he had placed by his side on retiring to bed, and went to

open the door. The stranger walked in quickly, and closed it after him.

"Speak low," he said hurriedly. "Listen to me: the host is forming some

scheme against you."

"I suspect it," the colonel said, who, while speaking, had lit a candle;

"but whatever he may do, I am out of his reach, and the scoundrel will

be crushed if he attack me."

"Who knows?" the stranger said.

"Come, you know something positive. Have I any plot to fear inside the

house?"

"I do not think so."

"Tell me what you have discovered, then."

"I will do so; but in the first place, as I am a total stranger to you,

allow me to tell you my name."

"For what good?"

"No one knows what may happen in this world: it is useful to be able to

distinguish one's friends from one's enemies."

"Speak; I am listening."

"You nearly guessed the truth. Under my starving appearance I conceal a

certain monetary value. My name is Don Cornelio Mendoza. I am a student.

I had at Guadalajara an aunt, who, on dying, appointed me her heir. I am

carrying with me in my belt one hundred and fifty gold ounces, and in my

portfolios bills for an equal amount payable at San Blas. You see that I

am not so poor as I appear to be. But the road between the two cities is

long and dangerous, and I assumed this disguise to escape the robbers,

if that be possible."

"Very good, Don Cornelio: you can now, if you please, change your

attire, for I hope that we shall pursue our journey together."

"With all my heart; but if it make no difference, I will retain my

lepero dress provisionally."

"As you please; but now to the fact. What have you to tell me?"

"Not much, but yet enough to put us on our guard. Our landlord, after

making his round and assuring himself that everyone had retired, woke up

one of his servants, the very one who thrashed him with such good will."

"Yes, I remember that rogue's face."

"Very good. After calling him into his room, he remained shut up with

him for ten minutes; then he opened a window, the peon leaped out on the

highway, and ran off at full speed."

"Oh, oh!" the colonel said.

"The landlord looked after him till he disappeared, then muttered

several words I could not understand, excepting one name, which, thanks

to Heaven, reached my ear."

"What was it?"

"El Buitre (the Vulture)."

"Hum! Is that all?"

"Yes."

"It does not teach me much; but how did you learn all this? The landlord

did not make you his confidant, I suppose?"

"No, not a bit in the world. I became his confidant in spite of himself,

and in the most natural way. My cuarto is just over his room. I heard

him open a window, and I listened."

"Yes, but unfortunately you heard nothing."

"Yes, a name."

"But a name which has no meaning for us."

"On the contrary, it is of enormous significance."

"How so?"

"The famous leader of the salteadores, whose band has been desolating

the province for a year, is called El Buitre. Do you now understand?"

"Body o' me!" the colonel shouted, as he jumped up hurriedly, "I rather

think I do understand."

III.--THE GENTLEMEN OF THE ROAD.

We will for the moment quit the mesón of San Juan, and proceed about two

leagues further on, where certain persons, with whom the reader must

form an acquaintance, are assembled.

Hardly one hundred and fifty yards beyond the mesón the road begins to

grow narrower; the mountains approach, as if wishful to shake hands, and

that so abruptly and unexpectedly, that they form all at once a narrow

and long gorge, which is known throughout the country as the _barranca

del mal paso_.

After passing through this gorge, the scenery leaves its abrupt and

savage aspect to resume a smiling character; the road widens again; a

charming valley, intersected by a stream, presents itself to sight; and

on all sides the eye surveys a deliciously accidented horizon.

On either side of the barranca begin impenetrable forests, through which

a road can only be cut axe in hand, unless the traveller has a deep

knowledge of the narrow and almost invisible paths which lead into the

interior with innumerable twinings.

We must ask the reader to follow us to one of the most hidden and least

known resorts in this forest.

In the centre of a vast clearing, where burned a cedar eighty feet in

height, emitting incessant sparks, some twenty men in sordid garments--a

horrible medley of luxury and indigence--with faces in which crime was

written in capital letters, but all armed to the teeth, were assembled

in groups of three or four each, drinking, eating, smoking, and singing.

Not far from them, their horses, saddled and ready to mount at the first

signal, were eating their provender of alfalfa and climbing peas; while,

on the edge of the covert, four or five men, motionless as bronze

statues, were attentively surveying the surrounding country.

A little on one side, two men, seated on low stools, were talking and

puffing in each other's faces enormous volleys of smoke. The first and

elder of the two appeared about eight-and-twenty years of age; his long,

light hair fell in heavy curls on his shoulders; his features were

effeminate; but his aquiline nose, his bright blue eyes, and narrow

forehead, imparted to his face a character of baseness and cold cruelty.

He wore the splendid costume of the Mexican hacenderos, and was

carelessly playing with the trigger of a splendid silver-mounted

American rifle.

His companion offered a striking contrast to him: while the first was

tall, well built, and endowed with pleasing manners, the second was

short, stumpy, heavy, and repulsive in face, gestures, and even in

language. The richness of his attire only seemed to render more striking

the hideousness imprinted as an indelible stigma on this odious person.

Everything announced in him the prowling jackal, that possesses all the

ferocity of the lion, but none of that animal's nobility or courage.

The clearing we have described was one of the principal haunts of the

Vulture, that terrible bandit who, at the time we write of, was

ravaging the state of Guadalajara. The men collected in it formed his

band, and the two men we have just introduced were, the first, _El

Buitre_ himself; the second, _El Garrucholo_, his lieutenant and dearest

friend.

At the moment we bring them on the stage, these two interesting

personages were engaged, as we shall see, in a confidential

conversation. We may observe that, strangely enough, this conversation

was not held in Spanish, but in English.

"Hem!" El Garrucholo said, as he inhaled a mouthful of smoke, which he

immediately sent forth again from his mouth and nostrils. "What do you

find so disagreeable in our profession, John? For my part, I consider it

delightful. These worthy Mexicans are gentle as lambs; they allow

themselves to be plundered with unequalled patience; and you will agree

with me, my dear fellow, that we gain more by cutting the buttons from

their _calzoneras_ than by easing the richest gentleman down there."

"All that is possible, my friend," El Buitre answered, throwing away his

cigarette with a gesture of impatience. "I do not assert the contrary.

Assuredly the profit is large, and the risk nothing, I grant; but--"

"Well, why do you stop? Go on."

"In a word, I was not born for such a trade."

El Garrucholo gave vent to a hearty laugh.

"That's where the shoe galls you, then?" he said, with a shrug of his

shoulders. "You are mad, comrade: every man is born for the trade he

carries on, especially when he chose it himself."

"Would you assert by that----?"

"What I say I mean. When I picked you up in Mexico, under the arcades of

the Plaza Mayor, with a dagger buried in your breast up to the hilt, and

not a real in your pockets, I should have done better, deuce take me, to

let you die like a masterless dog, instead of curing you; at least, I

should not have heard such nonsense from you."

"Why did you not do so? At any rate I should have died without

dishonouring an honourable name."

"Deuce take the honourable name, and the man who bears it! My dear

fellow, you annoy me by your ridiculous pretensions; you forget, with

your mania for nobility, that you are only a foundling."

El Buitre frowned and seized his lieutenant's arm.

"Enough on that subject, Red Blood; you know that I have already warned

you that I would not suffer any jesting on that head."

"Bah! What's the odds about being a foundling? A man ought not to feel

annoyed at that; it is one of those accidents for which the most honest

fellow cannot be responsible."

"You are my friend, Red Blood; or, at least, seem to be so."

"In your turn, my noble Mr. John Stanley," the bandit sharply

interrupted him, "do not express such doubts about me; they grieve and

insult me more than I can express. I am attached to you as the blade of

my bowie-knife is to the hilt I am yours, body and soul. I have only

that one virtue, if it be one; so pray do not strip me of it."

El Buitre remained silent for a moment, and then continued in a

conciliating voice,--

"I am wrong. Pardon me, brother; in truth, I have had sufficient proofs

of your friendship to have no right to doubt it. Still it seems to me so

strange, that I at times ask myself how it comes that you, Red Blood,

who hate humanity in a mass--you to whom nothing is respectable or

sacred--feel for me a friendship which rises to the most complete

abnegation and the most utter weakness. That appears to me so

extraordinary, that I would give much to hold the solution of the

problem."

"You are an ass, John!" the bandit replied in a mocking tone. "What is

the use of telling you why I love you? You would not understand me.

Suffice it for you to know that it is so. Do you believe me, then, a

perfect ferocious brute, incapable of generous instincts?"

"I do not say that."

"You think it, which comes to the same thing. But it is of no matter to

me: I dispense you from gratitude; you may even hate me, and I should

not care. I do not love you for yourself, but for myself. But suppose we

talk of something else, if you are agreeable?"

"I wish nothing better, for I see that I should lose as much time in

trying to draw a good reason from you as in washing a blackamoor

white."

"Ta, ta, ta! You are an ass, I repeat. But let me alone; if a certain

thing I am now scheming succeed, we shall soon bury El Buitre to bring

John Stanley to life again."

The salteador quivered.

"May Heaven hear you!" he exclaimed involuntarily.

"You had better appeal to the other place if you wish to succeed," the

bandit said with a grin; "but you trust to me. Soon, I hope, we shall so

completely change our skins that fellows will be very clever who

recognise us. Look ye, John: in, this world all that is needful is to

take the ball on the bound and turn with the wind."

"I confess, my good fellow, that I do not understand a syllable of what

you are saying to me."

"Eh! What do you want to understand for? You never were the worse off

for leaving me to guide you. Two words are as good as a thousand. Before

long we shall turn our coats, and change, not the trade we carry on so

agreeably, but the name under which we do it, to assume one better

sounding and more lofty. Look there!" he added, pointing sarcastically

at his comrades. "What an imposing collection of honest fellows we shall

restore to circulation under our auspices! Will it not be magnificent,

after having so long plundered individuals, to become suddenly the

defenders of a nation to the prejudice of the government?"

"Yes," El Buitre said thoughtfully, "I have always dreamed--"

"Of carrying on our trade on a grand scale, eh? You were right: there

is nothing like doing things properly, if you wish to be held in

estimation. Well, be at ease; I will procure that pleasure. At any rate,

if luck desert you, you will have the advantage of being shot instead of

being hanged or garotted, and that is a consolation."

"Yes," El Buitre said quickly; "in that way a man dies like a

gentleman."

"And is not dishonoured, I allow. Ah! The filibusters of old were lucky

fellows; they conquered empires, and handed down their names to

posterity, the exploits of the hero easily causing the crimes of the

bandit to be forgotten."

"Will you never be serious?"

"I am only too much so, on the contrary; for, as you see, although you

did not confide in me, I am preparing you a place by the side of the

Cortez, the Almagros, and Pizarros, whose glory has so long prevented

you sleeping."

"You may jest, Red Blood," the salteador said with an accent of profound

emotion; "but if, as I suppose, you appreciate my character at its true

value, you know that I only seek one thing--to regenerate these unhappy

races, whom a brutalising subjection has plunged during so many

centuries into a degrading barbarism."

"You only wish for the welfare of humanity of course," the bandit said

with an ironical laugh. "We should not be worthy sons of Uncle Sam, that

land of liberty and theoretical philanthropy, did we not dream of the

amelioration of society. That is the reason why, while biding our time,

we have become of our private authority redressers of wrong, and

gentlemen of the road--a charming trade, I may remark parenthetically,

and which we carry on conscientiously."

"Go to the deuce, you inexplicable scamp!" the young man exclaimed in a

passion. "Shall I never know how to speak or how to deal with you?"

"No," he replied seriously, "no, John, so long as you try to play at

hide and seek with me, who know every thought of your heart. Cease to

display these pretensions to honesty, which deceive nobody, not even

yourself, and become frankly a bandit chief till you can be something

else. When the moment has arrived it will be time to put on a cloak of

hypocrisy, which will deceive the fools, and consolidate the position

you have acquired."

At this moment the shriek of the owl was heard in the thickest part of

the forest.

"What's that?" El Buitre asked, not sorry to break off a conversation

which was taking a personal turn rather disagreeable to him.

"A signal given by a sentry," El Garrucholo answered; "a spy who

doubtlessly brings us news. We are awaiting, as you know, the passing of

certain travellers."

"I know it; but they are said to be well armed, and under good escort."

"All the better; they will defend themselves, and that will be a

change."

"The truth is, that those we have stopped for some time past seemed to

have agreed to let themselves be plundered without a murmur."

"If the information I have received be exact, that will not be the case

with the present party."

The owl cry was heard a second time, but now much nearer.

"It is time," El Garrucholo observed.

The two chiefs then put on black velvet masks, and almost immediately a

man appeared, led by two bandits. On entering the clearing this

individual threw around a glance rather of astonishment than terror:

nothing in his conduct showed that he had fallen into an ambuscade, for

his face was calm, though rather pale, and his step was assured.

The bandits who escorted him led him before the two chiefs, who examined

him attentively through the holes in their masks. El Buitre then

addressed the bandits in Spanish.

"Where the deuce did you catch that scoundrel?" he said in a rough

voice. "He has not an ochavo about him. Hang him, and let us have no

more bother."

"Yes," the lieutenant observed, "he is only fit for that, as he was such

an ass as to rush into the net prepared for more noble game."

"Permit me, excellency," one of the bandits said, bowing respectfully;

"this man was not caught by us."

"How is he here, then?"

"Because, illustrious captain, he earnestly asked to be led into your

excellency's presence, as he had matters of the utmost importance to

impart to you."

"Ah!" the chief said, but added, "I know the fellow; he is, if I am not

mistaken, the huésped of the mesón of San Juan."

The prisoner bowed in affirmation.

It was really the worthy Saccaplata himself. After sending off his

criado, and while Don Cornelio was with the colonel, the host thought

that nobody could do one's business so well as one's self; and as he was

probably anxious that it should succeed, he had started off after the

peon, whom he had no difficulty in catching up, for the poor fellow was

not at all anxious to execute the commission his master had intrusted to

him. Saccaplata sent him back to the mesón; and, while the peon returned

in delight, had himself attempted the adventure.

"Indeed!" the lieutenant remarked. "Does Señor Saccaplata wish to enter

into business relations with us? That would be an excellent idea."

"I do not say no, honourable caballero," the landlord replied in a

honeyed voice. "Business is very bad at this moment, and it is certain

that a little extra profit, honestly come by, would be acceptable; but,

for the present, I only desire--"

"To the point," El Buitre suddenly interrupted him; "we have no time to

lose in silly remarks."

The landlord understood that he must be brief, if he did not wish to

bring down certain unpleasantnesses on himself.

"The fact is this," he said: "I have in my house, at the present moment,

several rich travellers."

"We know it. What next?"

"Among them is the Señor Colonel--"

"Don Sebastian Guerrero, proceeding to Tepic with his daughter and four

servants," the lieutenant interrupted him. "What next?"

"What next?" the landlord said, sadly discountenanced.

"Yes, what next?"

"That is all."

"What, you scoundrel! And you had the effrontery to venture among us,

only to tell us a thing we knew as well as yourself?" El Garrucholo

exclaimed.

"I thought I was doing you a service."

"You wished to be a spy on us."

"I!"

"Of course. Do you take us for fools like yourself, you wretch? But you

shall remember this visit. The _orejada_" he added, turning to the two

bandits, who had remained by the landlord's side.

"One moment," the captain said.

Saccaplata, fancying he should escape with the fright, grimaced a smile.

"I will tell you," the captain continued, "why you came to us. You want

to revenge yourself on Colonel Guerrero, who a few hours back inflicted

on you a well-merited correction."

"But--" the landlord ventured.

"Silence! Do not attempt to deny it. I was there. I saw what occurred.

As you are too great a coward to dare to avenge yourself, you thought of

us, supposing that we should not refuse to render you that slight

service. What do you say--is that the truth?"

"Hum! I would not venture to contradict your excellency," the landlord

said, now beginning to regret having entered this wasp's nest.

The bandits, attracted by the colloquy, had gradually drawn nearer, and

formed a circle round the speakers, while laughing cunningly to each

other. Still, although accustomed to the pleasing eccentricities of

their worthy chief, they were far from anticipating the _dénouement_ of

this scene.

After having proved to Saccaplata as clearly as the day that he knew the

motive that led him to offer his good services to the salteadores, the

captain continued in these terms, while smiling cunningly:--

"Dear huésped of my heart, we do not refuse to undertake revenging you,

the more so as we had already made up our minds to stop the colonel."

"Ah!" the landlord said, beginning to feel easier.

"Yes: still, after reflecting on it thoroughly, we gave up the plan. The

colonel is brave--he will defend himself; moreover, he has with him four

well-armed and determined men. My faith, it was too great a risk; but if

you insist--"

"Immensely!" the other exclaimed, deceived by the bandit's feigned

kindliness.

"Very good," the other answered, changing his tone; "then it is a matter

of business between us. Now, such things are always paid for, as you

know, my scamp."

Saccaplata turned involuntarily toward the other salteadores, who were

grinning affably at him.

"Consequently," the captain continued with perfect calmness, "you will

pay me twenty ounces for your vengeance, which I take on my own account,

and ten for your ransom."

"Heaven save me!" the landlord said, clasping his hands in despair. "I

never possessed such a sum, not even in a dream."

"That is a matter of perfect indifference to me. I never recall my

decision under any circumstances. Another time you will think twice

before venturing so rashly into the claws of El Buitre. The orejada--"

"Oh, my lord!" the luckless Saccaplata exclaimed, as he fell on his

knees, "I am a poor devil. Have pity on me, noble captain, I implore

you!"

"Come, put an end to this."

In spite of his cries and protestations, the landlord was seized and

haled off by his guardians, amid the laughter and sarcasms of the

bandits, whom the sight promised by the captain delighted.

"Stop!" the huésped suddenly exclaimed; "I think I have a little money

about me."

"No, no!" the salteadores shouted. "Give him the orejada all the same."

El Garrucholo made a sign, and order was restored.

"Let us see," he said.

The wretch gave a sigh, and with extreme difficulty, after ransacking

all his pockets with many a protestation that he was utterly ruined,

which the bandits listened to with stoical indifference, he at last

succeeded in making up a little more than half the sum.

"Hum!" the lieutenant said as he pocketed the money, "that is nothing;

but I am a good fellow. You have no more?"

"Oh! I swear it, excellency," he said, turning out all his pockets.

"Well," El Garrucholo continued philosophically, "no man is bound to do

impossibilities, and as you have only that--"

"I am sure of it," the other said, fancying himself saved.

"Well, then," the lieutenant continued, "let him be only attached by one

ear: we must be honest."

An immense burst of laughter from the whole band greeted this

proposition. The landlord was carried off to a tree, and before he

understood what they meant to do to him, he uttered a frightful yell of

pain. A bandit had fastened him to the tree by the right ear, by simply

driving his knife through it.

"There, that's settled," the lieutenant said. "Now, I warn you that, if

you continue to howl, I will have you gagged."

"Traitors, dogs, assassins, kill me!"

"No. But listen; that wound is nothing. It is easy for you to deliver

yourself by a slight tug. Your ear will be torn, I allow, but you can't

have everything. As soon as you are free, return home; one of our

friends will accompany you, and you will pay him the rest of the sum."

"Never!" the landlord howled, "Never! I would sooner die!"

"Very good; then you shall die, and after that we will carry off the

contents of the hiding place you have so cleverly made in the wall of

your cuarto, by placing before it a picture of Nuestra Señora de

Guadalupe. Eh! What do you think of that?"

The lieutenant had hardly finished speaking ere the landlord, by a sharp

movement, had regained his liberty. Without thinking of his

frightfully-mutilated ear, he threw himself at the feet of El

Garrucholo.

"I accept, my lord, I accept; but I implore you, do not ruin me."

"I was certain you would understand. Be off, scoundrel; and if it is any

consolation, know that you will be avenged on the colonel."

"Yes," the landlord muttered to himself, "but who will avenge me on you?

Thanks," he added aloud; "that promise causes me to forget my

suffering."

"All the better; but mind you, no treachery, or we shall manage to get

hold of you again."

Saccaplata bowed, but made no reply. He understood that it would have

been better for him to remain at home, and allow matters to follow their

course, without seeking a problematic vengeance which cost him thirty

gold ounces and an ear. On reaching the mesón he paid the rest of his

ransom, and banging the door in the face of the bandit who accompanied

him, and thanked him with an air of mockery, he sank on a bench, and

overcome by so many terrible emotions, fainted away.

IV.--THE BARRANCA DEL MAL PASO.

The rest of the night passed, apparently at any rate, calmly and

tranquilly, and nothing occurred to disturb the rest enjoyed by the

guests at the mesón of San Juan. About four in the morning the doors of

the travellers' cuartos began to open one after the other, and lights

flashed in the patios. The shouts of the muleteers, and the bells of

their animals, aroused the colonel and his daughter, warning them that

it was time to prepare for their departure.

Don Sebastian, after the suspicions Don Cornelio had suggested to him,

did not at all wish, as he had a young lady with him, to start before

sunrise, especially as he had to traverse the gorge we have already

described, and where it would be easy to form an ambuscade.

By the sunlight he had a better chance, for two reasons: in the first

place, the servants who accompanied him were old soldiers, accustomed to

war, and greatly attached to him; the second was, that the Mexican

brigands are usually great cowards, and whenever they meet with any

serious resistance from those they attack, they immediately give up the

game.

These two reasons, and, before all, the fear of alarming his daughter,

and uselessly exposing her to danger during the darkness, obliged the

colonel to let all the other travellers at the mesón start before him;

and, in fact, they soon quitted the hostelry, and dispersed in various

directions.

The Señor Saccaplata, with pallid face, compressed eyebrows, and head

bandaged up, was walking up and down the patio, with his arms behind his

back, every now and then raising his eyes angrily to the colonel's

window, and growling in a low voice,--

"Body and bones! Will not that trumpery colonel make up his mind to

start soon, if he is so ready to give the bastinado to poor folk? But

let him do what he will, he will not escape the fate that awaits him."

At this moment a young man appeared in the patio, strumming a guitar,

and singing in a low voice,--

"No sabo donde mirar,

De todo teme y rezela,

Si al cielo teme su furia,

Porque hizo al cielo ofensa."[3]

These verses, taken from the romance of King Rodrigo, though probably

sung without any malignant meaning, still referred so closely to the

landlord's present position, that he turned furiously to the unlucky

singer, and attacked him in a brutal voice.

"Deuce take your howling! Why do you come buzzing in this way in my

ears, when you ought, on the contrary, to be preparing for your

departure?"

"Why, it is our worthy huésped," Don Cornelio replied with that joyful

accent peculiar to him. "What! You are not fond of music? You are

wrong, my worthy friend, for what I am singing to you is really fine."

"That is possible," the other said in a rough voice; "but I should feel

obliged by your giving me no more of it."

"Oh, oh! You are not in a good temper this morning. What's the matter

with you, that you are so bandaged up? On my soul, you must be ill. Oh!

I see what it is; you slept with your window open, and have caught a

toothache."

The landlord turned green with impotent fury.

"Caballero," he shouted, "take care."

"Of what?" Don Cornelio said peacefully. "Toothache is not catching, as

I am aware. Poor man! Pain causes him to wander. Take care of yourself,

my good man; take care of yourself, I advise you."

And without further ceremony he turned his back on him, and began again

the song which so annoyed the landlord at the point where he broke it

off.

"Hum!" the latter growled, shaking his fist at the singer; "I hope that

you will catch something in the row. Ah!" he added, "the sun is rising:

perhaps that will induce him to come down."

In fact, the sun appeared at this moment in a bed of vapour, and after a

twilight, whose duration was almost nothing, the day succeeded, as it

were, immediately to night.

Don Cornelio, aided by the colonel's servants, fed the horses and

saddled the mules--preparations which brought a smile to the landlord's

lips which would have caused the colonel to feel uncomfortable had he

seen it.

Suddenly a sound of horses was heard outside, and two men trotted into

the patio, through the gateway left open after the departure of the

arrieros and other travellers. At this unexpected arrival the landlord

turned as if a viper had stung him.

"Confusion!" he muttered; "day has hardly broken ere these accursed

fellows come across my path."

The two arrivals troubled themselves in no way about their host's

ill-temper, but dismounted, and taking the bridles off their horses, led

them to the noria to let them drink.

The travellers were dressed in the garb of the frontier men, and

appeared to be from forty to forty-five years of age. Like all wayfarers

in this blessed country, where every man must depend on himself alone,

they were armed; but, in lieu of the lance or fusil usual in the

interior, they had excellent Mexican rifles--a peculiarity which, in

addition to their _zarapés_ of Indian manufacture, and their fiery and

half-wild mustangs, allowed them to be recognised as Sonorians, or at

least men domiciled in that state.

The landlord, seeing that the newcomers did not appear to trouble

themselves in the least about him, decided at length on walking toward

them and addressing them.

"What do you want?" he said to them.

"Nothing just at present," the elder replied; "but so soon as our horses

have finished drinking, you will give each of them a measure of maize

and a truss of alfalfa."

"I am the mesonero, and not a peon. It is not my place to wait upon

you," he said brutally.

The traveller who had spoken looked askance at the host.

"I don't care whether it is you or your criados who do it," he answered

dryly, "provided that the order I have given is executed promptly, for I

am in a hurry."

In the face of this rebuff, and especially the glance that accompanied

it, the huésped judged it prudent to draw in his horns and assume a more

conciliatory tone. For the last few hours poor Saccaplata had not been

fortunate with his travellers. All those Heaven sent him had the air of

young bulls escaped from the _toril_.

"Your excellencies are doubtless anxious to set out again?" he said in

an insinuating voice.

The strangers made no answer.

"Not to be too curious," the landlord continued, not yet discouraged,

"may I ask in what direction your honourable seigneuries intend to

proceed?"

One of the travellers then raised his head, and, looking the indiscreet

mesonero full in the face, said with a mocking air,--

"If you are asked, you will answer that you do not know. Come, my good

fellow, have us attended to, and blow your own _puchero_, without

troubling yourself about ours: you might find it too hot for you."

The host shrugged his shoulders and slipped away, the more nimbly

because he noticed the colonel entering the patio at the moment, and

felt no desire to come in contact with him.

The two strangers exchanged a smile, and, without further remark,

watched the peon who was giving their horses the provender they had

ordered.

Don Sebastian was ready to start: he had come to give a final glance to

the horses before leading his daughter downstairs. Don Cornelio walked

up to him so soon as he saw him, and after wishing him good day, drew

him a little aside and whispered,--

"Look there, colonel," and he pointed to the two strangers; "those are

sturdy fellows, if I am not mistaken."

"They are so," Don Sebastian made answer; "I did not notice them

before."

"They have only just arrived. They would be famous recruits added to our

party, if they would consent to travel with us. What do you think of

it?"

"I think you are right; but will they consent?"

"Why not? If they are going the same road as ourselves they will derive

the same benefit from our presence as we shall from theirs."

"That is true. Have you spoken to them?"

"No: as I told you, they arrived this moment. You ought to try to

persuade them."

"I see no harm in attempting it, at least," the colonel answered.

Hereupon, leaving Don Cornelio, he advanced toward the strangers, and

saluting them politely, said,--

"You have magnificent horses, caballeros. I see that they come from the

prairies."

"Yes, they are real mustangs," one of the strangers replied, returning

the bow.

"You are finishing your journey at a very early hour," the colonel

continued. "With horses like yours a deal of ground could be covered."

"What makes you suppose, caballero, that our journey is ended?"

"Why, your arrival at this hostelry at so early an hour."

"Ah! You might be mistaken."

"Pardon my indiscretion, caballeros. Do you come from Guadalajara, or

are you going there?"

"Caballero," the stranger replied dryly, who had hitherto spoken, "we

the more readily pardon your indiscretion, because it appears that in

this hostelry everybody passes his time in asking questions; still, you

will permit me not to answer yours. My companion and myself are old

travellers, and we know that on the roads of this country men too often

repent gossiping about their business, but never of keeping it to

themselves."

The colonel drew himself up with an air of pique.

"As you please, caballero," he replied coldly. "I cannot feel annoyed at

your prudence; still, I would observe that you have given a wrong

meaning to my remarks. I only wished to offer you my escort in crossing

an ill-famed gorge, in which the band of the dangerous robber, El

Buitre, is at this moment ensconced."

"I know the man by repute," the stranger said in a somewhat more affable

tone. "My friend and myself will, I hope, be sufficient to keep him at

arm's length; still, though I do not accept your offer, I thank you for

the cordiality which urged you to make it."

The conversation broke off here. The two men bowed with all the marks of

the most exquisite politeness, and turned their backs on each other. The

colonel, annoyed at the way in which his advances had been met, gave the

order for departure, and went to fetch his daughter. An instant later he

reappeared with her; the band mounted, and, on a signal from Don

Sebastian, set out. On passing before the strangers, who watched their

departure, the colonel took off his hat, as did Don Cornelio. Doña

Angela gave a graceful bow, accompanied by a charming smile. The

strangers, in their turn, uncovered and bowed respectfully to the party.

"There, scoundrel," the colonel said as he threw an ounce to the

landlord, who watched their departure with a cunning look, "there's a

plaster for your wounds."

Saccaplata sharply picked up the ounce, thrust it into his pocket, and

crossed himself as he muttered,--

"You will want a good many ounces to cure your wounds, you will. Bah!"

he added, with a sinister laugh, "it is now El Buitre's affair; let them

settle it together."

When Don Sebastian had left the hostelry he divided his party into

three: two of his servants rode in front, gun on thigh; two others

behind; while he and Don Cornelio, having Doña Angela between them, rode

in the middle. All being thus arranged, and the order given to keep a

careful outlook, the cavalcade started at a sharp trot.

In the meanwhile the two strangers, as we have said, remained at the

mesón. They watched the little party for a long time, and then, as their

horses had finished eating, they put on their bridles and tightened

their girths.

"My faith, Don Louis!" the younger of the two at length said, "I can't

help it; I must tell you what I have on my mind, or I shall choke."

"Speak, my friend," his comrade said with a sad smile. "I know as well

as you do what is troubling your mind."

"Perhaps so; still that would surprise me."

"Listen, then, Belhumeur. You are asking yourself at this moment why I

was so rude to that gentleman whom I do not know, and whom I saw for a

moment for the first time in my life?"

"By my faith! You have guessed it: that was, in truth, my thought. I

seek in vain the reason for such extraordinary conduct on your part, and

I confess that I give it up as a bad job."

"Do not trouble yourself any further, my good fellow. I was

involuntarily guided by a secret presentiment, by a species of

incomprehensible instinct, which forced me to act as I did."

"That is strange."

"Yes, is it not so? You know the feeling of instinctive repulsion one

experiences on touching a reptile?"

"Of course."

"Well, when that man advanced toward me, even before I saw him, I felt

his presence, if I may say so; my heart beat violently; and when he

addressed me I felt a sudden and incomprehensible pain."

Belhumeur regarded him for a moment with fixed attention.

"And you conclude from that?" he said.

"That this man will be my enemy at some appointed moment; that he will

stand in my path, gloomy and implacable, and prove fatal to me."

"Come, my friend, that is not possible. You are leaving this country,

never to return to it, since, in spite of all your researches, you have

been unable to find the man on whose behalf you came. The man you saw

this morning is a field officer in the Mexican army, and it is not very

likely he will leave his country: everything opposes it. Where can you

meet again?"

"I do not know, Belhumeur; I seek neither to guess nor to foresee the

future. It is evident that, after leaving you at the Hacienda del

Milagro, I shall proceed to Guaymas, where I shall embark, I know not

yet for what country; and it is my settled purpose never to set foot in

Mexico again. Still I repeat to you, although it may appear absurd, I am

convinced that that man will be my enemy some day, and that one of us

will kill the other."

"Come, come, I will not discuss that subject with you; it is better for

us, I fancy, to start, for we have a long journey before us today."

"That is true, my friend. Let us start, and think no more of my

forebodings. They will turn out as Heaven may direct."

"Amen!" Belhumeur said. "That is how I like to see you; thus you

resemble my brave Raphael, my dear Loyal Heart, to whom I wish to make

you known before leaving you."

"You will afford me the greatest pleasure."

They mounted their horses, paid the landlord, and in their turn quitted

the mesón de San Juan, walking their horses in the direction of the

barranca del mal paso, where the colonel had preceded them. They

proceeded for some time in silence, side by side. At length the

Canadian, who could not remain long without speaking, took the word.

"Do you not think, Don Louis, that, supposing the colonel spoke the

truth, two men like ourselves would prove very useful to him?"

"What does that concern us?" Don Louis asked sharply.

"Us nothing; and assuredly, if only that soldier, to whom you have such

an antipathy, were concerned, I should not trouble myself about him, but

leave him to settle with the bandits as best he could."

"Well?"

"Don't you understand me?"

"No, on my honour."

"Did you not notice the charming girl that accompanies him?"

"Of course I did."

"Would it not be frightful--?"

"Good heavens!" the Count de Prébois Crancé, whom the reader has

doubtlessly recognised,[4] quickly interrupted him, "that would be

fearful. Poor child! Forward, Belhumeur, forward! We must save her."

"Ah!" the Canadian thought to himself, "I was sure I should find the

soft place."

The two men bowed over their horses' necks, and started with the

velocity of the tempest. They had scarce gone a mile when cries and

shots reached their ears.

"Forward--confound it, forward!" the count shouted, urging his horse to

increased speed.

"Forward!" Belhumeur repeated.

They rushed into the barranca at headlong speed, and fell like two

demons into the midst of the bandits, whom they saluted with two shots;

then clubbing their rifles, they employed them like maces, bounding into

the medley with indescribable fury.

It was high time for this assistance to reach the colonel. Three of his

servants were killed; Don Cornelio was lying wounded on the ground;

while Don Sebastian, with his back against a block of granite, was

desperately defending himself against five or six bandits who assailed

him.

El Buitre had seized Doña Angela, and thrown her across his saddle-bow,

in spite of her shrieks and resistance; but suddenly Don Louis dealt the

bandit a crushing blow on the head, which hurled him to the ground, and

delivered the girl. Belhumeur all this time did not remain inactive; he

wounded and trampled under his horse's hoofs all those who dared to

oppose his passage.

The salteadores, surprised by this sudden attack, which they were far

from anticipating--frightened by the carnage the newcomers caused among

their comrades, and not knowing how many foes they might have upon them,

were seized with a panic fear, and fled in the utmost disorder,

clambering up the rocks. El Garrucholo, at the peril of his life, picked

up his captain, whom he would not abandon, and El Buitre once again

escaped the garota. The salteadores lost in this skirmish more than

two-thirds of their numbers.

When tranquillity was restored, and the bandits had completely

disappeared, Don Sebastian warmly thanked the two adventurers for the

timely aid they had rendered him. Don Louis received politely, but very

coldly, the colonel's advances, confining himself to saying that if he

had been so fortunate as to save his life, he found a reward in his own

heart, and that was sufficient for him; but, in spite of the colonel's

pressing, he refused to tell him who he was, alleging as his sole reason

that he was about to leave Mexico for ever, and that he did not wish to

lay on him a burden so heavy as gratitude. At this remark Doña Angela

drew nearer to Don Louis, and said with a smile of gentle reproach,--

"It is quite natural that you who have saved our lives should forget the

fact, or at least attach but slight importance to it; but my father and

myself will remember it for ever."

And before Don Louis could prevent it, the lovely girl bounded like a

fawn, threw her arms round his neck, and holding up her pure forehead,

which was still rather pale,--

"Kiss me, my saviour!" she said, with tears in her eyes.

The count, affected, in spite of himself, by an action full of such

simple frankness, respectfully kissed the maiden's brow, then turned

away, that she might not read the sweet and yet painful impression so

simple an action had produced on him.

Doña Angela, smiling and blushing, sought refuge in her father's arms,

leaving in Don Louis' hand a small relic she usually wore round her

neck.

"Keep it," she said to him, with that sweet Spanish superstition so full

of grace; "it will bring you good fortune."

"Yes, I will keep it, señorita," the count replied, hiding it in his

bosom, "as a reminiscence of a moment of happiness you unconsciously

caused me this day, by proving to me that, in spite of misfortunes, my

heart is not so dead as I fancied."

The preparations for departure were made. Don Sebastian, deprived of his

servants, could not dream of continuing his journey. He decided on

returning to Guadalajara, in order to obtain another escort

sufficiently strong to protect his daughter from such a danger as that

she had escaped by a miracle. He was, however, greatly embarrassed by

Don Cornelio, whom he did not wish to abandon, and yet could not

transport.

"I will take charge of this man, caballero," Don Louis then said to him.

"Do not trouble yourself about him further. My friend and I are in no

great haste. We will carry him to the mesón of San Juan, and not leave

him till he is thoroughly cured."

Two hours later the two parties separated in front of Saccaplata's

mesón, who saw them return with great terror; but the colonel thought it

advisable, for Don Cornelio's sake, to appear ignorant of the part the

landlord had played in the attack, to which himself and daughter had so

nearly fallen victims.

Don Sebastian and Don Louis separated with a frigid bow, like men who

are persuaded they will never meet again. But no one can foresee the

future, and unconsciously chance was about to bring them hereafter face

to face under strange circumstances, the realisation of which neither

assuredly suspected at the moment.

End Of Prologue.

[3] He knows not where to look; he fears or distrusts everything. If he

is afraid of the anger of Heaven, why did he insult it?

[4] See the "Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.

CHAPTER I.

THE NIGHT HALT.

Before the discovery of the rich placers in the neighbourhood of San

Francisco, California was completely wild and almost unknown. The port

of San Francisco, the finest and largest in the world, destined to

become very shortly the commercial _entrepôt_ of the Pacific, was at

that time only frequented by whalers, who, at the period when the whales

retire to the shallow water, came to fish there, cut them up, and melt

down their blubber.

A few Flat-head Indians wandered haphazard through the vast forests that

covered the seaboard; and in this country, which trade has now seized

on, and which is entering, with all sail set, into the movement of

progress, wild beasts lorded it as masters.

An old officer of Charles X.'s Swiss Guard had founded a poor colony on

the territory of San Francisco, and cut down trees, which he converted

into planks by the aid of a few watermills.

Such was the condition in which this magnificent country languished,

when suddenly the news of the discovery of rich placers in California

burst on the world like a shell. Then the country, as if touched by the

magic wand of some powerful enchanter, became all at once transformed.

From all parts of the world adventurers flocked in, bearing with them

that feverish activity and boundless audacity which ignore all

difficulties, and surmount every obstacle.

At a spot where, a few days previously, gloomy and mysterious forests,

old as the world, stretched out, a city was created, improvised, and

within a few months counted its inhabitants by tens of thousands. The

port, so long deserted, was crammed with vessels of every sort and every

size, and the gold fever renewed the Saturnalia of the Spanish

conquistadors of the Middle Ages.

For some time after, this country offered to the eye of the observer a

sight the most hideous, the most grand, the most heart-rending, and most

striking that can be imagined. All was mingled, confounded, and

upturned. It was a confusion, a hurly-burly impossible to describe,

where nothing existed any longer--where every tie was broken, every

social idea annihilated; and in this terrible pell-mell, in this

frightful race to the placers, rogues and gentlemen, soldiers and

priests, diplomatists and physicians, jostled each other, all running,

howling, wielding the dagger or the revolver, possessed by only one

idea, instinct, or passion--that of gold. For gold these men would have

sold everything--conscience, honour, probity, everything, even to

themselves!

We will not enter into fuller details of this wondrous period, during

which California emerged from her nothingness, to take her place, after

ten years of desperate struggling, among the civilised peoples. Other

pens, far more eloquent than ours, have undertaken the rude task of

telling us the history of these striking incidents. We will confine

ourselves to stating that, at the period of our story, gold had only

just been discovered, and California was struggling against the first

raging attack of _delirium tremens_.

It was about three years after the events we narrated in our prologue.

In the Sierra Nevada, upon the picturesque slopes that descend gradually

to the sea, in the heart of an immense virgin forest a hundred leagues

from San Francisco, between that city and Los Angeles, the heat had been

stifling during the day. At sunset the sea breeze had risen, and

slightly refreshed the atmosphere; but it sank again almost immediately,

and the temperature had again become heavy and oppressive.

The motionless trees concealed beneath their dense foliage birds of

every description, which only revealed their presence at intervals by

shrill and discordant cries. Hideous alligators wallowing in the mud of

the swamps, or holding on to the trunks of dead trees scattered here and

there, were the only living beings that animated the landscape, which

was rendered even more gloomy and mournful by the pale, uncertain, and

tremulous flickering of the moonbeams that filtered with great

difficulty through the rare openings in the verdurous forest dome, and

sported capriciously and fantastically about the trees and branches,

though unable to lessen the mysterious obscurity that reigned in the

leafy covert.

A noise of horses' hoofs was heard on one of the innumerable tracks made

by the wild beasts as they proceed in search of water, and two men

debouched into a clearing formed by the fall of several trees that had

died of old age, and whose mossy trunks were already in a state of

decomposition.

These men were both dressed in the costume of hunters or wood rangers,

and were armed with American rifles, long knives, and _machetes_. A

_reata_, rolled up and fastened to the saddle-bow, allowed them to be

recognised as partisans from the Mexican frontiers.

Both had passed middle life; but there the resemblance between them

ended. At the first glance it was easy to guess that one belonged to the

Northern European race; while his comrade, on the contrary, by the olive

tint of his complexion, and his angular features, offered a perfect type

of the Indian aborigines of Chili, so eloquently celebrated by Ercilla,

and known in South America by the name of Araucanos--a powerful,

intelligent, and energetic race, the only one of all the native tribes

of the New World which has managed to retain its nationality, and caused

its independence to be respected to the present day.

These two men were Valentine Guillois, better known as the

"Trail-hunter," and Curumilla, his silent and devoted companion ever

since the day that chance so many years previously had led Valentine

into Araucania.[1]

Years, while accumulating on the heads of the two men, had produced but

a slight change in their external appearance. They were still quite

upright, and seemed equally vigorous. A few more wrinkles had formed on

the Frenchman's pensive brow, and some silvery threads were added to his

locks; his features, more angular than before, had assumed those firm

and distinct lines, alone produced by reflection and long contests

valiantly sustained; his eye was still equally frank, but the flash was

more incisive; and his face wore that melancholy impression which

deceptions of every description, and great grief, stamp indelibly on the

countenance of powerful men, whom the fearful storms of life have bowed,

though not broken.

The Indian was still morose and concentrated. Age, which had laid even a

smaller hold on his organisation than on that of his comrade, had merely

increased the worthy Araucanian's habitual taciturnity, and drawn over

his gloomy face a thicker veil of that stoical fatalism peculiar to the

aboriginal race of America.

The two men advanced slowly side by side, apparently plunged in deep

thought. At times Valentine stopped, looked cautiously around him, and

then resumed his march, shaking his head dubiously. Each time that the

hunter reined in his horse Curumilla imitated him, though not evidencing

by the slightest sign that he took any interest in his companion's

operations.

The forest grew with each step denser, the paths became narrower, and

all appeared to forebode that the horses would soon be unable to

advance, impeded as they were by the creepers that were intertwined into

a thick trellis-work in front of them.

The two horsemen at length reached the clearing to which we have

already alluded, after intense difficulty. On arriving there, Valentine

stopped, and heaving a sigh of relief,--

"By Jove!" he said, "Curumilla, my good friend, I was mad to believe you

and follow you so far; it is evident that we are lost."

The Indian shook his head in denial.

"Hem! I am aware that you fellows have a marvellous talent for following

a trail, and that you rarely lose your way, even in a place you have

never visited before. Still the darkness is so intense here, that I can

hardly distinguish objects only two paces ahead of me. Come, allow that

we have lost ourselves. Hang it! That may happen to anybody. I propose

that we stop here and await sunrise before we renew our search, the more

so because, for nearly two hours, it has been impossible to discover the

slightest trace proving to us that we are still on the right road."

Curumilla, without replying, dismounted, and explored the clearing on

all sides; then, at the expiration of a few minutes, he returned to his

friend's side, and gave him a sign to mount again. Valentine had

carefully followed his movements.

"Well," he said, checking him, "are you not convinced yet?"

"One hour more," the Indian replied, liberating himself gently, and

getting into his saddle.

"Hang, it all!" Valentine said, "I confess I am growing tired of playing

at hide and seek in this inextricable forest, and if you do not give me

a positive proof of what you assert, I will not stir from this spot."

Curumilla bent toward him, and, showing him a small object, said,--

"Look!"

"Eh?" Valentine remarked in surprise, after carefully examining the

object his comrade handed him. "What the deuce is it? Why," he added

almost immediately, "I ought to have recognised it at once: it is a

cigar-case, and a handsome one too. There is a cigar still in it, if I

am not mistaken."

He remained for an instant in thought.

"It is true," he went on, "that I have not seen these luxurious products

of civilisation for a long time; indeed, since I gave them up to lead

the life of a free hunter. Where did you find it, Curumilla?"

"There," he answered, stretching out his arm.

"Good! The owner of that case cannot be far from us, so let us push on."

He pocketed the case, and the two horsemen set out once more.

After crossing the clearing, the path on which they entered began

gradually to widen, and soon they noticed, by the moonbeams that lighted

them at intervals, that the path had been trodden by a large number of

cloven-footed animals, which had cropped the leaves and broken down the

branches on both sides. These traces were still quite fresh.

"Come," Valentine said gaily, "I was wrong just now, Curumilla. We were

really on the right track, and I believe we shall soon catch up the

persons we have so long been seeking."

Something like a smile attempted to contract the Indian's features; but

the attempt was not a happy one, and stopped at a grimace. All at once

Curumilla laid his hand on his comrade's bridle, and bending forward,--

"Listen," he said.

Valentine listened attentively; but, for all that, several moments

passed ere he could distinguish aught else than those confused and

mysterious sounds which never expire in the desert: at length something

resembling a musical note borne on the breeze gently died away on his

ear. The hunter started back in surprise.

"Ah, by Jupiter!" he exclaimed, "that musician has chosen a strange time

to give a concert. I am curious to see such an original a little nearer.

Let us push on."

After marching for about a quarter of a mile further they began to see a

fire flashing through the trees, and distinctly heard a masculine and

sonorous voice singing to the accompaniment of a jarana. The hunters

stopped in surprise, and listened.

"By heaven!" the Frenchman muttered, "it is the romancero of King

Rodrigo, sung by an unknown voice at night in the heart of a virgin

forest. Never has that powerful poetry affected me so deeply. In truth,

everything here harmonises with that song, which is so thoroughly

sorrowful and despairing. Whoever he may be, I must see the man who has

unconsciously caused me a few moments of such gentle emotion. Were it

the demon in person, I would shake his hand ere the last strains had

ceased vibrating on the strings of his jarana."

And without further deliberation, Valentine, after giving Curumilla a

sign to follow him, resolutely entered the circle of light. At the sound

of horses' hoofs, the stranger, with a movement swift as thought, threw

the guitar across his back, and leaped up with a sabre in his right hand

and a revolver in the other.

"Hold!" he shouted boldly; "stop, if you please, caballero, or I shall

fire."

"Pray do not do so, señor," Valentine answered, who considered it

prudent to obey the order given him, "for you would run the risk of

killing a friend, and they are too rare in the desert to be received,

when met, by a pistol shot."

"Hum! I trust what you say is true," the other answered, still on the

defensive; "still I should feel obliged by your explaining to me, in two

words, who you are, and what you are seeking after the acquaintance

becomes more intimate between us."

"Of course, caballero; I see no inconvenience in satisfying your wishes,

especially as prudence is one of the theological virtues recommended in

the regions where we now are."

"On my soul, you appear to me to be a jolly fellow! I hope we shall

become friends ere long; and to prove to you that I sincerely desire it,

and at the same time to arouse your confidence, I will begin by telling

you who I am, which will not take long."

"Pray do so."

The stranger then thrust his revolver into his belt, took three paces

forward, removed his wide-brimmed hat, whose long feather swept the

ground, and saluted his new acquaintance ceremoniously.

"Señor caballero," he said with infinite grace and politeness, "my name

is Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, gentleman of the Asturias, noble

as the king, and poor at this moment as Job of Bohemian memory. The few

_novillos_ lying around me are my property, and that of my partner,

absent at this moment in search of a few strayed members of the herd,

but whom I expect at any moment. These animals were purchased by us at

Los Angeles, and we are taking them to San Francisco, with the purpose

of selling them at the best price to the gold-seekers and other

adventurers collected in that curious city."

After uttering this short speech the young man bowed again, put his hat

on his head, placed the point of his sabre on his boot, and waited, foot

forward, and his hand on his hip.

Valentine had listened attentively, and when he spoke of his partner a

flash of joy sparkled in the hunter's eyes.

"Caballero," he answered, uncovering in his turn, "my friend and myself

are two wood rangers, hunters, or trail-seekers, whichever you may

please to term us. Attracted by the light of your fire, and the

harmonious song that reached our ears, we came toward you for the

purpose of claiming from you that hospitality which is never refused in

the desert, offering to share our provisions with you, and to be hail

fellows well met so long as we may remain in your agreeable company."

"You are welcome, caballeros," Don Cornelio replied nobly. "Pray

consider the little we possess as your own."

The hunters bowed and dismounted.

[1] These two characters have been introduced in another work by our

author, and are old friends to French readers.