A SAD MISTAKE.
Several days elapsed ere the two friends resumed their interrupted
conversation.
They had continued their journey toward San Francisco without any
incident worth noticing, owing to the skill of Valentine and Curumilla.
Although this was the first time they had advanced so far from the
regions they were accustomed to traverse, their sagacity made up so well
for their want of knowledge that they avoided, with extreme good
fortune, the dangers that menaced the success of their journey, and
foresaw obstacles still remote, but which their knowledge of the desert
caused them to guess, as it were, intuitively.
The two old friends observed, we may say studied, each other. After so
long a separation they required to restore a community of ideas. That
communion of thoughts and feelings which had existed so long between
them might be eternally broken through the different media into which
they had been thrown, and the circumstances that had modified their
characters. Each of them rendered greater by events--having acquired the
consciousness of his personal value and his intellectual power--had
possibly the right no longer to admit, without previous discussion,
certain theories which were formerly recognised without a contest.
Still the friendship between the two men was so lively, the confidence
so entire, and the devotion so true, that, after a fortnight's
travelling side by side--a fortnight during which they touched on the
most varying subjects without once introducing the one they had so much
interest in thoroughly discussing--they convinced themselves that they
stood to each other precisely in the same position as before their
separation.
Either through lassitude or deference, or perhaps the tacit recognition
of his foster brother's superiority over him, during this fortnight, Don
Louis, happy, perhaps, at having found once more the man who had been
wont to think and act for him, had not once attempted to assume an
independent position, but insensibly fell back under that moral
guardianship which Valentine had so long exercised over him.
The two other persons lived on a perfectly good understanding--Don
Cornelio through carelessness, perhaps, Curumilla through pride.
The Spaniard--a dear lover of liberty, happy at living in the open air
without troubles or annoyances of any description--goaded his novillos,
strummed his jarana, and sang the interminable _Romancero del Rey
Rodrigo,_ which he began again imperturbably so soon as he had finished,
in spite of Valentine's repeated remarks about the silence that must be
maintained in the desert, in order to avoid the ambuscades which the
Indians constantly place like so many spiders' webs in the path of
incautious travellers. The Spaniard listened docilely, and with a
contrite air, to the hunter's remonstrances; but, so soon as they were
ended, he twanged a tune, and recommenced his romancero--a philosophy
which the trail-seeker, while blaming, could not refrain from admiring.
Curumilla was always the man we have seen him--prudent, foresighted, and
silent--but with a double dose of each quality. With eyes ever opened
and ears alert, the Araucanian chief rode from one end of the file to
the other, watching so carefully over its safety that no accident
occurred up to the day when we resume our narrative.
They thus descended the woody slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and entered
the naked and sandy plains that stretch down to the sea, and on which,
with the exception of San José and Monterey (two towns in the last
throes of existence), the traveller only sees stunted trees and thorny
shrubs scattered at a great distance apart.
Three days before reaching San José--a miserable _pueblo_, which serves
as a gathering place for hunters and arrieros who frequent these parts;
but where the population, decimated by fevers and misery, can do but
little for the _forasteros_ (strangers)--the caravan encamped on the
banks of a stream, beneath the shelter of a few trees that had grown
there by accident, and which the sea breeze shook incessantly, and
covered with that fine sand which enters the eyes, nose, ears, and
nothing can keep out.
The sun was plunging into the sea under the form of a huge fire-ball;
there was a fresh breeze; in the distance appeared a few white sails,
which, like light kingfishers fearing a tempest, were hastening to
reach San Francisco; the coyotes were beginning to bark furiously on
the plain; and the few birds nestled on the branches tucked their heads
under their wings, and prepared to go to sleep.
The fires were lighted, the animals penned, and after supper each
hastened to repair, by a few hours' sleep, the fatigue of a long day's
journey beneath a burning sky.
"Sleep!" Louis said. "I will keep the first watch--the idler's watch,"
he added with a smile.
"I will take the second, then," Valentine said.
"No, I will take that," Curumilla objected. "An Indian's eyes see
clearly in the night."
"Hum!" the hunter remarked; "and yet I fancy my eyes are not so bad
either."
Curumilla, without further reply, placed his finger on his lips.
"Good!" the hunter said; "as you wish it, keep watch in my place, chief.
When you are tired, however, be sure and wake me."
The Indian bowed. The three men wrapped themselves in their zarapés, and
lay on the ground, Don Louis alone remaining awake.
It was a magnificent night: the sky, of a deep azure, was studded with
an infinity of stars that sparkled like diamonds; the moon poured forth
its tremulous and pallid beams; the atmosphere, wondrously pure and
transparent, allowed the country to be surveyed for an enormous
distance; the evening breeze had risen, and deliciously refreshed the
air; the earth exhaled acrid and balmy perfumes; the waves died away
amorously, and with mysterious murmurs, on the beach; and in the
distance might be indistinctly traced the outlines of the coyotes which
prowled about, howling mournfully, for they scented the novillos.
Louis, seduced by this splendid evening, and yielding to that prairie
languor which conquers the strongest minds, was indulging in a gentle
reverie. He had attained that stage of mental somnolency which is not
waking, and yet not sleeping. He was enjoying the magic pictures his
fancy conjured up, when he was suddenly roused from this charming
sensation by a hand pressing heavily on his shoulder, while a voice
muttered in his ear the single word,--
"Prudence."
Louis, suddenly recalled to a consciousness of the present, opened his
half-closed eyes, and turned sharply round. Curumilla was leaning over
him, and repeated his warning, with a sign of terrible meaning. The
count seized his rifle, which rested near him.
"What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice.
"Come, but keep in the shade," Curumilla replied in the same tone.
Louis obeyed the hint, whose importance he recognised. Lying down on the
ground, he glided gently in the direction indicated by the Indian.
He soon found himself sheltered behind a thicket, where he saw Don
Cornelio and Valentine in ambush, with their bodies bent forward, and
looking anxiously into the darkness.
"Good heavens, friends!" the count said, "what is the meaning of this?
The profoundest silence prevails around us. All appears tranquil. Why
this alarm?"
"Curumilla noticed this evening, before our halt, traces of Yaqui
Indians. You know, brother, that these demons are the most daring
robbers in the world. It is plain that they are after our beasts."
"But what makes you suppose that? These traces, whose existence I do not
deny, may belong to travellers as well as to vagabonds. Nothing up to
the present makes us suppose that these fellows intend attacking us, and
we have not even seen them."
A sinister smile contracted the chief's thin lips, and, touching the
count's arm with his finger, while at the same time lifting his own
robe, he showed him a bleeding scalp hanging from his belt.
"Oh, oh!" Don Louis said, "have those demons ventured so near us, then?"
"Yes; and had it not been for Curumilla, whose eye is never closed, and
mind ever on the watch, our animals would probably have been carried off
more than an hour ago."
"Thanks for his vigilance, then," the count said with an expression of
annoyance, which he could not entirely conceal; "but you know the
Indians, comrades: so soon as they find they are detected, they are no
longer to be feared. I believe that, after the lesson they have
received, we are now in safety, and we need not trouble ourselves about
them more."
"No, brother, you are mistaken. Look at your novillos; they are
restless. At each instant they raise their heads, and do not eat their
food in comfort. God has given animals an instinct of self-preservation
which never deceives them. Believe me, they fear a danger, and scent
enemies not far from them."
"It is possible, indeed. Let us watch, then."
The four men remained thus silent and attentive. An hour almost passed
away, and nothing happened to confirm their suspicions. Still the bulls
pressed more closely together. They had left off eating, and their
restlessness increased instead of diminishing.
Suddenly Curumilla stretched out his arm in a north-eastern direction,
and after laconically whispering, "Do not stir," he gave Valentine his
rifle to hold, and before his friends had time to guess the direction he
had taken, he disappeared in the gloom. The three hunters exchanged a
silent glance, and cocked their rifles, so as to be ready for any event.
There cannot be a more painful position than that of the brave man who,
in a strange country and on a dark night, is obliged to stand on guard
against a danger whose extent he cannot calculate. Affected by the
silent majesty of solitude, he creates phantasms a hundredfold more
terrible than the actual danger, and feels his courage fly away
piecemeal beneath the harsh pressure of waiting for something unseen.
Such was the situation in which our three friends now were; and yet they
were three lion hearts, accustomed for many years to Indian warfare, and
whom no peril, however great it might have been, would have been able
to affect beneath the warm beams of the sun; but, during the darkness,
imagination creates such horrible phantoms, that, if we may be allowed
to employ a trivial comparison, we might say that people are not so much
afraid of the danger itself as of the fear of that danger.
The three men had remained in this awkward situation for some time; when
suddenly a fearful yell rose in the air, followed by the fall of a body
to the ground, and the flight of several men, whose black outlines stood
out on the horizon. The adventurers fired at random, and rushed rapidly
in the direction where they heard the struggle, which seemed still going
on.
At the moment they arrived, Curumilla, whom they recognised, had his
right knee pressed into the chest of a man he held down under him, while
his left hand compressed his throat, and reduced him to the most perfect
state of powerlessness.
"Wah!" the Araucanian said, turning to his comrades with a look of
inexpressible ferocity, "a chief!"
"Good prize," Valentine said. "Thrust your knife into the scoundrel's
chest, and there's an end of him."
Curumilla raised his knife, whose blade sent forth a bluish flash.
"A moment," Don Louis exclaimed. "Let us see first who he is; we shall
still be able to kill him if we think fit."
Valentine shrugged his shoulders.
"Let the chief settle that business," he said; "he understands it
better than we do. When you have one of those vipers under your heel you
must crush him, lest he may sting you presently."
"No," the count remarked resolutely, "I will never consent to see a man
murdered before me. That poor wretch has acted in accordance with his
nature; let us act in accordance with ours, then. Curumilla, I implore
you, allow your prisoner to rise, but watch him, so that he cannot
escape."
"You are wrong, brother," the implacable hunter replied; "you do not
know these demons so well as I do. Still act as you please; but you will
eventually see that you have committed a folly."
The count made no reply, but only gave Curumilla another sign to do as
he ordered. The Araucanian obeyed with repugnance. Still he helped his
half-strangled prisoner to rise, and while carefully watching him, led
him to the fire, where the hunters had already preceded him.
The count took a rapid glance at the Indian. He was a man of Herculean
stature, powerfully built, and still young, with haughty, gloomy, and
cruel features; in a word, though he was a handsome rather than an ugly
man in appearance, there was an expression of roguery, baseness, and
ferocity about him, which in no way pleaded in his favour. He wore a
species of hunting shirt, without sleeves, of striped calico, drawn in
round the waist by a large girdle of untanned deer hide; breeches of the
same stuff as the shirt hung down to his knees; and the lower part of
his legs was protected from stings by leather gaiters fastened to the
knee and ankle. He wore on his feet moccasins artistically worked, and
adorned behind by several wolf tails--a mark of distinction only allowed
to renowned warriors. His plaited hair was raised on either side his
head, while behind it fell to his waist, and was decorated with plumes
of every possible colour. Round his neck hung several medals, among
which was one rather larger than the rest, representing General Jackson,
ex-President of the American Union. His face was painted with four
different colours--blue, black, white, and red.
So soon as he found himself in the presence of the hunters seated round
the fire, he crossed his arms on his chest, raised his head haughtily,
and waited stoically till they thought proper to address him.
"Who are you?" Don Louis asked him in Spanish.
"Mixcoatzin (the Serpent of the Cloud)."
"Hum!" Valentine muttered to himself, "the scoundrel is well named. I
never saw such a hangdog face as his before."
"What did Mixcoatzin want in my camp?"
"Does not the _Yori_ know?" the Indian said imperturbably. "Mixcoatzin
is a chief among the Yaquis."
"You wished to steal my cattle, I suppose?"
"The Yaquis are not robbers; all that is on their land belongs to them.
The palefaces need only return to their home on the other side of the
great salt lake."
"If I condemn you to death what will you say?"
"Nothing; it is the law of war. The paleface will see how a Yaqui chief
endures pain."
"You allow, then, that you deserve death?"
"No; the paleface is the stronger--he is the master."
"If I let you go what will you think?"
The Indian shrugged his shoulders.
"The paleface is not a fool," he said.
"But suppose I do act in that way?"
"I shall say that the paleface is afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of the vengeance of the warriors of my nation."
It was Don Louis' turn to shrug his shoulders.
"Then," he proceeded, "if I restored you your liberty you would feel no
gratitude?"
"Why should I be grateful? A warrior should kill his enemy when he holds
him. If he does not do so he is a coward."
The hunters could not refrain from a start of surprise at the
enunciation of this singular theory. Don Louis rose.
"Listen," he said. "I do not fear you, and I will give you a proof of
it."
And, with a movement quick as thought, he seized the long tail that hung
down the chiefs back, and cut it off with his knife.
"Now," he added, buffeting him with the tress he had cut off, "be off,
villain: you are free. I despise you too much to inflict on you any
other punishment than that you have undergone. Return to your tribe,
and tell your friends how the whites avenge themselves on enemies so
contemptible as yourself, and those that resemble you."
At the deadly insult he received the Indian's face became hideous; he
suffered a momentary stupor caused by shame and anger; but by a
supernatural effort he suddenly overcame his feelings, seized Don Louis'
arm, and thrusting his face into the Frenchman's,--
"Mixcoatzin is a powerful chief," he hissed. "Let the Yori remember his
name, for he will meet him again."
And, bounding like a tiger, he dashed into the plain, where he at once
disappeared.
"Stop!" Don Louis shouted to his friends, who were rushing in pursuit;
"Let him escape. What do I care for such a wretch's hatred? He can do
nothing to me."
The hunters reluctantly took their seats again by the fire.
"Hum!" Louis added, "I have perhaps committed a folly."
Valentine looked at him.
"Worse than a folly, brother," he said; "a sad mistake. Take care of
that man: one day or other he will revenge himself on you."
"Possibly," the count said carelessly; "but when did you begin to fear
the Indians so greatly, brother?"
"From the day I first learned to know them," the hunter said coldly.
"You have offered that man an insult which demands blood; be assured
that he will make you repent of it."
"I care little."
After these few words the hunters resumed their interrupted sleep, and
the rest of the night passed without any fresh incident.
At sunrise the adventurers continued their journey; and by night, after
a day of incredible fatigue through the burning sands of the savannah,
they at length reached the _pueblo_ or _lugar_ of San José, where the
inhabitants received them with shouts of joy, persuaded as they were
that the strangers would not leave without supplying them with a few of
those objects of primary necessity which they have themselves no means
of procuring.
San José is the last caravan halt before reaching San Francisco. The
travellers had made a journey of more than one hundred and eighty
leagues in less than three weeks, through difficulties and dangers
without end--a speed hitherto unexampled.