THE QUEBRADA DEL COYOTE.
It is especially at night, about two hours after sunset, that American
scenery assumes grand proportions. Under the influence of the first
night shadows the trees seem to put on majestic forms; the animated
silence of the desert becomes more mysterious; and man experiences
involuntarily a feeling of undefinable respect, which contracts his
heart, and fills him with superstitious dread. At that hour the waters
of the rivers flow with hoarse murmurings; the heavy and sinister flight
of the birds of night agitates the air with a fluttering of evil augury;
and the wild beasts, aroused in their hidden dens, salute the darkness
with long howlings of joy, for at night they are incontestably the kings
of the desert, for man is deprived of his greatest strength--the power
of the eye.
Father Seraphin was riding by the side of the two females along the foot
of a lofty mountain, whose wooded slopes were lost in the black depths
of the Barrancas. Since leaving the camp they had not stopped once. They
were following at this moment a narrow path traced by mules, which wound
with countless turnings along the sides of the mountain. This path was
so narrow that two horses could scarce go along side by side; but the
steeds on which our travellers were mounted were so sure-footed, that
the latter proceeded without any hesitation along a road on which no
other animal would have ventured in the darkness.
The moon had not yet risen; not a star glistened in the cloud-laden sky;
the darkness was dense; and, under the circumstances, this was almost
fortunate; for had the travellers been able to see the spot where they
were, and the way in which they were suspended, as it were, in space at
a prodigious height, possibly their courage would have failed them, and
their heads grown dizzy. Father Seraphin and Doña Angela were riding
side by side: Violanta was a few paces behind.
"My father," the young lady said, "we have now been travelling for
nearly six hours, and I am beginning to feel fatigued. Shall we not halt
soon?"
"Yes, my child, in an hour at the most. In a few moments we shall leave
this path, and cross a defile called the Quebrada del Coyote: at the end
of that pass we shall spend the night in a poor house, which is now not
more than two miles off."
"You say we are going to pass through the Coyote defile. We are, then,
on the road to Hermosillo?"
"Quite true, my child."
"Is it not imprudent for us to venture on this road, which my father's
troops command."
"My child," the missionary said gently, "in good policy we must often
risk a great deal in order to secure greater tranquillity. We are not
only on the road to Hermosillo, but we are going to that very city."
"What! to Hermosillo?"
"Yes, my child. In my opinion it is the only spot where you will be
completely safe from your father's search, as he will never think of
looking for you there, and cannot imagine that you are so near him."
"That is true," she said after a moment's reflection.
"The plan is a bold one, and hence must succeed. I believe, in truth,
that Hermosillo is the only spot where I can be safe from the pursuit of
those who have an interest in finding me."
"I will take care, besides, to recommend you to the persons to whom I
shall intrust you; and, for greater security, I will leave you as little
as possible."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you, my father, for I shall feel very sad
and lonely."
"Courage, my child! I have faith in Don Louis. Heaven must protect his
expedition, for the work he has undertaken is grand and noble, as it has
for its object the emancipation of an entire country."
"Believe me, my father, I am happy to hear you speak thus. The count may
fail; but in that case he will fall like a hero, and his death will be
that of a martyr."
"Yes, the count is a chosen vessel. I believe, like yourself, my child,
that if his contemporaries do not do him the justice which is his
due, posterity at least will not confound him with those filibusters
and shameless adventurers for whom gold alone is everything, and who,
whatever may be the title they assume, are in reality no more than
highway robbers. But the road is growing wider--we are about to enter
the pass. This spot does not enjoy a very good reputation, so keep by my
side. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear, it is always well
to be prudent."
In fact, as the missionary stated, the path had suddenly widened out:
the two sides of the mountain, which had, for some distance, been
gradually drawing together, now formed two parallel walls, at the most
only forty yards apart. It was this narrow gorge which was known as
the Quebrada del Coyote. It was about half a mile in length; but then
it suddenly grew wider, and opened on a vast _chaparral_, covered with
thickets and fields of dahlias; while the mountains separated to the
right and left, not to meet again till eighty leagues further on.
At the moment when the travellers entered the pass the moon broke out
from the clouds in which it floated, and lighted up this dangerous pass
with its mournful and sickly light. This gleam, weak as it was, could
not fail to be agreeable to the travellers, as it allowed them to look
around and see where they were. They pressed on their wearied steeds,
in order to arrive more speedily at the end of the gloomy gorge in
which they were. They had gone on for about ten minutes, and had nearly
reached the centre of the pass, when the neighing of a horse smote their
ears.
"We have travellers behind us," the missionary said with a frown.
"And in a hurry, as it seems," Doña Angela added. "Hark!"
They stopped to listen. The noise of hurried galloping reached their
ears.
"Who can these men be?" the missionary murmured, speaking to himself.
"Travellers like ourselves, probably."
"No," Father Seraphin remarked, "travellers would not go at such a pace:
they are doubtlessly persons in pursuit of us."
"That is not probable, my father: no one is aware of our journey."
"Treachery has the eye of the lynx and the ear of the opossum, my dear
child. It is incessantly on the watch: everything is known--a secret is
no longer one when two persons know it. But time presses: we must make
up our minds."
"We are lost if they are enemies!" Doña Angela exclaimed with terror.
"We have no help to expect from any one."
"Providence is on the watch, child. Place confidence in her: she will
not abandon us."
The noise of horses rapidly approaching came nearer, and resembled
the grumbling of thunder. The missionary drew himself up: his face
suddenly assumed an expression of indomitable energy which would have
been thought impossible for such gentle features; his voice, usually so
pleasant and sonorous, became quick, and almost harsh.
"Place yourselves behind me, and pray," he said; "for, if I am not
greatly mistaken, the meeting will be dangerous."
The two females obeyed mechanically. Doña Angela believed herself lost:
alone with this poor priest, any resistance must be impossible. The
missionary collected the reins in his left hand, attached them to the
pommel of his saddle, and awaited the shock with his face turned to
the newcomers. He had not long to wait: within scarce five minutes ten
horsemen appeared at full gallop. When twenty paces from the travellers
they halted as firmly as if their horses' hoofs were suddenly fixed in
the ground.
These men, as far as it was possible to distinguish in the doubtful and
tremorous light of the moon, were dressed in the Mexican garb, and their
faces were covered with black crape. Doubt was no longer possible: these
sinister horsemen were really in pursuit of our travellers. There was an
instant of supreme silence--a silence which the missionary at length
resolved to break.
"What do you want, gentlemen?" he said in a loud and firm voice. "Why
are you pursuing us?"
"Oh, oh!" a mocking voice said, "the dove assumes the accent of the
gamecock. Señor padre, we have no intention to injure you; we only wish
to do you a service by saving you the trouble of guarding the two pretty
girls you so cleverly have with you."
"Go your way, sirs," the priest continued, "and do not trouble
yourselves about what does not concern you."
"Come, come, señor padre," the first speaker went on, "surrender with
a good grace: we should not like to fail in the respect due to you.
Resistance is impossible--we are ten against you alone: besides, you are
a man of peace."
"You are cowards!" the missionary shouted. "Retire! A truce to mockery,
and let me continue my journey in peace."
"Not so, señor padre, unless you consent to leave us your two
companions."
"Ah, ah! that is it? Well, then, we must fight, gentlemen. It seems to
me that you are strangely mistaken about me. Yes, I am a missionary,
a man of peace; but I am also a Frenchman, and you appear to have
forgotten that. You must understand that I will not suffer the slightest
insult to the persons, whoever they may be, whom Heaven has placed under
my protection."
"And with what will you defend them, Mr. Frenchman?" the stranger asked
with a grin.
"With these," the missionary coldly replied as he drew a brace of
pistols from his holsters, and set the hammers with a resolute air.
The bandits hesitated involuntarily. The missionary's action was so
clear, his voice so firm, his presence so intrepid, that they felt
themselves tremble; for they understood that they had a brave-hearted
man before them, who would sooner die than yield an inch. The Mexicans
do not respect much; but we must do them the justice of saying that they
have an unbounded reverence for the priest's gown. The missionary was
not a man like some who may be unfortunately met with, especially among
the clergy of North and South America. His reputation for virtue and
goodness was immense along the whole Mexican frontier: it was a serious
matter to insult him, much more to threaten him with death. Still the
strangers had advanced too far to give way.
"Come, padre," the man who had hitherto been spokesman said, "do not
attempt any useless resistance. At all risks we will carry off these
women."
And he made a movement as if to advance.
"Stop! One step further, and you are a dead man. I hold in my hands the
life of two."
"And I of two others," a rough voice exclaimed; and a man, suddenly
emerging from a thicket, bounded forward like a jaguar, and placed
himself intrepidly by the missionary's side.
"Curumilla!" the latter exclaimed.
"Yes," the chief answered, "it is I. Courage! Our friends are coming up."
In fact a dull and continued sound could be heard rapidly increasing.
The strangers had not yet paid attention to it, as they were so engaged
by their discussion with the missionary. Still the situation was
growing complicated. Father Seraphin saw that, so long as a pistol was
not fired, he should remain almost master of the situation, certain,
from Curumilla's words, as he was of seeing speedy help arrive. His
resolution was at once formed: all he wanted was to gain time, and he
attempted it.
"Come, gentlemen," he said, "you see that I am no longer alone: God has
sent me a brave auxiliary; hence my position is no longer so desperate.
Will you parley?"
"Parley!"
"Yes."
"Be quick."
"I will try to be so, as I presume, from the way in which you stopped
me, you are salteadores. Well, look you. You have me almost in your
power, or at least you think so. Remember that I am only a poor
missionary, and that what I possess belongs to the unhappy. How much
do you want for my ransom? Answer. I am ready to make any sacrifice
compatible with my position."
Father Seraphin might have spoken thus for a long time, for the
strangers were no longer listening: they had noticed the approaching
sound, and were beginning to grow nervous.
"Maldición!" the man who had hitherto spoken said, "that demon has
mocked us."
He dug his spurs into his horses flanks; but the noble animal, instead
of bounding forward, reared up almost straight with a snort of pain, and
then fell in a heap. Curumilla had cut its back sinews with a blow of
his machete. After this exploit the Indian uttered a loud cry for help,
which was answered by a formidable hurrah.
Still the impulse had been given, and the bandits rushed forward with a
ferocious yell. The missionary discharged his pistols, rather for the
purpose of hastening the advent of his unknown friends than of wounding
his enemies, which was easy to see; for no one fell, and the two parties
were so close that it was almost impossible to miss the mark.
At the same instant five or six horsemen rushed on the strangers like
a whirlwind. A frightful medley began, and the bullets whistled in
every direction. The missionary had dismounted, and, compelling the two
females to do the same, he led them a few paces in the rear, in order to
protect them from the shots. But the struggle was not a long one: within
five minutes the bandits fled at full speed, pursued by nearly all the
newcomers, and leaving four of their men stretched on the ground.
After a chase of a few minutes, however, the horsemen giving up a
pursuit which they saw was useless, returned and joined the missionary.
The latter, forgetting the unjust aggression he had just escaped, was
already seeking to succour the unhappy men who had fallen victims to
the trap they had laid for him: he went piously from one to the other,
in order to offer them assistance if there were still time. Three were
dead: the fourth was gasping and rolling on the ground in convulsions
of death. The missionary raised the veil that concealed his face, and
uttered a cry of surprise on recognising him. At this cry the dying man
opened his eyes, and fixed a haggard glance on Father Seraphin.
"Yes, it is I," he said in an expiring voice. "I have only what I
deserve."
"Unhappy man!" the missionary replied, "Is that what you swore to me?"
"I tried to do it," he continued. "A few days back I saved the man you
recommended to me, father."
"And I," the missionary said sorrowfully, "you owe your life to me, and
yet tried to kill me?"
The dying man made a gesture of energetic denial.
"No," he exclaimed, "never! Look you, my father: there are accursed
natures in the world. El Buitre was a wretched bandit. Well, he dies as
he lived: that is just. Good-by, father! Well, I saved your friend, the
hunter. Ah, ah!"
While saying this the wretch had sat up. Suddenly he was seized with a
convulsion, and rolled on the ground: he was dead. The missionary knelt
down by his side and prayed. All present, moved involuntarily, took off
their hats piously, and remained silent by his side. All at once shouts
and firing were heard, and a numerous baud of horsemen galloped down the
pass.
"To arms!" the men shouted, leaping into their saddles hurriedly.
"Stay," Curumilla said; "they are friends."