THE TRAPPERS OF ARKANSAS
OR
THE LOYAL HEART
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF
"SMUGGLER CHIEF," "STRONG HAND," "PRAIRIE FLOWER," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET
LONDON
MDCCCLXIV
PREFACE.
The publication of the present volume of Gustave Aimard's works renders
the series complete. It takes its place as the first of all: and it is
succeeded by the "Border Rifles," "Freebooters," and "White Scalper."
In exciting scenes and perilous adventures, this work, if possible,
surpasses all those which have as yet been offered to the English
reader. Moreover it enables the development of Aimard's literary talent
to be distinctly traced. The critic will discover, that, at first,
Gustave Aimard's brain so teemed with incidents, that he paid slight
attention to plot, and hence this volume--as is indeed generally the
case with works relative to Indian life and character--consists rather
of a succession of exciting adventures than of a regularly developed
drama. This fault our Author has corrected in his later works: his
hand, at first better suited to wield the bowie knife than the pen, has
regained its pliancy; and the ever increasing encouragement bestowed on
his stories in England, is a gratifying proof that his efforts after
artistic improvement have been fully appreciated.
L.W.
CONTENTS.
PROLOGUE.
I. HERMOSILLO
II. THE HACIENDA DEL MILAGRO
III. THE SENTENCE
IV. THE MOTHER
PART I.
I. THE PRAIRIE
II. THE HUNTERS
III. THE TRAIL
IV. THE TRAVELLERS
V. THE COMANCHES
VI. THE PRESERVER
VII. THE SURPRISE
VIII. INDIAN VENGEANCE
IX. THE PHANTOM
X. THE ENTRENCHED CAMP
XI. THE BARGAIN
XII. PSYCHOLOGICAL
XIII. THE BEE-HUNT
XIV. BLACK ELK
XV. THE BEAVERS
XVI. TREACHERY
XVII. EAGLE HEAD
XVIII. NÔ EUSEBIO
XIX. THE COUNCIL OF THE GREAT CHIEFS
XX. THE TORTURE
PART II.
I. LOYAL HEART
II. THE PIRATES
III. DEVOTEDNESS
IV. THE DOCTOR
V. THE ALLIANCE
VI. THE LAST ASSAULT
VII. THE BATTLE
VIII. THE CAVERN OF VERDIGRIS
IX. DIPLOMACY
X. LOVE
XI. THE PRISONERS
XII. A RUSE DE GUERRE
XIII. THE LAW OF THE PRAIRIES
XIV. THE CHASTISEMENT
XV. THE PARDON
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER I.
HERMOSILLO.
The traveller who for the first time lands in the southern provinces of
America involuntarily feels an undefinable sadness.
In fact, the history of the New World is nothing but a lamentable
martyrology, in which fanaticism and cupidity continually go hand in
hand.
The search for gold was the origin of the discovery of the New World;
that gold once found, America became for its conquerors merely a
storehouse, whither greedy adventurers came, a poniard in one hand and
a crucifix in the other, to gather an ample harvest of the so ardently
coveted metal, after which they returned to their own countries to
make a display of their riches, and provoke fresh emigrations, by the
boundless luxury they indulged in.
It is to this continual displacement that must be attributed, in
America, the absence of those grand monuments, the foundation stones as
it were of every colony which plants itself in a new country with a
view of becoming perpetuated.
If you traverse at the present day this vast continent, which,
during three centuries, has been in the peaceable possession of the
Spaniards,--you only meet here and there, and at long distances apart,
with a few nameless ruins to attest their passage; whilst the monuments
erected many ages before the discovery, by the Aztecs and the Incas,
are still standing in their majestic simplicity, as an imperishable
evidence of their presence in the country and of their efforts to attain
civilization.
Alas! what has resulted from those glorious conquests, so envied by the
whole of Europe, in which the blood of the executioner was mingled with
that of the victims, to the profit of that other nation, at that time so
proud of its valiant captains, of its fertile territories, and of its
commerce which embraced the entire world? Time has held on his march,
and Southern America is at this hour expiating the crimes of which she
was the instigation. Torn by factions which contend for an ephemeral
power; oppressed by ruinous oligarchies; deserted by the strangers who
have fattened upon her substance, she is sinking slowly beneath the
weight of her own inertia, without having the strength to lift the
leaden winding sheet which stifles her, and is destined never to awaken
again till the day when a new race, unstained by homicide, and governed
by laws framed after those of God, shall bring to her the labour and
liberty which are the life of nations.
In a word, the Hispano-American race has perpetuated itself in the
domains bequeathed to it, by its ancestors, without extending their
boundaries; its heroism was extinguished in the tomb of Charles V,
and it has preserved nothing of the mother country but its hospitable
customs, its religious intolerance, its monks, its guitarreros, and its
mendicants armed with muskets.
Of all the states that form the vast Mexican confederation, that of
Sonora is the only one which, by its conflicts with the Indian tribes
that surround it, and a continual intercourse with these races, has
preserved a distinctive physiognomy.
The manners of its inhabitants have a certain wild character, which
distinguishes them, at the first glance, from those of the interior
provinces.
The Rio Gila may be considered the northern limit of this state: on
the east and west it is bounded by the Sierra Madre and the Gulf of
California.
The Sierra Madre beyond Durango divides into two chains; the principal
continues the grand direction from north to south; the other tends
towards the west, running along, in the rear of the states of Durango
and Guadalajara, all the regions which terminate at the Pacific. This
branch of the Cordilleras forms the southern limits of Sonora.
Nature seems to have taken a delight in lavishing her benefits upon this
country. The climate is clear, temperate, salubrious; gold, silver,
the most fertile soil, the most delicious fruits, and medicinal herbs
abound; there are to be found the most efficacious balms, insects the
most useful for dyeing, the rarest marbles, the most precious stones,
as well as game and fish of all sorts. But in the vast solitudes of the
Rio Gila and the Sierra Madre, the independent Indians, the Comanches,
Pawnees, Pimas, Opatas, and Apaches, have declared a rude war against
the white race, and in their implacable and incessant incursions, make
them pay dearly for the possession of all those riches of which their
ancestors despoiled the natives, and which they incessantly endeavour to
recover again without ceasing.
The three principal cities of the Sonora are Guaymas, Hermosillo, and
Arispe.
Hermosillo, anciently Pitic, and which the expedition of the Count de
Raouset Boulbon has rendered famous, is the _entrepôt_ of the Mexican
commerce of the Pacific, and numbers more than nine thousand inhabitants.
This city, built upon a plateau which sinks towards the north, in a
gentle declivity to the sea, leans and shelters itself against a hill
named El Cerro de la Campana (Mountain of the Bell), whose summit is
crowned with enormous blocks of stone, which, when struck, render a
clear metallic sound.
In other respects, like its other American sisters, this ciudad is
dirty, built of pisé bricks, and presents to the astonished eyes of the
traveller a mixture of ruins, negligence, and desolation which saddens
the soul.
On the day in which this story commences, that is to say, the 17th
January, 1817, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, a time
when the ordinary population are taking the _siesta_ in the most retired
apartments of their dwellings, the city of Hermosillo, generally so calm
and quiet, presented an unusual aspect.
A vast number of leperos, gambusinos, contrabandists, and, above all, of
rateros, were crowded together, with cries, menaces, and wild howlings,
in the Calle del Rosario (Street of the Rosary). A few Spanish
soldiers,--at that period Mexico had not shaken off the yoke of the
mother country,--were endeavouring in vain to re-establish order and
disperse the crowd, by striking heavily, right and left, with the shafts
of their lances, all the individuals who came in their way.
But the tumult, far from diminishing, on the contrary rapidly increased;
the Hiaquis Indians, in particular, mingled with the crowd, yelled and
gesticulated in a truly frightful manner.
The windows of the houses were filled with the heads of men and women,
who, with looks directed towards the Cerro de la Campana, from the
foot of which arose thick clouds of smoke in large volumes towards the
heavens, seemed to be in expectation of some extraordinary event.
All at once loud cries were heard; the crowd divided in two, like an
overripe pomegranate, everyone throwing himself on one side or the
other, with marks of the greatest terror; and a young man, or a boy
rather, for he was scarcely sixteen, appeared, borne along like a
whirlwind by the furious gallop of a half wild horse.
"Stop him!" cried some.
"Lasso him!" cried others.
"_Válgame Dios!_" the women murmured, crossing themselves. "It is the
demon himself."
But everyone, instead of stopping him, got out of his way as quickly as
he could; the bold boy continued his rapid course, with a jeering smile
upon his lips, his face inflamed, his eye sparkling, and distributing,
right and left, smart blows with his _chicote_ on all who ventured too
near him, or whose unfortunate destiny prevented them from getting out
of his way as fast as they would have wished.
"Eh! eh! _Caspita!_" (said, as the boy jostled him in passing, a
_vaquero_ with a stupid countenance and athletic limbs,) "Devil take
the madman, he nearly knocked me down! Eh! but," he added, after having
cast a glance at the young man, "if I mistake not, that is Rafaël, my
neighbour's son! Wait a moment, _picaro!_"
While speaking this aside between his teeth, the vaquero unrolled the
lasso which he wore fastened to his belt, and set off running in the
direction of the horseman.
The crowd, who understood his intention, applauded with enthusiasm.
"Bravo, bravo!" they cried.
"Don't miss him, Cornejo!" some vaqueros encouragingly shouted, clapping
their hands.
Cornejo, since we know the name of this interesting personage, gained
insensibly upon the boy, before whom obstacles multiplied more and more.
Warned of the perils which threatened him, by the cries of the
spectators, the horseman turned his head.
Then he saw the vaquero.
A livid paleness covered his countenance; he felt that he was lost.
"Let me escape, Cornejo," he cried, choking with tears.
"No, no!" the crowd howled; "lasso him! lasso him!"
The populace took great interest in this manhunt; they feared to find
themselves cheated of a spectacle which gave them much satisfaction.
"Surrender," the giant replied; "or else, I warn you, I will lasso you
like a ciboto."
"I will not surrender," the boy said resolutely.
The two speakers still held on their way, the one on foot, the other on
horseback.
The crowd followed, howling with pleasure. The masses are thus
everywhere--barbarous and without pity.
"Leave me, I say," the boy resumed, "or I swear by the blessed souls of
purgatory, that evil will befall you!"
The vaquero sneered, and whirled his lasso round his head.
"Be warned, Rafaël," he said; "for the last time, will you surrender?"
"No! a thousand times no!" the boy cried, passionately.
"By the grace of God, then!" said the vaquero.
The lasso whizzed and flew through the air.
But a strange thing happened at the same moment.
Rafaël stopped his horse short, as if it had been changed into a block
of granite; and, springing from the saddle, he bounded like a tiger
upon the giant, whom the shock bore down upon the sand; and before
anybody could oppose him, he plunged into his throat the knife which all
Mexicans wear in their belts.
A long stream of blood spouted into the face of the boy, the vaquero
writhed about for a few seconds, and then remained motionless.
He was dead!
The crowd uttered a cry of horror and fear.
Quick as lightning, the boy had regained his saddle, and recommenced his
desperate course, brandishing his knife, and laughing with the grin of a
demon.
When, after the first moment of stupor had passed, the people turned to
pursue the murderer, he had disappeared. No one could tell which way he
had gone. As is generally the case under such circumstances, the juez
de letras (criminal judge), accompanied by a crowd of ragged alguaciles,
arrived on the spot where the murder had been committed when it was too
late.
The juez de letras, Don Inigo Tormentes Albaceyte, was a man of some
fifty years of age, short and stout, with an apoplectic face, who took
snuff out of a gold box enriched with diamonds, and concealed under an
apparent _bonhomie_ a profound avarice backed by excessive cunning and a
coolness which nothing could move.
Contrary to what might have been expected, the worthy magistrate did
not appear the least in the world disconcerted by the flight of the
assassin; he shook his head two or three times, cast a glance round the
crowd, and winked his little grey eye,--
"Poor Cornejo!" he said, stuffing his nose philosophically with snuff:
"this was sure to happen to him some day or other."
"Yes," said a lepero, "he was neatly killed!"
"That is what I was thinking," the judge replied; "he who gave this blow
knew what he was about; the fellow is a practised hand."
"Humph!" the lepero replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, "he is a
boy."
"Bah!" the judge said, with feigned astonishment, and casting an
under-glance at the speaker; "a boy!"
"Little more," the lepero added, proud of being thus listened to; "it
was Rafaël, Don Ramón's eldest son."
"Ah! ah! ah!" the judge said, with a secret satisfaction. "But no," he
went on, "that is not possible; Rafaël is but sixteen at most; he would
never have been so foolish as to quarrel with Cornejo, who, by only
grasping his arm, could have disabled him."
"Nevertheless, it was as I tell your excellency,--we all saw it. Rafaël
had been playing at _monte_, at Don Aguillar's, and it appears that luck
was not favourable to him; he lost all the money he had; he then flew
into a rage, and to avenge himself, set fire to the house."
"Caspita!" said the judge.
"It was just as I have the honour to tell your excellency; look, the
smoke may yet be seen, though the house is in ashes."
"Well, it seems so," the judge said, turning his eyes to the point
indicated by the lepero. "And, then----"
"Then," the other continued, "he naturally wished to escape. Cornejo
endeavoured to stop him."
"He was right!"
"Well, he was wrong, I think; for Rafaël killed him!"
"That's true! that's true!" said the judge; "but be satisfied, my good
people, justice will avenge him."
This promise was received by all present with a smile of doubt.
The magistrate, without concerning himself about the impression produced
by his words, ordered his acolytes, who had already examined and
plundered the defunct, to take the body away, and transport it to the
porch of the nearest church, and then returned to his residence, rubbing
his hands with a satisfied air.
The judge put on a travelling dress, placed a brace of pistols in his
belt, fastened a long sword to his side, and, after taking a light
dinner, went out.
Ten alguaciles, armed to the teeth, and mounted on strong horses,
waited for him at the door; a domestic held the bridle of a magnificent
black horse, which pawed the ground and champed the bit impatiently. Don
Inigo placed himself in the saddle, headed his men, and the troop went
off at a gentle trot.
"Eh! eh!" said the curious, who were stationed around upon the
doorsteps. "The Juez Albaceyte is going to Don Ramón Garillas's; we
shall hear some news tomorrow."
"Caspita!" others replied; "his picaro of a son has fairly earned the
cord that is to hang him!"
"Humph!" said a lepero, with a smile of regret; "that would be
unfortunate! the lad promises so well! By my word, the _cuchillada_ he
gave Cornejo was magnificent. The poor devil was neatly killed."
In the meantime, the judge continued his journey, returning with
punctuality all the salutations with which he was overwhelmed on his
way. He was soon in the country.
Then pulling his cloak tighter round him, he asked,--
"Are the arms all loaded?"
"Yes, excellency," the chief of the alguaciles replied.
"That's well. To the hacienda of Don Ramón Garillas, then; and at a
smart pace; we must endeavour to get there before nightfall."
The party set off at a gallop.
CHAPTER II.
THE HACIENDA DEL MILAGRO.
The environs of Hermosillo are a thorough desert. The road which leads
from that city to the Hacienda del Milagro (Farm of the Miracle) is one
of the dullest and most arid possible.
Nothing is to be seen but, at rare intervals, ironwood, gum, and Peru
trees, with red and spicy clusters, nopales, and cactuses, the only
trees that can possibly grow in a soil calcined by the incandescent rays
of a perpendicular sun.
At distances are visible, as if in bitter derision, the long poles
of cisterns, with a leathern bucket, twisted and shrivelled, at one
extremity, and at the other stones fastened by straps; but the cisterns
are dry, and the bottom of them is merely a black slimy crust, in which
myriads of unclean animals disport; whirlwinds of a fine and impalpable
dust, raised by the least breath of wind, choke the panting traveller,
and under every blade of dried grass the grasshoppers call with fury for
the beneficent night dews.
When, however, with great labour, the traveller has covered six leagues
of this burning solitude, the eye reposes with delight upon a splendid
oasis, which appears all at once to rise from the bosom of the sands.
This Eden is the Hacienda del Milagro.
At the time our history took place, this hacienda, one of the richest
and largest in the province, was composed of a two storied house, built
of _tapia_ and _adobes_, with a terrace roof of reeds, covered with
beaten earth.
Access to the hacienda was gained by passing through an immense court,
the entrance of which shaped like an arched portico, was furnished with
strong folding gates, and a postern on one side. Pour chambers completed
the front; the windows had gratings of gilded iron, and shutters inside;
they were glazed, an almost unheard-of luxury in that country at that
time; on the four sides of the court, or patio, were the apartments for
the peons and children, &c.
The ground floor of the principal house was composed of three
apartments; a kind of grand vestibule furnished with antique fauteuils
and canopies covered with stamped Cordovan leather, with a large nopal
table and some stools; upon the walls hung, in gilded frames, several
old full-length portraits, representing the members of the family;
while the beams of the ceiling, left in relief, were decorated with a
profusion of carvings.
Two folding doors opened into the saloon; the side in front of the patio
was raised about a foot above the rest of the floor; it was covered by
a carpet, and contained a row of curiously carved low stools ornamented
with, crimson velvet, and cushions for the feet; there was also a
little square table, eighteen inches high, serving as a work table.
This portion of the saloon is reserved for the ladies, who there sit
cross-legged, in the Moorish fashion; on the other side of the saloon
were chairs covered with the same stuff as the stools and the cushions.
Facing the entrance of the saloon was the principal bedchamber, with
an alcove at the back of a daïs, upon which stood a bed of ceremony,
ornamented with an infinity of gildings and brocade curtains, with
tassels and fringes of gold and silver; the sheets and pillowcases were
of the most beautiful linen, bordered with wide lace.
Behind the principal house was a second patio, in which were the
kitchens and the corral; beyond this court was an immense garden,
surrounded by walls, and more than a hundred perches in length, laid
out in the English fashion, and containing the most remarkable exotic
plants and trees.
It was holiday time at the hacienda.
It was the period of the matanza del ganado (slaughtering of cattle).
The peons had formed, at a few paces from the hacienda, an enclosure, in
which, after driving the beasts, they separated the lean from the fat,
which they drove out, one by one, from the enclosure.
A vaquero, armed with a sharp instrument in the form of a crescent,
furnished with points placed at the distance of a foot apart, and who
was concealed behind the door of the enclosure, cut, with great address,
the hamstrings of the poor beasts, as they passed before him.
If by chance he missed a stroke, which he rarely did, a second vaquero,
mounted on horseback, galloped after the animal, threw the lasso round
its horns, and held it till the first had succeeded in cutting its
hamstrings.
Carelessly leaning against the portico of the hacienda, a man of about
forty years of age, clothed in the rich costume of a gentleman farmer,
his shoulders covered by a zarapé of brilliant colours, and his head
protected from the rays of the setting sun by a fine hat of Panama
straw, worth at least five hundred piastres, seemed to be presiding over
this scene while enjoying a husk cigarette.
He was a gentleman of lofty bearing, slightly built, but perfectly
well-proportioned, and his features well defined with firm and marked
lines, denoted loyalty, courage, and, above all, an inflexible will.
His large black eyes, shaded by thick eyebrows, displayed indescribable
mildness; but when any contradictory chance spread a red glow over his
embrowned complexion, his glance assumed a fixity and a force which few
could support, and which made even the bravest hesitate and tremble.
His small hands and feet, and more than all, the aristocratic stamp
impressed upon his person, denoted, at the first glance, that this man
was of pure and noble Castilian race.
In fact, this personage was Don Ramón Garillas de Saavedra, the
proprietor of the Hacienda del Milagro, which we have just described.
Don Ramón Garillas was descended from a Spanish family, the head
of which had been one of the principal lieutenants of Cortez, and
had settled in Mexico after the miraculous conquest of that clever
adventurer.
Enjoying a princely fortune, but unnoticed by the Spanish authorities,
on account of his marriage with a woman of mixed Aztec blood, he had
given himself up entirely to the cultivation of his land, and the
amelioration of his vast domains.
After seventeen years of marriage, he found himself the head of a large
family, composed of six boys and three girls, in all nine children, of
whom Rafaël--he whom we have seen so deftly kill the vaquero--was the
eldest.
The marriage of Don Ramón and Doña Jesuita had been merely a marriage
of convenience, contracted solely with a view to fortune, but which,
notwithstanding, had rendered them comparatively happy; we say
comparatively, because, as the girl only left her convent to be married,
no love had ever existed between them, but its place had been almost as
well occupied by a tender and sincere affection.
Doña Jesuita passed her time in the cares necessitated by her children,
surrounded by her Indian women. On his side, her husband, completely
absorbed by the duties of his life as a gentleman farmer, was almost
always with his vaqueros, his peons, and his huntsmen, only seeing his
wife for a few minutes at the hours of meals, and sometimes remaining
months together absent in hunting excursions on the banks of the Rio
Gila.
Nevertheless, we are bound to add that, whether absent or present, Don
Ramón took the greatest care that nothing should be wanting for his
wife's comfort; and in order that her least caprices might be satisfied,
he spared neither money nor trouble to procure her all she appeared to
desire.
Doña Jesuita was endowed with extraordinary beauty and angelic mildness;
she appeared to have accepted, if not with joy, at least without any
great pain, the kind of life to which her husband bad obliged her to
submit; but in the depth of her large black languishing eye, in the
paleness of her countenance, and, above all, in the shade of sadness
which continually obscured her beautiful white brow, it was easy to
divine that an ardent soul abode within that seducing statue, and that
the heart, which was ignorant of itself, had turned all its feelings
upon her children, whom she adored with all the virginal strength of
maternal love, the most beautiful and the most holy of all loves.
As for Don Ramón, always good and anxious for his wife, whom he had
never taken the pains to study, he had a right to believe her the
happiest creature in the world, which, in fact, she became as soon as
God made her a mother.
It was some minutes after sunset; the sky, by degrees, lost its purple
tint, and grew rapidly darker; a few stars began to sparkle in the
celestial vault, and the evening wind arose with a force that presaged
for the night, one of those terrible storms which so often burst over
these regions of the sun.
The mayoral, after having caused the rest of the ganado to be carefully
shut up in the enclosure, assembled the vaqueros and the peons, and
all directed their steps towards the hacienda, where the supper bell
announced to them that the hour of rest was at length arrived.
As the major-domo passed the last, with a bow, before his master, the
latter asked him:
"Well, Nô Eusebio, how many heads do we count this year?"
"Four hundred and fifty _mi amo_--my master," replied the mayoral, a
tall, thin, wizened man, with a grayish head, and a countenance tanned
like a piece of leather, stopping his horse and taking off his hat;
"that is to say, seventy-five head more than last year. Our neighbours
the jaguars and the Apaches have not done us any great damage this
season."
"Thanks to you, Nô Eusebio," Don Ramón replied; "your vigilance has been
great; I must find means to recompense you for it."
"My best recompense is the kind remark your lordship has just addressed
to me," the mayoral, whose rough visage was lit up by a smile of
satisfaction, replied. "Ought I not to watch over everything that
belongs to you with the same zeal as if it were my own?"
"Thanks," the gentleman remarked with emotion, and shook his servant's
hand. "I know how truly you are devoted to me.
"For life and to death, my master! My mother nourished you with her
milk; I belong to you and your family."
"Come, come, Nô Eusebio," the hacendero said, gaily; "supper is ready;
the señora is by this time at table; we must not keep her waiting."
Upon this, both entered the patio, and Nô Eusebio, as Don Ramón had
named him, prepared, as was his custom every evening, to close the gates.
In the meantime, Don Ramón entered the dining hall of the hacienda,
where all the vaqueros and peons were assembled.
This hall was furnished with an immense table, which occupied the entire
centre; around this table there were wooden forms covered with leather,
and two carved armchairs, intended for Don Ramón and the señora. Behind
these chairs, an ivory crucifix, four feet high, hung against the wall,
between two pictures, representing, the one, "Jesus in the Garden of
Olives," the other the "Sermon on the Mount." Here and there, on the
whitewashed walls, grinned the heads of jaguars, buffaloes, and elks,
killed in the chase by the hacendero.
The table was abundantly supplied with lahua, or thick soup made of the
flour of maize boiled with meat, with puchero, or olla podrida, and with
pepian; at regular distances there were bottles of mezcal, and decanters
of water.
At a sign from the hacendero the repast commenced.
The storm, which had threatened for some time past, now broke forth with
fury.
The rain fell in torrents; at every second vivid flashes of lightning
dimmed the lights of the hall, preceding awful claps of thunder.
Towards the end of the repast, the hurricane acquired such violence,
that the tumult of the conspiring elements drowned the hum of
conversation.
The thunder peals clashed with frightful force, a whirlwind filled the
hall, after dashing in a window, and extinguished all the lights; the
assembly crossed themselves with terror.
At that moment, the bell placed at the gate of the hacienda resounded
with a convulsive noise, and a voice, which had nothing human in it,
cried twice distinctly,--
"Help! help!"
"Sangre de Cristo!" Don Ramón cried, as he rushed out of the hall,
"somebody is being murdered on the plain."
Two pistol shots resounded at almost the same moment, a cry of agony
rung through the air, and all relapsed into sinister darkness.
All at once, a pale flash of lightning furrowed the obscurity, the
thunder burst with a horrible crash, and Don Ramón reappeared in the
hall, bearing a fainting man in his arms.
The stranger was placed in a seat, and all crowded round him.
There was nothing extraordinary in either the countenance or the
appearance of this man, and yet, on perceiving him, Rafaël, the eldest
son of Don Ramón, could not repress a gesture of terror, and his face
became lividly pale.
"O!" he murmured, in a low voice, "it is the juez de letras!"
It was, indeed, the worthy judge, whom we saw leave Hermosillo with such
a brilliant equipage.
His long hair, soaked with rain, fell upon his breast, his clothes were
in disorder, spotted with blood, and torn in many places.
His right hand convulsively clasped the stock of a discharged pistol.
Don Ramón had likewise recognized the juez de letras, and had
unconsciously darted a glance at his son, which the latter could not
support.
Thanks to the intelligent care that was bestowed upon him by Doña
Jesuita and her women, he breathed a deep sigh, opened his haggard
eyes, which he rolled round upon the assembly, without at first seeing
anything, and by degrees recovered his senses.
All at once a deep flush covered his brow, which had been so pale a
minute before, and his eye sparkled. Directing a look towards Don Rafaël
which nailed him to the floor, a prey to invincible terror, he rose
painfully, and advancing towards the young man, who saw his approach
without daring to seek to avoid him, he placed his hand roughly on his
shoulder, and turning towards the peons, who were terrified at this
strange scene, of which they comprehended nothing, he said solemnly,--
"I, Don Inigo Tormentes Albaceyte, juez de letras of the city of
Hermosillo, arrest this man, accused of assassination, in the king's
name!"
"Mercy!" cried Rafaël, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands with
despair.
"Woe! woe!" the poor mother exclaimed, as she sank back fainting in her
chair.
CHAPTER III.
THE SENTENCE.
On the morrow the sun rose splendidly on the horizon. The storm of the
night had completely cleared the sky, which was one of deep blue; the
birds warbled gaily, concealed beneath the leaves, and all nature seemed
to have resumed its accustomed festive air.
The bell sounded joyously at the Hacienda del Milagro; the peons began
to disperse in all directions, some leading horses to the pasturage,
others driving cattle to the artificial prairies, others again wending
their way to the fields, whilst the rest were employed in the patio in
milking the cows and repairing the damages done by the hurricane.
The only traces left of the tempest of the preceding night were two
magnificent jaguars stretched dead before the gate of the hacienda, not
far from the carcass of a half-devoured horse.
Nô Eusebio, who was walking about in the patio, carefully overlooking
the occupations of all, ordered the rich trappings of the horse to be
taken off and cleaned, and the jaguars to be skinned; all of which was
done in the shortest time possible.
Nô Eusebio was, however, very uneasy; Don Ramón, generally the first
person stirring in the hacienda, had not yet appeared.
On the preceding evening, after the terrible accusation brought by the
juez de letras against the eldest son of the hacendero, the latter had
ordered his servants to retire, and after having himself, in spite of
the tears and prayers of his wife, firmly bound his son, he led Don
Inigo Albaceyte into a retired apartment of the farm, where they both
remained in private till a far advanced hour of the night.
What had passed in that conversation, in which the fate of Don Rafaël
was decided, nobody knew--Nô Eusebio no more than the others.
Then, after having conducted Don Inigo to a chamber he had had prepared
for him, and having wished him good night, Don Ramón proceeded to
rejoin his son, with whom the poor mother was still weeping: without
pronouncing a word, he took the boy in his arms, and carried him into
his bedroom, where he laid him on the ground near his bed; then the
hacendero shut and locked the door, went to bed, with two pistols under
his pillow. The night passed away thus, the father and son darting
at each other through the darkness the looks of wild beasts, and the
poor mother on her knees on the sill of that chamber, which she was
forbidden to enter, weeping silently for her first-born, who, as she had
a terrible presentiment, was about to be ravished from her for ever.
"Hum!" the mayoral murmured to himself, biting, without thinking of
doing so, the end of his extinguished cigarette, "what will be the end
of all this? Don Ramón is not a man to pardon, he will not compromise
his honour. Will he abandon his son to the hands of justice! Oh no! but,
in that case what will he do?"
The worthy mayoral had arrived at this point in his reflections, when
Don Inigo Albaceyte and Don Ramón appeared in the patio.
The countenances of the two men were stern; that of the hacendero, in
particular, was dark as night.
"Nô Eusebio," Don Ramón said in a sharp tone, "have a horse saddled,
and prepare an escort of four men to conduct this cavalier to
Hermosillo."
The mayoral bowed respectfully, and immediately gave the necessary
orders.
"I thank you a thousand times," continued Don Ramón, addressing the
judge; "you have saved the honour of my house."
"Do not be so grateful, señor," Don Inigo replied; "I swear to you that
when I left the city yesterday, I had no intention of making myself
agreeable to you."
The hacendero only replied by a gesture.
"Put yourself in my place; I am criminal judge above everything; a man
is murdered--a worthless fellow, I admit--but a man, although of the
worst kind; the assassin is known, he traverses the city at full gallop,
in open daylight, in the sight of everybody, with incredible effrontery.
What could I do?--set off in pursuit of him. I did not hesitate."
"That is true," Don Ramón murmured, holding down his head.
"And evil have been the consequences to me. The scoundrels who
accompanied me abandoned me, like cowards, in the height of the storm,
and took shelter I know not where; and then, to crown my troubles, two
jaguars, magnificent animals, by the bye, rushed in pursuit of me; they
pressed me so hard that I came and fell at your door like a mass. It is
true I killed one of them, but the other was very nearly snapping me up,
when you came to my assistance. Could I, after that, arrest the son of
the man who had saved my life at the peril of his own? That would have
been acting with the blackest ingratitude."
"Thanks, once more."
"No thanks; we are quits, that is all. I say nothing of some thousands
of piastres you have given me; they will serve to stop the mouths of my
lynxes. Only, let me beg of you, Don Ramón, keep a sharp eye upon your
son; if he should fall a second time into my hands, I don't know how I
could save him."
"Be at ease, in that respect, Don Inigo; my son will never fall into
your hands again."
"The hacendero pronounced these words in so solemn and melancholy a
tone, that the judge started at hearing them, and turned round saying,--
"Take care what you are about to do!"
"Oh, fear nothing," replied Don Ramón; "only, as I am not willing that
my son should mount a scaffold, and drag my name in the mud, I must
endeavour to prevent him."
At that moment the horse was led out, and the juez de letras mounted.
"Well, adieu, Don Ramón," he said in an indulgent voice; "be prudent,
this young man may still reform; he is hot blooded, that is all."
"Adieu, Don Inigo Albaceyte," the hacendero replied, in so dry a tone
that it admitted of no reply.
The judge shook his head, and clapping spurs to his horse, he set off
at full trot, followed by his escort, after having made the farmer a
farewell gesture.
The latter looked after him, as long as he could see him, and then
re-entered the house with long and hasty strides.
"Nô Eusebio," he said to the mayoral, "ring the bell to call together
all the peons, as well as the other servants of the hacienda."
The mayoral, after having looked at his master with astonishment,
hastened to execute the order he had received.
"What does all this mean?" he said to himself.
At the sound of the bell, the men employed on the farm ran to answer
it in haste, not knowing to what cause they should attribute this
extraordinary summons.
They were soon all collected together in the great hall, which served as
a refectory. The completest silence reigned among them. A secret pang
pressed on their hearts,--they had the presentiment of a terrible event.
After a few minutes of expectation, Doña Jesuita entered, surrounded by
her children, with the exception of Rafaël, and proceeded to take her
place upon a platform, prepared at one end of the hall.
Her countenance was pale, and her eyes proclaimed that she had been
weeping.
Don Ramón appeared.
He was clothed in a complete suit of black velvet without lace; a heavy
gold chain hung round his neck, a broad leafed hat of black felt,
ornamented with an eagle's feather, covered his head, a long sword, with
a hilt of polished steel, hung by his side.
His brow was marked with wrinkles, his eyebrows were closely knitted
above his black eyes, which appeared to dart lightning.
A shudder of terror pervaded the ranks of the assembly--Don Ramón
Garillas had put on the robe of justice.
Justice was then about to be done?
But upon whom?
When Don Ramón had taken his place on the right hand of his wife, he
made a sign.
The mayoral went out, and returned a minute after, followed by Rafaël.
The young man was bareheaded, and had his hands tied behind his back.
With his eyes cast down, and a pale face, he placed himself before his
father, whom he saluted respectfully.
At the period at which our history passes, in those countries remote
from towns and exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians,
the heads of families preserved, in all its purity, that patriarchal
authority which the efforts of our depraved civilization have a tendency
to lessen, and, at length, to destroy. A father was sovereign in his own
house, his judgments were without appeal, and executed without murmurs
or resistance.
The people of the farm were acquainted with the firm character and
implacable will of their master; they knew that he never pardoned, that
his honour was dearer to him than life; it was then with a sense of
undefinable fear that they prepared to witness the terrible drama which
was about to be performed before them between the father and the son.
Don Ramón arose, cast a dark glance round upon the assembly, and threw
his hat at his feet:
"Listen all to me," he said in a sharp but most distinct voice; "I am
of an old Christian race, whose ancestors have never done wrong; honour
has always in my house been considered as the first of earthly goods;
that honour which my ancestors transmitted to me intact, and which I
have endeavoured to preserve pure, my first-born son, the inheritor of
my name, has sullied by an indelible stain. Yesterday, at Hermosillo, in
consequence of a tavern quarrel, he set fire to a house, at the risk of
burning down the whole city, and when a man endeavoured to prevent his
escape, he killed him with a poniard stroke. What can be thought of a
boy who, at so tender an age, is endowed with the instincts of a wild
beast? Justice must be done, and, by God's help, I will do it severely."
After these words, Don Ramón crossed his arms upon his breast, and
appeared to reflect.
No one durst hazard a word in favour of the accused; all heads were bent
down, all hearts were palpitating.
Rafaël was beloved by his father's servants on account of his
intrepidity, which yielded to no obstacles, for his skill in managing a
horse, and in the use of all arms, and more than all, for the frankness
and kindness which formed the most striking features of his character.
In this country particularly, where the life of a man is reckoned of so
little value, everyone was inwardly disposed to excuse the youth, and to
see nothing in the action he had committed but the result of warmth of
blood and hasty passion.
Doña Jesuita arose; without a murmur she had always bent to the
will of her husband, whom for many years she had been accustomed to
respect; the mere idea of resisting him terrified her, and sent a
cold shudder through her veins; but all the loving powers of her soul
were concentrated in her heart. She adored her children, Rafaël in
particular, whose indomitable character stood more in need than the
others, of the watchful cares of a mother.
"Sir," she said to her husband, in a voice choked with tears, "remember
that Rafaël is your first-born; that his fault, however serious it might
be, ought not to be inexcusable in your eyes, as you are his father; and
that I--I--" she continued, falling on her knees, clasping her hands and
sobbing, "I implore your pity! pardon, sir! pardon for your son!"
"Don Ramón coldly raised his wife, whose face was inundated with tears,
and after obliging her to resume her place in her chair, he said,--
"It is particularly as a father, that my heart ought to be without pity!
Rafaël is an assassin and an incendiary; he is no longer my son!"
"What do you mean to do?" Doña Jesuita cried, in accents of terror.
"What does that concern you, madam?" Don Ramón replied harshly; "the
care of my honour concerns me alone. Sufficient for you to know that
this fault is the last your son will commit."
"Oh!" she said with terror, "will you then become his executioner?"
"I am his judge," the implacable gentleman replied in a terrible voice.
"Nô Eusebio, get two horses ready."
"My God! my God!" the poor mother cried, rushing towards her son, whom
she folded closely in her arms, "will no one come to my succour?"
All present were moved; Don Ramón himself could not restrain a tear.
"Oh!" she cried with a wild joy, "he is saved! God has softened the
heart of this inflexible man!"
"You are mistaken, madam," Don Ramón interrupted, pushing her roughly
back, "your son is no longer mine, he belongs to my justice!"
Then fixing on his son a look cold as a steel blade, he said in a voice
so stern that in spite of himself it made the young man start.
"Don Rafaël, from this instant you no longer form a part of this
society, which your crimes have horrified; it is with wild beasts that I
condemn you to live and die."
At this terrible sentence, Doña Jesuita took a few steps towards her
son, but, tottering, she fell prostrate--she had fainted.
Up to this moment Rafaël had, with a great effort, suppressed in his
heart the emotions which agitated him, but at this last accident he
could no longer restrain himself; he sprang towards his mother, burst
into tears, and uttered a piercing cry:
"My mother! my mother!"
"Come this way," said Don Ramón, laying his hand upon his shoulder.
The boy stopped, staggering like a drunken man.
"Look, sir! pray look!" he cried, with a heartbroken sob; "my mother is
dying!"
"It is you who have killed her!" the hacendero replied coldly.
Rafaël turned round as if a serpent had stung him; he darted at his
father a look of strange expression, and, with clenched teeth and a
livid brow said to him,
"Kill me, sir; for I swear to you that in the same manner as you have
been pitiless to my mother and me, if I live I will be hereafter
pitiless to you!"
Don Ramón cast upon him a look of contempt.
"Come on!" he said.
"Come on, then!" the boy repeated in a firm tone.
Doña Jesuita, who was beginning to recover her senses, perceived the
departure of her son, as if in a dream.
"Rafaël! Rafaël!" she shrieked.
The young man hesitated for a second; then, with a bound, he sprang
towards her, kissed her with wild tenderness, and rejoining his father,
said--
"Now I can die! I have bidden adieu to my mother!"
And they went out.
The household, deeply moved by this scene, separated without
communicating their impressions to each other, but all penetrated with
sincere grief.
Under the caresses of her son, the poor mother had again lost all
consciousness.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MOTHER.
Two horses, held by the bridle by Nô Eusebio, were waiting at the door
of the hacienda.
"Shall I accompany you, señor?" asked the major-domo.
"No!" the hacendero replied drily.
He mounted and placed his son across the saddle before him.
"Take back the second horse," he said; "I do not want it."
And plunging his spurs into the sides of his horse, which snorted with
pain, he set off at full speed.
The major-domo returned to the house, shaking his head sadly.
As soon as the hacienda had disappeared behind a swell in the ground,
Don Ramón stopped, drew a silk handkerchief from his breast, bandaged
the eyes of his son without saying a word to him, and then again resumed
his course.
This ride in the desert lasted a long time; it had something dismal
about it that chilled the soul.
This horseman, clothed in black, gliding silently along through the
sands, bearing before him on his saddle a securely-bound boy, whose
nervous starts and writhings alone proclaimed his existence, had a fatal
and strange aspect, which would have impressed the bravest man with
terror.
Many hours had passed without a word being exchanged between the son and
the father; the sun began to sink in the horizon, a few stars already
appeared in the dark blue of the sky--but the horse still went on.
The desert, every instant, assumed a more dismal and wild appearance;
every tree of vegetation had disappeared; only here and there heaps of
bones, whitened by time, marbled the sand with livid spots; birds of
prey hovered slowly over the horsemen, uttering hoarse cries; and in the
mysterious depths of the chaparrals, wild beasts, at the approach of
night, preluded their rude concerts with dull roarings.
In these regions twilight does not exist; as soon as the sun has
disappeared, the darkness is complete.
Don Ramón continued to gallop on. His son had not addressed a single
prayer to him, or uttered a single complaint.
At length, towards eight o'clock, the horsemen stopped. This feverish
ride had lasted ten hours. The horse panted and throbbed, and staggered
at every step.
Don Ramón cast an anxious glance around him; a smile of satisfaction
curled his lip. On all sides the desert displayed its immense plains of
sand; on one alone the skirt of a virgin forest cut the horizon with
its strange profile, breaking in a sinister manner the monotony of the
prospect.
Don Ramón dismounted, placed his son upon the sand, took the bridle
from his horse, that it might eat the provender he gave it; then, after
having acquitted himself of all these duties, with the greatest coolness
he approached his son, and removed the bandage from his eyes.
The boy remained silent, fixing upon his father a dull, cold look.
"Sir!" Don Ramón said, in a sharp, dry tone, "you are here more than
twenty leagues from my hacienda, in which you will never set your
foot again under pain of death; from this moment you are alone, you
have no longer either father, mother, or family; as you have proved
yourself almost a wild beast, I condemn you to live with wild beasts; my
resolution is irrevocable, your prayers could not change it. Spare them
then!"
"I shall not pray to you," the boy replied, "people do not intreat an
executioner!"
Don Ramón started; he walked about in feverish agitation; but soon
recovering himself, he continued,
"In this pouch are provisions for two days. I leave you this rifle,
which in my hands never missed its mark; I give you also these pistols,
this machete, and this knife, this hatchet, and powder and balls in
these buffalo horns. You will find with the provisions a steel and
everything necessary for kindling a fire. I add to these things a
Bible, belonging to your mother. You are dead to society, into which
you can never return; the desert is before you; it belongs to you; for
me, I have no longer a son, adieu! The Lord be merciful to you, all is
ended between us on earth; you are left alone, and without a family;
it depends upon yourself, then, to commence a second existence, and to
provide for your own wants. Providence never abandons those who place
their confidence in it; henceforward, it alone will watch over you."
After having pronounced these words, Don Ramón, his countenance still
impassible, replaced the bridle on his horse, restored his son to
liberty by cutting the cords which bound him, and then getting into his
saddle, he set off at his horse best speed.
Rafaël rose upon his knees, bent his head forward, listened with anxiety
to the retreating gallop of the horse on the sand, followed with his
eyes, as long as he was able, the fatal profile which was thrown in
black relief by the moonbeams; and when the horseman was at length
confounded with the darkness, the boy placed his hand upon his breast,
and an expression of despair impossible to be described convulsed his
features.
"My mother! my mother!" he cried.
He fell lifeless upon the sand. He had fainted.
After a long gallop, Don Ramón, insensibly and as if in spite of
himself, slackened the speed of his horse, lending a keen ear to the
vague noises of the desert, listening with anxiety, without rendering an
account to himself why he did so, but expecting, perhaps, an appeal from
his unfortunate son to return to him. Twice even his hand mechanically
pulled the bridle as if he obeyed a secret voice which commanded him
to retrace his steps; but the fierce pride of his race was still the
stronger, and he continued his course homewards.
The sun was rising at the moment Don Ramón arrived at the hacienda.
Two persons were standing side by side at the gate, waiting his return.
The one was Doña Jesuita, the other the major-domo.
At sight of his wife, pale, mute, and motionless before him, like the
statue of desolation, the hacendero felt an unutterable sadness weigh
upon his heart; he wished to pass, but Doña Jesuita, making two steps
towards him and seizing the bridle of his horse, said with agonized
emotion,--
"Don Ramón, what have you done with my son?"
The hacendero made no reply; on beholding the grief of his wife,
remorse shot a pang into his heart, and he asked himself mentally if he
had really the right to act as he had done.
Doña Jesuita waited in vain for an answer. Don Ramón looked earnestly
at his wife; he was terrified at perceiving the indelible furrows which
grief had imprinted upon that countenance, so calm, so placid, but a few
hours before.
The noble woman was livid; her contracted features had an inexpressible
rigidity; her eyes, burnt with fever, were red and dry, two black and
deep lines rendered them hollow and haggard; a large stain marbled each
of her cheeks, the trace of tears the source of which was dried up; she
could weep no more, her voice was hoarse and broken, and her oppressed
breast heaved painfully to allow the escape of a panting respiration.
After having waited some minutes for a reply to her question, "Don
Ramón," she repeated, "what have you done with my son?"
The hacendero turned away his head with something like confusion.
"Oh! you have killed him!" she said, with a piercing shriek.
"No;" Don Ramón replied, terrified at her grief, and for the first time
in his life forced to acknowledge the power of the mother who demands an
account of her child.
"What have you done with him?" she screamed persistently.
"Presently, when you are more calm, you shall know all."
"I am calm," she replied, "why should you feign a pity you do not feel?
My son is dead, and it is you who have killed him!"
Don Ramón alighted from his horse.
"Jesuita," he said to his wife, taking her hands and looking at her with
tenderness, "I swear to you by all that is most sacred in the world,
that your son exists; I have not touched a hair of his head."
The poor mother remained pensive for a few seconds.
"I believe you," she said; then after a pause she added, "What is become
of him?"
"Well!" he replied, with some hesitation, "since you insist upon knowing
all, learn that I have abandoned your son in the desert, but have left
him the means to provide for his safety and his wants."
Doña Jesuita started, a nervous shudder crept through the whole of her
frame.
"You have been very clement," she said in a cutting tone, and with
bitter irony; "you have been very clement towards a boy of sixteen,
Don Ramón; you felt a repugnance to bathe your hands in his blood, and
you have preferred leaving that task to the wild beasts and ferocious
Indians who alone people those solitudes."
"He was guilty!" the hacendero replied, in a low but firm voice.
"A child is never guilty in the eyes of her who has borne him in her
bosom, and nourished him with her milk," she said with energy. "It is
well, Don Ramón, you have condemned your son, I--I will save him!"
"What would you do?" the hacendero said, terrified at the resolution he
saw kindled in the eyes of his wife.
"What matters it to you? Don Ramón, I will accomplish my duty as you
believe you have accomplished yours! God will judge between us! Tremble,
lest He should one day demand of you an account of the blood of your
son!"
Don Ramón bent his head beneath this anathema; with a pale brow, and a
mind oppressed by heavy remorse, he went slowly into the hacienda.
Doña Jesuita looked after him for an instant.
"Oh!" she cried, "may God grant that I may arrive in time!"
She then went out from the portico, followed by Nô Eusebio.
Two horses awaited them, concealed behind a clump of trees. They mounted
immediately.
"Where are we going, señora?" the major-domo asked.
"In search of my son!" she replied in a shrill voice.
She seemed transfigured by hope; a bright colour flushed her cheeks; her
black eyes darted lightning.
Nô Eusebio untied four magnificent bloodhounds, called rastreros
in the country, and which were kept to follow trails; he made them
smell a shirt belonging to Rafaël; the hounds rushed forward on the
scent, baying loudly. Nô Eusebio and Doña Jesuita galloped after them,
exchanging a look of sanguine hope.
The dogs had no trouble in following the scent, it was straight and
without obstruction, therefore they did not stop an instant.
When Doña Jesuita arrived at the spot where Rafaël had been abandoned by
his father, the place was void!--the boy had disappeared!
The traces of his having sojourned there were visible; a fire was not
yet burnt out; everything indicated that Rafaël could not have quitted
that place more than an hour.
"What is to be done?" Nô Eusebio asked anxiously.
"Push forward!" Doña Jesuita replied resolutely, urging her horse again
into action, and the generous steed responding with unflagging spirit.
Nô Eusebio followed her.
On the evening of that day the greatest consternation prevailed at the
Hacienda del Milagro, Doña Jesuita and Nô Eusebio had not returned.
Don Ramón ordered all the household to mount on horseback.
Provided with torches, the peons and vaqueros commenced a battue of an
immense extent in search of their mistress and the major-domo.
The whole night passed away without bringing the least satisfactory
result.
At daybreak, the horse of Doña Jesuita was found half devoured in the
desert. Its trappings were wanting.
The ground round the carcass of the horse appeared to have been the
scene of a desperate conflict of some kind.
Don Ramón, in despair, gave orders for return.
"Great Heaven!" he cried, as he re-entered the hacienda, "is it possible
that my chastisement has already commenced?"
Weeks, months, years passed away, without any circumstance, lifting the
corner of the mysterious veil which enveloped these sinister events,
and, notwithstanding the most active and persevering researches, nothing
could be learnt of the fate of Rafaël, his mother, and Nô Eusebio.
THE END OF THE PROLOGUE.
PART I.
THE LOYAL HEART.
CHAPTER I.
THE PRAIRIE.
To the westward of the United States extends, many hundred miles beyond
the Mississippi, an immense territory, unknown up to this day, composed
of uncultivated lands, on which stands neither the log house of the
white man nor the hatto of the Indian.
This vast desert, intersected by dark forests, with mysterious paths
traced by the steps of wild beasts, and by verdant prairies with high
and tufted herbage that undulates with the slightest breeze, is watered
by powerful streams, of which the principal are the great Canadian
river, the Arkansas, and the Red River.
Over these plains, endowed with so rich a vegetation, wander innumerable
troops of wild horses, buffaloes, elks, bighorns, and those thousands of
animals which the civilization of the other parts of America is every
day driving back, and which regain their primitive liberty in these
regions.
On this account, the most powerful Indian tribes have established their
hunting grounds in this country.
The Delawares, the Creeks, and the Osages, prowl along the frontiers of
the desert up to the environs of the establishments of the Americans,
with whom some few bonds of civilization are beginning to unite them,
engaged in constant conflict with the hordes of Pawnees, Blackfeet,
Assiniboins, and Comanches, indomitable races, nomads of the prairies,
or inhabitants of the mountains, who permeate in all directions this
desert, the proprietorship of which none of them venture to assert, but
which they appear to agree to devastate, uniting in vast numbers for
hunting parties, as if for the purpose of making war.
In fact, the enemies travellers are exposed to encounter in these
deserts are of all kinds; without mentioning in this place wild beasts,
there are hunters, trappers, and partisans, who are not less formidable
to the Indians than to their fellow countrymen.
The prairie, therefore, the sinister theatre of incessant and terrible
contests, is nothing in reality but a vast charnel house, in which
perish obscurely, every year, in a merciless war of ambuscades, tens of
thousands of intrepid men.
Nothing can be more grand or more majestic than the aspect of these
prairies, into which Providence has bounteously bestowed such
innumerable riches,--nothing, more seductive than these green fields,
these thick forests, these large rivers; the melancholy murmur of
the waters rippling over the stones of the shallow stream, the songs
of thousands of birds concealed under the foliage, the bounding of
animals sporting amidst the high grass: everything enchants, everything
attracts, and draws aside the fascinated traveller, who soon, the victim
of his enthusiasm, will fall into one of those numberless snares laid
under his feet among the flowers, and will pay with his life for his
imprudent credulity.
Towards the end of the year 1837, in the latter days of the month of
September, by the Indians called the moon of the falling leaves--a man,
still young, and who, from his complexion, notwithstanding his costume
was entirely like that of the Indians, it was easy to perceive was a
white man, was seated, about an hour before sunset, near a fire, the
want of which began to be felt at this period of the year, at one of the
most unfrequented spots of the prairie we have just described.
This man was at most thirty-five to thirty-six years old, though a few
deeply marked wrinkles on his broad white forehead seemed to indicate a
more advanced age.
His features were handsome and noble, and impressed with that pride
and energy which a savage life imparts. His black eyes, starting from
his head, and crowned with thick eye-brows, had a mild and melancholy
expression, that tempered their brilliancy and vivacity; the lower part
of his face disappeared beneath a long, thick beard, the bluish tint of
which contrasted with the peculiar paleness spread over his countenance.
He was tall, slender, and perfectly well proportioned; his nervous
limbs, upon which rose muscles of extreme rigidity, proved that he was
endowed with more than common strength. In short, the whole of his
person inspired that respectful sympathy which superior natures attract
more easily in these countries than in ours, where physical strength is
nearly always the attribute of the brute.
His remarkably simple attire was composed of a mitasse, or a kind of
close drawers falling down to his ankles, and fastened to his hips
by a leather belt, and of a cotton hunting shirt, embroidered with
ornaments in wool of different colours, which descended to his midleg.
This blouse, open in front, left exposed his embrowned chest, upon which
hung a scapulary of velvet, from a slight steel chain. Short boots of
untanned deerskin protected him from the bites of reptiles, and rose
to his knees. A cap made of the skin of a beaver, whose tail hung down
behind, covered his head, while long and luxuriant curls of black hair,
which were beginning to be threaded with white, fell beneath it over his
broad shoulder. This man was a hunter.
A magnificent rifle laid within reach of his hand, the game bag which
was hung to his shoulder belt and the two buffalo horns, suspended at
his girdle, and filled with powder and balls, left no doubt in this
respect. Two long double pistols were carelessly thrown near his rifle.
The hunter, armed with that long knife called a machete, or a
short-bladed straight sabre, which the inhabitants of the prairies never
lay aside, was occupied in conscientiously skinning a beaver, whilst
carefully watching the haunch of a deer which was roasting at the fire,
suspended by a string, and listening to the slightest noises that arose
in the prairies.
The spot where this man was seated was admirably chosen for a halt of a
few hours.
It was a clearing at the summit of a moderately elevated hill, which,
from its position, commanded the prairie for a great distance, and
prevented a surprise. A spring bubbled up at a few paces from the place
where the hunter had established his bivouac, and descended, forming a
capricious cascade; to the plain. The high and abundant grass afforded
an excellent pasto for two superb horses, with wild and sparkling eyes,
which, safely tethered, were enjoying their food at a short distance
from him. The fire, lighted with dry wood, and sheltered on three sides
by the rock, only allowed a thin column of smoke to escape, scarcely
perceptible at ten paces' distance, and a screen of all trees concealed
the encampment from the indiscreet looks of those persons who were
probably in ambuscade in the neighbourhood.
In short, all precautions necessary for the safety of the hunter had
been taken with that prudence which announces a profound knowledge of
the life of a wood ranger.
The red fires of the setting sun tinged with beautiful reflections
the tops of the great trees, and the sun itself was on the point of
disappearing behind the mountains which bounded the horizon, when the
horses, suddenly ceasing their repast, raised their heads and prickled
their ears--signs of restlessness which did not escape the hunter.
Although he heard no suspicious sound, and all appeared calm around him,
he hastened to place the skin of the beaver before the fire, stretched
upon two crossed sticks, and, without rising, he put out his hand
towards his rifle.
The cry of the jay was heard, and repeated thrice at regular intervals.
The hunter laid his rifle by his side again with a smile, and resumed
his watchful attention to the supper. Almost immediately the grass was
violently opened, and two magnificent bloodhounds bounded up and lay
down by the hunter, who patted them for an instant, and not without
difficulty quieted their caresses.
The horses had carelessly resumed their interrupted repast.
The dogs only preceded by a few minutes a second hunter, who made his
appearance almost immediately in the clearing.
This new personage, much younger than the first,--for he did not appear
to be more than twenty-two years old,--was a tall, thin, agile and
powerfully-built man, with a slightly-rounded head, lighted by two grey
eyes, sparkling with intelligence, and endowed with a physiognomy open
and loyal, to which long light hair gave a somewhat childish appearance.
He was clothed in the same costume as his companion, and on arriving,
threw down by the fire a string of birds which he was carrying at his
shoulder.
The two hunters then, without exchanging a word, set about preparing one
of those suppers which long exercise has always the privilege of causing
to be considered excellent.
The night had completely set in; the desert awoke by degrees; the
howlings of wild beasts already resounded in the prairie.
The hunters, after supping with a good appetite, lit their pipes, and
placing their backs to the fire, in order that the flame should not
prevent them from perceiving the approach of any suspicious visitor whom
darkness might bring them, smoked with the enjoyment of people who,
after a long and painful journey, taste an instant of repose which they
may not meet with again for some time.
"Well!" the first hunter said laconically between two puffs of tobacco.
"You were right," the other replied.
"Ah!"
"Yes, we have kept too much to the right, it was that which made us lose
the scent."
"I was sure of it," the first speaker replied; "you see, Belhumeur, you
trust too much to your Canadian habits: the Indians with whom we have to
do here in no way resemble the Iroquois, who visit the hunting grounds
of your country."
Belhumeur nodded his head in sign of acquiescence.
"After all," the other continued, "this is of very little importance at
this moment; what is urgent is to know who are our thieves."
"I know."
"Good!" the other said, withdrawing his pipe quickly from his mouth;
"and who are the Indians who have dared to steal the traps marked with
my cipher?"
"The Comanches."
"I suspected as much. By heavens, ten of our best traps stolen during
the night! I swear, Belhumeur, that they shall pay for them dearly! And
where are the Comanches at this moment?"
"Within three leagues of us at most. It is a party of plunderers
composed of a dozen men; according to the direction they are following,
they are turning to their mountains."
"They shall not all arrive there," said the hunter, casting a glance at
his rifle.
"Parbleu!" said Belhumeur with a loud laugh, "they will only get what
they deserve. I leave it to you, Loyal Heart, to punish them for their
insult; but you will be still more determined to avenge yourself upon
them when you know by whom they are commanded."
"Ah! ah! I know their chief then?"
Belhumeur said, slightly smiling, "it is _Nehu Nutah_."
"Eagle Head!" cried Loyal, almost bounding from his seat. "Oh, oh! yes,
I know him, and God grant that this time. I may settle the old account
there is between us. His moccasins have long enough trodden the same
path with me and barred my passage."
After pronouncing these word with an accent of hatred that made
Belhumeur shudder, the hunter, sorry at having allowed the anger which
mastered him to appear, resumed his pipe and continued to smoke with a
feigned carelessness that did not at all impose upon his companion.
The conversation was interrupted.
The two hunters appeared to be absorbed in profound reflections, and
smoked silently by the side of each other.
At length Belhumeur turned towards his companion.
"Shall I watch?" he asked.
"No," Loyal Heart replied, in a low voice; "sleep, I will be sentinel
for you and myself too."
Belhumeur, without making the least observation, laid himself down by
the fire, and in a few minutes slept profoundly.
When the owl hooted its matin song, which seemed to salute the speedy
appearance of the sun, Loyal Heart, who during the night had remained
motionless as a marble statue, awakened his companion.
"It is time," said he.
"Very good!" Belhumeur replied, rising immediately.
The hunters saddled their horses, descended the hill with precaution,
and galloped off upon the track of the Comanches.
At this moment the sun appeared radiant in the heavens, dissipating the
darkness and illuminating the prairie with its magnificent and reviving
radiance.