[1]And not Montezuma, as ordinarily written. All Mexican names had, and still have, a meaning. Montecuhzoma means the "severe Lord." It is also sometimes written in old Mexican MSS. of the time of the conquest Moctecuhzoma, but never Montezuma, which has no meaning.
[1]And not Montezuma, as ordinarily written. All Mexican names had, and still have, a meaning. Montecuhzoma means the "severe Lord." It is also sometimes written in old Mexican MSS. of the time of the conquest Moctecuhzoma, but never Montezuma, which has no meaning.
In order to explain thoroughly to our readers the sudden attack on the Comanche village, we are compelled to return to Red Cedar.
Black Cat had left the council to proceed to the pirates, who were ready to follow him; but as Red Cedar had noticed that the agitation prevailing in the camp on his arrival had increased instead of diminishing, he could not refrain from asking the chief what it all meant, and what had happened.
Black Cat had hastened to satisfy him by narrating the miraculous flight of Doña Clara, who had disappeared with her companions, and no one could imagine what had become of them. Since the morning, the most experienced warriors of the tribe had been on the search, but had discovered nothing. Red Cedar was far from suspecting that the maiden he had left in his camp was the one so eagerly sought by the Apaches. He reflected for some moments.
"How many white men were there?" he asked.
"Three."
"Was there no one else with them?"
"Yes," the chief said, frowning, and his eyes flashing with fury. "There were also two redskin warriors, one of them a cowardly Coras, a renegade of his nation."
"Very good," Red Cedar answered. "The chief will lead me to the council, and I will tell them where the prisoners are."
"My brother knows it, then?" Black Cat asked, quickly.
Red Cedar threw his rifle on his back, whistled softly, but gave no answer.
They reached the council lodge. Red Cedar, taking the responsibility on himself, undertook to answer the questions addressed to him by the Indians. Since Black Cat's departure, not a word had been uttered in the council. The Indians were patiently awaiting the result of the promises made by the chief. The latter resumed his place at the council fire; and, addressing the other sachem, said—
"Here are the white hunters."
"Very good," an old warrior answered, "let them speak, we hear."
Red Cedar advanced, and, leaning on his rifle, he took the word, at a sign from Black Cat.
"My red brothers," he said, in a clear and marked voice, "are all as wearied as ourselves by the continual attacks of that coyote who belongs to no nation, or no colour, and who is called the Son of Blood. If they will allow themselves to be guided by the experience of a man who has, for many years, been thoroughly acquainted with tricks and villany of which that man is capable, before long, in spite of the imposing force he has at his command, they will have driven him disgracefully from the prairies, and compelled him to recross the frontier, abandoning forever the rich hunting grounds over which he pretends to reign as a master."
"We await till our brother has explained himself more clearly, with frankness, and without equivocation," Black Cat interrupted him.
"That is what I am about to do," the squatter went on. "The prisoners you made were precious to you, because there was a white woman among them. You allowed them to escape, and must capture them again. They will be important hostages for you."
"My brother does not tell us where these prisoners have sought shelter."
Red Cedar shrugged his shoulders.
"That is, however, very easy to know. The prisoners had only one spot where they could obtain a refuge, before reaching the frontier."
"And that is?" Black Cat asked.
"The great summer village of the Comanches of the mountains, the most faithful allies of Bloodson, the sons of Unicorn, that nation which has renounced the faith of its fathers, to become completely dependent on the whites, and to whom you ought to send petticoats. Hence you need not seek your prisoners elsewhere, for they are there."
The Indians, struck by the correctness of this reasoning, gave unequivocal marks of approval, and prepared to listen with greater interest to what the hunter had still to say to them.
"My brother must, therefore, do two things," the squatter continued; "first, surprise the Comanches' village, and, secondly, march immediately against Bloodson."
"Good," Stanapat said, "my brother is a wise man; I have known him a long time; his advice is good; but the Teocali inhabited by Bloodson is well defended. In what way will my brother set about seizing it?"
"My brother will listen," Red Cedar continued. "I have ten bold hunters with me; but I have left eighty, all armed with good rifles, on an island of the endless river where they are encamped, which are awaiting my return. The detachment intended to attack the Teocali will invest it on all sides, though the warriors will not let themselves be seen; during that time I will accompany Black Cat and his tribe to the Comanche village. As soon as the prisoners have fallen into our hands, I will go and fetch my young men from the island where I left them, and return with them and Black Cat to help my brother in seizing the Teocali, which cannot resist us."
This promise, made in a loud and firm voice, produced all the effect the squatter expected. The Indians, dreaming of the immense pillage they could indulge in, and the incalculable wealth collected at the spot, had only one desire: to seize the Teocali as soon as possible. Still, through the Indian stoicism, none of the passions boiling in their veins were displayed in their faces, and it was in a cold and calm voice that Black Cat thanked Red Cedar and told him he could withdraw while the chiefs deliberated on what he had brought before them. The squatter bowed and left the council, followed by his companions.
"Well," the Gazelle asked him, "what do you fancy the redskins will do?"
"Do not be uneasy, señorita," the squatter answered, with a most meaning smile, "I know the Indians; the plan I have submitted to them is too simple, and offers too many advantages for them to decline it; I can assure you beforehand that they will follow it exactly."
"Is it far from here to the Comanche village?"
"No," the other said, emphatically; "by starting at once we should reach it this evening."
The girl gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction, and a vivid blush suffused her charming face. Red Cedar, who was watching her aside, could not refrain from muttering to himself:
"I must have the solution of the enigma ere long."
They returned to the tent.
In the Council of the Chiefs all happened as Red Cedar had foreseen: after a short deliberation, referring more to the mode of execution than to the plan itself, it was adopted unanimously.
An hour later, all was movement in the camp; the warriors rose to join the detachments and form squadrons; there was an indescribable confusion. At length, calm was gradually restored, the two war parties started in the directions proposed by Red Cedar, and soon, of the crowd of warriors who had been yelling and dancing in the camp, only thirty remained to receive the warriors as they arrived.
Black Cat placed himself at the head of his band, followed by the Pirates. The Apaches started for the Comanche village in Indian file, at their peculiar pace, which a trotting horse finds difficulty in keeping up with. The greatest silence and caution prevailed in the ranks, and it seemed as if the Apaches did not wish to be heard even by the birds.
With extraordinary dexterity, of which the Indians alone are capable, each marched in the other's footsteps so exactly that it looked as if only one person had gone along the path, carrying their care to such an extent as to stoop for fear of grazing the branches, and avoiding any contact with the shrubs. They marched as far as was possible on broken earth or rocks, that their traces might be less visible, making detours after detours, and returning a dozen times to the same spot, for the purpose of so thoroughly confusing their trail that it would be impossible to discover it.
When they reached the bank of a stream, instead of crossing it at right angles, they followed or went up it for a considerable distance, not landing again till the soil was hard enough to take the marks of their footsteps. They did all this with exemplary patience, without checking their speed, and still advancing to the object they had chosen.
They found themselves at about half past six in the evening at the top of a hill, whence the summer village of the Comanches could be perceived scarce two miles distant. The sound of the songs and chichikouis reached the Apaches at intervals, thus telling them that their enemies were rejoicing and celebrating some ceremony without any suspicion of a sudden attack. The Indians halted and consulted as to their final measures.
The Comanches have two sorts of villages, summer and winter. The latter are built with care, and some regularity. Their houses are of two stories, well arranged, light, and even elegant. But the Comanches are birds of prey, continually exposed to invasions, and menacing their enemies with them: hence they construct their villages on the point of rocks, exactly like eagles' nests, and seek all means to render them impregnable. The most curious village we have seen is formed by two lofty pyramids, standing on either side of a ravine, and connected by a bridge some distance up. These pyramids are about four hundred and twenty-five feet long by one hundred and forty-eight wide; as they rise this width diminishes, and the total height is about eighty-six feet. These two villages, divided into eight floors, contain five hundred inhabitants, who are enabled to defend themselves against a swarm of enemies from these extraordinary fortresses.
In the Comanche winter villages the door is not on the ground floor, as in Europe and civilised countries. The Comanche, when he wishes to enter his house, places a ladder against the side, mounts on the roof, and thence descends by a trap to the lower floors. When the ladder is once drawn up, it is impossible to enter the house.
The Pueblo of Aronco is situated on the summit of a scarped rock, over a precipice several hundred feet in depth. The inhabitants only enter by means of ladders, as is the case in some Swiss villages; but in time of war the ladders disappear, and the pueblo can only be reached by notches cut at regular distances in the rock.
The summer villages are only constructed for habitation in fine weather, or peace times, to facilitate getting in the crops and the chase; so soon as the first frost arrives, or a sound of war is heard, they are immediately deserted.
All the summer villages are alike; the one to which we allude here was surrounded by palisades and a wide ditch, but the fortifications, which had not been kept up, were in a complete state of dilapidation; the ditch was filled up at several spots, and the palisades, torn down by the squaws to light fires, offered, at many places, a convenient passage for assailants.
The Apaches wished to descend into the plain, unnoticed by the inhabitants; which would have been difficult, almost impossible, for European troops; but the Indians, whose wars are only one succession of surprises and ambushes, know how to surmount such difficulties.
It was arranged that the band, divided into three detachments, the first commanded by Black Cat, the second by another chief, and the third by Red Cedar, should crawl down the hillside, while the few men left to guard the horses would come up when the village was invaded.
This settled, Black Cat had torches prepared. When all was ready, the three detachments lay down on the ground, and the descent of the hill began. Assuredly, a man standing sentry in the place could not have suspected that more than five hundred warriors were marching on the village, crawling in the lofty grass like serpents, not even making the branches or leaves under which they crept oscillate, and keeping such order in their march that they always formed front.
The descent had lasted more than an hour, and as soon as the plain was reached the greatest difficulty was surmounted; for owing to the height of the plants and bushes, it was almost impossible for them to be perceived. At length, gaining ground inch by inch, after surmounting enormous obstacles and difficulties, they reached the palisade.
The first to arrive was Black Cat, who imitated the barking of the coyote. Two similar signals answered him, uttered by the chiefs of the other detachments, who had also arrived. Black Cat, now confident of being vigorously supported by his friends, seized his war whistle, and produced from it a shrill and piercing sound.
All the Indians rose as one man, and, bounding like tigers, rushed on the village, uttering their formidable war cry. They entered the village by three sides simultaneously, driving before them the terrified population; who, taken unawares, fled in every direction, howling with terror.
Some of the Apaches, as soon as they got in, lit their torches, and threw them on the straw roofs of the callis. The huts immediately caught, and the fire spreading around, served as the vanguard of the Apaches, who excited it with everything they could lay hands on.
The unhappy Comanches, surprised in the middle of a ceremony, surrounded by a belt of fire, and attacked on all sides by their ferocious enemies, who were killing and scalping women and children, suffered from the most profound despair, and only offered a weak resistance to this fierce assault. In the meanwhile the fire spread further. The village became a burning furnace—the heated air was oppressive to breathe, and masses of sparks and of smoke, driven by the wind, blinded and burnt the eyes.
The hunters, on the roof of the calli, defended themselves vigorously, not hoping to escape, but wishing, at least, to sell their lives dearly. They were already surrounded by the flames which met over their heads, and yet they did not dream of giving ground.
Still, when the first moment of terror had passed, a band of Comanche warriors had succeeded in uniting, and offered a most obstinate resistance to the Apaches. All at once, White Gazelle, with flashing eye, suffused face, clenched teeth, and blanched lips, rushed forward, followed by Red Cedar and the Pirates, who followed at her heels.
"Surrender!" she cried to Valentine.
"Coward!" the latter replied, who took her for a man; "here is my answer!"
And he fired a pistol at the girl. The bullet passed through Orson's arm, who uttered a yell of pain, and rushed madly into the medley.
"Surrender! I say again," the girl went on, "you must see that you will be killed."
"No! A hundred times no," Valentine shouted. "I will not surrender."
The Gazelle, by a prodigious effort, reached the wall of the calli, and by the help of her hands and feet, succeeded in reaching the roof before her intention was suspected. With the energy and fierceness of a tiger, she bounded on Doña Clara, seized her round the waist, and put a pistol to her forehead.
"Now, will you surrender?" she said furiously.
"Take care, Niña; take care," Sandoval shouted.
It was too late: Curumilla had felled her with the butt end of his rifle. The pirates rushed to her aid, but Valentine and his friends repulsed them. A horrible hand-to-hand combat began over the body of the girl, who lay senseless on the ground.
Valentine took a scrutinising glance around him; with a movement swift as thought he caught up Doña Clara, and, leaping from the calli, he fell into the midst of a detachment of Comanches, who welcomed him with shouts of joy. Without loss of time the hunter laid the maiden, who was half dead with terror, on the ground, and placing himself at the head of the warriors, he made so successful a charge, that the Apaches, surprised in their turn, were compelled to give ground. Don Pablo and the others then rejoined the hunters.
"By Jove! It is warm work," said the Frenchman, whose hair and eyebrows were scorched. "Our friend, Red Cedar, has brought this on us. I was decidedly wrong in not killing him."
In the meanwhile the Comanches had recovered from their terror; the warriors had found arms and assumed the offensive. Not only did the Apaches no longer advance, but at various points they began falling back, inch by inch, it is true but it was already a retreat. The pirates, rendered desperate by the wound of their darling child, surrounded her, and tried in vain to recall her to life. Red Cedar alone fought at the head of the Apaches, and performed prodigies of valour.
Night had set in, and the combat was still going on by the sinister glare of the fire. Valentine took Pethonista aside, and whispered a few words.
"Good," the chief answered; "my brother is a great warrior: he will save my nation."
And he straightway disappeared, making some of his men a sign to follow him.
Doña Clara was not long despondent; when the first effect of terror had passed she rose and seized a pistol.
"Do not trouble yourself about me," she said to Valentine and her brother. "Do your duty as brave hunters: if I am attacked, I can defend myself."
"I will remain by your side," said Shaw, giving her a passionate glance.
"Be it so," she answered with a kind smile; "henceforth I shall be in safety."
The Comanches had entrenched themselves with their squaws in the great square of the village, where the flames did not affect them greatly. Indeed, the wretched callis had not taken long to burn; the fire was already expiring for lack of nourishment, and they were fighting on a heap of cinders.
Valentine, while fighting in the first ranks of his allies, contented himself with holding the positions he had succeeded in occupying, and did not attempt to repulse the Apaches. All at once the war cry of the Comanches, mingled with a formidable hurrah, sounded in the rear of the Apaches, who were attacked with incredible fury.
"Bloodson! Bloodson!" the Apaches shouted, attacked with extraordinary terror.
It was, in truth, the stranger, who, followed by Don Miguel, General Ibañez, Unicorn, and all his comrades, rushed like a whirlwind on the Apaches. Valentine gave vent to a shout of joy in response to the hurrah of his friends, and rushed forward at the head of his warriors. From this moment the medley became horrible: it was no longer a combat, but a butchery, an atrocious carnage!
In order fully to comprehend the ensuing facts, we are constrained to relate here an event which occurred about twenty years before our story commences.
At that remote period Texas belonged, if notde facto, stillde jure, to Mexico. Marvellously situated on the Mexican Gulf, endowed with a temperate climate and a fertile soil, which, if tickled with a spade, laughs with a harvest, Texas is assuredly one of the richest countries in the New World. Hence, the Government, foreseeing the future of this province, did all in its power to populate it.
Unfortunately, it effected very little, incapable as it was of populating even Mexico. Still, a considerable number of Mexicans went across and settled in Texas.
Among the men who let themselves be tempted by the magic promises of this virgin soil were two brothers, Don Stefano and Don Pacheco de Irala, of the best families in the province of Nuevo-León. The active part they played in the war of independence had ruined them, and not obtaining from the liberals, after the triumph of their cause, the reward they had a right to expect for the services they had rendered—Don Gregorio, their father, having even paid with his life for his attachment to the party—they had no other resource but settling in Texas, a new country, in which they had hopes of speedily re-establishing their fortunes.
Owing to their thorough knowledge of agriculture, and their intelligence, they soon gave a considerable extension to their settlement, which they had the pleasure of seeing daily grow more prosperous, in defiance of Indians, buffaloes, tempests, and illness. The Hacienda del Papagallo (Parrot farm), inhabited by the two brothers, was, like all the houses in this country, which are continually exposed to the inrods of the savages, a species of fortress built of carved stone and surrounded by a thick and embrasured wall, with a gun at each corner: it stood on the top of a rather lofty hill, and commanded the plain for a considerable distance.
Don Pacheco, the elder of the two brothers, was married and had two daughters, little creatures scarce three years of age, whose joyous cries and ravishing smiles filled the interior of the hacienda with gaiety. Hardly three leagues from the farm was another, occupied by Northern Americans, adventurers of more than dubious conduct, who had come to the country no one knew how, and who, since they inhabited it, led a mysteriously problematical existence, which gave birth to the strangest and most contradictory reports about them.
It was whispered that, under the guise of peaceful farmers, these men maintained relations with the bandits who flocked into the country from every side, and that they were the secret chiefs of a dangerous association of malefactors, who had ravaged the country for several years past with impunity. On several occasions the two brothers had disputes with these unpleasant neighbours about cattle that had disappeared and other pecadillos of the same nature. In a word, they lived with them on the footing of an armed peace.
A few days previous to the period to which this chapter refers, Don Pacheco had a sharp altercation with one of these Americans of the name of Wilkes, about several slaves the fellow tried to seduce from hacienda, and the result was, that Don Pacheco, naturally hot-tempered, gave him a tremendous horsewhipping. The other swallowed the insult without making any attempt to revenge himself; but he had withdrawn, muttering the most terrible threats against Don Pacheco.
Still, as we have said, the affair had no further consequences. Nearly a month had passed, and the brothers had heard nothing from their neighbours. On the evening of the day which we take up our narrative, Don Stefano, mounted on a mustang, was preparing to leave the hacienda, to ride to Nacogdoches, where important business called him.
"Then, you are really going?" Don Pacheco said.
"At once: you know that I put off the journey as long as I could."
"How long do you expect to be absent?"
"Four days, at the most."
"Good: we shall not expect you, then, before."
"Oh, it is very possible I may return sooner."
"Why so?"
"Shall I tell you? Well, I do not feel easy in mind."
"What do you mean?"
"I am anxious, I know not why. Many times I have left you, brother, for longer journeys than this—"
"Well!" Don Pacheco interrupted him.
"I never felt before as I do at this moment."
"You startle me, brother. What is the matter with you?"
"I could not explain it to you. I have a foreboding of evil. In spite of myself, my heart is contracted on leaving you."
"That is strange," Don Pacheco muttered, suddenly becoming thoughtful. "I do not dare confess it to you, brother; but I have just the same feeling as yourself, and am afraid I know not why."
"Brother," Don Stefano replied in a gloomy voice, "you know how we love each other. Since our father's death, we have constantly shared everything—joy and sorrow, fortune or reverses. Brother, this foreboding is sent us from Heaven. A great danger threatens us."
"Perhaps so," Don Pacheco said sadly.
"Listen, brother," Don Stefano remarked, resolutely. "I will not go."
And he made a movement to dismount, but his brother checked him.
"No," he said, "we are men. We must not, then, let ourselves be conquered by foolish thoughts, which are only chimeras produced by a diseased imagination."
"No. I prefer to remain here a few days longer."
"You told me yourself that your interests claim your presence at Nacogdoches. Go, but return as soon as possible."
There was a silence, during which the brothers reflected deeply. The moon rose pallid and mournful on the horizon.
"That Wilkes is a villain," Don Stefano went on; "who knows whether he is not waiting my departure to attempt on the hacienda one of those terrible expeditions of which he is accused by the public voice?"
Don Pacheco began laughing, and, stretching out his hand in the direction of the farm, whose white walls stood out clearly on the dark blue sky, he said:—
"The Papagallo has too hard sides for those bandits. Go in peace, brother, they will not venture it."
"May Heaven grant it!" Don Stefano murmured.
"Oh, those men are cowards, and I inflicted a well-merited punishment on the scoundrel."
"Agreed."
"Well?"
"It's precisely because those men are cowards that I fear them. Canarios! I know as well as you that they will not dare openly to attack you."
"What have I to fear, then?" Don Pacheco interrupted him.
"Treachery, brother."
"Why, have I not five hundred devoted peons on the hacienda? Go without fear, I tell you."
"You wish it?"
"I insist on it."
"Good-bye, then," Don Stefano said, stifling a sigh. "Good-bye, brother, till we meet again."
Don Stefano dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and started at full speed. For a long time his brother followed the rider's outline on the sandy road, till he turned a corner, and Don Pacheco re-entered the hacienda with an anxious heart.
Don Stefano, stimulated by the vague alarm that oppressed him, only stopped the absolutely necessary period at Nacogdoches to finish his business, and hurried back scarce two days after his departure. Strangely enough, the nearer he drew to the farm, the greater his anxiety grew, though it was impossible for him to explain the causes of the feeling.
Around home all was tranquil—the sky, studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, spread over his head its dome of azure; at intervals, the howling of the coyote was mingled with the hoarse lowing of the buffaloes, or the roars of the jaguars in quest of prey.
Don Stefano still advanced, bowed over his horse's neck, with pale forehead and heaving chest, listening to the numerous sounds of the solitude, and trying to pierce with vivid glance the darkness that hid from him the point to which he was hurrying with the speed of a tornado.
After a ride of six hours, the Mexican suddenly uttered a yell of agony, as he violently pulled up his panting steed. Before him the Hacienda del Papagallo appeared, surrounded by a belt of flames. The magnificent building was now only a shapeless pile of smoking ruins, reflecting its ruddy flames on the sky for a considerable distance.
"My brother! My brother!" Don Stefano shrieked in his despair.
And he rushed into the furnace.
A mournful silence brooded over the hacienda. At every step the Mexican stumbled over corpses half-consumed by the flames and horribly mutilated. Mad with grief and rage, with his hair and clothes burned by the flames that enveloped him, Don Stefano continued his researches.
What was he seeking in this accursed charnel house? He did not himself know, but still he sought. Not a shriek, not a sigh! On all sides the silence of death!—that terrible silence which makes the heart leap, and ices the bravest man with fear!
What had taken place during Don Stefano's absence?—What enemy had produced these ruins in a few short hours?
The first beams of dawn were beginning to tinge the horizon with their fugitive opaline tints, and the sky gradually assumed that ruddy hue which announces sunrise. Don Stefano had passed the whole night in vain and sterile researches, and though he had constantly interrogated the ruins, they remained dumb.
The Mexican, overcome by grief, and compelled to acknowledge his own impotence, gave Heaven a glance of reproach and despair, and throwing himself on the calcined ground, he hid his face in his hands, and wept! The sight of this young, handsome, brave man weeping silently over the ruins whose secret he had been unable to discover must have been heartrending.
Suddenly, Don Stefano started up, with flashing eye, and a face on which indomitable energy was imprinted.
"Oh!" he shouted, in a voice that resembled the howl of a wild beast, "vengeance! Vengeance!"
A voice that seemed to issue from the tomb answered his, and Don Stefano turned round with a shudder. Two yards from him, his brother, pale, mutilated, and bleeding, was leaning against a fallen wall, like a spectre.
"Ah!" the Mexican exclaimed, as he rushed toward him.
"You come too late, brother," the wounded man murmured, in a voice choking with the death rattle.
"Oh! I will save you, brother," Don Stefano said, desperately.
"No," Don Pacheco replied sadly, shaking his head, "I am dying, brother; your foreboding did not deceive you."
"Hope!"
And, raising his brother in his powerful arms, he prepared to pay him that attention which his condition seemed to demand.
"I am dying, I tell you—all is useless," Don Pacheco continued, in a voice that momentarily grew weaker. "Listen to me."
"Speak!"
"Say that you will avenge me, brother?" the dying man asked, his eye emitting a fierce flash.
"I will avenge you," Don Stefano answered; "I swear it by our Saviour!"
"Good! I have been assassinated by men dressed as Apache Indians, but among them I fancied I recognised—"
"Whom?"
"Wilkes the squatter, and Samuel, his accomplice."
"Enough! Where is your wife?"
"Dead! My daughters, save them!" Don Pacheco murmured.
"Where are they?"
"Carried off by the bandits."
"Oh! I will discover them, even if hidden in the bowels of the earth! Did you not recognise anyone else?"
"Yes, yes, one more," the dying man said, in an almost unintelligible voice.
Don Stefano bent over his brother in order to hear more distinctly.
"Who? Tell me—brother, speak in Heaven's name!"
The wounded man made a supreme effort.
"There was another man, formerly a peon of ours."
"His name?" Don Stefano asked eagerly.
Don Pacheco was growing weaker, his face had assumed an earthy hue, and his eyes could no longer distinguish objects.
"I cannot remember," he sighed rather than said.
"One word, only one, brother."
"Yes, listen—it is Sand—ah!"
He suddenly fell back, uttering a terrible cry, and clutching at his brother's arm; he writhed in a final convulsion, and all was over.
Don Stefano knelt by his brother's corpse, embraced it tenderly, piously closed its eyes, and then got up. He dug a grave with his machete among the smoking ruins of the hacienda, in which he laid his brother's body. When this sacred duty was performed, he addressed an ardent prayer to the Deity in behalf of the sinful man who was about to appear before His judgment seat, and then, stretching out his arms over the grave, he said in a loud, distinct voice—
"Sleep in peace, brother, sleep in peace. I promise you a glorious revenge."
Don Stefano slowly descended the hill, found his horse, which had spent the night in nibbling the young tree shoots, and started at a gallop, after giving a parting glance to these ruins, under which all his happiness lay buried.
No one ever heard of Don Stefano again in Texas: was he dead too, without taking that vengeance which he had sworn to achieve? No one could say. The Americans had also disappeared since that awful night and left no sign. In these primitive countries things are soon forgotten: life passes away there so rapidly, and is so full of strange incidents, that the events of the morrow obliterate the remembrances of those of the eve. Ere long the population of Texas had completely forgotten this terrible catastrophe.
Every year, however, a man appeared on the hill where the hacienda once stood, whose ruins the luxuriant vegetation of the country had long ago overgrown; this man seated himself on the silent ruins, and passed the whole night with his face buried in his hands.
"What did he there?"
"Whence did he come?"
"Who was he?"
These three questions ever remained unanswered, for at daybreak the stranger rode off again, not to return till the following year on the anniversary of the frightful tragedy. One strange fact was proved however, after every visit paid by this man—one, two, or even sometimes three horribly mutilated human heads were found lying on the hill.
What demoniac task was this incomprehensible being performing? Was it Don Stefano pursuing his vengeance?
We shall probably see presently.
We are compelled to retrograde a short distance in our story, in order to explain to the reader the arrival of that help which in an instant altered the face of the fight, and saved Valentine and his friends from captivity, probably from death.
Unicorn carefully watched the movements of Red Cedar and his band; since the Pirate's arrival on the desert he had not once let him out of sight. Hidden in the chaparral on the riverbank, he had been an unseen spectator of the bandit's fight with the hunters; but, with that caution which forms the basis of the Indian character, he had left his friends perfect liberty to act as they thought proper, with the design of interfering when necessary.
When he saw the Pirates disarmed, and reduced to his last shifts, he considered it useless to follow him longer, and proceeded in the direction of his village, to assemble his warriors, and go at their head to attack the camp of the scalp hunters.
The Comanche chief was alone with his squaw, from whom he scarcely ever separated; they were both galloping along the bank of the Gila, being careful to hide themselves among the brushwood, when suddenly deafening cries, mingled with shots, and the hasty gallop of a horse, struck his ears.
Unicorn made his companion a signal to halt, and dismounted; then, cautiously crawling among the trees, he glided like a serpent through the tall grass to the skirt of the chaparral which sheltered him. On reaching this point he cautiously rose on his knees and looked out.
A man, bearing a fainting woman across his saddle-bow, was coming up at full speed; in the distance several Indian warriors, doubtless wearied of an useless pursuit, were slowly retiring, while the fugitive rapidly drew nearer Unicorn.
The chief perceived at the first glance that he was a white. On arriving within a short distance of the spot where he lay in ambush, the newcomer looked round several times nervously; then he dismounted, took the female in his arms, laid her tenderly on the grass, and ran to the river to fill his hat with water. It was Harry, the Canadian hunter, and the female was Ellen.
So soon as he had gone off, Unicorn started from his hiding place, giving his wife a sign to follow him, and both approached the maiden, who was lying senseless on the ground. Sunbeam knelt by the side of the American girl, gently raised her head, and began paying her those delicate attentions of which women alone possess the secret. Almost immediately after, Harry ran up; but at the sight of the Indian he hurriedly dropped his hat, and drew a pistol from his girdle.
"Wah!" Unicorn said quickly, "My pale brother need not pull out his weapons—I am a friend."
"A friend?" Harry replied, ill-humouredly; "Can a redskin warrior be the friend of a white man?"
The chief crossed his arms on his broad chest, and boldly walked up to the hunter.
"I was hidden ten paces from you," he said; "had I been an enemy, the paleface would have been dead ere now."
The Canadian shook his head.
"That is possible," he said; "may heaven grant that you speak frankly, for the struggle I have gone through in saving this poor girl has so exhausted me that I could not defend her against you."
"Good!" the Indian continued, "She has nothing to fear; Unicorn is chief of his nation, when he gives his word he must be believed."
And he honestly offered his hand to the hunter. The latter hesitated for a moment, then suddenly forming a resolution, he cordially pressed the hand, saying—
"I believe you, chief; your name is known to me; you have the reputation of a wise man and brave warrior, so I trust to you; but I implore you to help me in recovering this unhappy girl."
Sunbeam gently raised her head, and gave the hunter a glance of tender sympathy, as she said in her harmonious voice—
"The pale virgin runs no danger, in a few minutes she will come to herself again; my brother may be at his ease."
"Thanks, thanks, young woman," the Canadian said, warmly; "the hope you give me fills me with joy; I can now think about avenging my poor Dick."
"What does my brother mean?" the chief asked, surprised at the flash of fury from the hunter's dark eye.
The latter, reassured as to the state of his companion, and attracted by the open and honest reception the Indian gave him, did not hesitate to confide to him not only what had occurred to himself, but also the causes which had brought him into this deserted country.
"Now," he said in the close, "I have only one desire—to place this girl in security, and then avenge my friend."
The Indian has listened unmoved and without interruption to the hunter's long story. When he had finished he seemed to reflect for some minutes, and then answered the Canadian, as he laid his hand on his shoulder—
"Then my brother wishes to take vengeance on the Apaches?"
"Yes!" the hunter exclaimed; "So soon as this girl is in a safe place I will go on their trail."
"Ah!" the Indian said, as he shook his head, "One man cannot fight with fifty."
"I do not care for the number of my enemies so long as I can come up with them."
Unicorn gave the daring young man an admiring glance.
"Good!" he said, "My brother is brave—I will help him to his vengeance."
At this moment Ellen partly opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" she murmured.
"Reassure yourself, Ellen," the hunter replied; "for the moment at least you have nothing to fear as you are surrounded by friends."
"Where is Doña Clara? I do not see her," she continued, in a weak voice.
"I will tell you presently, Ellen, what has happened to her," the hunter remarked.
Ellen sighed and was silent; she understood that Harry would not tell her fresh misfortune in her present state of weakness. Owing to Sunbeam's increasing attentions she, however, soon completely regained her senses.
"Does my sister feel her strength returned?" the squaw asked her anxiously.
"Oh," she said, "I am quite well now."
Unicorn looked fixedly at her.
"Yes," he said, "my sister is at present in a condition to travel. It is time to start, our road is long; Sunbeam will give her horse to the pale virgin, that she may be able to follow us."
"Where do you intend taking us, chief?" the hunter asked, with badly-veiled anxiety.
"Did not my brother say that he wished to avenge himself?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, he can follow me, and I will lead him to those who will help him."
"Hum!" the Canadian muttered, "I require nobody for that."
"My brother is mistaken; he requires allies, for the enemy he will have to fight is powerful."
"That is possible. But I should like to know these allies, at any rate; I am not inclined to league myself with the villainous bandits, who flock to the desert and dishonour our colour. I am a frank and honest hunter, for my part."
"My brother has spoken well," the chief answered, with a smile; "he can be at rest, and place entire confidence in those to whom I am about to lead him."
"Who are they, then?"
"One is the father of the maiden the Apaches have carried off, the others—"
"Stay, chief," the hunter quickly exclaimed, "that is sufficient, I do not want to know the rest. We will start when you please, and I will follow you anywhere."
"Good; my brother will get the horses ready, while I give some indispensable orders to my squaw."
Harry bowed in sign of acquiescence, and deftly accomplished the task, while the Comanche took his wife aside, and conversed with her in a whisper.
"Now we will go," the Comanche said, as he returned to the hunter.
"Does not Sunbeam accompany us?" Ellen asked.
"No," the chief answered laconically.
The young Indian woman smiled pleasantly on the squatter's daughter and gliding swiftly among the trees, disappeared almost instantaneously. The others mounted and started at a gallop in the opposite direction.
The Comanche warrior fancied he knew where to find Valentine and his comrades, and hence went in a direct line to the Teocali.
After the Trail-hunter's departure, Don Miguel and the other characters of our story, who remained in Bloodson's fortress, continued to sleep peaceably for several hours, and when they awoke the sun was already high on the horizon. The hacendero and the general, fatigued by the emotions of the preceding day, and but little accustomed to desert life, had yielded to sleep like men who require to regain their strength; when they opened their eyes, a plentiful meal awaited them.
Several days passed without any incident. The stranger, in spite of the cordiality of his reception, maintained a certain degree of reserve with his guests, only speaking to them when it was absolutely necessary, but never seeking to begin with them one of those conversations in which people gradually forget themselves, and insensibly glide into confidential talk. There was something frigid about the manner of this strange man, which could not be explained, but which prevented any friendly relations.
One evening, at the moment when Don Miguel and the general were preparing to lie down on the skins of wild beasts, which served as their bed, their host approached them. Through the day the two gentlemen had noticed a certain agitation among the denizens in the Teocali. An unusual excitement had prevailed, and it was plain that Bloodson was about to attempt one of those daring expeditions to which he was accustomed.
Although the two Mexicans eagerly desired to know their host's projects, they were too much men of the world to question him, and restrained their curiosity while patiently awaiting an explanation which he would not fail soon to give them.
"Good news, caballeros," he said, as he joined them.
"Oh, oh!" the general muttered, "That's novel fruit here."
Don Miguel awaited their host's explanation.
"One of my friends," Bloodson continued, "arrived here this morning, accompanied by a Canadian hunter and Red Cedar's daughter."
At this unexpected good news the Mexicans started with joy and surprise.
"Ah," Don Miguel said, "she will be a precious hostage for us."
"That is what I thought," Bloodson continued; "however, the poor child is perfectly innocent of her father's crimes; and if she is at this moment in our power, it is only because she wished to save your daughter, Don Miguel."
"What do you mean?" the hacendero asked, with an internal tremor.
"You shall understand it," Bloodson answered.
And without any further preamble, he told his listeners all the details connected with the flight of the girls, which the reader already knows.
When he had finished his narrative there was a moment's silence.
"The position is a serious one," the general said, shaking his head.
"We must save our friends, at all risks," Don Miguel exclaimed, impetuously.
"That is my intention," said Bloodson; "at present the position of affairs is improved."
"How so?" the hacendero asked.
"Because it is better for Doña Clara to be a prisoner with the Apaches than with Red Cedar."
"That is true," Don Miguel observed.
"How can we get her out of their clutches?" asked the general.
"That does not embarrass me," Bloodson said; "tomorrow, at daybreak, we will start with all our people, and go to Unicorn's village, who will join his warriors to ours, and then we will attack the Apaches in their village."
"Very good; but shall we be sure of finding my daughter at the village?"
"In the desert everything is seen and known. Do you fancy that Don Valentine has remained inactive since he left us? You may feel assured that he has long been on the trail of the young lady, if he has not already liberated her."
"May heaven grant it," the father remarked with a mournful sigh; "but who will advise us of what he has done?"
"Himself, you may be convinced of that. Still, as we are a very long distance from the village where your daughter is probably confined, we must hasten to get nearer to her; hence, my guests, get up your strength, for tomorrow will be a tiring day, I warn you. Now, permit me to wish you good night, and leave you, in order to give my final orders."
"One word more, I beg of you."
"Speak."
"What do you intend doing with the girl whom a strange accident has thrown into your power?"
"I do not know; events will decide her fate; I shall regulate my conduct by that of our common enemy."
"You said yourself," Don Miguel continued, "that the girl is innocent of her father's crimes."
Bloodson gave him a peculiar glance
"Do you not know, Don Miguel," he answered, in a hollow voice, "that in this world the innocent always suffer for the guilty?"
And, not adding a word further, he gave the Mexicans a profound bow, and slowly retired.
The two gentlemen looked after him, as he gradually disappeared in the gloom of the Teocali; then they fell back on their beds despondingly, not daring to impart to each other the sorrowful thoughts that oppressed them.
At daybreak some forty horsemen, at whose head rode Bloodson, Don Miguel Zarate, and General Ibañez, started in the direction of the Comanche village, guided by Unicorn. In the midst of the band rode Ellen, closely watched, and Harry, who would not leave her for a moment, galloped by her side.
The maiden had guessed, in spite of the attentions offered her, or perhaps through them, that she was regarded rather as a prisoner than a friend by the men who surrounded her. Hence, on leaving the Teocali, she had given Harry a suppliant glance to remain by her side. The hunter had understood this glance, and, in spite of all that Bloodson urged to induce him to ride with him at the head of the party, he obstinately remained by Ellen's side.
By a strange coincidence, at the very moment when the partisans, guided by Unicorn, were leaving the Teocali to go in search of news of their friends at the Comanche village, the latter were executing their miraculous flight, had left the islet on which they had defended themselves so bravely, and, after boldly crossing the Apache camp, were also proceeding, though by a different route, to the same village.
The march of a numerous party in the desert is generally less rapid than that of a few men, and it is easy of explanation. Two or three men proceeding together pass without difficulty anywhere, gliding through the chaparral, and following the track of wild beasts; but some forty persons compelled to adopt the Indian file, that is to say, march one after the other, along these problematical paths, scarce wide enough for one horseman, are constrained to cheek their pace, and advance with extreme precaution, especially on an expedition of the sort the partisans were now undertaking.
Hence, in spite of all the diligence they displayed, they advanced but slowly. The ruddy disc of the sun was rapidly descending on the horizon, the shadow of the lofty trees was lengthening more and more, the evening breeze was beginning to sough through the virgin forest, which extended for an enormous distance on the right of the travellers, while on the riverbank the alligators were clumsily leaving the bed of mud in which they had been slothfully wallowing, and were regaining the deep waters of the Gila.
The horses and riders, harassed by the fatigues of a long journey, were slowly dragging along, when Unicorn, who was about one hundred yards ahead, suddenly turned back and rejoined his comrades, who at once halted.
"What is the matter?" Bloodson asked, so soon as the chief found him; "Has my brother seen anything that alarms him?"
"Yes," the Indian laconically replied.
"I am waiting for my brother to explain."
"The desert is not quiet," the chief went on in a grave voice; "the vultures and white-headed eagles are flying in long circles, the deer and buffaloes are restless, the asshatas are bounding in every direction, and the antelopes flying with all the speed of their limbs northward."
Bloodson frowned and waited a moment ere he replied. The Mexicans examined him anxiously, but at length he raised his head.
"What do you conclude from these signs?"
"This: the Apaches are crossing the prairie; they are numerous, for the desert is disturbed for a very considerable extent."
"Why the Apaches sooner than others?" Bloodson answered. "Cannot wood rangers have produced the excitement you have noticed, as well as the Indians?"
The Comanche warrior shook his head in contradiction.
"They are Apaches," he said, peremptorily. "This is not the season of the great hunts, the animals are not troubled by man at this period of the year. They know it, and do not desperately fly from him, as they are certain of not being pursued. The wood rangers march alone, or only three or four together, employing precautions not to startle the game. But the Apaches are ignorant dogs, who, like the coyotes they resemble, continually assemble in large parties, and, instead of marching like men or warriors, pass like a hurricane over the prairie, burning, destroying, and devastating everything in their passage."
"That is true," Bloodson muttered; "your sagacity has not deceived you, chief; only the Apaches can be near here."
"Good; and what will my brother do?" the Comanche asked.
The stranger's eye flashed fire.
"We will fight them," he said.
The Indian gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders.
"No," he said; "that is no good; we must not fight at this moment."
"Speak then, in the devil's name," the stranger exclaimed, impatiently, "and explain your plan to us."
The Indian smiled.
"My brother is quick," he said.
Bloodson, ashamed of having given way to his temper, had already regained his coolness.
"Pardon me, chief; I was wrong."
And he held out his hand, which Unicorn took and pressed warmly.
"My brother is wise," he replied; "I know that he did not wish to insult a friend."
"Speak, chief; time is slipping away; explain your plan to me."
"Behind that hill is Unicorn's village; the warriors will remain here while he advances alone, in order to know what is going on."
"Good; my brother can go; we will wait."
In the desert, long conversations are not the fashion; moments are too precious to be lost in words. The Indian set spurs to his horse and went off, and he soon disappeared from their sight.
"What do you think of what the chief has just told us?" the general asked.
"It is very serious," the stranger answered. "The Indians have an extraordinary skill for discovering what goes on in the desert—they have an infallible instinct which never deceives them. This man is one of the most intelligent I know. I am only acquainted with two men in the world capable of contending with him—that frightful scoundrel, Red Cedar, and Don Valentine, that French hunter whom the Indians themselves have surnamed the Trail-Hunter."
"Ah!" Don Miguel said, "Then your opinion is—"
"That we must await the result of the step Unicorn is taking at this moment; his village is only an hour's march at the most from the spot where we now are."
"But, in that case, why stop us?"
"An Indian never returns home till he has assured himself that all is in order. Who can foresee what has happened during his absence?"
"That is true; let us wait, then," the hacendero said, stifling a sigh.
Nearly an hour passed thus. All the partisans seated on their horses, with their finger on the trigger of their rifle, remained motionless as bronze statues. In the meanwhile the sun had set in a mist of vapour, the shadow spread gradually over the desert like a thick winding sheet, and the stars were slowly lit up in the dark blue sky. Still Unicorn did not return.
The hunters did not exchange a word; each, persuaded in his heart that the position was a serious one, was reflecting deeply. Not a sound was audible, save the hoarse and continuous rustling of the Rio Gila over the pebbles and rocks that border its banks.
Suddenly, Bloodson, whose eye had been obstinately fixed in the direction where the Comanche Chief had disappeared, gave a slight start and whispered in Don Miguel's ear:
"Here he is."
In fact, the gallop of a horse was heard gradually drawing nearer till the chief reappeared.
"Well?" the stranger shouted to him.
"Koutonepi and the pale virgin are in the village," he said; "the hunter has delivered the maiden."
"May Heaven be praised!" Don Miguel said, fervently.
Unicorn looked at him sadly.
"The Apaches are pursuing them," he added; "at this moment the village is being attacked, but our friends defend themselves bravely."
"Let us fly to their help," the Mexicans shouted.
Bloodson turned to them.
"Patience," he said; "let the chief explain."
"My pale brother," the Comanche continued, "with one-half of the warriors, will turn the hill and enter the village by the north, while I, with the other half, will enter by the south."
"Good," said Bloodson; "but we are far off yet; perhaps our friends will be unable to hold out till our arrival."
Unicorn smiled scornfully.
"The Apaches are cowardly dogs," he said. "The Comanches will defend themselves: they know not flight."
Without replying, the partisan divided his band, taking the command of one party, and entrusting the other to the Comanche warrior. All these men were Indians, long habituated to a war of ambushes and surprises: this bold stroke was a Godsend to them: with flashing eyes and quivering lips, though apparently unmoved, they impatiently awaited the signal for departure.
"Let us go," Bloodson vociferated, brandishing his rifle over his head.
All bent over their horses manes and started forward. On reaching the foot of the hill one band went to the right, the other to the left, Ellen remaining behind, under the guard of a few warriors and the Canadian hunter, who would not leave her. This little band moved forward gently as a rearguard.
In the meanwhile, the partisans reached the village at headlong speed; and it was high time for them to arrive, for the huts, enveloped in flames, resembled a volcano. By the gleam of the fire, shadows could be seen darting hither and thither; and shouts of pain and rage, mingled with the discharge of firearms, incessantly rose from this burning mass.
The partisans rushed into this horrible furnace, uttering their war yell and brandishing their arms, and the medley became frightful. The Apaches, thus attacked on two sides simultaneously, underwent a momentary stupor, which soon changed into a panic and utter rout, at the sight of these new opponents, who seemed to rise from the ground to crush them, and change their triumph into a defeat.
But flight was not easy. The entire population of the village was under arms: women and children, electrified by their example, and joining the warriors, rushed madly on the Apaches, who, seeing their surprise foiled, only tried to reach the open country again.
For a quarter of an hour the massacre was fearful. At length the Apaches, led by Stanapat and Black Cat, who vainly performed prodigies of valour in order to restore the chances of the fight, succeeded in clearing a gap through their enemies, and rushed in every direction, closely followed by the Comanches, who felled them with their war clubs and pitilessly scalped them.
Only one band still resisted.
Leaning against the palisades, which they had not yet found time to cross, the pirates, bearing in their midst the body of their beloved Gazelle, had recoiled inch by inch before the enemies who enveloped them on all sides, dashing forward every now and then, and compelling their foes to give ground in their turn.
But the struggle was too unequal, and a long resistance soon became impossible. The pirates, skilfully profiting by a moment of disorder, started to fly each in a different direction, hoping to escape more easily in this way. Sandoval had taken on his robust shoulders the body of the girl, and with an extraordinary effort, which despair alone made successful, had leaped out on the plain, where he hoped to conceal himself in the grass.
He would have probably succeeded in this, but he had to do with four men, who seemed to have made up their minds to hunt him down. At the moment he drew himself up after his leap, Valentine and his comrades threw themselves upon him, without giving him time to defend himself, and, in spite of his desperate resistance and furious yells, tied him securely.
The old pirate, on finding himself a prisoner, let his head sink on his chest, and giving a sad glance at the girl he had been unable to save, he gave vent to a deep sigh, and a burning tear silently coursed down his furrowed cheeks. At the same moment Ellen entered the village, in the middle of her escort: on seeing her, Valentine started.
"Oh!" he muttered; "Where is Doña Clara?"
"My daughter, my daughter!" the hacendero exclaimed, suddenly appearing before the hunter, with his clothes disordered and his brow pale with fear. The unhappy father, since he had entered the village, had only attended to one thing—seeking his daughter.
Followed step by step by the general, he entered the thickest of the fight, asking after his daughter of all those he met, thrusting aside the weapons that menaced him, and not thinking of the death which at every moment rose before him, under every shape. Protected, as it were, by an invisible talisman, he had traversed the whole village and entered every hut the fire had spared, Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, having only one object—that of finding his child. Alas! His search had been in vain.
Doña Clara had disappeared: although Valentine had intrusted her to Shaw, no one knew what had become of her. The hacendero fell into his friend's arms, and burst into heartrending sobs.
"My daughter," he groaned. "Valentine, restore my daughter to me!"
The hunter pressed him to his manly breast.
"Courage, poor father," he said to him. "Courage!"
But the hacendero no longer heard him; grief had at length overpowered him, and he fainted away.
"Oh!" Valentine said, "Red Cedar, you viper, shall I never succeed in putting my heel on your chest!"
Aided by the general and Don Pablo, he carried Don Miguel to the medicine lodge, which the flames had not reached, and laid him a bed of dry leaves.
When the combat was at an end, the Comanches busied themselves in repairing the ravages caused by the Apache attack. Though their losses were great, they were not so serious as might be supposed; because, as the season was already far advanced, they had sent the larger portion of their property to the winter village. This accidental circumstance saved the greater part of their wealth.
On the other hand, the Apaches had been in such haste, and the defence had been so promptly organised and obstinate, that they had found no time to plunder. Although all the callis were reduced to ashes, that damage was trifling, and could be repaired in a few days.
The most serious part of the affair was the loss of some twenty warriors, who had courageously fallen in the defence of their homes. Several women and children had also fallen; but the Apaches had suffered a far more considerable loss. Without counting more than eighty warriors killed during the rout, Black Cat and six other Apache warriors had fallen alive into the power of their adversaries, and a terrible fate awaited them.
"What does my brother intend to do with his prisoners?" Unicorn asked Valentine.
"My brother need not feel anxious about them," the latter answered; "they are whites, and I intend disposing of them as I think proper."
"It shall be done as my brother desires."
"Thanks, chief; I should feel obliged, however, by your lending me two or three warriors to guard them."
"It is unnecessary," Sandoval interrupted. "I pledge my word of honour and that of my comrade not to try and escape for the next twenty-four hours."
Valentine fixed on him a glance that seemed trying to read his most secret thoughts.
"It is well," he said presently. "I accept your parole."
"Are you going to leave this poor creature without help?"
"You love him?"
"As my son; had it not been so, you would not have captured me."
"Very good. We will try to save him; but, perhaps, it would be better for him to die at once."
"Perhaps so," the old Pirate said, shaking his head, and speaking, as it seemed, to himself.
"In a few moments the scalp dance will begin; will my brothers be present at it?" Unicorn asked.
"I will," Valentine replied, who, although caring very little for this ceremony, understood that it would be impolitic not to appear at it.
We have already said that Ellen had reached the village by this time. On seeing her, Don Pablo felt his heart quiver with emotion, and he trembled in all his limbs. Ellen, whose glance was idly wandering around, let her eyes settle accidentally on him; she suddenly blushed, and let her eyelashes droop to hide her look of pleasure.
Instinctively she felt reassured on finding she had near her this young man, whom, however, she hardly knew, and who had only addressed her once or twice. A cry of joy died away on her lips. Don Pablo walked up to her. He had already learned by what a concourse of singular events she had fallen into the hands of the partisans.
"You are free, señorita," he said to her; "henceforth you have nothing more to fear here, for you are under my protection."
"And mine," Harry said, roughly, as he hastily surveyed Don Pablo. "I alone am sufficient to defend Miss Ellen from any insult."
The two young men exchanged a very significant glance: at the first word, each recognised in the other a rival.
"I have no desire to withdraw Miss Ellen from your protection, caballero," the Mexican said coldly. "Still, as you are a stranger in this village, where I am among devoted friends, I fancy that my support will not be useless to her, and offer it—that is all."
"I gratefully accept, caballero," she replied with a charming smile. "Be kind enough to employ your influence in procuring me some shelter, where I can take a few minutes' repose, which I so greatly need."
"Be good enough to follow me," the young man answered, with a bow; "your wishes shall be immediately satisfied."
Ellen then turned to Harry.
"Thanks, brother," she said to him, cordially offering her hand. "Now, think of yourself; we shall meet again soon."
Then she added, addressing Don Pablo:
"I follow you, caballero."
The Canadian hunter stood for a moment abashed by this hurried leave-taking, but soon raised his head again.
"Hum!" he muttered, "that's the way she leaves me, is it? But why be angry with her, all women are alike—and, then, I have sworn to defend her! Can I compel her to love me?"
And after these philosophical reflections, which restored him all his tranquillity of mind, he threw his rifle over his shoulder, and quietly mixed among Bloodson's partisans.
Don Pablo, in the meanwhile, had conducted the maiden to a cabin miraculously preserved from the flames. At the moment they entered, they were joined by Valentine.
"Ah, a woman," he said, gaily, "all the better."
And laying White Gazelle on the buffalo hides, he added with a smile:
"Permit me, madam, to entrust to your care this young person, whom my friend Curumilla has half killed. We must do all our best to restore life."
Pedro Sandoval, so soon as he had pledged his word, had been freed from his ligatures, though his weapons were taken from him.
"Compañero," he said, "let the señorita do what is necessary; she will manage better than we can."