Shaw was not timid, as we have said—he ought rather be accused of the opposite excess; he was not the man, once his resolution was formed, to let anything soever turn him from it. His hesitation was not long; he suddenly rose, and violently stamping his rifle butt on the ground, looked at the two men, while saying in a firm voice,—
"Be frank, my presence here at this hour astonishes you, and you ask yourselves what cause can have brought me."
"Sir," the monk said, with a certain degree of hesitation rendered highly natural by the young man's tone.
"Pardon me," Shaw exclaimed, interrupting him, "the cause you will seek in vain. I will tell you: I have come to deliver Doña Clara."
"Can it be possible?" the two men exclaimed with stupefaction.
"It is so; whether you like it or not, I care little. I am the man to hold my own against both of you, and no one can prevent me restoring the maiden to her father, as I have resolved on doing."
"What do I hear?" said Fray Ambrosio.
"Hum!" the young man continued quickly, "Believe me, do not attempt any useless resistance, for I have resolved, if needs must, to pass over your bodies to success."
"But we have not the slightest wish—"
"Take care," he interrupted him in a voice full of menace and frowning, "I will only leave this house accompanied by her I wish to save."
"Sir," the monk remarked, in an authoritative voice which momentarily quelled the young savage, "two words of explanation."
"Make haste!" he answered, "For I warn you that my patience is exhausted."
"I do not insist on your listening any length of time. You have come here, you say, with the intention of delivering Doña Clara?"
"Yes," he answered impatiently, "and if you attempt to oppose it—"
"Pardon me," the monk interrupted, "such a determination on your part naturally surprises us."
"Why so?" the young man said, raising his head haughtily.
"Because," Fray Ambrosio answered tranquilly, "You are the son of Red Cedar, and it is at least I strange that—"
"Enough talking," Shaw exclaimed violently; "will you or not give me up her I have come to seek?"
"I must know, in the first place, what you intend doing with her.
"How does that concern you?"
"More than you imagine. Since that girl has been a prisoner I constituted myself—if not her guardian, for the dress I wear forbids that—her defender; in that quality I have the right of knowing for what reason you, the son of the man who tore her from her family, have come so audaciously to demand her surrender to you, and what your object is in acting thus?"
The young man had listened to those remarks with an impatience that became momentarily more visible; it could be seen that he made superhuman efforts to restrain himself. When the monk stopped, he looked at him for a moment with a strange expression, then walked up so close as almost to touch him, drew a pair of pistols from his girdle and pointed them at the monk.
"Surrender Doña Clara to me," he said, in a low and menacing voice.
Fray Ambrosio had attentively followed all the American's movements, and when the latter put the pistol muzzles to his chest, the monk, with an action rapid as lightning, also drew two pistols from his girdle, and placed them, on his adversary's chest. There was a moment of supreme expectation, of indescribable agony; the two men were motionless, face to face panting, each with his fingers on a trigger, pale, and their brows dank with cold perspiration. Andrés Garote, his lips curled by an ironical smile, and his arms crossed, carelessly leaned against a table, watching this scene which had for him all the attractions of a play.
All at once the door of the rancho, which had not been fastened again after the squatter's entry was violently thrown back and a man appeared. It was Father Seraphin. At a glance he judged the position and boldly threw himself between the foemen, hurling them back, but not uttering a word. The two men recoiled, and lowered their weapons, but continued to menace each other with their glances.
"What!" the missionary said in a deep voice, "Have I arrived just in time to prevent a double murder, gentlemen? In Heaven's name, hide those homicidal weapons; do not stand opposite each other like wild beasts preparing for a leap."
"Withdraw, father; you have nothing to do here. Let me treat this man as he deserves," the squatter answered, casting at the missionary a ferocious glance—"his life belongs to me."
"Young man," the priest replied, "the life of a fellow being belongs only to God, who has the right to deprive, him of it; lower your weapons"—and turning to Fray Ambrosio, he said to him in a cutting voice, "and you who dishonour the frock you wear, throw away those pistols which sully your hands—a minister of the altar should not employ other weapons than the Gospel."
The monk bowed, and caused his pistols to disappear, saying in a soft and cautious voice, "My father, I was compelled to defend my life which that maniac assailed. Heaven is my witness that I reprove these violent measures, too frequently employed in this unhappy country; but this man came into the house with threats on his lips; he insisted on our delivering a wretched girl whom this caballero," he said, pointing to the gambusino, "and myself did not think proper to surrender."
Andrés corroborated the monk's words by a nod of the head.
"I wish to save that young girl from your hands," Shaw said, "and restore her to her father."
"Of whom are you speaking, my friend?" the missionary asked with a secret beating of his heart.
"Of whom should I speak, save Doña Clara de Zarate, whom these villains retain here by force?"
"Can it be possible?" Father Seraphin exclaimed in amazement. "Doña Clara here?"
"Ask those men," Shaw answered, roughly, as he angrily struck the butt of his rifle against the ground.
"Is it true?" the priest inquired.
"It is," the gambusino answered.
Father Seraphin frowned, and his pale forehead was covered with febrile ruddiness.
"Sir," he said, in a voice choking with indignation. "I summon you, in the name of that God whom you serve, and whose minister you lay claim to being, to restore at once to liberty the hapless girl whom you have so unworthily imprisoned, in defiance of all laws, human and divine. I engage to deliver her into the hands of those who bewail her loss."
Fray Ambrosio bowed; he let his eyes fall, and said in a hypocritical voice—
"Father, you are mistaken as regards myself. I had nothing to do with the carrying off of that poor child, which on the contrary, I opposed to the utmost of my power; and that is so true, father," he added, "that at the moment when this young madman arrived, the worthy gambusino and myself had resolved, at all risks, on restoring Doña Clara to her family."
"I should wish to believe you, sir; if I am mistaken, as you say, you will forgive me, for appearances were against you; it only depends on yourself to produce a perfect justification by carrying out my wishes."
"You shall be satisfied, father," the monk replied. At a signal from him Garote left the room. During the few words interchanged between the two men, Shaw remained motionless, hesitating, not knowing what he ought to do; but he suddenly made up his mind, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turned to the missionary.
"Father," he said respectfully, "my presence is now needless here. Farewell; my departure will prove to you the purity of my intentions."
And turning suddenly on his heel, he hurried out of the rancho. A few moments after his departure the gambusino returned, Doña Clara following him.
Doña Clara no longer wore the dress of the whites, for Red Cedar, in order to render her unrecognizable, had compelled her to don the Indian garb, which the maiden wore with an innate grace which heightened its strange elegance. Like all Indian squaws, she was attired in two white chemises of striped calico—the one fastened around the neck, fell to the hips; while the other, drawn in at the waist, descended to her ankles. Her neck was adorned with collars of fine pearls, mingled with those small shells called wampum, and employed by the Indians as money. Her arms and ankles were surrounded by wide circles of gold, and a small diadem of the same metal relieved the pale tint of her forehead. Moccasins of deer hide, embroidered with wool and beads of every colour imprisoned her small and high-arched feet.
As she entered the room, a shadow of melancholy and sadness spread over her face, adding, were that possible, a further charm to her person. On seeing the missionary, Doña Clara uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him, fell into his arms, and murmured in a heart-rending voice:—
"Father! save me! save me!"
"Be calm, my daughter!" the priest said to her, gently. "You have nothing more to fear now that I am near you."
"Come!" she exclaimed, wildly, "Let us fly from this accursed house, in which I have suffered so greatly."
"Yes, my daughter, we will go; set your mind at rest."
"You see, father," Fray Ambrosio said, hypocritically, "that I did not deceive you."
The missionary cast at the monk a glance of undefinable meaning.
"I trust that you spoke truly," he replied; "the God who gauges hearts will judge you according to works. I will rescue this maiden at once."
"Do so, father; I am happy to know her under your protection."
And picking up the cloak which Don Pablo left after blinding Red Cedar, he placed it delicately on the shuddering shoulders of Doña Clara, in order to conceal her Indian garb. Father Seraphin drew her arm through his own, and led her from the rancho. Ere long they disappeared in the darkness. Fray Ambrosio looked after them as long as he could see them, and then re-entered the room, carefully bolting the door after him.
"Well," Andrés Garote asked him, "what do you think, señor Padre, of all that has happened?"
"Perhaps things are better as they are."
"And Red Cedar?"
"I undertake to render ourselves as white in his sight as the snows of the Caffre de Perote."
"Hum! it will be difficult."
"Perhaps so."
On leaving the Rancho del Coyote, Red Cedar dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and galloped in a south-western direction. So soon as he was out of the town he turned to the left, took a narrow path that ran round the walls, pulled up his horse, and advanced with the utmost caution. Throwing suspicious glances on either side, he went on thus for about three-quarters of an hour, when he reached a house, in one of the windows of which burned three wax tapers.
The lights thus arranged were evidently a signal for the squatter, for so soon as he came to the house he stopped and dismounted, attached his horse to a larch-tree, and prudently concealing himself behind a thicket, imitated thrice at equal intervals the hu-hu of an owl. The lights burning in the window were extinguished, as if by enchantment.
The night was gloomy, only a few stars studded the vault of heaven; a leaden silence brooded over the plain, which appeared quite solitary. At this moment a voice could be heard from the house which Red Cedar was watching so carefully. The squatter listened; the speaker leaned for a second out of the window looked cautiously round, and disappeared muttering loud enough for the American to overhear—
"All is quiet in the neighbourhood."
"Still," the squatter said, without showing himself, "the coyotes prowl about the plain."
"Are you coming or going?" the man at the window continued.
"Both," the squatter answered, still hidden behind his bush.
"You can come on, for you are expected."
"I know it; hence here I am."
While making this answer, the squatter left his hiding place, and placed himself before the door with folded arms, like a man who has nothing to fear.
The door was cautiously opened; a man emerged, carefully wrapped up in, a wide cloak, which only allowed eyes to be seen, that flashed in the gloom like a jackal's. This person walked straight up to Red Cedar.
"Well," he asked, in a low voice, "have you reflected?"
"Yes."
"And what is the result of your reflections?"
"I refuse."
"Still?"
"More than ever."
"Take care."
"I do not care, Don Melchior, for I am not afraid of you."
"No names!" the stranger exclaimed, impatiently.
"We are alone."
"No one is ever alone in the desert."
"That is true," Red Cedar muttered. "Let us return to our business."
"It is simple—give and give."
"Hum! You get to work very fast; unfortunately it cannot be so."
"Why not?"
"Why, because I am growing tired of constantly taking in my nets game by which others profit, and which I ought to keep as a safeguard."
"You call that girl a guarantee?"
"By Heaven! what else do you mean to make of her?"
"Do not compare me with you, scoundrel!"
"Where is the difference between us? I am a scoundrel, I grant; but, by heaven, you are another, my master, however powerful you may be."
"Listen, caballero!" the stranger answered, in a cutting voice. "I will lose no more of my time in discoursing with you. I want that girl, and will have her, whatever you may do to prevent me."
"Good; in that case you declare war against me?" the squatter said, with a certain tinge of alarm, which he tried in vain to conceal.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders.
"We have known one another long enough to be perfectly well acquainted; we can only be friends or foes. Is not that your opinion?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, hand Doña Clara over to me, and I will give you the papers which—"
"Enough!" the squatter said, sharply. "Have you those papers about you?"
The stranger burst into a laugh.
"Do you take me for such a fool?" he said.
"I do not understand you."
"I will not insult you by believing you. No, I have not those papers about me. I am not such an ass as to risk assassination at your hands."
"What would your death profit me?"
"Hang it all! If it were only my scalp you would be sure to receive at least fifty dollars for it."
At this mournful jest the squatter began laughing.
"I did not think of that," he said,
"Listen to me, Red Cedar, and print the words on your memory."
"Speak."
"In a month from today, hour for hour, day for day, wherever you may be, I shall present myself to you."
"For what purpose?' the squatter asked impudently.
"To repeat my demand with reference to the prisoner."
"Then, as now, I shall reply No, my master."
"Perhaps so. Live and learn. Now good-bye, and may the devil, your patron saint, preserve you in good health until our next meeting. You know that I have you tight; so consider yourself warned."
"Good, good! Threats do not frighten me.Demonios, since I have been traversing the desert, I have found myself opposed to enemies quite as dangerous as you, and yet I managed to get quit of them."
"That is possible, Red Cedar; but believe me, meditate carefully on my words."
"I repeat that your threats do not frighten me."
"I do not threaten, I warn you."
"Hum! Well, then, listen in your turn. In the desert, every man armed with a good rifle has nothing to fear from whomsoever."
"What next?" the stranger interrupted him, in a sarcastic voice.
"Well, my rifle is excellent, I have a sure aim, and I say no more."
"Nonsense, you are mad! I defy you to kill me!"
"Hang it, though, what can be your motive for wishing to have this girl in your power?"
"That is no affair of yours. I have no explanations due to you. Enough for you to know that I want her."
"You shall not have her."
"We shall see. Good-bye, Red Cedar."
"Good-bye, Don Melchior, or whatever be the name you please to bear."
The stranger made no reply, but turned his head with a gesture of contempt, and whistled. A man emerged from the house, holding a horse by the bridle; at one bound the stranger reached the saddle, and ordered the servant to withdraw.
"Farewell,Compadre, remember our appointment."
And loosing his reins, the stranger started at a gallop, not condescending even to turn his head. Red Cedar looked after him with an indescribable expression of rage.
"Oh," he muttered in a low voice, "demon! Shall I never free myself from your clutches?"
And with a motion rapid as thought he shouldered his rifle, and aimed at the departing man. All at once the latter turned his horse, and stood right opposite Red Cedar.
"Mind not to miss me!" he cried, with a burst of laughter that caused a cold perspiration to bead on the bandit's forehead.
The latter let his rifle fall, saying in a hollow voice: "He is right, and I am mad! If I only had the papers!"
The stranger waited for a moment calm and motionless; then he started again and soon disappeared in the darkness. Red Cedar stood with his body bowed forward, and his ears on the watch, so long as the horse's hoofs could be heard; then he returned to his own steed, and bounded into the saddle.
"Now to go and warn the dragoons," he said, and pushed on.
The squatter had scarce departed ere several men appeared from either side; they were Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo on the right; Unicorn and Eagle-wing on the left. Valentine and his friends were astonished at meeting the Comanche chief, whom they believed gone back to his camp; but the sachem explained to them, in a few words, how, at the moment he was crossing the spot where they now were, he had heard Red Cedar's voice, and concealed himself in the shrubs in order to overhear the squatter's colloquy with his strange friend. Valentine had done the same; but, unfortunately, the party had been greatly disappointed, for the squatter's conversation remained to them an enigma, of which they sought the key in vain.
"'Tis strange," Valentine remarked, as he passed his hand several times across his forehead. "I do not know where I have seen the man just now talking here with Red Cedar, but I have a vague reminiscence of having met him before, where and under what circumstance I try, though in vain, to recall."
"What shall we do?" Don Pablo asked.
"Hang it, what we agreed on;" and turning to the chief, he said, "Good luck, brother, I believe we shall save our friend."
"I am sure of it," the Indian replied, laconically.
"May heaven hear you, brother," Valentine continued. "Act! While, on your side, you watch the town for fear of treason. We then will ambush ourselves on the road the gambusinos must take, in order to know positively the direction in which they are proceeding. Till tomorrow, chief!"
"Stop!" a panting voice exclaimed, and a man suddenly appeared in the midst of them.
"Father Seraphin!" Valentine said in a surprise. "What chance brings you this way?"
"I was looking for you."
"What do you want with me?"
"To give you some good news."
"Speak! Speak quickly, father! Has Don Miguel left his prison?"
"Alas! Not yet; but his daughter is free!"
"Doña Clara free!" Valentine shouted joyously. "Heaven be blessed! Where is she?"
"She is temporarily in safety, be assured of that; but let me give you a warning, which may perhaps prove useful to you."
"Speak! Speak!"
"By order of the governor, Red Cedar has gone to meet the regiment of dragoons, coming up to reinforce the Santa Fe garrison."
"Caramba," Valentine said, "are you sure of your statement, father?"
"I am: in my presence, the men who carried off Doña Clara spoke about it."
"All is lost if these soldiers arrive."
"Yes," the missionary said; "but, how to prevent it?"
Curumilla lightly touched the leader's arm.
"What do you want, chief!"
"The Comanches are warriors," Curumilla answered, curtly.
"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed, and tapping his forehead with delight, "that is true, chief; you save us."
Curumilla smiled with pleasure.
"While you go in pursuit of the soldiers," said Don Pablo, "as I can be of no service to you, I will accompany Father Seraphin to my poor sister, whom I have not seen so long, and am eager to embrace."
"Do so," Valentine answered. "At daybreak you will bring Doña Clara to the camp, that I may myself deliver her to her father."
"That is agreed."
Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn rushed out in the plain, while Father Seraphin and Don Pablo returned to the town. The two gentlemen, anxious to join the girl, did not perceive that they were closely watched by an individual, who followed their every movement, while careful not to be seen by them. It was Nathan, Red Cedar's eldest son.
How was that man there?
The nigh breeze had swept the clouds away; the sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinity of stars; the night was limpid, the atmosphere so transparent as to allow the slightest varieties of the landscape to be distinguished. About four leagues from Santa Fe, a numerous band of horsemen was following a path scarce traced in the tall grass, which approached the town with countless turns and windings. These horsemen, who marched in rather decent order, were nearly 600 in number, and formed the regiment of dragoons so anxiously expected by General Ventura.
About ten paces ahead rode four or five officers gaily chatting together, among whom was the colonel. The regiment continued its march slowly, advancing cautiously, through fear of losing its way in a perfectly strange country. The colonel and his officers who had always fought in the States bordering the Atlantic, found themselves now for the first time in these savage countries.
"Caballeros," the colonel suddenly remarked, "I confess to you that I am completely ignorant as to our whereabouts. Can any one of you throw a light on the subject? This road is fearful, it seems to lead nowhere, and I am afraid we have lost our way."
"We are all as ignorant as yourself on that head, colonel," an officer answered, "not one of us could say where we are."
"On my word!" the colonel went on, taking a glance of satisfaction around, "We are not in a hurry to reach Santa Fe. I suppose it makes little difference whether we get there today or tomorrow. I believe that the best thing for us to do is to bivouac here for the rest of the night; at sunrise we will start again."
"You are right, colonel," the officer said, whom he seemed to address most particularly, "a few hours' delay is of no consequence, and we run the risk of going out of our course."
"Give the order to halt."
The officer immediately obeyed; the soldiers, wearied with a long night's march, greeted with shouts of joy the order to stop. They dismounted. The horses were unsaddled and picketed, campfires were lighted, in less than an hour the bivouac was arranged.
The colonel, in desiring to camp for the night, had a more serious fear than that of losing his way; it was that of falling in with a party ofIndios bravos.
The colonel was brave, and had proved it on many occasions; grown gray in harness, he was an old soldier who feared nothing in the world particularly; but accustomed to warfare in the interior of the Republic, had never seen opposed to him any but civilised foes, he professed for the Indians that instinctive fear which all the Mexicans entertain, and he would not risk a fight with an Apache or Comanche war party in the middle of the night, in a country whose resources he did not know, and run the risk of having his regiment cut to pieces by such Protean enemies. On the other hand, he was unaware that the governor of Santa Fe had such pressing need of his presence, and this authorised him in acting with the utmost precaution. Still, as soon as the bivouac was established, and the sentries posted, the colonel sent off a dozen resolute men under an Alferez, to trot up the country and try to procure a guide.
We will observe, in passing, that in Spanish America, so soon as you leave the capitals, such as Lima, or Mexico, roads, such as we understand them in Europe, no longer exist; you only find paths traced, in nine cases out of ten, by the footprints of wild beasts, and which are so entangled one with the other, that, unless you have been long accustomed to them, it is almost impossible to find your way. The Spaniards, we grant, laid out wide and firm roads, but since the War of Independence, they had been cut up, deteriorated and so abandoned by the neglect of the ephemeral governments that have followed each other in Mexico, that with the exception of the great highways of communication in the interior of the country, the rest had disappeared under the herbage.
The little squad of troopers sent out to beat up the country had started at a gallop, but it soon reduced its pace, and the soldiers and sergeant began laughing and talking, caring little for the important mission with which they were intrusted. The moon rose on the horizon, shedding her fantastic rays over the ground. As we have said, it was one of those lovely nights of the American desert full of strange odours. A majestic silence hovered over the plain, only disturbed at intervals by those sounds, without any known cause, which are heard on the savannahs, and which seem to be the respiration of the sleeping world. Suddenly the mockingbird sung twice, and its plaintive and soft song resounded melodiously through the air.
"Hallo," one of the dragoons said, addressing his comrade, "that's a bird that sings very late."
"An evil omen," the other said with a shake of his head.
"Canarios! What omen are you talking about, comrade?"
"I have always heard say," the second, speaker remarked sententiously, "that when you hear a bird sing on your left at night it predicts misfortune."
"The deuce confound you and your prognostics."
At this moment the song, which appeared previously some distance off, could be heard much more close, and seemed to come from some trees on the side of the path the dragoons were following. The Alferez raised his head and stopped, as if mechanically trying to explain the sound that smote his ears; but all became silent again, so he shook his head and continued his conversation. The detachment had been out more than an hour. During this long stroll, the soldiers had discovered nothing suspicious; as for the guide they sought, it is needless to say that they had not found him, for they had not met a living soul. The Alferez was about to give orders to return to camp, when one of the troopers pointed out to him some heavy, black forms, apparently prowling about unsuspiciously.
"What on earth can that be?" the officer asked, after carefully examining what was pointed out to him.
"Caspita," one of the dragoons exclaimed, "that is easy to see; they are browsing deer!"
"Deer!" said the Alferez, in whom the hunter's instinct was suddenly aroused, "there are at least thirty; suppose we try to catch some."
"It is difficult."
"Pshaw!" another soldier shouted, "It is light enough for each of us to send them a bullet."
"You must by no means use your carbines," the Alferez interposed sharply; "if our shots, re-echoed through the mountains, caught the ears of the Indians, who are probably ambushed in the thickets, we should be ruined."
"What is to be done, then?"
"Lasso them,caspita, as you wish to try and catch them."
"That is true; I did not think of that."
The dragoons, delighted at the opportunity of indulging in their favourite sport, dismounted, fastened their horses to the roadside trees and seized their lassos. They then advanced cautiously toward the deer, which continued grazing tranquilly, without appearing to suspect that enemies were so near them. On arriving at a short distance from the game, the dragoons separated in order to have room for whirling their lassos, and making a covering of each tree, they managed to approach within fifteen paces of the animals. Then they stopped, exchanged glances, carefully calculated the distance, and, at a signal from their leader, sent their lassos whizzing through the air.
A strange thing happened at this moment, however. All the deer hides fell simultaneously to the ground, displaying Valentine, Curumilla, and a dozen Comanche warriors, who, profiting by the stupor of the troopers at their extraordinary metamorphosis, hunted the hunters by throwing lassos over their shoulders and hurled them to the ground. The ten dragoons and their leader were prisoners.
"Well, my friends," Valentine said with a grin, "how do you like that sort of fun?"
The startled dragoons made no reply, but allowed themselves to be bound; one alone muttered between his teeth:—
"I was quite sure that villain of a mockingbird would bring us ill luck; it sang on our left. That never deceives,Canarios!"
Valentine smiled at this sally. He then placed two fingers in his mouth and imitated the cry of the mockingbird with such perfection, that the soldier looked up at the trees. He had scarce ended, when a rustling was heard among the bushes, and a man leaped between the hunters and their prisoners. It was Eagle-wing, the sachem of the Coras.
After leaving his enemy (for the mysterious man with whom he had so stormy a discussion could be nothing else), Red Cedar set out to join the regiment, and hasten its arrival according to the orders he had received. In spite of himself, the squatter was suffering from extraordinary nervousness, and involuntarily he went over the various points of the conversation with the person who took such precautions in communicating with him. The threats he had proffered recurred to his mind. It appeared as if the bandit, who feared nothing in the world, had good reason, however, for trembling in the presence of the man who, for more than an hour, had crushed him with his irony. What reason could be so powerful as to produce so startling a change in this indomitable being? No one could have said; for the squatter was master of his secret, and would have mercilessly killed anybody he suspected of having read even a portion of it.
The reason was, at any rate, very powerful; for after a few minutes of deep thought, his hand let go the reins and his head fell on his breast: the horse, no longer feeling the curb, stopped and began nibbling the young tree shoots. The squatter did not notice this halt; he was thinking, and hoarse exclamations now and then came from his chest, like the growling of a wild beast. At length he raised his head.
"No," he shouted, as he directed a savage glance at the starlit sky, "any struggle with that demon is impossible. I must fly, so soon as possible, to the prairies of the far west. I will leave this implacable foe; I will fly from him, as the lion does, carrying off my prey in my claws. I have not a moment to lose. What do I care for the Spaniards and their paltry disputes? General Ventura will seek another emissary, for more important matters claim my attention. I must go to the Rancho del Coyote, for there alone I shall find my revenge. Fray Ambrosio and his prisoner can supply me with the weapons I need for the terrible contest I am compelled to wage against that demon who comes straight from hell, and whom I will send back there."
After having uttered these words in a low voice, in the fashion of men wont to live in solitude, Red Cedar appeared to regain all his boldness and energy. He looked savagely around, and, burying his spurs in his horse's flanks, he started with the speed of an arrow in the direction of the rancho, which he had left but a few hours previously, and where his two accomplices still remained.
The monk and the gambusino, delighted at the unforeseen termination of the scene we recently narrated, delighted above all at having got rid of Doña Clara without being immediately mixed up in her escape, tranquilly resumed their game ofmonte, and played with that mental satisfaction produced by the certainty of having nothing to reproach themselves with, disputing with the utmost obstinacy for the few reals they still happened to have in their pockets. In the midst of a most interesting game, they heard the furious gallop of a horse up the paved street. Instinctively they stopped and listened; a secret foreboding seemed to warn them that this horse was coming to the rancho, and that its rider wanted them.
In truth, neither Fray Ambrosio nor Andrés Garote had a quiet conscience, even supposing, which was very doubtful, that either had a conscience at all, for they felt they were responsible to Red Cedar for Doña Clara. Now that the maiden had escaped like, a bird flying from its cage, their position with their terrible ally appeared to them in all its desperate gravity. They did not conceal from themselves that the squatter would demand a severe account of their conduct, and despite their cunning and roguishness, they knew not how they should get out of it. The sharp gallop of the approaching horse heightened their perplexity. They dared not communicate their fears to each other, but they sat with heads bent forward, foreseeing that they would soon have to sustain a very firm attack.
The horse stopped short before the rancho; a man dismounted, and the door shook beneath the tremendous blows of his fists.
"Hum!" the gambusino whispered, as he blew out the solitary candle that illumined the room. "Who the deuce can come at this advanced hour of the night! I have a great mind not to open."
Strange to say, Fray Ambrosio had apparently regained all his serenity. With a smiling face, crossed arms, and back leaned against the wall, he seemed to be a perfect stranger to what perplexed his mate so furiously. At Garote's remark an ironical smile played round his pale lips for a second, and he replied with the most perfect indifference—
"You are at liberty to act as you please, gossip; still I think it my duty to warn you of one thing?"
"What is it?"
"That, if you do not open your door, the man, whoever he may be, now battering it, is very capable of breaking it in, which would be a decided nuisance for you."
"You speak very much at your ease, señor Padre," the gambusino answered, ill-temperedly. "Suppose it be Red Cedar?"
"The greater reason to open the door. If you hesitate, he will begin to suspect you; and then take care, for he is a man capable of killing you like a dog."
"That is possible; but do you think that, in such a case, you will escape with clean hands?"
Fray Ambrosio looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, but made no further answer.
"Will you open,demonios?" a rough voice shouted.
"Red Cedar!" both men whispered.
"I am coming," Andrés replied, in a voice which terror caused to tremble.
He rose unwillingly, and walked slowly towards the door, which the squatter threatened to tear from its hinges.
"A little patience, caballero," the gambusino said, in that honeyed voice peculiar to Mexicans when they meditate some roguery. "Coming, coming."
And he began unbarring the door.
"Make haste!" the squatter howled, "For I am in a hurry."
"Hum! It is surely he!" the gambusino thought. "Who are you?" he asked.
"What! Who am I?" Red Cedar exclaimed, bounding with wrath. "Did you not recognise me, or are you having a game with me?"
"I never have a game with anyone," Andrés replied, imperturbably: "but I warn you that, although I fancy I recognise your voice, I shall not open till you mention your name. The night is too far advanced for me to risk receiving a suspicious person into my house."
"I will break the door down."
"Try it," the gambusino shouted boldly, "and by our Lady of Pilar I will send a bullet through your head."
At this threat the squatter rushed against the door in incredible fury, with the evident intention of breaking it in; but, contrary to his expectations, though it creaked and groaned on its hinges, it did not give way. Andrés Garote had indulged in a line of reasoning which was far from being illogical, and revealed a profound knowledge of the human heart. He had said to himself, that, as he must face Red Cedar's anger, it would be better to let it reach its paroxysm at once so as to have only the decreasing period to endure. He smiled at the American's sterile attempts, then, and repeated his request.
"Well, then," the other said, furiously, "I am Red Cedar. Do you recognise me now, you devil's own Gachupino?"
"Of course; I see that I can open without danger to your Excellency."
And the gambusino hurriedly drew back the bolts.
Red Cedar rushed into the room with a yell of fury, but Andrés had put out the light. The squatter stopped, surprised by the gloom which prevented him distinguishing any object.
"Hallo!" he said. "What is the meaning of this darkness? I can see nothing."
"Caspita!" Andrés replied, impudently, "Do you think I amuse myself o' nights by watching the moon? I was asleep, compadre, when you came to arouse me with your infernal hammerings."
"That is possible," the squatter remarked; "but that was no reason for keeping me so long at your door."
"Prudence is the mother of security. We must not let every comer enter the rancho."
"Certainly not; I approve of that. Still, you must have recognised my voice."
"True. Still I might be mistaken; it is difficult to know anyone through the thickness of a door; that is why I wished you to give your name."
"Very good, then," Red Cedar said, as if tired of combating arguments which did not convince him. "And where is Fray Ambrosio?"
"Here, I suppose."
"He has not left the rancho?"
"No; unless he took advantage of your arrival to do so."
"Why should he do that?"
"I don't know; you question, and I answer; that's all."
"Why does he not speak, if he is here?"
"He is possibly asleep."
"After the row I made, that is highly improbable."
"Hang it, he may be a hard sleeper."
"Hum!" the squatter snorted, suspiciously; "Light the candle."
Andrés struck a match, and Red Cedar looked eagerly round the room Fray Ambrosio had disappeared.
"Where is the monk?" the American asked.
"I do not know: probably gone."
The squatter shook his head.
"All this is not clear," he muttered; "there is treachery behind it."
"That is possible," the gambusino answered, calmly.
Red Cedar bent on Andrés eyes that flashed with fury, and roughly seized him by the throat.
"Answer, scoundrel?" he shouted. "What has become of Doña Clara?"
The gambusino struggled, though in vain, to escape from the clutch of the squatter, whose fingers entered his flesh, and pressed him as in a vice.
"Let me loose," he panted, "you are choking me!"
"Where is Doña Clara?"
"I do not know."
The squatter squeezed more tightly.
"You do not know!" he yelled.
"Aie!" Andrés whined, "I tell you I do not know."
"Malediction!" Red Cedar went on. "I will kill you,picaro, if you are obstinate."
"Let that man go, and I will tell you all you wish to know," was said in a firm voice by a hunter, who at this moment appeared on the threshold.
The two men turned in amazement.
"Nathan!" Red Cedar shouted on recognising his son. "What are you doing here?"
"I will tell you, father," the young man said, as he entered the room.
Nathan was not asleep, as Ellen supposed, when she urged on Shaw to devote himself to liberate Doña Clara, and he had listened attentively to the conversation. Nathan was a man of about thirty years of age, who, both physically and morally, bore a marked resemblance to his father. Hence the old squatter had concentrated in him all the affection which his uncultivated savage nature was capable of feeling. Since the fatal night, when the chief of the Coras had avenged himself for the burning of his village and the murder of its inhabitants, Nathan's character had grown still more gloomy; a dull and deep hatred boiled in his heart against the whole human race; he only dreamed of assassination: he had sworn in his heart to revenge on all those who fell into his hands the injury one man had inflicted on him; in a word, Nathan loved none and hated everything.
When Shaw had disappeared among the bushes, and Ellen, after taking a final glance around to convince herself that all was in order, re-entered the hut that served her as a shelter, Nathan rose cautiously, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and rushed after his brother. Another reason urged him to foil Shaw and Ellen's plans; he had a double grudge against Don Miguel—the first for the stab the Mexican gentlemen had given his father; the second because Don Miguel had compelled him to leave the forest in which his family had so daringly installed itself.
Convinced of the importance of the affair, and knowing the value the squatter attached to carrying off the maiden, who was a most precious hostage for him, Nathan did not lose a moment, but reached Santa Fe by the most direct route, bounding with the agility of a tiger cat over the obstacles that beset his path. Presently he reached an isolated house, not far from which several men were conversing together in a low voice. Nathan stopped and listened; but he was too far off, and could distinguish nothing. The squatter's son, reared in the desert, was thoroughly versed in all its stratagems; with the piercing eye of a man accustomed to night journeys in the prairie, he recognised well-known persons, and his mind was at once made up.
He laid himself on the ground, and following the shadow cast by the moon, lest he might be perceived by the speakers, he advanced, inch by inch, crawling like a serpent, stopping at intervals lest the waving of the grass might reveal his presence, in short, employing all the precautions usual under such circumstances. At length he reached a clump of Peru trees only a few yards distant from the spot where the men he wished to overhear were standing. He then got up, leaned against the largest tree, and prepared to listen. His expectations were not deceived; though a few words escaped him here and there, he was near enough perfectly to catch the sense of the conference. This conversation was, in truth, most interesting to him; a sinister smile lit up his face, and he eagerly clenched the barrel of his rifle.
Presently the party broke into two. Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn, took the road leading to the open country, while Don Pablo and Father Seraphin returned toward the town. Valentine and his two friends almost touched the young man as they passed, and he instinctively carried his hands to his pistols; they even stopped for a moment and cast suspicious glances at the clump that concealed their foe. While conversing in whispers, Unicorn drew a few branches aside and peered in; for some seconds Nathan felt an indescribable agony; a cold perspiration stood at the root of his hair and the blood coursed to his heart; in a word, he was afraid. He knew that if these men, his mortal enemies, discovered him, they would be pitiless to him and kill him like a dog. But this apprehension did not last longer than a lightning flash. Unicorn carelessly let the leafy curtain fall again, saying only one word to his comrades:—
"Nothing."
The latter resumed their march.
"I do not know why," said Valentine, "but I fancy there is someone hidden there."
"No," the chief answered, "there is nobody."
"Well, be it so," the hunter muttered, with a toss of his head.
So soon, as he was alone, Nathan drew two or three deep breaths, and started in pursuit of Don Pablo and the missionary, whom he soon caught up. As they did not suppose they were followed, they were conversing freely together.
In Spanish America, where the days are so warm and the nights so fresh, the inhabitants, shut up at home so long as the sun calcines the ground, go out at nightfall to breathe a little pure air; the streets, deserted in consequence of the heat, are gradually peopled; benches are placed before the doors, on which persons recline to smoke and gossip, drink orangeade, strum the guitar, and sing. Frequently the entire night is passed in these innocent amusements, and folks do not return home till dawn, in order to indulge in the sleep so grateful after this long watch. Hence the Hispano-American towns must be especially visited by night, if you wish to judge truthfully the nature of this people—a strange composite of the most discordant contrasts, who only live for enjoyment, and only accept from existence the most intoxicating pleasures. Still, on the night to which we refer, the town of Santa Fe, usually so laughing and chattering, was plunged into a gloomy sadness, the streets were deserted, the doors closed; no light filtered through the hermetically closed windows; all slept or at least feigned to sleep. The fact was, that Santa Fe was at this moment in a state of mortal agitation, caused by the condemnation of Don Miguel Zarate, the richest land owner in the province—a man who was loved and revered by the whole population. The agitation took its origin in the unexpected apparition of the Comanche war detachment—those ferocious enemies whose cruelties have become proverbial on the Mexican frontier, and whose presence presaged nothing good.
Don Pablo and his companion walked quickly, like persons anxious to reach a place where they knew they are expected, exchanging but a few words at intervals, whose meaning, however, caught up by the man who followed them, urged them still more not to let them out of sight. They thus traversed the greater part of the town, and on reaching the Calle de la Merced, they stopped at their destination—a house of handsome aspect.
A weak light burned at the window of a ground floor room. By an instinctive movement, the two gentlemen turned round at the moment of entering the house but Nathan had slipped into a doorway, and they did not perceive him. Father Seraphin tapped gently; the door was at once opened, and they went in. Nathan stationed himself in the middle of the street, with his eye ardently fixed on the only window of the house lit up. Ere long, shadows crossed the curtains.
"Good!" the young man muttered; "But how to warn the old one that the dove is in her nest?"
All at once, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and Nathan turned, fiercely clutching a bowie knife. A man was before him, gloomy, silent and wrapped in the thick folds of his cloak. The American started.
"Go your way," he said in a menacing voice.
"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked.
"How does that concern you? The street is free to all."
"No."
This word was pronounced with a sharp accent. Nathan tried in vain to scan the features of the man with whom he had to deal.
"Give way," he said, "or blood will surely be shed between us."
As sole reply, the stranger took a pistol in his right hand, a knife in his left.
"Ah!" Nathan said, mockingly, "You mean fighting."
"For the last time, withdraw."
"Nonsense, you are mad, señor Caballero; the road belongs to all, I tell you. This place suits me, and I shall remain."
"I wish to be alone here."
"You mean to kill me, then?"
"If I must, yes, without hesitation."
The two speakers had exchanged these words in a low and hurried voice, in less time than we have employed to write them. They stood but a few paces apart with flashing eyes, ready to rush on each other. Nathan returned his pistol to his belt.
"No noise," he said; "the knife will do; besides, we are in a country where that is the only weapon in use."
"Be it so," the stranger replied; "then, you will not give way to me?"
"You would laugh at me if I did," the American said with a grin.
"Then your blood will be on your own head."
"Or on yours."
The two foemen each fell back a pace, and stood on guard, with their cloaks rolled round their left arms. The moon, veiled by clouds, shed no light; the darkness was perfect; midnight struck from the cathedral; the voice of theserenoschanting the hour could be heard in the distance, announcing that all was quiet. There was a moment's hesitation, which the enemies employed in scrutinising each other. Suddenly Nathan uttered a hoarse yell rushed on his enemy, and threw his cloak in his face, to put him on his guard. The stranger parried the stroke dealt him, and replied by another, guarded off with equal dexterity. The two men then seized each other round the waist, and wrestled for some minutes, without uttering a word; at length the stranger rolled on the ground with a heavy sigh; Nathan's knife was buried in his chest. The American rose with a yell of triumph—his enemy was motionless.
"Can I have killed him?" Nathan muttered.
He returned his knife to his vaquera boot, and bent over the wounded man. All at once he started back, for he had recognised his brother Shaw.
"What is to be done now?" he said; but then added carelessly, "Pshaw! all the worse for him. Why did he come across my path?"
And, leaving there the body of the young man, who gave no sign of life—
"Well, Heaven knows, I ought not, and could not have hesitated," he said.
Shaw lay to all appearance dead, with pale and drawn cheeks, in the centre of the street.
Nathan proceeded straight to the Rancho del Coyote, where his unexpected arrival was a blessing for Andrés Garote, whom the old squatter was treating very roughly. On hearing his son's words, Red Cedar let go of the gambusino, who tottered back against the wall.
"Well," he asked, "where is Doña Clara?"
"Come with me, father," the young man answered; "I will lead you to her."
"You know her hiding place, then?"
"Yes."
"And so do I," Fray Ambrosio shouted, as he rushed into the room with discomfited features; "I felt sure I should discover her."
Red Cedar looked at him in amazement, but the monk did not wince.
"What has happened to her?" the squatter said presently, as he looked suspiciously from the monk to the gambusino.
"A very simple matter," Fray Ambrosio answered, with an inimitably truthful accent; "about two hours back your son Shaw came here."
"Shaw!" the squatter exclaimed.
"Yes, the youngest of your sons; he is called so, I think?"
"Yes; go on."
"Very good. He presented himself to us as coming from you to remove our prisoner."
"And what did you do?" the squatter asked, impatiently.
"What could we do?"
"Why, oppose the girl's departure."
"Caspita! Do you fancy we let her go so?" the monk asked, imperturbably.
The squatter looked at him in surprise—he no longer understood anything. Like all men of action, discussion was to him almost a matter of impossibility; especially with an adversary so crafty as the one he had before him. Deceived by the monk's coolness and the apparent frankness of his answers, he wished to make an end of it.
"Come," he said, "how did all this finish?"
"Thanks to an ally who came to your son's help, and to whom we were obliged to bow—"
"An ally! What man can be so bold as to dare—"
"Eh!" the monk sharply interrupted Red Cedar, "that man is a priest, to whom you have already bowed many a time."
"You are jesting, señor Padre," the squatter exclaimed, savagely.
"Not the least in the world. Had it been anyone else, I should have resisted; but I, too, belong to the Church; and, as Father Seraphin is my superior, I was forced to obey him."
"What!" the squatter said, with a groan, "Is he not dead?"
"It appears," the monk remarked, ironically, "as if those you kill are all in good state of health, Red Cedar."
At this allusion to Don Pablo's death, the squatter stifled a cry of anger, and clenched his fists.
"Good!" he said; "If I do not always kill, I know how to take my revenge. Where is Doña Clara, at this moment?"
"In a house no great distance from here," Nathan answered.
"Have you seen her?" the squatter asked.
"No; but I followed Don Pablo and the missionary to that house, which they entered, and as they were ignorant that I was close to them, their conversation left me no doubt as to the whereabouts of the girl."
An ill-omened smile momentarily lit up the old bandit's features.
"Good!" he said; "as the dove is in her nest, we shall be able to find her. What o'clock is it?"
"Three in the morning," Andrés interjected. "Day will soon break."
"We must make haste, then. Follow me, all of you." Then he added, "But what has become of Shaw? Does anyone of you know?"
"You will probably find him at the door of Doña Clara's house," Nathan said, in a hollow voice.
"How so? Has my son entered into a compact with my enemies?"
"Yes; as he arranged with them to carry off your prisoner."
"Oh! I will kill him if he prove a traitor!" the squatter shouted with an accent that made the blood run cold in the veins of his hearers.
Nathan fell back two steps, drew his knife from his boot, and showed it to his father.
"That is done," he said, harshly. "Shaw tried to stab me, so I killed him."
After these mournful words, there was a moment of silence in the rancho. All these men, though their hearts were steeled by crime, shuddered involuntarily. Without, the night was gloomy; the wind whistled sadly; the flickering light of the candle threw a weird light over the scene, which contained a certain degree of terrible poetry. The squatter passed his hard hand over his dank brow. A sigh, like a howl, painfully forced its way from his oppressed chest.
"He was my last born," he said, in a voice broken by an emotion he could not control. "He deserved death, but he ought not to have received it at his brother's hands."
"Father!" Nathan muttered.
"Silence!" Red Cedar shouted, in a hollow voice, as he stamped his foot passionately on the ground; "What is done cannot be undone; but woe to my enemies' family! Oh! I feel now that I can take such vengeance on them as will make all shudder who hear it spoken of!"
After uttering these words, which were listened to in silence, the squatter walked a few steps up the rancho. He approached a table, seized a bottle half full of mezcal that stood on it, and emptied it at a draught. When he had finished drinking, he threw down the bottle, which broke with a crash, and said to his mates in a hollow voice—
"Let us be off! We have wasted too much time here already!"
And he rushed out of the rancho, the others following close at his heels.
In the meanwhile, Don Pablo and Father Seraphin were in the house. The priest had taken the maiden to the house of an honest family which owed him great obligations, and was too happy to receive the poor sufferer. The missionary did not intend, however, to let her be long a burthen to these worthy people. At daybreak he intended to deliver her to certain relations of her father, who inhabited a hacienda a few leagues from Santa Fe.
Doña Clara had been placed in a comfortable room by her hosts. Their first care had been to make her doff the Indian robes for others more suitable to her birth and position. The maiden worn out by poignant emotions of the scene she had witnessed, was on the point of retiring to bed, when Father Seraphin and Don Pablo tapped at the door of her room. She hastily opened it, and the sight of her brother, whom she had not hoped to see so speedily, overwhelmed her with joy.
An hour soon slipped away in pleasant chat. Don Pablo was careful not to tell his sister of the misfortune that had befallen her father; for he did not wish to dull by that confession the joy the poor girl promised herself for the morrow. Then, as the night was advancing, the two men withdrew, so as to allow her to enjoy that rest so needed to strengthen her for the long journey to the hacienda, promising to come and fetch her in a few hours. Father Seraphin generously offered Don Pablo to pass the night with him by sharing the small lodging he had not far from the Plaza de la Merced, and the young man eagerly accepted. It was too late to seek a lodging at a locanda, and in this way he would be all the sooner with his sister next morning. After a lengthened leave-taking, they, therefore, left the house, and, so soon as they were gone, Doña Clara threw herself, ready dressed, into a hammock hanging at one end of the room, when she speedily fell asleep.
On reaching the street, Don Pablo saw a body lying motionless in front of the house.
"What's this?" he asked, in surprise.
"A poor wretch whom the ladrones killed in order to plunder him," the missionary answered.
"That is possible."
"Perhaps he is not quite dead," the missionary went on; "it is our duty to succour him."
"For what good?" Don Pablo said, with an air of indifference; "if a sereno were to pass he might accuse us of having killed the man."
"Nay, sir," the missionary observed, "the ways of the Lord are impenetrable. If He allowed us to come across this unhappy man, it was because He judged in His wisdom that we might prove of use to him."
"Be it so," the young man said; "let us look at him, as you wish it. But you know that in this country good actions of such a nature generally entail annoyance."
"That is true, my son. Well, we will run the risk," said the missionary, who had already bent over the wounded man.
"As you please," Don Pablo said, as he followed him.
Shaw, for it was he, gave no signs of life. The missionary examined him, then rose hastily, seized Don Pablo's arm, and drew him to him, as he whispered—
"Look!"
"Shaw!" the Mexican exclaimed, in surprise; "What could that man be doing here?"
"Help me, and we shall learn. The poor fellow has only fainted; and the loss of blood has produced this semblance to death."
Don Pablo, greatly perplexed by this singular meeting, obeyed the missionary without further remark. The two men raised the wounded lad, and carried him gently to Father Seraphin's lodging, where they proposed to give him all the help his condition required.
They had scarce turned the corner of the street, when several men appeared at the other extremity. They were Red Cedar and his confederates. On arriving in front of the house they stopped: all the windows were in the deepest obscurity.
"Which is the girl's room?" the squatter asked in a whisper.
"This one," Nathan said, as he pointed to it.
Red Cedar crawled up to the house, drove his dagger into the wall, raised himself to the window, and placed his face against a pane.
"All is well! She sleeps!" he said, when he came down. "You, Fray Ambrosio, to one corner of the street; you, Garote, to the other, and do not let me be surprised."
The monk and the gambusino went to their allotted posts. When Red Cedar was alone with his son he bent and whispered in his ear—
"What did you do with your brother after stabbing him?"
"I left him on the spot where he fell."
"Where was that?"
"Just where we now stand."
The squatter stooped down to the ground, and walked a few steps, carefully examining the bloody traces left on the pebbles.
"He has been carried off," he said, when he rose again. "Perhaps he is not dead."
"Perhaps so," the young man observed, with a shake of his head.
His father gave him a most significant look.
"To work," he said coldly.
And they prepared to escalade the window.