[1]"Tiger-Slayer," etc. Same publishers.
[1]"Tiger-Slayer," etc. Same publishers.
The day on which our story commences the village of the Paso del Norte presented an extraordinary appearance. The bells were ringing out full peals, for the three hundredth anniversary of its foundation was celebrated. The population of Paso, greatly diminished since the proclamation of Mexican independence, was hurrying to the churches, which flashed with silver and gold. The houses were decorated with rich tapestry, and the streets strewn with flowers.
Toward nightfall the inhabitants, whom the intolerable heat of the tropical sun had kept prisoners in the interior of the houses, flocked out to inhale the sharp perfumes of the desert breeze, and bring back a little fresh air into their parched lungs. The town, which had for several hours appeared deserted, suddenly woke up: shouts and laughter were heard afresh. The walks were invaded by the mob, and in a few minutes themesónswere thronged with idlers, who began drinking pulque and mezcal, while smoking their cigarettes, and strumming the jarabe and vihuela.
In a house of poor appearance, built like all its neighbours, of earth bricks, and situated at the angle formed by the Plaza Mayor and the Calle de la Merced, some twenty-five fellows, whom it was easy to recognise as adventurers by the feather in their hats, their upturned moustaches, and specially by the long bronzed-hilted sword they wore on the thigh, were drinking torrents of aguardiente and pulque at the gambling tables, while yelling like deaf men, swearing like pagans, and threatening at every moment to unsheathe their weapons.
In a corner of the room occupied by these troublesome guests two men, seated opposite each other at a table, seemed plunged in deep thought, and looked round them absently, not thinking about drinking the contents of their glasses, which had not been emptied for more than half an hour. These two men presented the most striking contrast. They were still young. The first, aged twenty-five at the most, had one of those frank, honest, and energetic faces which call for sympathy, and attract respect. His pallid brow, his face of a delicate hue, surrounded by his long black curls, his straight and flexible nose, his mouth filled with a double row of teeth of dazzling whiteness, and surmounted by a slight brown moustache, gave him a stamp of distinction, which was the more striking owing to the strict, and perhaps common, style of his attire.
He wore the costume of the wood rangers; that is to say, the Canadianmitasse, fastened round the hips, and descending to the ankle;botas vaquerasof deer skin, fastened at the knee; and a striped zarapé of brilliant colours. A panama straw hat was thrown on the table, within reach of his hand, by the side of an American rifle and two double-barrelled pistols. A machete hung on his left side, and the hilt of a long knife peeped out of his left boot.
His companion was short and thick-set; but his well-knit limbs and his outstanding muscles indicated no ordinary strength. His face, the features of which were commonplace enough, had a cunning look, which suddenly disappeared to make room for a certain nobility whenever under the influence Of any sudden emotion; his eyebrows contracted; and his glance, ordinarily veiled, flashed forth. He wore nearly the same garb as his comrade; but his hat stained with rain, and the colours of his zarapé faded by the sun, evidenced lengthened wear. Like the first one we described, he was well armed.
It was easy to see at the first glance that these two men did not belong to the Hispano-American race, indeed, their conversation would have removed any doubts on that head, for they spoke in the French dialect employed in Canada.
"Hum!" the first said, taking up his glass, which he carelessly raised to his lips. "After due consideration, Harry, I believe we shall do better by mounting our horses again, and starting, instead of remaining in this horrible den, amid thesegachupinos, who croak like frogs before a storm."
"Deuce take your impatience!" the other replied ill-temperedly. "Can't you remain a moment at rest?"
"You call it a moment, Harry. Why, we have been here an hour."
"By Jove! Dick, you're a wonderful fellow," the other continued with a laugh. "Do you think that business can be settled all in a moment?"
"After all, what is our game? For may the old one twist my neck, or a grizzly give me a hug, if I know the least in the world! For five years we have hunted and slept side by side. We have come from Canada together to this place. I have grown into a habit—I cannot say why—of referring to you everything that concerns our mutual interests. Still I should not be sorry to know, if only for the rarity of the fact, why on earth we left the prairies, where we were so well off, to come here, where we are so badly off."
"Have you ever repented, up to today, the confidence you placed in me?"
"I do not say so, Harry. Heaven forbid! Still I think—"
"You think wrong," the young man sharply interrupted. "Let me alone, and before three months you shall have three times your hat full of massive gold, or call me a fool."
At this dazzling promise the eyes of Dick, the smaller of the hunters, glistened like two stars. He regarded his comrade with a species of admiration.
"Oh, oh!" he said in a low voice, "It is a placer, is it?"
"Hang it!" the other said, with a shrug of his shoulders, "were it not, should I be here? But silence, our man has arrived."
In fact, a man entered at this moment. On his appearance a sudden silence fell on the mesón; the adventurers gambling and cursing at all the tables, rose as if moved by a spring, respectfully took off their plumed hats, and ranged themselves with downcast eyes to let him pass. The man remained for an instant on the threshold of the venta, took a profound glance at the company, and then walked toward the two hunters.
This man wore the gown of a monk; he had the ascetic face, with the harsh features and sharply-marked lines, that forms, as it were, the type of the Spanish monks of which Titian has so admirably caught the expression on his canvas. He passed through the adventurers, holding out right and left his wide sleeves, which they reverentially kissed. On approaching the two hunters he turned round.
"Continue your sports, my sons," he said to the company; "my presence need not disturb your frolics, for I only wish to speak for a few moments with those two gentlemen."
The adventurers did not let the invitation be repeated, but took their places again tumultuously, and soon cries and oaths recommenced with equal intensity. The monk smiled, took a butaca, and seated himself between the two hunters, while bending a searching glance on them. The latter had followed with a mocking eye all the interludes of this little scene, and without making a movement, they let the monk seat himself by their side. So soon as he had done so, Harry poured him out a large glass of pulque, and placed within his reach the squares of maize leaf and tobacco.
"Drink and smoke, señor padre," he said to him.
The monk, without any observation, rolled a cigarette, emptied the glass of pulque at a draught, and then leaning his elbows on the table and bending forward, said,—
"You are punctual."
"We have been waiting an hour," Dick observed in a rough voice.
"What is an hour in the presence of eternity?" the monk said with a smile.
"Let us not lose any more time," Harry continued. "What have you to propose to us?"
The monk looked around him suspiciously, and lowered his voice.
"I can, if you like, make you rich in a few days."
"What is the business?" Dick asked.
"Of course," the monk continued, "this fortune I offer you is a matter of indifference to me. If I have an ardent desire to obtain it, it is, in the first place, because it belongs to nobody, and will permit me to relieve the wretchedness of the thousands of beings confided to my charge."
"Of course, señor padre," Harry answered seriously. "Let us not weigh longer on these details. According to what you told me a few days back, you have discovered a rich placer."
"Not I," the monk sharply objected.
"No consequence, provided that it exists," Dick answered.
"Pardon me, but it is of great consequence to me. I do not wish to take on myself the responsibility of such a discovery. If, as I believe, people will go in search of it, it may entail the death of several persons, and the church abhors bloodshed."
"Very good: you only desire to profit by it."
"Not for myself."
"For your parishioners. Very good; but let us try to come to an understanding, if possible, for our time is too precious for us to waste it in empty talk."
"Válgame Dios!" the monk said, crossing himself, "How you have retained the impetuosity of your French origin! Have a little patience, and I will explain myself."
"That is all we desire."
"But you will promise me—"
"Nothing," Dick interrupted. "We are honest hunters, and not accustomed to pledge ourselves so lightly before knowing positively what is asked of us."
Harry supported his friend's words by a nod. The monk drank a glass of pulque, and took two or three heavy puffs at his cigarette.
"Your will be done," he then said. "You are terrible men. This is the affair."
"Go on."
"A poor scamp of a gambusino, lost, I know not how, in the great desert, discovered at a considerable distance off, between the Rio Gila and the Colorado, the richest placer the wildest imagination can conceive. According to his statement the gold is scattered over the surface, for an extent of two or three miles, in nuggets, each of which would make a man's fortune. This gambusino, dazzled by such treasures, but unable to appropriate them alone, displayed the greatest energy, and braved the utmost perils, in order to regain civilised regions. It was only through boldness and temerity that he succeeded in escaping the countless enemies who spied, and tracked him on all sides; but Heaven at length allowed him to reach Paso safe and sound."
"Very good," Dick observed. "All this may very possibly, be true; but why did you not bring this gambusino, instead of talking to us about the placer, of which you know as little as we do? He would have supplied us with information which is indispensable for us, in the event of our consenting to help you in looking for this treasure."
"Alas!" the monk replied, hypocritically casting his eyes down, "the unhappy man was not destined to profit by this discovery, made at the price of so many perils. Scarce two days after his arrival at Paso, he quarrelled with another gambusino, and received a stab which sent him a few hours later to the tomb."
"In that case," Harry observed, "how did you learn all these details, señor padre?"
"In a very simple way, my son. It was I who reconciled the poor wretch in his last moments with Heaven; and," he added, with an air of compunction splendidly assumed, "when he understood that his end was at hand, and that nothing could save him, he confided to me, in gratitude for the consolation I bestowed on him, what I have just told you, revealed to me the situation of the placer, and for greater certainty gave me a clumsy chart he had drawn out on the spot. You see that we can proceed almost with certainty."
"Yes," Harry said, thoughtfully; "but why, instead of first applying to the Mexicans, your countrymen, did you propose to us to help you in your enterprise?"
"Because the Mexicans are men who cannot be trusted, and before reaching the placer we should have to fight the Apaches and Comanches, on whose territory it is situated."
After these words, there was a lengthened silence between the three speakers: each was reflecting deeply on what he had just heard. The monk tried to read with cunning eye the impression produced on the hunters by his confidence; but his hopes were deceived. Their faces remained unmoved. At length Dick spoke in a rough voice, after exchanging a meaning look with his comrade.
"All that is very fine," he said; "but it is absurd to suppose that two men, however brave they may be, can attempt such an enterprise in unknown regions peopled by ferocious tribes. It would require at least fifty resolute and devoted men, otherwise nothing could be possible."
"You are right, and hence I did not calculate on you alone. You will have determined men under your orders, chosen carefully by myself, and I shall also accompany you."
"Unluckily, if you have counted on us, you are mistaken, señor padre," Harry said, peremptorily. "We are honest hunters; but the trade of a gambusino does not at all suit us. Even if we had a chance of gaining an incalculable fortune, we would not consent to take part in an expedition of gold seekers."
"Not even if Red Cedar were at the head of the expedition, and consented to take the direction?" the monk said in a honeyed voice, and with a side glance.
The hunter started, a feverish blush suffused his face, and it was in a voice choked by emotion that he exclaimed,—
"Have you spoken with him about it?"
"Here he is; you can ask him," the monk answered.
In fact, a man was entering the mesón at this moment. Harry looked down in confusion, while Dick tapped the table with his dagger and whistled. A smile of undefinable meaning wandered over the monk's pallid lips.
Red Cedar was more than six feet in height; his enormous head was fastened to his square shoulders by a short and muscular neck, like a bull's; his bony members were covered with muscles hard as ropes. In short, his whole person was a specimen of brute strength at its culminating point.
A fox-skin cap, pressed down on his head, allowed escape to a few tufts of coarse greyish hair, and fell on his little grey eyes, which were close to a nose that was hooked like the beak of a bird of prey; his wide mouth was filled with white, large teeth; his cheekbones were prominent and purpled; and the lower part of his face disappeared in a thick black beard, mingled with grey hairs. He wore a hunting shirt of striped calico, fastened round the waist by a strap of brown leather, through which were passed two pistols, an axe, and a long knife; a pair of leggings of tawny leather, sewed at equal distances with hair, fell down to his knees; while his legs were protected by Indian moccasins, ornamented with a profusion of beads and bells. A game bag of fawn skin, which seemed full, fell over his right hip; and he held in his hand an American rifle, studded with copper nails.
No one knew who Red Cedar was, or whence he came. About two years prior to the period of our story opening he had suddenly made his appearance in the country, accompanied by a wife of a certain age—a species of Megaera, of masculine form and repellant aspect; a girl of seventeen; and three vigorous lads, who resembled him too closely not to be his own, and whose age varied from nineteen to twenty-four.
Red Cedar himself appeared to be fifty-five at the most. The name by which he was known had been given to him by the Indians, of whom he had declared himself the implacable enemy, and boasted that he had killed two hundred. The old woman was called Betsy; the girl, Ellen; the eldest son, Nathan; the second, Sutter; and the last, Shaw.
This family had built a shanty in the forest, a few miles from Paso, and lived alone in the desert, without having entered into any relations with the inhabitants of the village; or the trappers and wood rangers, its neighbours. The mysterious conduct of these strangers had given rise to numerous comments; but all had remained without reply or solution, and after two years they remained as perfect strangers as on the day of their arrival.
Still, mournful and sad stories were in circulation on their account: they inspired an instinctive hatred and involuntary terror in the Mexicans. Some said in a whisper that old Red Cedar and his three sons were nothing less than "scalp hunters;" that is to say, in the public esteem, people placed beneath the pirates of the prairies, that unclean breed of birds of prey which everybody fears and despises.
The entry of Red Cedar was significant; the otherwise unscrupulous men who filled the venta hurriedly retired on his approach, and made room for him with a zeal mingled with disgust. The old partisan crossed the room with head erect; a smile of haughty disdain played round his thin lips at the sight of the effect his presence produced, and he went up to the monk and his two companions. On reaching them he roughly placed the butt of his rifle on the ground, leaned his two crossed hands upon the barrel, and after bending a cunning glance on the persons before him, said to the monk in a hoarse voice,—
"The deuce take you, señor padre! Here I am: what do you want with me?"
Far from being vexed at this brutal address, the latter smiled on the colossus, and held out his hand to him, as he graciously made answer,—
"You are welcome, Red Cedar; we were expecting you impatiently. Sit down by my side on this butaca, and we will talk while drinking a glass of pulque."
"The deuce twist your neck, and may your accursed pulque choke you! Do you take me for a wretched abortion of your sort?" the other answered as he fell into the seat offered him. "Order me some brandy, and that of the strongest. I am not a babe, I suppose."
Without making the slightest observation, the monk rose, went to speak with the host, and presently returned with a bottle, from which he poured a bumper for the old hunter. The latter emptied the glass at a draught, put it back on the table with a sonorous "hum!" and turned to the monk with a grimacing smile.
"Come, the devil is not always so black as he looks, señor padre," he said, as he passed his hand over his mouth to wipe his moustache. "I see that we can come to an understanding."
"It will only depend on you, Red Cedar. Here are two worthy Canadian hunters who will do nothing without your support."
The Hercules took a side glance at the young men.
"Eh!" he said, "what do you want with these children? Did I not promise you to reach the placer with my sons only?"
"He, he! You are powerfully built, both you and your lads, I allow; but I doubt whether four men, were they twice as strong as you are, could carry out this affair successfully. You will have numerous enemies to combat on your road."
"All the better! The more there are, the more we shall kill," he answered with a sinister laugh.
"Señor padre," Dick interrupted, "as far as I am concerned, I care little about it."
But he was suddenly checked by a meaning glance from his mate.
"What do you care little about, my pretty lad?" the giant asked in a mocking voice.
"Nothing," the young man answered drily. "Suppose I had not spoken."
"Good," Red Cedar remarked; "it shall be as you wish. Here's your health."
And he poured the rest of the bottle into his glass.
"Come," said Harry, "Let us have but few words. Explain yourself once for all, without beating about the bush, señor padre."
"Yes," Red Cedar observed, "men ought not to waste their time thus in chattering."
"Very good. This, then, is what I propose. Red Cedar will collect within three days from this time thirty resolute men, of whom he will take the command, and we will start immediately in search of the placer. Does it suit you in that way?"
"Hum!" Red Cedar said. "In order to go in search of the placer we must know a little in what direction it is, or deuce take me if I undertake the business!"
"Do not trouble yourself about that, Red Cedar; I will accompany you. Have I not got a plan of the country?"
The colossus shot at the monk a glance which sparkled under his dark eyelash, but he hastened to moderate its brilliancy by letting his eyes fall.
"That is true," he said with feigned indifference; "I forgot that you were coming with us. Then you will leave your parishioners during your absence?"
"Heaven will watch over them."
"Eh! It will have its work cut out. However, that does not concern me at all. But why did you oblige me to come to this mesón?"
"In order to introduce you to these two hunters, who will accompany us."
"I beg your pardon," Dick observed, "but I do not exactly see of what use I can be to you in all this: my aid, and that of my mate, do not appear to me to be indispensable."
"On the contrary," the monk answered quickly, "I reckon entirely on you."
The giant had risen.
"What!" he said, as he roughly laid his enormous hand on Dick's shoulder, "You do not understand that this honourable personage, who did not hesitate to kill a man in order to rob him of the secret of the placer, has a terrible fear of finding himself alone with me on the prairie? He fears that I shall kill him in my turn to rob him of the secret of which he became master by a crime. Ha, ha, ha!"
And he turned his back unceremoniously.
"How can you suppose such things, Red Cedar?" the monk exclaimed.
"Do you fancy that I did not read you?" the latter answered. "But it is all the same to you. Do as you please: I leave you at liberty to act as you like."
"What! You are off already?"
"Hang it! What have I to do any longer here? All is settled between us. In three days thirty of the best frontiersmen will be assembled by my care at Grizzly Bear Creek, where we shall expect you."
After shrugging his shoulders once again he went off without any salute, or even turning his head.
"It must be confessed," Dick observed, "that the man has a most villainous face. What a hideous fellow!"
"Oh!" the monk answered with a sigh, "The exterior is nothing. You should know the inner man."
"Why, in that case, do you have any dealings with him?"
The monk blushed slightly.
"Because it must be so," he muttered.
"All right for you," Dick continued; "but as nothing obliges my friend and myself to have any more intimate relations with that man, you must not mind, señor Padre, if—"
"Silence, Dick!" Harry shouted, angrily. "You do not know what you are talking about. We will accompany you, señor padre. You can reckon on us to defend you if necessary, for I suppose that Red Cedar is right."
"In what way?"
"You do not wish to trust your life defencelessly in his hands, and you reckoned on us to protect you. Is it not so?"
"Why should I feign any longer? Yes, that man terrifies me, and I do not wish to trust myself to his mercy."
"Do not be alarmed; we shall be there, and on our word as hunters, not a hair of your head shall fall."
A lively satisfaction appeared on the monk's pale face at this generous promise.
"Thanks," he said warmly.
Harry's conduct appeared so extraordinary to Dick, who knew the lofty sentiments and innate honor of his comrade, that, without striving to fathom the motives which made him act thus, he contented himself by backing up his words by an affirmative nod of the head.
"Be assured, caballeros, that when we have reached the placer, I will give you a large share, and you will have no cause to regret accompanying me."
"The money question has but slight interest with us," Harry answered. "My friend and I are free hunters, caring very little for riches, which would be to us rather a source of embarrassment than of pleasure and enjoyment. Curiosity alone, and the desire of exploring strange countries, are sufficient to make us undertake this journey."
"Whatever the reason that makes you accept my proposals, I am not the less obliged to you."
"Now you will permit us to take leave of you, and we shall hold ourselves at your orders."
"Go, gentlemen; I will not keep you longer. I know where to find you when I want you."
The young men took up their hats, slung their rifles on their shoulders, and left the mesón. The monk looked after them.
"Oh!" he muttered, "I believe I can trust to those men: they have still in their veins a few drops of that honest French blood which despises treachery. No matter," he added, as if on reflection; "I will take my precautions."
After this aside, he rose and looked around him. The room was full of adventurers, who drank or played atmonte, and whose energetic faces stood out in the semi-obscurity of the room, which was scarce lighted by a smoky lamp. After a moment's reflection the monk boldly struck the table with his clenched fist, and shouted in a loud voice:
"Señores caballeros, I invite you to listen to me. I have, I fancy, an advantageous proposal to make to you."
The company turned their heads; those who were gambling for a moment abandoned their cards and dice; the drinkers alone kept in their hands the glasses they held; but all approached the monk, round whom they grouped themselves curiously.
"Caballeros," he continued, "if I am not mistaken, all present are gentlemen whom fortune has more or less ill-treated."
The adventurers, by an automatic movement of extraordinary regularity, bowed their heads in affirmation.
"If you wish it," he continued with an imperceptible smile, "I will undertake to repair the wrong by it done you."
The adventurers pricked up their ears.
"Speak, speak, señor padre!" they shouted with delight.
"What is the affair?" a man with a hang-dog face said, who stood in the front ranks.
"A war party which I intend to lead shortly into Apacheria," the monk said, "and for which purpose I need you."
At this proposition the first ardor of the adventurers visibly cooled down. The Apaches and Comanches inspire an invincible terror in the inhabitants of the Mexican frontiers. The monk guessed the effect he had produced; but he continued, as if not observing anything:—
"I take you all into my service for a month, at the rate of four piastres a day."
At this magnificent offer the eyes of the adventurers sparkled with greed, fear gave way to avarice, and they all exclaimed,—
"We accept, reverend father!
"But," the man continued who had already spoken, "we shall be happy, señor padre, if, before starting, you would give us your holy benediction, and absolve us from the few sins we may have committed."
"Yes," the company yelled, "we shall be happy if you consent to that, reverend father."
The monk appeared to reflect: the adventurers, anxiously waited.
"Well, be it so," he answered after a moment. "As the work in which I am about to employ you is so meritorious, I will give you my blessing, and grant you absolution of your sins."
For a few minutes there was a shout and exclamations of joy in the room. The monk demanded silence, and when it was restored he said,—
"Now, caballeros, give me each your name, that I may find you when I need you."
He sat down and began enrolling the adventurers, who, with the men Red Cedar supplied, would form the band with which he hoped to reach the placer. We will leave the worthy monk for a few moments, and follow the two Canadian hunters.
Harry and Dick, whom we saw seated at a table in the mesón with Red Cedar and Fray Ambrosio, were however, very far from resembling those two men morally. They were free and bold hunters, who had spent the greater part of their life in the desert, and who, in the vast solitude of the prairie, had accustomed themselves to a life free and exempt from those vices which accompany a town residence.
For them gold was only the means to procure the necessary objects for their trade as hunters and trappers; and they never imagined that the possession of a large quantity of that yellow metal they despised would place them in a position to enjoy other pleasures than those they found in their long hunts of wild beasts—hunts so full of strange incidents and striking joys.
Thus Dick had been to the highest degree surprised when he saw his friend eagerly accept the monk's offer, and agree to go in search of the placer; but what even more surprised him was Harry's insisting that Red Cedar must take the lead of the expedition. Though no one could positively accuse the squatter, owing to the precautions he took, of leading a life of rapine and murder, still the mysterious conduct he affected, and the solitude in which he lived with his family, had cast on him a shadow of reprobation.
Every one regarded him as a scalp hunter, and yet no one would have ventured to affirm the odious deeds of which he was accused. The result of the general reprobation that fell on the squatter, and which we know to be fully merited, was that he and his family were placed under a ban by the frontier hunters and trappers, and every one fled not only their society, but any contact with them. Dick was thoroughly acquainted with his friend's upright character and nobility of heart. Hence his conduct under the present circumstances seemed to him perfectly incomprehensible, and he resolved to have an explanation with him.
They had scarce quitted the mesón ere Dick bent down to his companion, and said, while looking at him curiously,—
"We have been hunting together for five years, Harry, and up to the present I have ever let myself be guided by you, leaving you free to act as you pleased for our mutual welfare. Still this evening your conduct has appeared to me so extraordinary that I am obliged, in the name of our friendship, which has never suffered a break up to this day, to ask you for an explanation of what has occurred in my presence."
"For what good, my boy? Do you not know me well enough to be certain that I would not consent to do any dishonourable deed?"
"Up to this evening I would have sworn it, Harry: yes, on my honor I would have sworn it—"
"And now?" the young man asked, stopping and looking his friend in the face.
"Now," Dick answered, with a certain degree of hesitation, "hang it all! I will be frank with you, Harry, as an honest hunter should ever be. Now I do not know if I should do so: no, indeed I should not."
"What you say there causes me great pain, Dick. You oblige me, in order to dissipate your unjust suspicions, to confide to you a secret which is not my own, and which I would not have revealed for anything in the world."
"Pardon me, Harry, but in my place I am convinced you would act as I am doing. We are very far from our country, which we shall never see again, perhaps. We are responsible for each other, and our actions must be free from all double interpretation."
"I will do what you ask, Dick, whatever it may cost me. I recognise the justice of your observations. I understand how much my conduct this night must have hurt you and appeared ambiguous. I do not wish our friendship to receive the least wound, or the slightest cloud to arise between us. You shall be satisfied."
"I thank you, Harry. What you tell me relieves my bosom of a heavy load. I confess that I should have been in despair to think badly of you; but the words of that intriguing monk, and the manners of that worthy acolyte, Red Cedar, put me in a passion. Had you not warned me so quickly to silence, I believe—Heaven pardon me!—that I should have ended by telling them a piece of my mind."
"You displayed considerable prudence in keeping silence, and be assured you will completely approve me."
"I do not doubt it, Harry; and now I feel certain I deceived myself. I feel all jolly again."
While speaking thus the two hunters, who were walking with that rapid step peculiar to men habituated to traverse great distances on foot, had crossed the village, and found themselves already far in the plain. The night was magnificent—the sky of a deep blue. An infinite number of glistening stars seemed floating in ether. The moon spread its silvery rays profusely over the landscape. The sharp odour of the flowers perfumed the atmosphere. The two hunters still walked on.
"Where are we going now, Harry?" Dick asked. "I fancy we should do better by taking a few hours' rest, instead of fatiguing ourselves without any definite object."
"I never do anything without a reason, friend, as you know," Harry answered; "so let me guide you, and we shall soon arrive."
"Do as you think proper, my boy; I shall say nothing."
"In the first place you must know that the French hunter, Koutonepi, has begged me, for reasons he did not tell me, to watch Fray Ambrosio. That is one of the motives which made me be present at this night's interview, although I care as little for a placer as for a musk-rat's skin."
"Koutonepi is the first hunter on the frontier; he has often done us a service in the desert. You acted rightly, Harry, in doing what he asked."
"As for the second reason that dictated my conduct, Dick, you shall soon know it."
Half talking, half dreaming, the young men reached Buffalo Valley, and soon entered the forest which served as a lair for the squatter and his family.
"Where the deuce are we going?" Dick could not refrain from saying.
"Silence!" said the other: "We are approaching."
The darkness was profound in the forest: the density of the leafy dome under which they walked completely intercepted the light of the moonbeams. Still the Canadians, long accustomed to a night march, advanced as easily through the chaos of creepers and trees tangled in each other as if they had been in open day. On reaching a certain spot where the trees, growing less closely together, formed a species of clearing, and allowed an uncertain and tremorous light to pass, Harry stopped, and made his comrade a sign to do the same.
"This is the place," he said. "Still, I as the person I have come to see expects me to be alone, and your unexpected presence might cause alarm, hide yourself behind that larch tree: above all, be careful not to stir till I call I you."
"Oh, oh!" the hunter said, with a laugh, "have you perchance led me to a love meeting, Harry?"
"You shall judge," Harry replied laconically. "Hide yourself."
Dick, greatly troubled, did not need the invitation to be repeated: he concealed himself behind the tree his friend had indicated, and which would have sheltered a dozen men behind its enormous stem. So soon as Harry was alone, he raised his fingers to his lips, and at three different intervals imitated the cry of an owl with such perfection that Dick himself was deceived, and mechanically looked up to seek the bird in the tall branches of the tree by which he stood. Almost immediately, a slight noise was audible in the shrubs, and a graceful and white form appeared in the glade. It was Ellen, who rapidly walked toward the young man.
"Oh, it is you, Harry!" she said with joy. "Heaven be blessed, I was afraid you would not come, as it is late."
"It is true, Ellen: pardon me. I made all possible speed, however; and it is not my fault that I did not arrive sooner."
"How good you are, Harry, to take so much trouble for my sake! How can I ever recognise the continual services you do me?"
"Oh! Do not speak about them. It is a happiness for me to do anything agreeable to you."
"Alas!" the maiden murmured, "Heaven is my witness that I feel a deep friendship for you, Harry."
The young man sighed gently.
"I have done what you asked of me," he said suddenly.
"Then it is true my father is thinking about leaving this country to go further still?"
"Yes, Ellen, and into frightful countries, among the ferocious Indians."
The girl gave a start of terror.
"Do you know the reason of his going?" she continued.
"Yes; he is about to look for a gold placer."
"Alas! Who will protect me, who will defend me in future, if we go away?"
"I, Ellen!" the hunter exclaimed impetuously. "Have I not sworn to follow you everywhere?"
"It is true," she said sadly; "but why should you risk your life on the distant journey we are about to undertake? No, Harry, remain here; I cannot consent to your departure. From what I have heard say, the band my father commands will be numerous—it will have scarce anything to fear from the Indians; while, on the other hand, you, compelled to hide yourself, will be exposed alone to terrible danger. No, Harry, I will not permit it."
"Undeceive yourself, Ellen. I shall not be forced to conceal myself; I shall not be alone, for I am a member of your father's band."
"Is it possible, Harry?" she exclaimed, with an expression of joy that made the young man quiver.
"I enrolled myself this very evening."
"Oh!" she said, "Then in that case we can often meet?"
"Whenever you please, Ellen, as I shall be there."
"Oh! Now I am anxious to be away from here, and wish we had already started."
"It will not be long first, set your mind at rest. I am convinced that we shall start within the week."
"Thanks for the good news you bring me, Harry."
"Are your father and mother still unkind to you, Ellen?"
"It is nearly always the same thing; and yet their conduct toward me is strange. It often seems to me incomprehensible, as it is so marked with peculiarities. There are moments in which they seem to love me dearly. My father especially caresses and embraces me, and then all at once, I know not why, repulses me rudely, and looks at me in a way that causes me to shudder."
"That is indeed strange, Ellen."
"Is it not? There is one thing above all I cannot explain."
"Tell it me, Ellen; perhaps I can do so."
"You know that all my family are Protestants?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am a Catholic."
"That is certainly curious."
"I wear around my neck a small golden crucifix. Every time accident makes this trinket glisten before my father and mother they grow furious, threaten to beat me, and order me to hide it at once. Do you understand the meaning of this, Harry?"
"No, I do not, Ellen; but, believe me, leave everything to time; perhaps it will enable us to find the clue to the mystery which we seek in vain at this moment."
"Well, your presence has rendered me happy for a long time, Harry, so now I will retire."
"Already?"
"I must, my friend. Believe me that I am as sad as yourself at this separation; but my father has not yet returned, and may arrive at any moment. If he noticed that I was not asleep, who knows what might happen?"
While saying the last words the girl held out her delicate hand to the hunter, who raised it to his lips passionately. Ellen withdrew it suddenly, and bounding like a startled fawn, darted into the forest, where she soon disappeared, giving the young man a parting word, which caused him to quiver with joy:—
"We shall meet soon."
Harry stood for a long time with his eyes fixed on the spot where the seductive vision had disappeared. At length he uttered a sigh, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turned as if to depart. Dick was before him. Harry gave a start of surprise, for he had forgotten his friend's presence; but the latter smiled good-humouredly.
"I now comprehend your conduct, Harry," he said to him; "you were right to act as you did. Pardon my unjust suspicions, and count on me everywhere and always."
Harry silently pressed the hand his friend offered him, and they walked back rapidly in the direction of the village. As they emerged from the forest they passed, a man who did not see them. It was Red Cedar. So soon as he had gone a short distance Harry stopped his companion, and pointing to the squatter, whose long black shadow glided through the trees, said, as he laid his hand on his shoulder,—
"That man hides in his heart a horrible secret, which I am ignorant of, but have sworn to discover."
The monk remained for a long time in the room of the mesón, taking down the names of the adventurers he wished to enrol in his band. It was late when he left it to return to the Hacienda de la Noria; but he was satisfied with his night's work, and internally rejoiced at the rich collection of bandits of the purest water he had recruited.
The monks form a privileged caste in Mexico: they can go at all hours of the night wherever they please without fearing the numerous "gentlemen of the road," scattered about the highways. Their gown inspires a respect which guarantees them from any insult, and preserves them better than anything from unpleasant rencontres. Besides, Fray Ambrosio, as the reader has doubtless already perceived, was not the man to neglect indispensable precautions in a country where, out of ten persons you meet on your road, you may boldly assert that nine are rogues, the tenth alone offering any doubts. The worthy chaplain carried under his gown a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and in his right sleeve he concealed a longnavaja, sharp as a razor, and pointed as a needle.
Not troubling himself about the solitude that reigned around him, the monk mounted his mule and proceeded quietly to the hacienda. It was about eleven o'clock.
A few words about Fray Ambrosio, while he is peacefully ambling along the narrow path which will lead him in two hours to his destination, will show all the perversity of the man who is destined to play an unfortunately too important part in the course of our narrative.
One day a gambusino, or gold seeker, who had disappeared for two years, no one knowing what had become of him, and who was supposed to be dead long ago, assassinated in the desert by the Indians, suddenly reappeared at the Paso del Norte. This man, Joaquin by name, was brother to Andrés Garote, an adventurer of the worst stamp, who had at least a dozencuchilladas(knife stabs) on his conscience, whom everybody feared, but who, through the terror he inspired, enjoyed at the Paso, in spite of his well-avouched crimes, a reputation and species of impunity which he abused whenever the opportunity offered.
The two brothers began frequenting together the mesones and ventas of the village, drinking from morn till night, and paying either in gold dust enclosed in stout quills, or in lumps of native gold. The rumour soon spread at Paso that Joaquin had discovered a rich placer, and that his expenses were paid with the specimens he had brought back. The gambusino replied neither yes nor no to the several insinuations which his friends, or rather his boon companions, attempted on him. He twinkled his eyes, smiled mysteriously, and if it were observed that, at the rate he was living at, he would soon be ruined, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:—
"When I have none left I know where to find others."
And he continued to enjoy his fill of all the pleasures which a wretched hole like Paso can furnish.
Fray Ambrosio had heard speak, like everyone else, of the gambusino's asserted discovery; and his plan was at once formed to become master of this man's secret, and rob him of his discovery, were that possible.
The same evening Joaquin and his brother Andrés were drinking, according to their wont, in a mesón, surrounded by a crowd of scamps like themselves. Fray Ambrosio, seated at a table with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his gown, and hanging head, appeared plunged in serious reflections, although he followed with a cunning eye the various movements of the drinkers, and not one of their gestures escaped him.
Suddenly a man entered, with his hand on his hip, and throwing in the face of the first person he passed the cigarette he was smoking. He planted himself in front of Joaquin, to whom he said nothing, but began looking at him impudently, shrugging his shoulders, and laughing ironically at all the gambusino said. Joaquin was not patient, he saw at the first glance that this person wished to pick a quarrel with him; and as he was brave, and feared nobody, man or devil, he walked boldly up to him, and looking at him fixedly in his turn, he said to him, as he thrust his face in his:
"Do you seek a quarrel, Tomaso?"
"Why not?" the latter said impudently, as he set his glass on the table.
"I am your man. We will fight how you please."
"Bah!" Tomaso said carelessly, "let us do things properly, and fight with the whole blade."
"Be it so."
The combats which take place between the adventurers are truly like those of wild beasts. These coarse men, with their cruel instincts, like fighting beyond all else, for the smell of blood intoxicates them. The announcement of this duel caused a thrill of pleasure to run through the ranks of the leperos and bandits who pressed round the two men. The fun was perfect: one of the adversaries would doubtless fall—perhaps both—and blood flow in streams. Cries and yells of delight were raised by the spectators.
The duel with knives is the only one that exists in Mexico, and is solely left to the leperos and people of the lowest classes. This duel has its rules, which cannot be broken under any pretext. The knives usually employed, have blades from fourteen to sixteen inches in length, and the duelists fight according to the gravity of the insult, with one, two, three, six inches, or the entire blade. The inches are carefully measured and the hand clutches the knife at the marked spot.
This time it was a duel with the whole blade, the most terrible of all. With extraordinary politeness and coolness the landlord had a large ring formed in the middle of the room, where the two adversaries stationed themselves, about six paces from each other at the most.
A deep silence hung over the room, a moment previously so full of life and disturbance; every one anxiously awaited thedénouementof the terrible drama that was preparing. Fray Ambrosio alone had not quitted his seat or made a sign.
The two men rolled their zarapés round their left arm, planted themselves firmly on their outstretched legs, bent their bodies slightly forward and gently placing the point of the knife blade on the arm rounded in front of the chest, they waited, fixed on each other flashing glances. A few seconds elapsed, during which the adversaries remained perfectly motionless: all hearts were contracted, all bosoms heaving.
Worthy of Callot's pencil was the scene offered by these men, with their weather-stained faces and harsh features, and their clothes in rags, forming a circle round two combatants ready to kill each other in this mean room, slightly illumined by a smoky lamp, which flashed upon the blue blades of the knives, and in the shadow, almost disappearing in his black gown, the monk, with his implacable glance and mocking smile, who, like a tiger thirsting for blood, awaited the hour to pounce on his prey.
Suddenly, by a spontaneous movement rapid as lightning, the adversaries rushed on each other, uttering a yell of fury. The blades flashed, there was a clashing of steel, and both fell back again. Joaquin and Tomaso had both dealt the same stroke, called, in the slang of the country, the "blow of the brave man." Each had his face slashed from top to bottom with a gaping wound.
The spectators frenziedly applauded this magnificent opening scene: the jaguars had scented blood, and were mad.
"What a glorious fight!" they exclaimed with admiration.
In the meanwhile the two combatants, rendered hideous by the blood that streamed from their wounds and stained their faces, were again watching for the moment to leap on one another. Suddenly they broke ground; but this time it was no skirmish, but the real fight, atrocious and merciless. The two men seized each other round the waist, and entwined like serpents, they twisted about, trying to stab each other, and exciting themselves to the struggle by cries of rage and triumph. The enthusiasm of the spectators was at its height: they laughed, clapped hands, and uttered inarticulate howls as they urged the fighters not to loose their hold.
At length the enemies rolled on the ground still enclasped. For some seconds the combat continued on the ground, and it was impossible to distinguish who was the conqueror. All at once one of them, who no longer had a human form, and whose body was as red as an Indian's, bounded to his feet brandishing his knife. It was Joaquin.
His brother rushed toward him to congratulate him on his victory, but all at once the gambusino tottered and fainted. Tomaso did not rise again: he remained motionless, stretched out on the uneven floor of the mesón. He was stark dead.
This scene had been so rapid, its conclusion so unforeseen, that, in spite of themselves, the spectators had remained dumb, and as if struck with stupor. Suddenly the priest, whom all had forgotten, rose and walked into the centre of the room, looking round with a glance that caused all to let their eyes fall.
"Retire, all of you," he said in a gloomy voice, "now that you have allowed this deed worthy of savages to be accomplished. The priest must offer his ministry, and get back from Satan, if there be still time, the soul of this Christian who is about to die. Begone!"
The adventurers hung their heads, and in a few moments the priest was left alone with the two men, one of whom was dead, the other at the last gasp. No one could say what occurred in that room; but when the priest left it, a quarter of an hour later, his eyes flashed wildly. Joaquin had given his parting sigh. On opening the door to go out Fray Ambrosio jostled against a man, who drew back sharply to make room for him. It was Andrés Garote. What was he doing with his eye at the keyhole while the monk was shriving his brother?
The adventurer told no one what he had seen during this last quarter of an hour, nor did the monk notice in the shade the man he had almost thrown down.
Such was the way in which Fray Ambrosio became master of the gambusino's secret, and how he alone knew at present the spot where the placer was.
Now that the reader is well informed touching Fray Ambrosio, we will follow him on his road home from the mesón. The night was calm, silent and serene. Not a sound troubled the silence, save the trot of the mule over the pebbles on the road, or at times, in the distance, the snapping bark of the coyotes chasing in a pack, according to their wont, some straggling hind.
Fray Ambrosio ambled gently on, while reflecting on the events of the evening, and calculating mentally the probable profits of the expedition he meditated. He had left far behind him the last houses of the village, and was advancing cautiously along a narrow path that wound through an immense sugar cane field. Already the shadow of the tall hacienda walls stood out blackly in the horizon. He expected to reach it within twenty minutes, when suddenly his mule, which had hitherto gone so quietly, pricked up its ears, raised its head, and stopped short.
Roughly aroused from his meditations by this unexpected halt, the monk looked about for some obstacle that might impede his progress. About ten paces from him a man was standing right in the middle of the path. Fray Ambrosio was a man not easily to be frightened: besides, he was well armed. He drew out one of the pistols hidden under his gown, cocked it, and prepared to cross-question the person who so resolutely barred his way. But the latter, at the sharp sound of the setting hammer, thought it prudent to make himself known, and not await the consequences of an address nearly always stormy under similar circumstances.
"Halloh!" he shouted in a loud voice, "Return your pistol to your belt, Fray Ambrosio; I only want to talk with you."
"Diavolo!" the monk said, "the hour and moment are singularly chosen for a friendly conversation, my good fellow."
"Time belongs to nobody," the stranger answered sententiously. "I am obliged to choose that which I have at my disposal."
"That is true," the monk said as he quietly uncocked his pistol, though not returning it to his belt. "Who the deuce are you, and why are you so anxious to speak with me? Do you want to confess?
"Have you not recognised me yet, Fray Ambrosio? Must I tell you my name that you may know with whom you have to deal?"
"Needless, my good sir, needless; but how the deuce is it, Red Cedar, that I meet you here! What can you have so pressing to communicate to me?"
"You shall know if you will stop for a few moments and dismount."
"The deuce take you with your whims! Cannot you tell me that as well tomorrow! Night is getting on, my home is still some distance off and I am literally worn out."
"Bah! you will sleep capitally by the side of a ditch, where you could not be more comfortable. Besides, what I have to say to you does not admit of delay."
"You wish to make a proposal to me, then?"
"Yes."
"What about, if you please?"
"About the affair we discussed this evening at the Paso."
"Why, I fancied we had settled all that, and you accepted my offer."
"Not yet, not yet, my master. That will depend on the conversation we are about to have, so you had better dismount and sit down quietly by my side; for if you don't do it, it will come to nothing."
"The deuce take people that change their minds every minute, and on whom one cannot reckon more than on an old surplice!" the monk growled with an air of annoyance, while, for all that, getting off his mule, which he fastened to a shrub.
The squatter did not seem to remark the chaplain's ill temper, and let him sit down by his side without uttering a syllable.
"Here I am," the monk went on, so soon as he was seated. "I really do not know, Red Cedar, why I yield so easily to all your whims."
"Because you suspect that your interest depends on it: were it not for that, you would not do so."
"Why talk thus in the open country, instead of going to your house, where we should be much more comfortable?"
Red Cedar shook his head in denial.
"No," he said; "the open is better for what we have to talk about. Here we need not fear listeners at out doors."
"That is true. Well, go on; I am listening."
"Hum! You insist upon my commanding the expedition you project?"
"Of course. I have known you a long time. I am aware that you are a sure man, perfectly versed in Indian signs; for, if I am not mistaken, the greater part of your life has been spent among them."
"Do not speak about what I have done? The question now concerns you, and not me."
"How so?"
"Good, good! Let me speak. You need me, so it is to my interest to make you pay as dearly as I can for me."
"Eh?" the monk muttered, as he made a grimace. "I am not rich, gossip, as you are aware."
"Yes, yes; I know that, so soon as you have a few piastres or ounces, the monte table strips you of them immediately."
"Hang it! I have always been unlucky at play."
"For that reason I do not intend asking you for money."
"Very good. If you have no designs on my purse we can easily come to an understanding. You may speak boldly."
"I hope that we shall easily understand one another, the mere so as the service I expect from you is almost a mere nothing."
"Come to the point, Red Cedar: with your deuced way of twining your phrases together in the Indian way, you never make an end of it."
"You know that I have a deadly hatred against Don Miguel Zarate?"
"I have heard some say about it. Did he not lodge his knife somewhere in your chest?"
"Yes, and the blow was so rude that I all but died of it; but, thanks to the devil, I am on my legs again, after remaining three weeks on my back like a cast sheep. I want my revenge."
"I can't help saying you are right: in your place, may Satan twist my neck if I would not do the same!"
"For that I count on your help."
"Hum! that is a delicate affair. I have no cause of complaint against Don Miguel—on the contrary: besides, I do not see how I can serve you."
"Oh! very easily."
"You believe so?"
"You shall see."
"Go on, then; I am listening."
"Don Miguel has a daughter?"
"Doña Clara."
"I mean to carry her off."
"Deuce take the mad ideas that pass through your brain-pan, gossip! How would you have me help you in carrying off the daughter of Don Miguel, to whom I owe so many obligations? No, I cannot do that, indeed."
"You must, though."
"I will not, I tell you."
"Measure your words well, Fray Ambrosio, for this conversation is serious. Before refusing so peremptorily to give me the help I ask, reflect well."
"I have reflected well, Red Cedar, and never will I consent to help you in carrying off the daughter of my benefactor. Say what you like, nothing will ever change my resolution on that head, for it is inflexible."
"Perhaps."
"Oh! Whatever may happen, I swear that nothing will make me alter."
"Swear not, Fray Ambrosio, for you will be a perjurer."
"Ta, ta, ta! You are mad, my good fellow. Don't let us waste our time. If you have nothing else to say to me, I will leave you, though I take such pleasure in your society."
"You have become scrupulous all of a sudden, my master."
"There is a beginning to everything, compadre; so let us say no more, but good-bye."
And the monk rose.
"You are really going?"
"Caray! Do you fancy I mean to sleep here?"
"Very good. You understand that you need not count on me for your expedition?"
"I am sorry for it; but I will try to find someone to take your place."
"Thank you."
The two men were standing, and the monk had put his foot in the stirrup. Red Cedar also appeared ready to make a start. At the moment of separation a sudden idea seemed to occur to the squatter.
"By the way," he said carelessly, "be kind enough to give me some information I require."
"What is it now?" the monk asked.
"Oh! a mere trifle," the squatter remarked indifferently. "It concerns a certain Don Pedro de Tudela, whom I think you formerly knew."
"Eh!?" the monk exclaimed, as he turned, with his leg still in the air.
"Come, come, Fray Ambrosio," Red Cedar continued in a jeering voice, "let us have a little more talk together. I will tell you, if you like, a very remarkable story about this Don Pedro, with whom you were acquainted."
The monk was livid; a nervous tremor agitated all his limbs; he let loose his mule's bridle, and followed the squatter mechanically, who seated himself tranquilly on the ground, making him a sign to follow his example. The monk fell, suppressing a sigh, and wiping away the drops of cold perspiration that beaded on his forehead.
"Eh, eh!" the squatter continued at the end of a moment, "we must allow that Don Pedro was a charming gentleman—a little wild, perhaps; but what would you have? He was young. I remember meeting him at Albany a long time ago—some sixteen or seventeen years ago—how old one gets!—at the house of one—wait awhile, the name has slipped my memory—could you not help me to it, Fray Ambrosio?"
"I do not know what you mean," the monk said in a hollow voice.
The man was in a state that would have produced pity; the veins in his forehead were swollen ready to burst; he was choking; his right hand clutched the hilt of his dagger; and he bent on the squatter a glance full of deadly hatred. The latter seemed to see nothing of all this.
"I have it!" he continued. "The man's name was Walter Brunnel, a very worthy gentleman."
"Demon!" the monk howled in a gasping voice, "I know not who made you master of that horrible secret, but you shall die."
And he rushed upon him, dagger in hand.
Red Cedar had known Fray Ambrosio a long time, and was on his guard. By a rapid movement he checked his arm, twisted it, and seized the dagger, which he threw a long distance off.
"Enough," he said in a harsh voice. "We understand one another, my master. Do not play that game with me, for you will be sick of it, I warn you."
The monk fell back on his seat, without the strength to make a sign or utter a syllable. The squatter regarded him for a moment with mingled pity and contempt and shrugged his shoulders.
"For sixteen years I have held that secret," he said, "and it has never passed my lips. I will continue to keep silence on one condition."
"What is it?"
"I want you to help me in carrying off the hacendero's daughter."
"I will do it."
"Mind, I expect honest assistance; so do not attempt any treachery."
"I will help you, I tell you."
"Good! I count on your word. Besides you may be easy, master; I will watch you."
"Enough of threats. What is to be done?"
"When do we start for Apacheria?"
"You are coming, then?"
"Of course."
A sinister smile played round the monk's pale lips.
"We shall start in a week," he said.
"Good! On the day of the start you will hand over the girl to me, one hour before our departure."
"What shall I do to compel her to follow me?"
"That is not my business."
"Still—"
"I insist."
"Be it so," the monk said with an effort. "I will do it; but remember, demon, if I ever hold you in my hands, as I am this day in yours, I shall be pitiless and make you pay for all I suffer at this moment."
"You will be right to do so—it is your due; still I doubt whether you will ever be able to reach me."
"Perhaps."
"Live and learn. In the meanwhile I am your master, and I reckon on your obedience."
"I will obey."
"That is settled. Now, one thing more; how many men have you enlisted this evening?"
"About twenty."
"That's not many; but, with the sixty I shall supply, we shall have a very decent band to hold the Indians in check."
"May Heaven grant it!"
"Don't be alarmed, my master," the squatter said, re-assuming the friendly tone which he employed at the outset of the conversation; "I pledge myself, to lead you straight to your placer. I have not lived ten years with the Indians not to be up to all their tricks."
"Of course," the monk answered as he rose, "You know, Red Cedar, what was agreed upon; the placer will be shared between us. It is, therefore, to your interest to enable us to reach it without obstacle."
"We shall reach it. Now that we have nothing more to say to each other and have agreed on all points—for we have done so, I think?" he said significantly.
"Yes, all."
"We can part, and go each home. No matter, my master! I told you that I should succeed in making you alter your mind. Look you, Fray Ambrosio," he added in impudent tone, which made the monk turn pale with rage; "people need only to understand one another to do anything."
He rose, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turning away sharply, went off with lengthened strides. The monk remained for a moment as if stunned by what had happened. Suddenly he thrust his hand under his gown, seized a pistol, and aimed at the squatter. But ere he had time to pull the trigger his enemy disappeared round a turning, uttering a formidable burst of laughter, which the mocking echo bore to his ear, and revealed to him all the immensity of his impotence.
"Oh!" he muttered as he got in the saddle, "How did this fiend discover the secret which I believed no one knew?"
And he went off gloomy and thoughtful. Half an hour later he reached the Hacienda de la Noria, when the gate was opened for him by a trusty peon, for everybody was asleep. It was past midnight.