We will return, for the present, to Valentine and his comrades.
The sudden apparition of the sachem of the Coras had produced a certain degree of emotion among the hunters and the Comanches. Valentine, the first to recover from his surprise, addressed Eagle-wing.
"My brother is welcome," he said, as he held out his hand, which the Indian warmly pressed, "What news does the chief bring us?"
"Good," the Coras answered laconically.
"All the better," the hunter said gaily; "for some time past all we have received has been so bad that my brother's will create a diversion."
The Indian smiled at this sally, but made no remark.
"My brother can speak," Valentine continued; "he is surrounded by none but friends."
"I know it," the chief answered, as he bowed gracefully to the company. "Since I left my brother two months have passed away: I have worn out many moccasins amid the thorns and brambles of the desert; I have been beyond the Great Lakes to the villages of my nation."
"Good; my brother is a chief; he was doubtless well received by the sachems of the Coras of the Great Lakes."
"Mookapec is a renowned warrior among his people," the Indian answered proudly; "his place by the council fire of the nation is pointed out. The chiefs saw him with joy: on his road he had taken the scalps of seven gachupinos: they are now drying before the great medicine lodge."
"It was your right to do so, chief, and I cannot blame you. The Spaniards have done you harm enough for you to requite them."
"My brother speaks well; his skin is white, but his heart is red."
"Hum," observed Valentine; "I am a friend to justice; vengeance is permissible against treachery. Go on, chief."
The hunter's comrades had drawn nearer, and now formed a circle round the two speakers. Curumilla was occupied silently, as was his wont, in completely stripping each Spanish prisoner, whom he then bound in such a way that the slightest movement was impossible.
Valentine, although time pressed, knew too well the Redskin character to try and hurry Eagle-wing on. He felt certain that the chief had important news to communicate to him; but it would have been no use trying to draw it from him; hence he allowed him to act as he pleased. Unicorn, leaning on his rifle, listened attentively, without evincing the slightest impatience.
"Did my brother remain long with his tribe," Valentine continued.
"Two suns. Eagle-wing had left behind him friends to whom his heart drew him."
"Thanks, chief, for the pleasant recollections of us."
"The chiefs assembled in council to hear the words of Eagle-wing," the Coras continued. "They shuddered with fury on hearing of the massacre of their children; but Mookapec had formed his plan, and two hundred warriors are assembled beneath histotem."
"Good!" said Valentine, "the chief will avenge himself."
The Indian smiled.
"Yes," he said, "my young men have their orders, they know what I mean to do."
"Very good; in that case they are near here?"
"No," the chief replied, with a shake of his head. "Eagle-wing does not march with them; he has hidden himself under the skin of an Apache dog."
"What does my brother say?" Valentine asked with amazement.
"My white brother is quick," Unicorn said, sententiously; "he will let Mookapec speak. He is a great sachem, and wisdom dwells in him."
Valentine shook his head, however, and said—
"Hum! Answering one act of treachery by another, that is not the way in which the warriors of my nation behave."
"The nation of my brother is great, and strong as the grizzly bear," Unicorn said; "it does not need to march along hidden paths. The poor Indians are weak as the beaver, but like him they are very cunning."
"That is true," Valentine replied, "cunning must be allowed you in dealing with the implacable enemies who surround you. I was wrong; so go on, chief; tell us what deviltry you have invented, and if it is ingenious. Well, I will be the first to applaud it."
"Wah, my brother shall judge. Red Cedar is about to enter the desert, as my brother doubtless knows?"
"Yes."
"Does my brother know theGringohas asked the Apaches for a guide?"
"No, I did not."
"Good. Stanapat, the great chief of the Apaches, sent a Navajo warrior to act as guide to Red Cedar."
"Well?"
"The Navajo was scalped by Eagle-wing."
"Ah, ah! Then Red Cedar cannot set out?"
"Yes, he can do so when he likes."
"How so?"
"Because Eagle-wing takes the place of the guide."
Unicorn smiled.
"My brother has a deal of wisdom," he said.
"Hum!" Valentine remarked, with some show of ill-humour. "It is possible, but you play for a heavy stake, chief. That old villain is as crafty as ten monkeys and ten opossums united. I warn you that he will recognise you."
"No."
"I wish it; for if he does, you are a lost man."
"Good, my brother can be easy. Eagle-wing is a warrior; he will see the white hunter again in the desert."
"I wish so, chief; but I doubt. However, act as you please. When will you join Red Cedar?"
"This night."
"You are going to leave us?"
"At once. Eagle-wing has nothing more to confide to his brother."
And, after bowing courteously to the company, the Coras chief glided into the thicket, in which he disappeared almost instantaneously. Valentine looked after him for some time.
"Yes," he said at last, with a thoughtful air, "his project is a daring one, such as might be expected from so great a warrior. May heaven protect him, and allow him to succeed! Well, we shall see; perhaps all is for the best so."
And he turned to Curumilla.
"The clothes?" he said.
"Here they are," the Aucas answered, laconically, as he pointed to an enormous heap of clothing.
"What does my brother mean to do with them?" Unicorn asked.
"My brother will see," Valentine said, with a smile, "each of us is going to put on one of those uniforms."
The Comanche drew himself up hastily.
"No," he said, "Unicorn does not put off the dress of his people. What need have we of this disguise?"
"In order to enter the camp of the Spaniards without being discovered."
"Wah! For what good? Unicorn will summon his young men to cut a passage through the corpses of the gachupinos."
But Valentine shook his head mournfully.
"It is true," he remarked, "we could do so. But why shed blood needlessly? No; let my brother put confidence in me."
"The hunter will act rightly. Unicorn knows it, and he leaves him free; but Unicorn is a chief, he cannot put on the clothes of the palefaces."
Valentine no longer insisted, as it would have been unavailing; so he agreed to modify his plan. He made each of his comrades put on a dragoon uniform, and himself donned the clothes stripped from the Alferez. When all this metamorphosis was as complete as possible, he turned to Unicorn.
"The chief will remain here," he said, "to guard the prisoners."
"Good," the Comanche answered. "Is Unicorn, then, a chattering old woman, that warriors place him on one side?"
"My brother does not understand me. I do not wish to insult him, but he cannot enter the camp with us."
The chief shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"The Comanche warriors can crawl as well as serpents. Unicorn will enter."
"Let my brother come, then, since he wishes it."
"Good; my brother is vexed; a cloud has passed over his face. He is wrong; his friend loves him."
"I know it, chief, I know it. I am not vexed, but my heart is sad to see a warrior thus run the risk of being killed without any necessity."
"Unicorn is a sachem; he must give an example to his young men on the warpath."
Valentine gave a nod of assent.
"Here are the horses of the palefaces," Curumilla said; "my brother will need them."
"That is true," the hunter answered, with a smile; "my brother is a great chief—he thinks of everything."
Everyone mounted, Unicorn alone remaining a-foot. Valentine placed the Alferez by his side.
"Caballero," he said to him, "you will act as our guide to the camp. We do not wish to take the lives of your countrymen; our intention is simply to prevent them following us at present. Pay attention to my words: if you attempt to deceive us, I blow out your brains. You are warned."
The Spaniard bowed, but made no reply. As for the prisoners, they had been so conscientiously tied by Curumilla that there was no chance of their escaping. The little band then set out, Unicorn disappearing among the trees. When they came a short distance from the bivouac, a sentry challenged, "Who goes there?"
"Answer," Valentine whispered the Alferez.
He did so. They passed, and the sentry, suddenly seized by Curumilla, was bound and gagged in the twinkling of an eye, all the other sentinels sharing the same fate. The Mexicans keep up a very bad watch in the field, even in the presence of an enemy; the greater reason, then, for them to neglect all precaution when they fancy themselves in safety. Everybody was asleep, and Valentine and his friends were masters of the camp. The regiment of dragoons had been surprised without striking a blow.
Valentine's comrades dismounted; they knew exactly how to act, and did not deviate from the instructions given by their leader. They proceeded from picket to picket, removing the horses, which were led out of camp. Within twenty minutes all had been carried off. Valentine had anxiously followed the movements of his men. When they had finished, he raised the curtain of the colonel's tent, and found himself face to face with Unicorn, from whose waist-belt hung a reeking scalp. Valentine could not repress a movement of horror.
"What have you done, chief?" he asked, reproachfully.
"Unicorn has killed his enemy," the Comanche replied, peremptorily. "When the leader of the antelopes is killed, his flock disperses; the gachupinos will do the same."
Valentine drew near the colonel. The unhappy man, fearfully mutilated, with his brain laid bare, and his heart pierced by the knife of the implacable Indian, lay stark dead, in a pool of blood, in the middle of the tent. The hunter vented a sigh at this sorry sight.
"Poor devil!" he said, with an air of compassion.
After this short funeral oration, he took away his sabre and epaulettes, left the tent, followed by the Indian chief, and rejoined his comrades. The horses were led to the Comanche camp, after which Valentine and his party wrapped themselves in their blankets, and slept calmly till daybreak. The dragoons were no longer to be feared.
Father Seraphin and Don Pablo we left bearing the wounded man to the missionary's lodging. Although the house to which they were proceeding was but a short distance off, yet the two gentlemen, compelled to take every precaution, employed considerable time on the journey. Nearly every step they were compelled to halt, so as not to fatigue too greatly the wounded man, whose inert limbs swayed in every direction.
"The man is dead," Don Pablo remarked, during a halt they made on the Plaza de la Merced.
"I fear so," the missionary answered, sadly; "still, as we are not certain of it, our conscience bids us to bestow our care on him, until we acquire the painful conviction that it avails him nought."
"Father, the love of one's neighbour often carries you too far; better were it, perhaps, if this wretch did not come back to life."
"You are severe, my friend. This man is still young—almost a boy. Trained amid a family of bandits, never having aught but evil examples before him, he has hitherto only done evil, in a spirit of imitation. Who knows whether this fearful wound may not offer him the means to enter the society of honest people, which he has till now been ignorant of? I repeat to you, my friend, the ways of the Lord are inscrutable."
"I will do what you wish, father. You have entire power over me. Still, I fear that all our care will be thrown away."
"God, whose humble instruments we are, will prove you wrong, I hope. Come, a little courage, a few paces further, and we shall have arrived."
"Come on then," Don Pablo said with resignation.
Father Seraphin lodged at a house of modest appearance, built of adobes and reeds, in a small room he hired from a poor widow, for the small sum of nine reals a month. This room, very small, and which only received air from a window opening on an inner yard, was a perfect conventual cell, as far as furniture was concerned, for the latter consisted of a wooden frame, over which a bull hide was stretched, and served as the missionary's bed; a butaca and a prie-dieu, above which a copper crucifix was fastened to the whitewashed wall. But, like all cells, this room was marvellously clean. From a few nails hung the well-worn clothes of the poor priest, and a shelf supported vials and flasks which doubtless contained medicaments; for, like all the missionaries, Father Seraphin had a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, and took in charge both the souls and bodies of his neophytes.
The father lit a candle of yellow tallow standing in an iron candlestick, and, aided by Don Pablo, laid the wounded man on his own bed; after which the young man fell back into the butaca to regain his breath. Father Seraphin, on whom, spite of his fragile appearance, the fatigue had produced no apparent effect, then went downstairs to lock the street door, which he had left open. As he pushed it to, he felt an opposition outside, and a man soon entered the yard.
"Pardon, my reverend father," the stranger said; "but be kind enough not to leave me outside."
"Do you live in this house?"
"No," the stranger coolly replied, "I do not live in Santa Fe, where I am quite unknown."
"Do you ask hospitality of me, then?" Father Seraphin continued, much surprised at this answer.
"Not at all, reverend father."
"Then what do you want?" the missionary said, still more surprised.
"I wish to follow you to the room where you have laid the wounded man, to whose aid you came so generously a short time back."
"This request, sir—" the priest said, hesitating.
"Has nothing that need surprise you. I have the greatest interest in seeing with my own eyes in what state that man is, for certain reasons which in no way concern you."
"Do you know who he is?"
"I do."
"Are you a relation or friend of his?"'
"Neither one nor the other. Still, I repeat to you, very weighty reasons compel me to see him and speak with him, if that be possible."
Father Seraphin took a searching glance at the speaker.
He was a man of great height, apparently in the fullest vigour of life. His features, so far as it was possible to distinguish them by the pale and tremulous moonbeams, were handsome, though an expression of unbending will was the marked thing about them. He wore the dress of rich Mexican hacenderos, and had in his right hand a magnificently inlaid American rifle. Still the missionary hesitated.
"Well," the stranger continued, "have you made up your mind, father?"
"Sir," Father Seraphin answered with firmness, "do not take in ill part what I am going to say to you."
The stranger bowed.
"I do not know who you are; you present yourself to me in the depths of the night, under singular circumstances. You insist, with strange tenacity, on seeing the poor man whom Christian charity compelled me to pick up. Prudence demands that I should refuse to let you see him."
A certain annoyance was depicted on the stranger's features.
"You are right, father," he answered; "appearances are against me. Unfortunately, the explanation you demand from me justly would make us lose too much precious time, hence I cannot give them to you at this moment. All I can do is to swear, in the face of Heaven, on that crucifix you wear round your neck, and which is the symbol of our redemption, that I only wish well to the man you have housed, and that I am this moment seeking to punish a great criminal."
The stranger uttered these words with such frankness, and such an air of conviction, his face glistened with so much honesty, that the missionary felt convinced: he took up the crucifix and offered it to this extraordinary man.
"Swear," he said.
"I swear it," he replied in a firm voice.
"Good," the priest went on, "now you can enter, sir; you are one of ourselves; I will not even insult you by asking your name."
"My name would teach you nothing, father," the stranger said sadly.
"Follow me, sir."
The missionary locked the gate and led the stranger to his room, on entering which the newcomer took off his hat reverently, took up a post in a corner of the room, and did not stir.
"Do not trouble yourself about me, father," he said in a whisper, "and put implicit faith in the oath I took."
The missionary only replied by a nod, and as the wounded man gave no sign of life, but still lay much in the position he was first placed in, Father Seraphin walked up to him. For a long time, however, the attention he lavished on him proved sterile, and seemed to produce no effect on the squatter's son. Still, the father did not despair, although Don Pablo shook his head. An hour thus passed, and no ostensible change had taken place in the young man's condition; the missionary had exhausted all his stock of knowledge, and began to fear the worst. At this moment the stranger walked up to him.
"My father," he said, touching him gently on the arm, "you have done all that was humanly possible, but have not succeeded."
"Alas! No!" the missionary said sadly.
"Will you permit me to try in my turn?"
"Do you fancy you will prove, more successful than I?" the priest asked in surprise.
"I hope so," the stranger said softly.
"Still, you see I have tried everything that the medical art prescribes in such a case."
"That is true, father; but the Indians possess certain secrets known only to themselves, and which are of great efficacy."
"I have heard so. But do you know those secrets?"
"Some of them have been revealed to me; if you will permit me, I will try their effects on this young man, who, as far as I can judge, is in a desperate condition."
"I fear he is, poor fellow."
"We shall, therefore, run no risk in trying the efficacy of my superior remedy upon him."
"Certainly not."
The stranger bent over the young man, and regarded him for a moment with fixed attention; then he drew from his pocket a flask of carved crystal, filled with a fluid as green as emerald. With the point of his dagger he slightly opened the wounded man's closed teeth, and poured into his mouth four or five drops of the fluid contained in the flask. A strange thing then occurred; the young man gave vent to a deep sigh, opened his eyes several times, and suddenly, as if moved by supernatural force, he sat up and looked around him with amazement. Don Pablo and the missionary were almost inclined to believe in a miracle so extraordinary did the fact appear to them. The stranger returned to his dark corner. Suddenly the young man passed his hand over his dank forehead, and muttered in a hollow voice:—
"Ellen, my sister, it is too late. I cannot save her. See, see, they are carrying her off; she is lost!"
And he fell back on the bed, as the three men rushed towards him.
"He sleeps!" the missionary said in amazement.
"He is saved?" the stranger answered.
"What did he want to say, though?" Don Pablo inquired anxiously.
"Did you not understand it?" the stranger asked of him.
"No."
"Well, then, I will tell you."
"You!"
"Yes, I; listen! That lad wished to deliver your sister!"
"How do you know?"
"Is it true?"
"It is; go on."
"He was stabbed at the door of the house when she sought shelter."
"What next?"
"Those who stabbed him wished to get him out of the way, in order to carry her off a second time."
"Oh, that is impossible!"
"It is the fact."
"How do you know it?"
"I do not know it, but I can read it plainly."
"Ah!" Don Pablo exclaimed in despair, "my father—let us fly to my sister's aid!"
The two gentlemen rushed from the house with a presentiment of misfortune. When the stranger found himself alone with the wounded man, he walked up to him, wrapped him in his cloak, threw him over his shoulders as easy as if he were only a child, and went out in his turn. On reaching the street, he carefully closed the door, and went off at a great rate, soon disappearing in the darkness. At the same instant the melancholy voice of the sereno could be heard chanting—
"Ave Maria purísima! Los cuatro han dado! Viva Méjico! Todo es quieto!"[1]
What irony on the part of accident was this cry after the terrible events of the night!
[1]Hail, most pure Mary! It has struck four. Long live Mexico! All is quiet.
[1]Hail, most pure Mary! It has struck four. Long live Mexico! All is quiet.
It was about six in the morning. A dazzling sun poured down its transparent rays on the streets of the Presidio of Santa Fe, which were already full of noise and movement at that early hour of the morning. General Ventura was still plunged in a deep sleep, probably lulled by agreeable dreams, judging from the air of beatitude spread over his features. The general, reassured by the speedy arrival of the dragoons promised him, fancied he had nothing more to fear from mutineers who had hitherto inspired him with lively apprehensions. He thought, too, that by the aid of the reinforcements, he could easily get rid of the Comanche, who, on the previous day, had so audaciously bearded him in the very heart of his palace.
He slept, then, that pleasant morning sleep, in which the body, entirely rested from its fatigue, leaves the mind the entire liberty of its faculties. Suddenly the door of the sleeping room in which the worthy governor reposed, was torn violently open, and an officer entered. General Ventura, aroused with a start, sat up in his bed, fixing on the importunate visitor a glance, at first stern, but which at once became uneasy on seeing the alarm depicted on the officer's features.
"What is the matter, señor Captain Don Lopez?" he asked, trying in vain to give firmness to his voice, which trembled involuntarily from a foreboding of evil.
Captain Lopez was a soldier of fortune, who had grown grey in harness, and contracted a species of rough frankness, that prevented him toning the truth down under any circumstances, which fact made him appear, in the General's eyes, a bird of very evil omen. The captain's arrival, therefore, doubly disquieted the governor. In the first place, through his alarmed face; and secondly, the reputation he enjoyed. To the general's query the captain only replied the following three storm laden words—
"Nothing that's good."
"What do you mean? Have the people rebelled??"
"On my word, no! I do not fancy they even dream of such a thing."
"Very well, then," the general went on, quite cheered by the good news, "what the deuce have you to tell me, captain?"
"I have not come to tell you anything," the other said, roughly. "There is a soldier outside who has just come from I don't know where, and who insists on speaking with you. Shall I bring him, or send him about his business."
"One moment," exclaimed the general, whose features had suddenly become gloomy; "who is the soldier?"
"A dragoon, I fancy."
"A dragoon! Let him come in at once. May heaven bless you, with all your circumlocution! The man, doubtless, brings me news of the arrival of the regiment I am expecting, and which should have been here before."
The captain shrugged his shoulders with an air of doubt.
"What is it now?" the general said, whom this expressive pantomime eminently alarmed; "What are you going to say?"
"Nothing, except that the soldier looks very sad to be the bearer of such good news."
"We shall soon know what we have to depend on. Let him come in."
"That is true," said the captain, as he went off.
During this conversation the general had leaped from his bed, and dressed himself with the promptness peculiar to soldiers. He now anxiously awaited the appearance of the trooper whom Don Lopez had announced to him. In vain he tried to persuade himself that the captain was mistaken, and that the soldier had been sent to tell him of the arrival of the regiment. In spite of himself, he felt in his heart a species of alarm which he could not account for, and yet nothing could dissipate.
A few minutes were thus passed in febrile restlessness. All at once a great noise was heard in the Plaza Major. The general went to a window, pulled aside a curtain, and looked out. A tumultuous and dense crowd was thronging every street leading to the square and uttering sharp cries. This crowd, momentarily increasing, seemed urged on by something terrible, which the general could not perceive.
"What is this?" the general exclaimed; "And what can be the meaning of this disturbance?"
At this moment the shouts grew louder, and the detachment of Comanche warriors appeared debouching by the Calle de la Merced, and marching in good order, and at quick step, upon the palace. On seeing them the general could not restrain a start of surprise.
"The Indians again!" he said; "How can they dare to present themselves here? They must be ignorant of the arrival of the dragoons. Such boldness is incomprehensible."
He let the curtain fall, and turned away. The soldier whom the captain had announced to him stood before him, waiting the general's pleasure to question him. The general started on perceiving him. He was pale; his uniform was torn and stained with mud, as if he had made a long journey on foot through brambles. The general wished to clear up his doubts; but, just as he was opening his mouth to ask the man a question, the door flew back, and several officers, among whom was Captain Don Lopez, entered the room.
"General," the captain said, "make haste! You are expected in the council hall. The Indians have come for the answer you promised to give them this morning."
"Well! Why this startled look, gentlemen?" the general said, severely. "I fancy the town has not yet been set on fire. I am not at the orders of those savages, so tell them that I have no time to grant them an audience."
The officers gazed at the general with a surprise they did not attempt to conceal, on hearing these strange and incomprehensible words.
"Good, good," Captain Lopez said, roughly, "the town is not yet fired, 'tis true; but it might be so, erelong, if you went on in this way."
"What do you mean?" the general asked, as he turned pale. "Are matters so serious?"
"They are most serious. We have not a moment to lose, if we wish to avoid heavy disasters."
The general started.
"Gentlemen," he then said, in an ill-assured voice, "it is our duty to watch over the safety of the population. I follow you."
And taking no further heed of the soldier he had ordered to be sent in, he proceeded towards the council hall.
The disorder that prevailed without had at length gained the interior of the palace. Nothing was to be heard but shrieks or exclamations of anger and terror. The Mexican officers assembled in the hall were tumultuously discussing the measures to be adopted in order to save a contest and the town. The entrance of the governor produced a healthy effect upon them, in so far that the discussion, which was degenerating into personalities and reproaches, dictated by individual fear, suddenly ceased, and calmness was restored.
General Ventura regretted in his heart having counted on imaginary help, and not having listened to the sensible advice of some of his officers, who urged him the previous day to satisfy the Indians by giving them what they asked. In spite of the terror he felt, however, his pride revolted at being compelled to treat on equal terms with barbarians, and accept harsh conditions which they would doubtless impose on him, in the consciousness of having the upper hand.
The governor, in entering the hall, looked around the assembly anxiously. All had taken their places, and, externally at least, had assumed that grace and stern appearance belonging to men who are penetrated with the grandeur of the duties they have to perform, and are resolved to carry them out at all hazards. But this appearance was very deceptive. If the faces were impassive the hearts were timorous. All these men, habituated to a slothful and effeminate life, did not feel capable of waging a contest with the rude enemies who menaced them so audaciously, even at the doors of the governor's palace.
Under present circumstances, however, resistance was impossible. The Indians, by the fact of their presence on the square, were masters of the town. There were no troops to oppose to them; hence, the only hope was to make the easiest terms possible with the Comanches. Still, as all these men wished to save appearances at any rate, the discussion began anew. When everyone had given his opinion, the governor rose, and said in a trembling voice—
"Caballeros, all of us here present: are men of courage, and have displayed that quality in many difficult circumstances. Certainly, if the only thing, was to sacrifice our lives to save the hapless townsmen, we would not hesitate to do so, for we are too well imbued with the soundness of our duties tot hesitate; but, unhappily, that sacrifice would not avail to save those whom we wish before all to protect. Let us treat, then, with the barbarians, as we cannot conquer them. Perhaps in this way we shall succeed in protecting our wives; and children from the danger that menaces them. In acting thus, under the grave circumstances in which we find ourselves, we shall at least have the consolation of having done our duty, even if we do not obtain all we desire."
Hearty applause greeted this harangue, and the governor, turning to the porter, who stood motionless at the door, gave orders to introduce the principal Indian chiefs.
Valentine and his friends awoke at daybreak. The Comanches were already prepared to start; and Unicorn, dressed in his great war costume, presented himself to the hunter.
"Is my brother going?" Valentine asked him.
"Yes," the sachem answered. "I am returning to the Presidio to receive the answer of the chief of the palefaces."
"What is my brother's intention, should his demand be rejected?"
Unicorn smiled.
"The Comanches have long lances," he said; "the palefaces will not refuse."
"My anxiety will be extreme till you return, chief; the Spaniards are perfidious; take care they have not planned some treachery."
"They would not dare," Unicorn said, haughtily. "If the chief, whom my brother loves, is not delivered to me safe and sound, the Spanish prisoners shall be tortured on the plaza of Santa Fe, the town burned and sacked. I have spoken; my brother's mind may be at rest."
"Good! Unicorn is a wise chief; he will do what is necessary."
In the meantime the Comanche warriors had formed their ranks, and only awaited the signal of the sachem to start. The Spanish prisoners taken during the night were placed in the centre bound and half naked. Suddenly a disturbance was heard in the camp, and two men rushed panting toward the spot where stood Valentine, the sachem and Curumilla. They were Don Pablo and Father Seraphin, their clothes in disorder, their features haggard, and their faces glistening with perspiration. On reaching their friends, they fell, almost in a fainting state, on the ground. The proper attentions were at once paid them, and the missionary was the first to recover. Don Pablo seemed stupefied; the tears poured incessantly down his cheeks, and he could not utter a word. Valentine felt strangely alarmed.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "What has happened? Don Miguel—?"
The missionary shook his head.
"No," he said, "nothing has happened to him, as far as I know."
"Heaven be praised! But what is the matter, father? What misfortune have you to announce to me?"
"A frightful one, indeed, my son," the missionary replied, as he buried his face in his hands.
"Speak, in Heaven's name! Your delay is killing me."
"Doña Clara—"
"Well!" he hunter said, sharply.
"Was captured again last night by Red Cedar, and torn from the refuge where I placed her."
"Oh!" Valentine exclaimed, with concentrated fury, as he stamped his foot, "Always that demon—that accursed Red Cedar. My curses on him! But take courage, father; let us first save Don Miguel, and then I swear to you that I will restore his daughter to him."
Unicorn advanced.
"Master of prayer," he said to Father Seraphin, in a soft and impressive voice, "your heart is good. The Comanches love you. Unicorn will help you. Pray to your God. He will protect us in our researches, since He is, as you say, so powerful."
Then the chief turned to Don Pablo, and laid his hand firmly on his shoulder.
"Women weep," he said; "men avenge themselves. Has not my brother his rifle?"
On feeling the Comanche's hand laid on him—on hearing these words—the young man quivered as if he had received an electric shock. He drew himself up, and fixed on the chief his eyes burning with the fever of sorrow.
"Yes," he said, in a broken voice, "you are right, chief, and," passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of rage, "let us leave tears to women, who have no other weapons to protect their weakness. I am a man, and will avenge myself."
"Good. My brother speaks well: he is a warrior; Unicorn esteems him; he will become great on the war path."
Don Pablo, crushed for a moment, had regained all his energy; he was no longer the same man; he looked around him.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To Santa Fe, to deliver your father."
"I will go with you."
"Come," said Unicorn.
"No," Valentine interposed, authoritatively. "Your place is not there, Don Pablo; leave the Comanche warriors to act as they please; they do not need your help to carry out their plans properly. Remain with me."
"Command me, my friend," the young man said with resignation; "I have perfect confidence in your experience."
"Good. You are reasonable. Brother," he added, turning to the chief, "you can start. The sun is already high in the horizon; may Heaven grant that you may succeed!"
Unicorn gave the signal for departure. The Comanches uttered their war yell, while brandishing their arms, and started at a quick amble, the only pace they know. Curumilla then rose, and wrapped himself in his buffalo robe; Valentine watching him, inquiringly.
"Does my brother leave us?" he said.
"Yes," the Araucano answered, laconically.
"For long?"
"For a few hours?"
"Where is my brother going?"
"To look for the camp of Red Cedar's gambusinos," the Indian replied with a cunning smile.
"Good," Valentine said, gleefully. "My brother is a wise chief; he forgets nothing."
"Curumilla loves his brother; he thinks for him," the chief answered, simply.
After uttering these words, the Unicorn bowed gracefully, and proceeded in the direction of the Paso del Norte, soon disappearing in the windings of the road. Valentine looked after him for a long while. When he no longer saw him, he let his head fall pensively on his chest, murmuring in a low voice—
"Good, intelligent fellow! Heart of gold! The only friend left me! The only one remaining of my old and faithful comrades! Louis, my poor Louis, where are you now?" A deep sigh burst from his bosom, and he remained absorbed in a gloomy reverie.
At length Valentine raised his head, passed his hand over his brow, as if to dispel these sad thoughts, and turned to his friends.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I, at times, give way to my thoughts in that fashion. Alas! I, too, have suffered; but let us leave that," he added, gaily. "Bygones must be bygones. Let us attend to your affairs."
He made them a sign to sit down by his side on the grass, rummaged his alforjas and produced some slight food, which he laid before them.
"Eat," he said to them; "we do not know what awaits us within the next few hours, and we must recruit our strength. When you have satisfied your appetite, you will tell me all about Doña Clara being carried off again, for I must have the fullest details."
We will leave the three now conversing, and join the Comanches and Unicorn again.
When the Comanches reached the Plaza Mayor, opposite the Cabildo, they halted. At an order from Unicorn, the prisoners were completely stripped of their clothing and placed some distance in front of the first rank of Indians, each of them having at his side a fully armed Indian ready to massacre him mercilessly at the slightest sign from Unicorn. When the preparations were completed, and the Comanches had stationed sentinels at each corner of the streets, opening in the square, in order not to be taken in reverse, and surrounded by the Spaniards, if they felt any inclination for fighting, the Spider, the chief who had already performed the duty of flag of truce, pranced up to the gate of the palace, and demanded speech with the governor.
The officer of the guard, who was no other than Don Lopez, politely requested the Indian warrior to wait a few moments, and then proceeded in all haste to General Ventura. We have seen what took place, and, after a delay of nearly half an hour, Captain Don Lopez returned. It was time, for the Comanches were beginning to grow tired of waiting, and were preparing to force the passage which was not voluntarily granted them. After some preliminary explanations, Captain Lopez informed the Spider that the general, surrounded by his staff, was awaiting, in the hall of audience, the sachem of the nation and his three principal warriors.
The Spider communicated this answer to Unicorn, who gave a nod of assent, dismounted, and entered the Cabildo.
When Unicorn entered the council chamber, preceded by Captain Lopez, and followed by the three Indian chiefs, the deepest silence prevailed among the Spanish officers assembled to meet him. The governor, seated in a chair placed in the centre of the hall, was looking nervously round him, while tapping on the arm of the chair with the fingers of his right hand. Still, his countenance was tolerably composed; nothing externally revealed the terror that devoured him. He answered by a nod the ceremonious bow of the Comanches, and drew himself up as if intending to address them; but if such were his desire, Unicorn did not grant him time to do so. The sachem draped himself in his buffalo robe with that majestic grace possessed by all those untamed sons of the desert, drew his head up proudly, and walked toward General Ventura, who watched him approach with an anxious eye. On coming within four paces of the governor, Unicorn stopped, crossed his arms on his chest, and took the word.
"I salute my father!" he said, in a loud and fierce voice. "I have come, as was agreed on yesterday, to fetch the answer he owes me."
The general hesitated for an instant.
"I am waiting!" the Indian went on, with a frown that augured ill.
The general, forced almost into his last entrenchments, saw that the hour for surrender had at length arrived, and that no way of escape was left him.
"Chief," he answered, in anything but a firm voice, "your behavior naturally surprises me. To my knowledge the Spaniards are not at war with your nation; the whites have not done anything of which you have a right to complain. For what reason do you come, then, against the sworn faith, and when nothing authorises you, to invade a defenceless town, and interfere in matters that only concern ourselves?"
The sachem understood that the Spaniard was trying to shift the question on to other ground; he saw the snare offered him, and was not to be caught.
"My father does not answer my request," he said. "Still, in order to have finished at once with the recriminations he brings up, I will answer his questions peremptorily, separating them one from the other. In the first place, my father knows very well that the palefaces and redskins have been in a constant state of warfare since the arrival of white men in America. This war may have slightly relaxed at intervals, but has never really ceased. Our two races are hostile; the struggle will not end between them until one of the two families, whether white or red, has given place to the other by its general extinction. Secondly, my father said that nothing has been done of which we had a right to complain. My father is mistaken, we have a cause, the imprisonment of Don Miguel Zarate, who, himself an Indian, has never belied his origin. Hence my father must no longer ask by what right I am here, for that is perfectly established; it is that which every honest man possesses of defending an innocent person who is oppressed. Now that fact is cleared up, let us pass to another. When I came here yesterday, my father gave me to understand that my propositions would be accepted, and the exchange of prisoners carried out."
"It is possible, chief," the general replied; "but things are so in this world, no one knows today what he will do tomorrow. With night reflection has come, and, in short, your propositions have appeared to me unacceptable."
"Wah!" the Indian said, though not testifying his surprise otherwise.
"Yes," the general continued, growing animated, "I should be ashamed to grant them, for I should have the appearance of only yielding to threats. No, it cannot be. The two gentlemen you claim are guilty, and shall die; and if you venture to oppose the execution of the just sentence of the court, we will defend ourselves, and God will protect the good cause."
The Mexican officers warmly applauded this haughty response, which they were far from expecting. They felt their courage rekindled, and did not despair of obtaining better conditions. A smile of disdain played round the chiefs haughty lips.
"Good," he said; "my father speaks very loudly. The coyotes are bold when they hunt the buffalo in packs. My father has carefully reflected, and is determined to accept the consequences of his answer. He wishes for war, then?"
"No," the general quickly interposed, "heaven forbid! I should be glad to settle this matter amicably with you, chief, but honor forbids me subscribing those disgraceful proposals which you did not fear to lay before me."
"Is it really honour that has dictated my father's answer?" the Indian asked, ironically. "He will permit me to doubt it. In short, whatever be the reason that guides him, I can but withdraw; but, before doing so, I will give him news of a friend whom he doubtless impatiently expects."
"What means that word, doubtless?"
"This," the Indian said, sharply. "The warriors whom my father expected to arrive to his aid this day have been dispersed by my young men, as the autumn breeze sweeps away the leaves. They will not come."
A murmur of surprise, almost of terror, ran through the assembly. The sachem let the long folds of his buffalo robe fall back, tore from his girdle the bleeding scalp that hung there, and threw it at the general's feet.
"That," he said, gloomily, "is the scalp of the man who commanded my father's warriors! Does the chief of the palefaces recognise it? This scalp was raised by me from the head of the man who was to arrive, and who, at this hour, has set out for the happy hunting grounds of his nation."
A shudder of terror ran round the room at the sight of the scalp; the general felt the small dose of courage that had still animated him oozing out.
"Chief," he exclaimed, in a trembling voice "is it possible you have done that?"
"I have done it," the sachem answered, coldly. "Now, farewell. I am about to join my young men, who are impatient at my long absence."
With these words the Comanche haughtily turned his back on the governor, and walked toward the door.
"A few moments longer, chief," the general said; "perhaps we are nearer an understanding than you suppose."
The Comanche gave the speaker a glance which made him quiver.
"Here is my last word," he said. "I insist on the two prisoners being handed over to me."
"They shall be."
"Good; but no perfidity, no treachery."
"We will act honourably," the general replied, not dreaming, of resenting the insult conveyed in the Indian's words.
"We shall see. My warriors and myself will remain on the square till my father has performed his promise. If, within an hour, the palefaces are not free, the prisoners I hold will be pitilessly massacred, and thealtepetlplundered. I have spoken."
A gloomy silence greeted these terrible threats. The pride of the Mexicans was quelled, and they at length recognised that nothing could save them from the vengeance of the Comanche chief. The general bowed in assent, not having strength to answer otherwise. The sight of the scalp had paralyzed in him all desire to contend longer. Unicorn left the hall, mounted his horse again, and calmly awaited the fulfilment of the promise made to him.
When the Indians had left the council chamber, the Mexicans rose tumultuously, for each feared the execution of the chief's threats. General Ventura was pressed on all sides to make haste, and run no risk of breaking his word. When the governor saw that his officers were as terrified as himself, he re-assumed his coolness, and cleverly profited by this state of mind, in order to throw the responsibility off himself, and appear only to act under the impulse of others.
"Caballeros," he said, "you have heard this man. You understood as well as I did the menaces he dared to offer us. Shall such an insult be left unpunished? Will you allow yourselves to be thus braved in the heart of the town by a handful of scoundrels, and not attempt to inflict on them the chastisement they deserve? To arms, caballeros, and let us die bravely, if it must be so, sooner than suffer this stain on the old Spanish honor our fathers transmitted to us!"
This warm address produced the effect the general anticipated from it; that is to say, it redoubled, were that possible, the terror of the hearers, who had long been acquainted with their chiefs cowardice, and knew how little he could be depended on. This sudden warlike order seemed to them so unusual, and before all so inopportune, that they pressed him to accept without delay the proposals dictated by the sachem.
This was all the governor wanted. He had the minutes of the council at once drawn up, when it was signed by all present, he put it in his pocket.
"As you insist," he said, "and nothing can induce you to offer an honourable resistance, I will myself proceed to the prison, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, and have the doors opened for Don Miguel Zarate and General Ibañez."
"Make haste, pray?" the officers answered.
The general, glad in his heart at having got out of the scrape so well, left the Cabildo, and walked across the square to the prison, which stood on the opposite side. The Comanches were motionless as statues of Florentine bronze, leaning on their weapons, with their eyes fixed on the chief, ready to carry out his orders.
Don Miguel and General Ibañez were completely ignorant of what was going on outside, and the rumours of the town did not reach their ears. Had they deigned to question their jailer, the latter, who was beginning to fear for himself the effects of the ill-treatment he had made the two gentlemen undergo, would doubtless not have hesitated to give them all possible information, for the sake of regaining their favour; but each time this man presented himself before them, and opened his mouth to speak, they turned their backs contemptuously, giving him a sign to withdraw at once, and be silent.
On this day, according to their wont, the two prisoners had risen at sunrise, and then, with incredible coolness, began conversing on indifferent topics. Suddenly a great noise was heard in the prison; a clang of arms reached the prisoners' ears, and hurried footsteps approached the rooms in which they were confined. They listened.
"Oh, oh!" said Ibañez, "I fancy it is for today at last."
"Heaven be praised!" Don Miguel answered; "I am glad they have made up their minds to bring matters to a conclusion."
"On my honour, and so am I," the general said, gaily; "time was beginning to hang heavy in this prison, where a man has not the slightest relaxation. We are going to see again that splendid sun which seems afraid of showing itself in this den.Viva Cristo! I feel delighted at the mere thought, and gladly pardon my judges."
Still the noise drew nearer and nearer, and confused voices were mingled with the echoing steps in the passage, and the rattling of sabres.
"Here they are," said Don Miguel; "we shall see them in a minute."
"They are welcome if they bring us death, that supreme solace of the afflicted."
At this moment a key creaked in the lock, and the door opened. The two prisoners fell back in surprise on seeing the general, who rushed into the cell followed by two or three officers. Assuredly, if the prisoners expected to see anybody, it was not the worthy General Ventura. Ibañez' surprise was so great at this unexpected apparition, that he could not refrain from exclaiming, with that accent of caustic gaiety which formed the basis of his character—
"What the deuce do you want here, Señor Governor? Have you, too, suddenly become a frightful conspirator, such as we are accused of being?"
Before answering, the general fell back into a chair, wiping away the perspiration that trickled down his forehead, such speed had he displayed in coming to the prison. Three or four officers stood motionless on the threshold of the widely open door. The condemned men could not at all understand the affair.
"Have you by any chance, my dear governor," General Ibañez said, gaily, though not believing a word of it, "come to restore us to liberty? That would be a most gallant action, and I should feel deeply indebted to you for it."
General Ventura raised his head, fixed on the prisoners eyes sparkling with joy, and said, in a panting voice—
"Yes, my friends, yes; Iwouldcome myself to tell you that you are free; I would not yield to anyone else the pleasure of announcing the good news."
The prisoners fell back in amazement.
"What!" General Ibañez exclaimed, "You are speaking seriously?"
Don Miguel attentively looked at the governor, trying to read in his face the reasons of his conduct.
"Come, come," General Ventura cried, "this hole is frightful; do not remain any longer in it."
"Ah!" Don Miguel remarked, bitterly, "You find it frightful; you have been a long time in discovering the fact; for we have lived in it nearly a month, and the thought never once occurred to you of disturbing our repose."
"Do not be angry with me, Don Miguel," the governor answered eagerly, "it was greatly against my will you were detained so long; had it only depended on me you would have been free; but, thanks to Heaven, all is settled now, and I have succeeded in having justice done you. Come away; do not remain a moment longer in this pestilential den."
"Pardon me, Caballero," Don Miguel said coldly, "but, with your permission, we will remain a few moments longer in it."
"Why so?" General Ventura asked, opening his eyes to their fullest extent.
"I will tell you."
Don Miguel pointed to a chair, and sat down himself. Ibañez following his example. There was a moment of deep silence between these three men as they strove to read each other's real secret thoughts.
"I am waiting your pleasure to explain yourself," the governor at last said, as he was anxious to get away, and time pressed.
"I am about doing so," Don Miguel answered; "you have come to tell us we are free, sir; but you do not say on what conditions."
"What do you mean by conditions?" the general asked, not understanding him.
"Of course," Ibañez went on, supporting his friend; "and these conditions, too, must suit us; you must see, my dear sir, we cannot leave this delightful place without knowing the why or wherefore.Viva Cristo! We are not vagabonds to be got rid of in that way; we must know if we are justified in accepting the proposals you have just made."
"The general is right, sir," the hacendero said in his turn; "the care of our honor does not permit us to accept a liberation which might stain it; hence, we shall not leave this prison until you have given us an explanation."
The governor hardly knew whether he was on his head or his heels; he had never before had to deal with such obstinate prisoners. He racked his brains in vain to discover why it was that men condemned to death could so peremptorily decline their liberty. His ideas were too narrow, his heart was too cowardly for him to comprehend the grandeur and nobility in this determination on the part of two men, who preferred an honourable death to a branded life which they only owed to the pity of their judges. Still, he must induce them to quit the prison, for time was fast slipping away, and their obstinacy might ruin everything. Hence, General Ventura made up his mind like a man.
"Gentlemen," he said, with feigned admiration, "I understand what nobleness there is in your scruples, and am happy to see that I was not mistaken in the greatness of your character. You can leave this prison in full security, and take once more the station that belongs to you in the world. I will lay no conditions on you; you are free, purely and simply. Here are the documents connected with your trial, the proofs produced against you; take them and destroy them, and accept my sincere, apologies for all that has passed."
While saying this, the governor drew from his breast an enormous bundle of papers, which he offered Don Miguel. The latter declined them with an air of disgust; but General Ibañez, less scrupulous or wiser in his generation, eagerly clutched them, looked through them to see that the governor was not deceiving him, and then threw them into thebrasero, standing in the middle of the room. In less than four minutes, all this undigested mass was consumed. General Ibañez watched them burning with a certain degree of pleasure, for he began to feel himself really free.
"I am waiting for you, gentlemen," said the governor.
"One word more, by your leave," the hacendero remarked.
"Speak, sir."
"On leaving this prison, where are we to go?"
"Wherever you please, gentlemen. I repeat to you that you are perfectly free, and can act as you think proper. I do not even ask your word of honor to enter into no further conspiracy."
"Good sir," Don Miguel said, holding out his hand to General Ventura, "your conduct affects me—thanks."
The governor blushed.
"Come, come," he said, to hide his embarrassment on receiving this so ill-deserved praise.
The prisoners no longer hesitated to follow him.
In the meanwhile, the news of Don Miguel's deliverance had spread through the town with the rapidity of a train of gunpowder. The inhabitants, reassured by the continence of the Comanches, and knowing that they had only come to save a man, in whose fate the entire population felt interested, had ventured to leave their houses, and at length thronged the streets and squares; the windows and roofs were filled with men, women, and children, whose eyes, fixed on the prison, awaited the moment of Don Miguel's appearance. When he did so, tremendous shouts greeted him.
Unicorn walked up to the governor.
"My father has kept his promise," he said, gravely, "I will keep mine; the white prisoners are free; I now depart."
The governor listened to these words with a blush; the sachem returned to the head of his war party, which rapidly retired, followed by the shouts of a mob intoxicated with joy. Don Miguel, perplexed by the scene which had taken place in his presence, and who began to suspect a mystery in the governor's conduct, turned to him to ask an explanation of the Indian chief's words—an explanation the governor luckily escaped, owing to the eagerness of the people who flocked up to congratulate the prisoners on their release.
On reaching the gate of the Cabildo, General Ventura bowed courteously to the two gentlemen, and hurried into his palace, happy at having escaped so cheaply, and not tearing with his own hands the cloak of generosity which he had paraded in the sight of his prisoners.
"What do you think of all that?" the hacendero asked his friend.
"Hum!" General Ibañez muttered, "The governor's conduct seems to me rather queer; but, no matter, we are free. I confess to you, my friend, that I should have no objection to go a little distance from this place, the air of which, despite General Ventura's protestations, appears to me remarkably unhealthy for us."
At this moment, and ere Don Miguel could answer, the general felt a slight touch on his shoulders; he turned and saw Curumilla before him, with a smiling face. Don Miguel and the general suppressed a cry of joy at the sight of the grave and excellent Indian.
"Come!" he said to them, laconically.
They followed him, with some difficulty, through the crowd that accompanied them with shouts, and whom they were obliged to stop and thank. On reaching a small street near the square, and which was nearly deserted, Curumilla led them to a house before which he stopped.
"It is here," he said, as he tapped twice.
The door opened, and they entered a courtyard, in which were three ready saddled horses, held by a groom, which they at once mounted.
"Thanks, brother," the hacendero said, warmly, as he pressed the chiefs hand; "but how did you learn our deliverance?"
The Araucano smiled pleasantly. "Let us go," he said, making no other answer.
"Where to?" Don Miguel asked.
"To join Koutonepi."
The three men started at full speed. Ten minutes later they were out of the town, and galloping across the plain.
"Oh!" General Ibañez said, gaily, "How pleasant the fresh air is! How good it is to inhale it after remaining for two months stifled between the walls of a prison!"
"Shall we soon arrive? Don Miguel asked.
"In an hour," the chief answered.
And they went on with renewed speed.
On reaching a spot where the trail they were following formed a species of fork, Curumilla stopped, and the two gentlemen imitated him.
"That is your road," the Araucano chief said. "At the end of that path you will see Koutonepi's bivouac fire. I must leave you here."
After uttering these words, Curumilla turned his horse and started, after giving them a parting wave of the hand. The Unicorn was not much of a talker naturally; generally, he did more than he said. His friends, convinced that urgent necessity could alone have forced him thus to break through his habits, made no observation, but let him go. When they were alone, they gently relaxed the pace of their horses, and proceeded at a canter.
General Ibañez was radiant. He inhaled the fresh air Of the desert, which dilated his wide chest, revelling in his liberty. He thought of nothing but enjoying the present, regardless of the past, which, with his careless character, he had already forgotten, only to dream of the future, which he gazed on through a prism of brilliant hues. Don Miguel, on the contrary, felt, during the last few moments, a sad melancholy invade his mind. Not able to account for the emotion he experienced, he had a species of secret presentiment that a misfortune was suspended over his head. In vain did he try to dispel these ideas, but they constantly returned more obstinately than ever and it was with a sort of dread that he advanced in the direction where he was to meet Valentine, although he was his best friend, so much did he fear that he would greet his arrival with evil tidings.
The two gentlemen went on thus for nearly half an hour without exchanging a syllable; but, just as they turned a corner in the path, they saw a horseman about thirty paces in front of them, barring the road, and apparently waiting for them. The Mexicans examined him attentively. He was a tall man, well armed, and wearing the garb of the rich hacenderos; but, singularly enough, a black velvet mask prevented them distinguishing his features. By an instinctive movement Don Miguel and his friend moved a hand to their holsters, but they were empty.
"What is to be done?" the hacendero asked the general.
"Go on, of course. We have just escaped too great a peril for us to fear this. Even in the event of the mysterious being planted there before us, like an equestrian statue, trying to play us a trick, which is not impossible."
"Let us trust to Heaven," Don Miguel muttered, and pushed on.
The distance separating them from the stranger was soon cleared. On coming within five yards of him, they stopped.
"Santas tardes, caballeros," said the stranger, in a friendly voice.
"Santas tardes!" the gentlemen answered, in accord.
"I salute you, Don Miguel Zarate, and you, General Ibañez," the stranger then said. "I am happy to see you at length safe and sound out of the claws of that worthy General Ventura, who, if he could, would certainly have played you a trick."
"Caballero," Don Miguel made answer, "I thank you for the kind words you address to me, and which can only come from a friend's lips. I should be pleased if you would take off the mask that conceals your features, so that I may recognise you."
"Gentlemen, if I removed my mask you would be disappointed, for my features are unfamiliar to you. Do not be angry with me for keeping it on; but, be assured that you are not mistaken with regard to me, and I am really your friend."
The two Mexicans bowed courteously to each other, and the stranger went on.
"I knew that so soon as you were free you would hasten to join that worthy hunter Valentine, whom the trappers and gambusinos along the frontier have christened the 'Trail-hunter.' I placed myself here, where you must infallibly pass, in order to make you a communication of the utmost importance, which interests you extremely."
"I am listening, sir," Don Miguel responded with secret alarm; "and I beg you to accept, beforehand, my sincere thanks for the step you have taken on my behalf."
"You will thank me when the proper time comes, Don Miguel. Today I only warn you: at a later date I hope to aid you, and my help will not prove useless."
"Speak, sir! You excite my curiosity to the highest pitch, and I am anxious to learn the news of which you have condescended to be the bearer."
The stranger shook his head sadly, and there was a moment's silence. This meeting of three horsemen, one of whom was masked, in this deserted place, where no sound troubled the imposing silence of solitude, had something strange about it. At length the mask spoke again.
"Two months have elapsed, Don Miguel, since, through the treachery of Red Cedar, you were arrested and made prisoner at the Paso del Norte. Many events of which you are ignorant have occurred since then; but there is one I must inform you of at once. On the very night of your arrest, at the moment you laid down your arms, your daughter was carried off by Red Cedar."
"My daughter!" the hacendero exclaimed; "And Valentine to whom I confided her, and who was responsible for her safety?"
"Valentine attempted impossibilities to save her; but what can one man effect against twenty?"
Don Miguel shook his head mournfully.
"After researches, long, sterile, and extraordinary efforts, a man providentially aided by Father Seraphin, at length succeeded last night in taking Doña Clara from her ravishers; but Red Cedar, advised by some extraordinary chance, entered the house where the maiden had sought shelter, and carried her off again."
"Oh! I will avenge myself on that man!" the hacendero shouted, passionately.
The stranger's eyes flashed with a lurid light though the holes in his mask.