At daybreak the next morning Curumilla started for Unicorn's village. At sunset he returned to the cavern, accompanied by the Comanche chief. The sachem entertained the most profound respect for Father Seraphin, whose noble character he could appreciate, and felt pained at the state in which he found him.
"Father," he said to him as he kissed his hand. "Who are the villains who thus wounded you, to whom the Master of Life has imparted the secret to make us happy? Whoever they may be, these men shall die."
"My son," the priest answered gently, "I will not pronounce before you the name of the unhappy man who, in a moment of madness, raised his hand against me. My God is a God of peace; He is merciful, and recommends His creatures to forget injuries, and requite good for evil."
The Indian looked at him in amazement. He did not understand the soft and touching sublimity of these precepts of love. Educated in the sanguinary principles of his race—persuaded, like all redskins, that a warrior's first duty is revenge—he only admitted that atrocious law of the prairies which commands, "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth"—a terrible law, which we do not venture, however, utterly to condemn in these countries, where ambushes are permanent, and implacable death stands at every corner of the road.
"My son," Father Seraphin continued, "you are a great warrior. Many a time you have braved the atrocious tortures of the stake of blood, a thousand fold more terrible than death itself. Often have you, with a pleasure I excuse (for it is in your nature), thrown down your enemy, and planted your knee on his chest. Have you never pardoned anybody in fight?"
"Never!" the Indian answered, his eye sparkling with satisfied pride. "Unicorn has sent many Apache dogs to the happy hunting grounds: their scalps are drying at the door of his cabin."
"Well," the missionary said gently, "try clemency once, only once, and you will know one of the greatest pleasures God has granted to man on earth—that of pardoning."
The chief shook his head.
"No," he said; "a dead enemy is no longer to be feared. Better to kill than leave him means to avenge himself at a later date."
"My son, you love me, I believe?"
"Yes. My father is good; he has behaved well to the Comanches, and they are grateful. Let my father command, and his son will obey."
"I have no right to give you an order, my son. I can only ask a favour of you."
"Good! My father can explain himself. Unicorn will do what he desires."
"Well, then," said the missionary with a lively feeling of joy, "promise me to pardon the first unhappy man, whoever he may be, who falls into; your hands, and you will render me happy."
The chief frowned, and an expression of dissatisfaction appeared on his features. Father Seraphin anxiously followed on the Comanche's intelligent countenance the different shadows reflected on it as in a mirror. At length the Indian regained his stoicism, and his face grew serene again.
"Does my father demand it?" he asked in a gentle voice.
"I desire it."
"Be it so: my father shall be satisfied. I promise him to pardon the first enemy whom the Manitou causes to fall beneath the point of my lance."
"Thanks, chief," the missionary exclaimed joyfully, "thanks! Heaven will reward you for this good idea."
The Indian bowed silently and turned to Valentine, who had been listening to the conversation.
"My brother called me, and I came. What does he want of Unicorn?"
"My brother will take his seat at the council fire, and smoke the calumet with his friend. Chiefs do not speak without reflecting on the words they are about to utter."
"My brother speaks well, and I will take my seat at his fire."
Curumilla had lighted a large fire in the first grotto of the cavern. The four men left Father Seraphin to take a few moments' rest, and seated themselves round the fire, when the calumet passed from hand to hand. The Indians never undertake anything important, or commence a discussion, without first smoking the calumet in council, whatever may be the circumstances in which they are placed. When the calumet had gone the round Valentine rose.
"Every day," he said, bowing to the chief, "I appreciate more and more the honor the Comanches did me in adopting me as a son. My brother's nation is powerful; its hunting grounds cover the whole surface of the earth. The Apaches fly before the Comanche warriors like cowardly coyotes before courageous men. My brother has already several times done me a service with that greatness of soul which distinguishes him, and can only belong to a warrior so celebrated as he is. Today I have again a service to ask of my brother, and will he do it me? I presume so; for I know his heart, and that the Great Spirit of the Master of Life dwells in him."
"Let my brother explain," Unicorn answered. "He is speaking to a chief; he must remove the skin from his heart and let his blood flow red and bright before a friend. The great white hunter is a portion of myself. I should have to be prevented by an arrant impossibility if I refused any request emanating from him."
"Thanks, brother," Valentine said with emotion. "Your words have passed from your lips into my breast, which they have rejoiced. I am not mistaken. I see that I can ever count on your well-tried friendship and honest aid. Acumapicthzin de Zarate, the descendant of the Mexican kings, the friend of the redskins, whom he has ever protected, is a prisoner to the gachupinos. They have carried him to Santa Fe in order to put him to death, and deprive the Indians of the last friend left them."
"And what does my brother want?"
"I wish to save my friend."
"Good!" the chief answered. "My brother claims my help to succeed in that project, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Good! The descendant of the Tlatoanis shall be saved. My brother can feel reassured."
"I can count, then, on my brother's aid?" Valentine asked quickly.
The chief smiled.
"Unicorn holds in his hands Spaniards who will answer for the life of the prisoner."
"That is true!" Valentine exclaimed as he struck his forehead. "Your idea is a good one, chief."
"My brother will leave me to act. I answer for success on my head."
"Caramba!Act as you please, chief. Still, were it only form's sake, I should not be sorry to know what you intend doing."
"My brother has a white skin, but his heart is Indian. Let him trust to the prudence of a chief; Unicorn knows how to treat with the gachupinos."
"Doubtless."
"Unicorn will go to Santa Fe to speak with the chief of the white men."
Valentine looked at him in amazement. The chief smiled.
"Have I not hostages?" he said.
"That is true," Valentine remarked.
The chief went on:—
"The Spaniards are like chattering old women, prodigal of seductive words, but Unicorn knows them. How many times already has he trodden the warpath on their territory at the head of his warriors! They will not dare to deceive him. Ere the sun has twice accomplished its revolution round the tortoise whose immense shell supports the world, the chief of the Comanches will carry the bloody arrows to the whites, and propose to them peace or war. Is my brother satisfied?"
"I am. My heart is full of gratitude toward my red brother."
"Good! What is that to Unicorn? Less than nothing. Has my brother anything else to ask of me?"
"One thing more."
"Let my brother explain himself as quickly as possible, that no cloud may remain between him and his red brother."
"I will do so. Men without fear of the Great Spirit, urged by some mad desire, have carried off Doña Clara, the daughter of the white chief whom my brother pledged to save."
"Who are these? Does my brother know them?"
"Yes, I know them only too well. They are bandits, at the head of whom is a monster with a human face, called Red Cedar."
At this name the Indian started slightly, his eye flashed fire, and a deep wrinkle hollowed his forehead.
"Red Cedar is a ferocious jaguar," he said with concentrated passion. "He has made himself the scourge of the Indians, whose scalps he desires. This man has no pity either for women or children, but he possesses no courage: he only attacks his enemies in the dark, twenty against one, and when he is sure of meeting with no resistance."
"My brother knows this man, I see."
"And this man has carried off the white gazelle?'
"Yes."
"Good! My brother wishes to know what Red Cedar has done with his prisoner?"
"I do wish it."
The Indian rose.
"Time is slipping away," he said. "Unicorn will return to his friends. My brother the hunter need not feel alarmed: a chief is watching."
After uttering these few words the chief went down into the cavern, mounted his horse, and disappeared in direction of the desert. Valentine had every reason to be satisfied with his interview with the Comanche chief; but Father Seraphin was less pleased than the hunter. The worthy priest, both through his nature and his vocation, was not disposed to employ violent measures, which were repugnant to him: he would have liked, were it possible, to settle everything by gentleness, and without running the risk of bloodshed.
Three weeks elapsed, however, ere Unicorn appeared to be effectually carrying out the plan he had explained to Valentine, who only learnt indirectly that a strong party of Comanche warriors had invaded the Mexican frontiers. Father Seraphin, though not yet completely cured, had insisted on proceeding to Santa Fe to take some steps to save Don Miguel, whose trial had gone on rapidly, who was on the point of being executed. For his part Don Pablo, half mad with uneasiness, also insisted, in spite of Valentine's entreaties and remarks, on entering Santa Fe furtively, and trying to see his father.
The night on which we found Valentine in the clearing Unicorn visited him for the first time in a month: he came to inform him of the success of the measures he had taken. Valentine, used to Indian habits, understood half a word: hence he had not hesitated to announce to Don Pablo as a positive fact that his father would soon be free.
Don Miguel had been transferred to the prison of Santa Fe. Europeans, accustomed to philanthropic manners, and regarding human life as of some value, cannot imagine what atrocities the word "prison" contains in Mexico. In countries beyond sea the penitentiary system is not even in its infancy; for it is completely ignored, and has not even been suggested yet. With the exception of the United States, prisons are in America what they were at the period of the Spanish dominion; that is to say, filthy dens, where the wretched prisoners suffer a thousand tortures.
Among ourselves, so long as a man is not proved guilty, he is assumed to be innocent; but over there, so soon as a man is arrested, he is considered guilty, and consequently every consideration and all pity vanish, to make room for brutal and barbarous treatment. Thrown on a little straw in fetid holes, often inhabited by serpents and other unclean animals, the prisoners have more than once been found dead at the expiration of twenty-four hours, and half devoured. We have witnessed scores of times atrocious tortures inflicted by coarse and cruel soldiers on poor fellows whose crimes, in our country, would have merited a slight chastisement at the most. Still, in the great centres of populations, the prisons are better managed than in the towns and villages; and in this land, where money is the most powerful lever, a rich man easily succeeds in obtaining all he wishes, and rendering his position at any rate tolerable.
Don Miguel and General Ibañez had managed to be confined together by the expenditure of many entreaties and a heavy sum of gold. They inhabited two wretched rooms, the entire furniture of which consisted in a halting table, a few leather covered butacas, and two benches which served them as beds. These two men, so powerful by nature, had endured without complaint all the humiliation and insults inflicted on them during their trial, resolved to die as they had lived, with head erect and firm heart, without giving the judges who had condemned them the satisfaction of seeing them turn weak at the last moment.
It was toward evening of the same day on which we saw Valentine in the clearing. Darkness fell rapidly, and the only window, a species of narrow slit that served to light the prison, allowed but a weak and dubious light to penetrate. Don Miguel was walking with long strides up and down his prison, while the general, carelessly reclining on one of the benches, quietly smoking his cigarette, watching with childish pleasure the light clouds of bluish smoke which rose in a spiral to the ceiling, and which he constantly blew asunder.
"Well," Don Miguel said all at once, "it seems it is not for today either."
"Yes," the general said, "unless (though I do not believe it) they wish to do us the honor of a torchlight execution."
"Can you at all account for this delay?"
"On my honor, no. I have ransacked my brains in vain to guess the reason that prevents them shooting us, and I have given it up as a bad job."
"Same with me. At first I fancied they were trying to frighten us by the continued apprehension of death constantly suspended over our heads like another sword of Damocles; but this idea seemed to me too absurd."
"I am entirely of your opinion: still something extraordinary must be occurring."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Why, for the last two days our worthy jailer, Tio Quesada, has become, not polite to us—for that is impossible—but less brutal. I noticed that he has drawn in his claws, and attempted a grin. It is true that his face is so little accustomed to assume that expression, that the only result he obtains is to make a wretched grimace."
"And you conclude from that?"
"Nothing positive," the general said. "Still I ask myself whence comes this incomprehensible change. It would be as absurd to attribute it to the pity he feels for our position as to suppose the governor will come to ask our pardon for having tried and condemned us."
"Eh?" Don Miguel said with a toss of his head. "All is not over—we are not dead yet."
"That is true; but keep your mind at rest—we shall be so soon."
"Our life is in God's hands. He will dispose of it at His pleasure."
"Amen!" the general said with a laugh, as he rolled a fresh cigarette.
"Do you not consider it extraordinary that, during the whole month we have been here, our friends have not given a sign of life?"
The general shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"Hum!" he said, "a prisoner is very sick, and our friends doubtless feared to make us worse by the sight of their grief: that is why they have deprived themselves of the pleasure of visiting us."
"Do not jest, general. You accuse them wrongfully, I feel convinced."
"May Heaven grant it! For my part, I heartily forgive them their indifference, and the oblivion in which; they have left us."
"I cannot believe that Don Valentine, that true-hearted and noble-minded man, for whom I ever felt so deep a friendship, has not tried to see me."
"Bah! How, Don Miguel, can you, so near death as you are, still believe in honourable feelings in any man?"
At this moment there was a great clash of iron outside, and the door of the room was opened sufficiently to afford passage to the jailer, who preceded another person. The almost complete obscurity that prevailed in the prison prevented the condemned men from recognising the visitor, who wore a long black gown.
"Eh, eh!" the general muttered in his comrade's ear, "I believe that General Ventura, our amiable governor, has at length made up his mind."
"Why so?" Don Miguel asked in a low voice.
"Canarios!he has sent us a priest, which means that we shall be executed tomorrow."
"On my word, all the better," Don Miguel could not refrain from saying.
In the meanwhile the jailer, a short, thick-set man, with a ferret face and cunning eye, had turned to the priest, whom he invited to enter, saying in a hoarse voice,—
"Here it is, señor padre: these are the condemned persons."
"Will you leave us alone, my friend?" the stranger said.
"Will you have my lantern? It is getting dark, and when people are talking they like to see one another."
"Thanks; you can do so. You will open when I call you by tapping at the door."
"All right—I will do so;" and he turned to the condemned, to whom he said savagely, "Well, señores, here is a priest. Take advantage of his services now you have got him. In your position there is no knowing what may happen from one moment to the other."
The prisoners shrugged their shoulder's contemptuously, but made no reply. The jailer went out. When the sound of his footsteps had died away in the distance, the priest, who had till this moment stood with his body bent forward and his ear on the watch, drew himself up, and walked straight to Don Miguel. This manoeuvre on the part of the stranger surprised the two gentlemen, who anxiously awaited what was about to happen. The lantern left by the jailer only spread a faint and flickering light, scarcely sufficient to distinguish objects.
"My father," the hacendero said in a firm voice, "I thank the person who sent you to prepare me for death, for I anxiously wished to fulfil my duties as a Christian before being executed. If you will proceed with me into the adjoining room I will confess my sins to you: they are those which an honest man ordinarily commits; for my heart is pure, and I have nothing to reproach myself with."
The priest took off his hat, seized the lantern, and placed it near his pale face, whose noble and gentle features were suddenly displayed in the light.
"Father Seraphin!" the prisoners exclaimed with a surprise mingled with joy.
"Silence!" the priest ordered quickly. "Do not pronounce my name so loudly, brothers: everyone is ignorant of my being here except the jailer, who is my confidant."
"He!" Don Miguel said with a stupor; "the man who has been insulting and humiliating us during a month!"
"That man is henceforth ours. Lose no time, come. I have secure means to get you out of prison, and to leave the town ere your evasion can be even suspected: the horses are prepared—an escort is awaiting you. Come, gentlemen, for the moments are precious."
The two prisoners interchanged a glance of sublime eloquence; then General Ibañez quietly seated himself on a butaca, while Don Miguel replied,—
"Thanks, my father. You have undertaken the noble task of soothing all sorrow, and you do not wish to fail in your duty. Thanks for the offer you make us, which we cannot, however, accept. Men like us must not give our enemies right by flying like criminals. We fought for a sacred principle, and succumbed. We owe it to our countrymen and to ourselves to endure death bravely. When we conspired we were perfectly well aware of what awaited us if we were conquered. Once again, thanks; but we will only quit this prison as free men, or to walk to punishment."
"I have not the courage, gentlemen, to blame your heroic resolution: in a similar case I should act as you are doing. You have a very slight hope still left, so wait. Perchance, within a few hours, unforeseen events will occur to change the face of matters."
"We hope for nothing more, my father."
"That word is a blasphemy in your mouth, Don Miguel. God can do all He wills. Hope, I tell you."
"I am wrong, father: forgive me."
"Now I am ready to hear your confession."
The prisoners bowed. Father Seraphin shrived them in turn, and gave them absolution.
"Hola!" the jailer shouted through the door. "Make haste; it is getting late. It will soon be impossible to leave the city."
"Open the door," the missionary said in a firm voice.
The jailer appeared.
"Well?" he asked.
"Light me and lead me out of the prison. These caballeros refuse to profit by the chance of safety I came to offer them."
The jailer shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"They are mad," he said.
And he went out, followed by the priest, who turned on the threshold and pointed to heaven. The prisoners remained alone.
On the selfsame day that Father Seraphin went to the prison to propose an escape to the condemned, a very strange circumstance had aroused the entire population of Santa Fe. At about midday, at the moment when the inhabitants were enjoying their siesta, and the streets, calcined by the beams of a tropical sun, were completely deserted, a formidable whoop, the terrible war yell of the Comanche Indians, burst forth at the entrance of the town.
There was a general alarm, and everybody barricaded himself in his house, believing in a sudden assault of the savages. Presently an immense clamour, and cries of distress and despair uttered by a terrified population, could be heard throughout the town. Several times already the Comanches, in their periodical incursions, had come near Santa Fe, but never so closely as this time; and the remembrance of the cruelties they had practised on the hapless Spaniards who fell into their hands was still present to every mind.
In the meanwhile a few inhabitants, bolder than the rest, or having nothing to lose, proceeded with the greatest precautions toward the spot whence the shouts were heard; and a singular spectacle presented itself. A detachment of dismounted Comanche warriors, about two hundred strong, was marching in close column, flanked on either wing by two troops, each of fifty horses. About twenty paces in front caracoled Unicorn.
All these men had a martial aspect which was really remarkable: all were strangely painted, well adorned, and in their full war costume. The horsemen were loaded with all sorts of arms and ornaments: they had a bow and quiver on their backs, their guns slung and decorated with their medicine bags, and their lances in their hands. They were crowned with magnificent black and white eagle feathers, with a falling tuft. The upper part of the body, otherwise naked, was covered by a coyote skin rolled up and worn across the shoulder; their bucklers were ornamented with feathers, cloth of different colours, and human scalps. They were seated on handsome saddlecloth of panthers' skins, lined with red, which almost covered the horses' backs. According to the prairie fashion, they had no stirrups.
Unicorn brandished in his right hand the long medicine lance, the distinctive mark of the powerful "dance of the prairie dogs." It was a staff in the shape of a crook, covered with an otter skin, and decorated through its entire length with owl feathers. This talisman, which he had inherited, possessed the power of bringing under his orders all the warriors of his nation scattered over the prairies: hence on all grand occasions he never failed to carry it. He wore a shirt made of the skin of the bighorn, embroidered on the sleeves with blue flowers, and adorned on the right arm with long stripes of rolled ermine and red feathers, and on the left arm with long tresses of black hair cut from the scalps he had raised. Over his shoulders he had thrown a cloak of gazelle skin, having at each end an enormous tuft of ermine. On his forehead the chief had fastened two buffalo horns, which with the blue, red, and green paint plastered on his face, gave him a terrible aspect. His magnificent horse, a mustang full of fire, which he managed with inimitable grace and skill, was painted red in different fashions: on its legs were stripes like a zebra, and on either side the backbone were designed arrowhead, lances, beavers, tortoises, &c. The same was the case with the face and the haunches.
There was something at once imposing and striking in the appearance presented by this band of ferocious warriors as they advanced though the deserted streets of the city, brandishing their tremendous weapons, and uttering at intervals their sinister war cry, which they accompanied by the shrill sound of long whistles made of human thigh bones, which they wore suspended by strips of wild beast hide.
By this time the Comanches had penetrated to the heart of the city, driving before them, though without violence, the few inhabitants who had ventured to get in their way. They marched in good order, not turning to the right or left to plunder, and doing no reprehensive action.
The Spaniards, more and more surprised at the haughty and bold attitude of the Indians, and their exemplary conduct, asked themselves with terror what these men wanted, and what reason had led them to invade their frontiers in so sudden and secret a way, that the scouts the Mexican Government pays to watch them had no knowledge of their march. As usually happens in such cases, terror gradually gave way to curiosity. In the first place the leperos and adventurers dared to approach the Indians; then the inhabitants, if not completely tranquilised, still reassured by their peaceful attitude, mingled with the groups; so that when the Comanche war party arrived on the Plaza Mayor; it was followed by a crowd of Spaniards, who regarded them with the restless and stupid curiosity only to be found among the masses.
The Comanches did not appear to notice the excitement they created. As soon as they were on the Plaza Mayor they halted, and remained motionless, as if their feet had suddenly grown to the ground. Unicorn made a sign with his talisman; a warrior quitted the ranks, and rode up to the sentry standing in front of the governor's palace, who regarded the singular scene with a dazed air.
"Wah!" the Indian said sarcastically, as he lightly touched the soldier with the end of his lance. "Is my brother asleep, that he does not hear a warrior addressing him?"
"I am not asleep," the soldier answered, as he fell back a pace. "What do you want?"
"The great sachem of the Comanches, the cacique whom the red children call Haboutzelze, has come to speak to his great white father, the chief of the frontier palefaces."
"What does he want with him?" the soldier asked, not knowing what he said, so much had the unexpected sight of the redskin disturbed him.
"Is my brother a chief?" the Indian asked cunningly.
"No," the soldier answered, greatly confused by this lesson.
"Well, then, let him close his ears as regards those the Great Spirit has set above him, and deliver the message I give him in the sachem's name."
While the Comanche was exchanging these few words with the sentry, several persons, drawn out of the palace by the unusual disturbance they heard, mingled with the crowd. Among them were several officers, one of whom advanced to the Indian horseman.
"What does my brother want?" he asked him.
The warrior saw at the first glance that this time he had to do with a chief. He bowed courteously, and answered.
"A deputation of the great Comanche nation desires to be introduced to my great white father."
"Good! But all the warriors cannot enter the palace," the officer said.
"My brother is right. Their chiefs alone will go in: their young men will await them here."
"Let my brother be patient. I will go and deliver his message in all haste."
"Good! My brother is a chief. The Spider will await him."
The officer disappeared in the interior, while the Spider planted the end of his long lance in the ground, and remained with his eye fixed on the gate of the palace, not evincing the slightest impatience.
The new governor of Santa Fe was a general of the name of Don Benito Ventura. He was ignorant as a fish, stupid and haughty as a heathcock. Like the majority of his colleagues in this eccentric country, he had gained his general's epaulettes by repeated pronunciamentos, managing to gain a step by every revolution, while never having seen more fire than that of the thin huskpajillohe constantly had in his mouth. To sum him up, he was very rich, a wonderful coward, and more afraid of blows than aught else in the world. Such he was morally: physically he was a plump little man, round as a barrel, with a rubicund face, lighted up by two small grey eyes.
This worthy officer perspired water and blood when the duties of his station obliged him to put on the uniform, every seam of which was overlaid with gold lace: his chest literally disappeared under the infinity of crosses of every description with which each president had honoured him on attaining power. In a word, General Ventura was a worthy man, as fit to be a soldier as he was to be a cardinal; and he had only one object, that of being President of the Republic in his turn; but this object he ever pursued without Once swerving from his path.
If he accepted the governorship of New Mexico, it was for the simple reason that, as Santa Fe was a long distance from Mexico, he had calculated that it would be easy for him to make apronunciamentoin his own favour, and become,ipso facto, president. He was not aware, on coming to Santa Fe, that the province he was about to govern was incessantly menaced by Indian forays. Had he known it, however advantageous the post of governor might, be for his schemes, he would have refused point blank so perilous an honour.
He had learned with the utmost terror the entrance of the Comanches into the town, and when the officer intrusted with the Spider's message presented himself before him he had literally lost his head. It took all possible trouble to make him comprehend that the Indians came as friends, that they merely wished to have a palaver with him, and that since their coming their conduct had been most honourable and exemplary. Fortunately for the Spanish honour, other officers entered the apartment in which was the governor, attracted to the palace by the news, which had spread with the speed of a train of powder through Santa Fe, of the appearance of an Indian detachment.
When the general saw himself surrounded and supported by the officers of his staff his terror was slightly toned down, he regained his presence of mind and it was with a calm and almost dignified demeanor that he discussed the question whether it was proper to receive the Indian deputation, and in what manner it should be done. The other officers, who, in the course of their professional career, had had many a skirmish with the redskins, felt no inclination to anger them. They produced in support of their opinions such peremptory reasons, that General Ventura, convinced by their arguments gave the officer who brought the message orders to bring the three principal Indian chiefs into the palace.
It needed the thorough knowledge the Comanches possessed of the terror they inspired the Mexicans with to have dared to enter in so small a body a town like Santa Fe, where they might expect to find a considerable garrison.
The general officer sent by General Ventura had performed his duty. Unicorn and two other chiefs dismounted, and followed him into the palace; while the Indian warriors, in spite of the heat of the sunbeams that played on their heads, remained motionless on the spot where their caciques bade them wait.
The general desired, by a certain display of strength, to impose on the redskin deputies; but unfortunately, as is always the case in Mexico, the garrison, which on paper represented eight hundred men, was in reality only composed of sixty at the most—a very small number for a frontier town, especially under the present circumstances. But if soldiers were lacking, to make up for it there was no paucity of officers; for about thirty were assembled at the palace, which allowed one officer to every two privates. This detail, which might appear exaggerated, is, however, strictly correct, and shows in what a state of anarchy this hapless country is plunged. The thirty officers, attired in their splendid uniforms, that glistened with gold and decorations, were arranged round the general, while three posts of ten men each held the doors of the halls of reception.
When the preparations were completed the ambassadors were introduced. The Indian chiefs, accustomed for a long period to Spanish luxury, entered without testifying the slightest surprise. They bowed with dignity to the assembly, and, crossing their arms on their chests, waited till they were addressed. The general regarded them with an astonishment pardonable enough, for this was the first time he had found himself in the presence of these untamable redskins, whose terrible renown had so often made him shudder.
"What reason can have been so powerful as to oblige my sons to come and see me?" he asked in a gracious and conciliating tone. "Let them make their request, and, if I can do so, I shall be most ready to satisfy it."
This opening, which the governor fancied to be very politic, was, on the contrary, most awkward, as it offended the pride of those he addressed, and whom he had the greatest interest in humouring. Unicorn took a step forward. A sarcastic smile played on his lips, and he replied in a voice slightly tinged with irony,—
"I have heard a parrot speak. Are the words addressed to me?"
The general blushed up to the eyes at this insult, which he did not dare retaliate.
"The chief has not understood my words," he said. "My intentions are good, and I only wish to be agreeable to him."
"The Comanches do not come here to ask a favour," Unicorn answered, haughtily. "They know how to avenge themselves when insulted."
"What do my sons want then?"
"To treat with my father for the ransom of the white chiefs who are in their power. Five palefaces inhabit the cabin of the Comanches. The young men of the tribe demand their punishment, for the blood of the palefaces is agreeable to the Master of Life. Tomorrow the prisoners will have ceased to live if my father does not buy them off today."
After these words, uttered in a firm and peremptory tone, there was a moment of supreme silence. The Mexican officers reflected sadly on the fearful fate that threatened their friends. Unicorn continued:—
"What does my father say? Shall we fasten our prisoners to the stake of blood, or restore them to liberty?"
"What ransom do you ask?" the general said.
"Listen, all you chiefs of the palefaces here present, and judge of the clemency and generosity of the Comanches. We only, wish, for the life of these five men, the life of two men."
"That is little, I allow," the general remarked; "and who are the two men whose lives you ask?"
"The palefaces call them, the first, Don Miguel Zarate; the second, General Ibañez."
The general started.
"These two men cannot be delivered to you," he answered; "they are condemned to death, and will die tomorrow."
"Good! My prisoners will be tortured this night," the chief replied stoically.
"Confound it!" the general sharply exclaimed, "Is there no other arrangement possible? Let my brothers ask me a thing I can grant them, and—"
"I want those two men," the chief quickly interrupted. "If not, my warriors will themselves deliver them; and in that case the Comanche chiefs cannot prevent the injury their warriors may commit in the town."
One of the officers present at this interview was aroused by the tone Unicorn had affected since the beginning of the audience. He was a brave old soldier, and the cowardice of his comrades shamed him. He rose at this point.
"Chief," he said in a firm voice, "your words are very haughty and foolish for the mouth of an ambassador. You are here, at the head of scarce two hundred warriors, in the heart of a town peopled by brave men. Despite all my desire to be agreeable to you, if you do not pay greater respect to your audience, prompt and severe justice shall be inflicted on your insolence."
The Indian chief turned toward the new speaker, whose remarks had aroused a sympathetic murmur.
"My words are those of a man who fears nothing, and holds in his hands the life of five men."
"Well," the officer retorted sharply, "what do we care for them? If they were such fools as to let you capture them, they must suffer the consequences of their madness; we cannot pay for them. Besides, as you have already been told, those you claim must die."
"Good! We will retire," Unicorn said haughtily. "Longer discourse is needless; our deeds shall speak for us."
"A moment!" the general exclaimed. "All may yet be arranged. An affair like the present cannot be settled all in a hurry; we must reflect on the propositions made to us. My son is a chief, and will grant us reasonable time to offer him a reply."
Unicorn bent a suspicious glance on the governor.
"My father has spoken wisely," he presently made answer. "Tomorrow at the twelfth hour, I will come for the final answer of the palefaces. But my father will promise me not to order the punishment of the prisoners till he has told me the decision he has come to."
"Be it so," the general answered. "But what will the Comanches do till, then?"
"They will leave the town as they entered it, and bivouac on the plain."
"Agreed on."
"The Master of Life has heard my father's promise. If he break his word and possess a forked tongue, the blood shed will fall on his head."
The Comanche uttered these words in a significant tone that made the general tremble inwardly; then he bowed to the assembly, and left the hall with his companions. On reaching the square the chiefs remounted their horses and placed themselves at the head of their warriors. An hour later the Comanches had left the town, and camped within two gunshots of the walls, on the banks of the river. It was after this interview that Unicorn had the conversation with Valentine which we recently described.
Still, when the Mexican officers were alone with the general, their courage returned all at once, and they reproached him for the little dignity he had displayed before the Indians, and specially for the promise he had made them. The general listened to them calmly, with a smile on his lips, and contented himself with answering them, in a tone, of indescribable meaning,—
"The promise you allude to pledges me to nothing. Between this and tomorrow certain things will happen to free us from the Comanches, and let us dispense with surrendering the prisoners they demand so insolently."
About half a league to the west of Santa Fe three men and a woman were seated behind a dense clump of trees, which sheltered while rendering them unseen, over abois-de-vachefire, supping with good appetite, and chatting together. The three men were Red Cedar's sons; the female was Ellen. The maiden was pale and sad: her dreamy eye wandered around with a distraught expression. She listened hardly to what her brothers said, and would certainly have been greatly embarrassed to describe the conversation, for her mind was elsewhere.
"Hum!" Sutter said, "what the deuce can keep the old one so long? He told us he should be back by four o'clock at the latest; but the sun is just disappearing on the horizon, and he has not come yet."
"Pshaw!" Nathan said with a shrug of the shoulders. "Are you afraid that something has happened to him? The old chap has beak and nails to defend himself; and since his last turn up with Don Miguel, the fellow who is to be shot tomorrow at Santa Fe, he has kept on his guard."
"I care very little," Sutter replied brusquely, "whether father is here or not; but I believe we should do well not to wait longer, but return to the camp, where our presence is doubtless necessary."
"Nonsense! Our comrades can do without us," Shaw observed. "We are all right here, so suppose we stop the night. Tomorrow it will be day. Well, if father has not returned by sunrise, we will go back to camp. Harry and Dick can keep good order till our return."
"In truth, Shaw is right," Nathan said. "Father is at times so strange, that he might be angry with us for not having waited for him; for he never does anything lightly. If he told us to stay here, he probably had his reasons."
"Let us stay, then," Sutter remarked carelessly. "I ask for nothing better. We shall only have to keep the fire up, and so one of us will watch while the others sleep."
"Agreed on," Nathan replied. "In that way, if the old man comes during our sleep, he will see that we waited for him."
The three brothers rose. Sutter and Nathan collected a pile of dry wood to maintain the fire, while Shaw intertwined a few branches to make his sister a sufficient shelter for the night. The two elder brothers thrust their feet toward the fire, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and went to sleep, after advising Shaw to keep a bright lookout, not only against wild beasts, but to announce the old squatter's approach. Shaw, after stirring up the fire, threw himself at the foot of a larch tree, and letting his head sink on his chest, plunged into deep and painful meditation.
This poor boy, hardly twenty years of age, was a strange composite of good and evil qualities. Reared in the desert, he had grown up like one of its native trees, thrusting out here and there branches full of powerful sap. Nothing had ever thwarted his instincts, no matter what their nature might be. Possessing no cognizance of justice and injustice, he had never been able to appreciate the squatter's conduct, or see the injury he did society by the life he led. Habituated to regard as belonging to himself all that he wished for, allowing himself to be guided by his impressions and caprices, never having felt any other fetter than his father's despotic will, this young man had at once a nature expansive and reserved, generous and avaricious, gentle and cruel: in a word, he possessed all the qualities of his vices; but he was, before all, a man of sensations. Endowed with a vast intellect, extreme audacity, and lively comprehensions, he would have been indubitably a remarkable man, had he been born in a different position.
His sister Ellen was the only member of his family for whom he experienced sympathy; and yet it was only with extreme reserve that he intrusted his boyish secrets to her—secrets which, during the last few days, had acquired an importance he did not himself suspect, but which his sister, with the innate intelligence of woman, had already divined.
Shaw, as we have said, was thinking. The young savage's indomitable nature revolted against an unknown force which had suddenly sprung up in his heart—mastered and subdued him in spite of all his efforts. He was in love! He loved, ignorant even of the meaning of the word love, which comprises in this nether world all earthly joy and suffering. Vainly he sought to explain his feelings; but no light flashed across his mind, or illumined the darkness of his heart. He loved without desire and without hope, involuntarily obeying that divine law which compels even the roughest man to seek a mate. He was dreaming of Doña Clara. He loved her, as he was capable of loving, with that passionate impetuosity, that violence of feeling, to which his uncultivated mind adapted him. The sight of the maiden caused him a strange trouble, which he did not attempt to account for. He did not try to analyse his feelings, for that would have been impossible; and yet at times he was a prey to cold and terrible fury, when thinking that the haughty maiden, who was even unconscious of his existence, would probably only spurn and despise him if she knew it. He was yielding to these crushing thoughts, when he suddenly felt a hand laid on his shoulder. On turning, Ellen stood before him, upright and motionless, like the white apparitions of the German legends. He raised his head, and bent an inquiring glance on his sister.
"You are not asleep, Ellen?"
"No," she answered in a voice soft as a bird's song. "Brother, my heart is sad."
"What is the matter, Ellen? Why not enjoy a few hours of that repose so necessary for you?"
"My heart is sad, I tell you, brother," she went on. "In vain do I seek sleep—it flies far from me."
"Sister, tell me the cause of your sufferings, and perhaps I can appease the grief that devours you."
"Can you not guess it?"
"I do not understand you."
She looked at him so sternly that he could not let his eyes fall.
"On the contrary, you understand me too well, Shaw," she said with a sigh. "Your heart rejoices at this moment at the misfortune of the woman you should defend."
The young man blushed.
"What can I do?" he murmured faintly.
"Everything, if you have the firm will," she exclaimed energetically.
"No," Shaw went on, shaking his head with discouragement; "the person of whom you speak is the old man's prisoner. I cannot contend against my father."
Ellen smiled contemptuously.
"You seek in vain to hide your thoughts from me," she said harshly. "I read your heart as an open book: your sorrow is feigned, and you really rejoice at the thought that in future you will constantly be by Doña Clara's side."
"I!" he exclaimed with an angry start.
"Yes, you only see in her captivity a means to approach her. Your selfish heart is secretly gladdened by that hope."
"You are harsh to me, sister. Heaven is my witness that, were it possible, I would at once restore her the liberty torn from her."
"You can if you like."
"No, it is impossible. My father watches too closely over his prisoner."
"He will not distrust you, but allow you to approach her freely."
"What you ask of me is impossible."
"Because you will not, Shaw. Remember that women only love men in proportion to the sacrifices they make for them: they despise cowards."
"But how to save her?"
"That is your affair, Shaw."
"At least give me some advice which will help me to escape from the difficult position in which I find myself."
"In such serious circumstances your heart must guide you, and you must only ask counsel of it."
"But the old one?" Shaw said hesitatingly.
"Our father will not know your movements. I take on myself to prevent him noticing them."
"Good!" the young man remarked, half convinced; "but I do not know where the maiden is hidden."
"I will tell you, if you swear to do all in your power to save her."
There was a moment of silence.
"I swear to obey you, Ellen. If I do not succeed in carrying the girl off, I will at any rate employ all my intellect to obtain that result. Speak, then, without fear."
"Doña Clara is confined at the Rancho del Coyote: she was intrusted to Andrés Garote."
"Ah, ah!" the young man said, as if speaking to himself, "I did not fancy her so near us."
"You will save her?"
"At all events I will try to free her from the hands of the man who guards her."
"Good!" the maiden remarked; "I now recognise you. Lose no time: my father's absence alarms me. Perhaps at this moment he is preparing a safer hiding place for his prisoner."
"Your idea is excellent, sister. Who knows whether it is not too late now to tear from the old man the prey he covets?"
"When do you intend to start?"
"At once: I have not a moment to lose. If the old man returned I should be compelled to remain here. But who will keep watch while my brothers sleep?"
"I will," the maiden answered resolutely.
"Whence arises the interest you feel in this woman, sister, as you do not know her?" the young man asked in surprise.
"She is a woman, and unhappy. Are not those reasons sufficient?"
"Perhaps so," Shaw remarked doubtfully.
"Child!" Ellen muttered, "Can you not read in your own heart, the motive of my conduct toward this stranger?"
The young savage started at this remark.
"It is true!" He exclaimed passionately. "Pardon me, sister! I am mad; but I love you, and you know me better than I do myself."
And rising hurriedly, he kissed his sister, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and ran off in the direction of Santa Fe.
When he had disappeared in the gloom, and the sound of his footsteps had died out in the distance, the girl fell on the ground, muttering in a low, sad voice:
"Will he succeed?"
Red Cedar did not remain long under the effect of the startling insult he had received. Pride, wrath, and, before all, the desire to avenge himself restored his strength, and a few minutes after Don Pablo Zarate's departure the squatter had regained all his coolness and audacity.
"You see, señor padre," he said, addressing the monk, "that our little plans are known to our enemies; we must, therefore, make haste if we do not wish to see persons break in here, from whom it is of the utmost importance to conceal ourselves. Tomorrow night at the latest, perhaps before, we shall start. Do not stir from here till my return. Your face is too well known at Santa Fe for you to venture to show it in the streets without imprudence."
"Hum!" the monk muttered, "That demon, whom I fancied dead, is a rude adversary. Fortunately we shall soon have nothing more to fear from his father, for I hardly know how we should get out of it."
"If the son has escaped us," Red Cedar said with an ugly smile, "that is fortunately not the case with the father. Don't be alarmed; Don Miguel will cause us no further embarrassment."
"I wish it most earnestly,canarios!for he is a determined man; but I confess to you that I shall not be entirely at my ease till I have seen him fall beneath the bullets of the soldiers."
"You will not have long to wait. General Ventura has ordered me to go and meet the regiment of dragoons he expects, in order to hurry them on, and bring them into the town this very night, if possible. So soon as the governor has an imposing force at his disposal he will no longer fear a revolt on the part of the troops, and give the order for execution without delay."
"May Heaven grant it! But," he added with a sigh of regret, "what a pity that most of our scamps deserted us! We should have almost arrived at the placer by this time, and been safe from the vengeance of our enemies."
"Patience, señor padre; all is for the best, perhaps, trust to me. Andrés, my horse."
"You will start at once, then?"
"Yes. I recommend you to watch carefully over our prisoner."
The monk shrugged his shoulders.
"Our affairs are tolerably well embarrassed already; then why burden ourselves with a woman?"
The squatter frowned.
"That is my business," he exclaimed in a peremptory tone. "Keep all stupid observations to yourself. A thousand devils! I know what I am about. That woman will possibly prove our safeguard at a later date."
And mounting his horse, Red Cedar galloped out of Santa Fe.
"Hum!" Andrés Garote said as he watched him depart, "what a diabolical eye! Though I have known him several years, I never saw him like that before. How will all this end?"
Without further remarks he arranged matters in the rancho, repairing as well as he could the disorder caused by the previous struggle; then he took a look round him. The monk, with his elbows on the table and a cigarette in his mouth, was drinking the fluid left in the bottle, doubtless to console himself for thenavajadawith which Don Pablo had favoured him.
"Why, señor padre," the ranchero said in an insinuating voice, "do you know that it is hardly five o'clock?"
"Do you think so?" the other answered for the sake of saying something.
"Does not the time seem to you to go very slowly?"
"Extraordinarily so."
"If you liked we could easily shorten it."
"In what way?"
"Oh, for instance, with these."
And Andrés drew from his boot a pack of greasy cards, which he complacently spread out on the table.
"Ah! That is a good idea," the monk exclaimed with sparkling eyes. "Let us have a game of monte."
"At your orders."
"Don Andrés, you are a most worthy gentlemen. What shall we play for?"
"Ah, hang it! That is true; we must play for something," the ranchero said, scratching his head.
"The merest trifle, simply to render the game interesting."
"Yes, but to do that man must possess the trifle."
"Do not let that trouble you. If you permit me I will make you a proposal."
"Do so, señor. You are a remarkable clever man, and can have none but bright ideas."
The monk bowed to his flattering insinuation.
"This is it: we will play, if you like for the share of the gold we shall receive when we reach the placer."
"Done!" the ranchero shouted enthusiastically.
"Well," the monk said, drawing from his pocket a pack of cards no less dirty than the others, "we can at any rate kill time."
"What! You have cards too?" the ranchero remarked.
"Yes, and quite new, as you see." Andrés bowed with an air of conviction.
The game began at once, and soon the two men were completely absorbed in the combinations of theseis de copas,theas de bastos, thedos de oro, and thecuatro d'espadas. The monk, who had no necessity to feign at this moment, as he was in the company of a man thoroughly acquainted with him, yielded frenziedly to his ruling passion. In Mexico, and throughout Spanish America, theangelusrings at sunset. In those countries, where there is no twilight, night arrives without transition, so that ere the bell has done tinkling the gloom is dense. At the last stroke of the angelus the game ceased, as if by common agreement between the two men, and they threw their cards on the table.
Although Garote was a passed master in trickery, and had displayed all his science, he found in the monk so skilful an adversary that, after more than three hours of an obstinate struggle, they both found themselves as little advanced as at the outset. The monk, however, on coming to the rancho, had an object which Red Cedar was far from suspecting.
Fray Ambrosio rested his arms on the table, bent his body slightly forward, and while carelessly playing with the cards, which he amused himself by sorting, he said to the ranchero, as he fixed a scrutinising glance upon him,—
"Shall we talk a little, Don Andrés?"
"Willingly," the latter replied, who had partly risen, but now fell back on his chair.
By a secret foreboding Andrés Garote had guessed that the monk wished to make some important proposal to him. Hence, thanks to that instinctive intuition which rogues possess for certain things, the two men read each other's thoughts. Fray Ambrosio bit his lips, for the gambusino's intelligence startled him. Still the latter bent upon him a glance so full of stupid meaning, that he continued to make a confidant of him, as it were involuntarily.
"Señor Don Andrés," he said in a soft and insinuating voice, "what a happiness that your poor brother, on dying, revealed to me the secret of the rich placer, which he concealed even from yourself!"
"It is true," Andrés answered, turning slightly pale; "it was very fortunate, señor padre. For my part, I congratulate myself on it daily."
"Is it not so? For without it the immense fortune would have been lost to you and all else."
"It is terrible to think of."
"Well, at this moment I have a horrible fear."
"What is it, señor padre?"
"That we have deferred our departure too long, and that some of those European vagabonds we were speaking of just now may have discovered our placer. Those scoundrels have a peculiar scent for finding gold."
"Caray, señor padre!" Andrés said, striking the table with a feigned grief (for he knew very well what the monk was saying was only a clever way of attaining his real point), "that would drive me mad—an affair so well managed hitherto."
"That is true," Fray Ambrosio said in corroboration. "I could never console myself."
"Demonios! I have as great an interest in it as yourself, señor padre," the gambusino replied with superb coolness. "You know that an uninterrupted succession of unfortunate speculations robbed me of my fortune, and I hoped thus to regain it at a stroke."
At these words Fray Ambrosio had incredible difficulty in repressing a smile; for it was a matter of public notoriety that señor Don Andrés Garote was a lepero, who, as regarded fortune, had never possessed a farthing of patrimony; that throughout his life he had never been aught but an adventurer; and that the unlucky speculations of which he complained were simply an ill luck at monte, which had recently stripped him of 20,000 piastres, acquired Heaven alone knew how. But señor Don Andrés Garote was a man of unequalled bravery, gifted with a fertile and ready mind, whom the accidents of life had compelled to live for a lengthened period on thellanos(prairies), whose paths he knew as thoroughly as he did the tricks of those who dwelt on them. Hence, and for many other reasons, Andrés Garote was an invaluable comrade for Fray Ambrosio, who had also a bitter revenge to take on the monte table, because he pretended to place the most sincere faith in what it pleased his honourable mate to say touching his lost fortune.
"However," he said, after an instant's reflection, "supposing that the placer is intact, and that no one has discovered it, we shall have a long journey to reach it."
"Yes," the gambusino remarked, significantly; "the road is difficult and broadcast with perils innumerable."
"We must march with our chins on our shoulders, and finger on the rifle trigger—"
"Fight nearly constantly with wild beasts or Indians—"
"In a word, do you not believe that the woman Red Cedar has carried off will prove a horrid bore?"
"Dreadfully so," Andrés made answer, with an intelligent glance.
"What is to be done?"
"Hang it! That is difficult to say."
"Still we cannot run the risk, on account of a wretched woman, of having our hair raised by the Indians."
"That's true enough."
"Is she here?"
"Yes," the gambusino said, pointing to a door; "in that room."
"Hum!"
"You remarked—"
"Nothing."
"Could we not—"
"What?"
"It is perhaps difficult," Andrés continued, with feigned hesitation.
"Explain yourself."
The gambusino seemed to make up his mind.
"Suppose we restore her to her family?" he said.
"I have thought of that already."
"That is strange."
"It must be all managed very cleverly."
"And the relations pay a proper ransom."
"That is what I meant to say.".
There was a silence.
Decidedly these two honourable persons were made to understand one another.
"But who is to undertake this delicate mission?" asked the monk.
"I,con mil demonios!" the gambusino exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with greed at the thought of the rich ransom he would demand.
"But if Red Cedar were to find out," the monk remarked, "that we surrendered his prisoner?"
"Who will tell him?"
"I am sure I shan't."
"Nor I."
"It is very easy; the girl will have escaped."
"Quite true."
"Do not let us lose time, then. You have a horse?"
"I have two."
"Bravo! You will place Doña Clara on one, and mount the other yourself."
"And go straight to the Hacienda de la Noria."
"That is it. Don Pablo will be delighted to recover his sister, whom he expected never to see again, and will not haggle over the price he pays for her deliverance."
"Famous! In that way we run no risk of not reaching the placer, as our party will only consist of men."
"Excellently reasoned!"
Andrés Garote rose with a smile which would have caused the monk to reflect, had he seen it; but at the same moment the latter was rubbing his hands, saying in a low voice, and with a most satisfied air,—
"Now, my scamp, I've got you."
What secret thought possessed these two men, who were carrying on a mutual deceit, none save themselves could have said. The gambusino approached the door of the room where Doña Clara was confined, and put the key in the lock. At this moment two vigorous blows were dealt on the door of the rancho, which had been carefully bolted after Red Cedar's departure. The two accomplices started.
"Must I open?" Andrés asked.
"Yes," the monk answered; "hesitation or refusal might create alarm. In our position we must foresee everything."
The ranchero went to open the door, which the newcomer threatened to break in. A man walked in, who took a careful glance around, then doffed his hat and bowed. The confederates exchanged a glance of vexation on recognising him, for he was no other than Shaw, Red Cedar's youngest son.
"I am afraid I disturb you, gentlemen," the young man said, with an ironical smile.
"Not at all," Andrés made answer; "on the contrary, we are delighted to see you."
"Thanks!"
And the young man fell back into a butaca.
"You are very late at Santa Fe," the monk remarked.
"It is true," the American said, with some embarrassment; "I am looking for my father, and fancied I should find him here."
"He was so a few hours back, but he was obliged to leave us."
"Ah!"
This exclamation was rather drawn from the young man by the necessity he felt of replying, than through any interest he took in the information afforded him. He was evidently preoccupied; but Fray Ambrosio did not appear to notice it, as he continued,—
"Yes: it appears that his Excellency the Governor ordered your father to go and meet a regiment of dragoons intended to reinforce the garrison, and hasten its march."
"That is true; I forgot it."
The monk and the miner did not at all understand the American's conduct, and lost themselves in conjectures as to the reasons that brought him to the rancho. They guessed instinctively that what he said about his father was only a pretext or means of introduction; and that a powerful motive, he would not or dared not avow, had brought him. For his part, the young man, in coming to the Rancho del Coyote, where he knew that Doña Clara was imprisoned, expected to find Andrés alone, with whom he hoped to come to an understanding in some way or another. The presence of the monk disturbed all his plans. Still, time was slipping away he must make up his mind, and, before all, profit by Red Cedar's providential absence, which offered him an opportunity he could hardly dare to hope again.