"They are asleep."
"Quick, my whelps!" the old squatter said in a low voice. "We have not a minute to lose: the others are expecting us."
A strange scene then occurred in this mean room, which was merely illumined by the expiring light of the hearth. The four men arose, opened a large chest, and produced from it various objects of strange shapes—leggings, mittens, buffalo robes, collars of grizzly bear claws; in a word, the complete costumes of Apache Indians.
The squatters disguised themselves as redskins; and when they had put on their garments, which rendered it impossible to recognise them, they completed the metamorphosis by painting their faces of different colours.
Assuredly the traveller whom accident had brought at this moment to the jacal would have fancied it inhabited by Apaches or Comanches.
The garments which the squatters had taken off were locked up in the chest, of which Red Cedar took the key; and the four men, armed with their American rifles, left the cabin, mounted their horses, which were awaiting them ready saddled, and started at full gallop through the winding forest paths.
At the moment they disappeared in the gloom Ellen stood in the doorway of the cabin, took a despairing glance in the direction where they had gone, and fell to the ground murmuring sadly,—
"Good Heaven! What diabolical work are they going to perform this night?"
On the banks of the Rio San Pedro, and on the side of a hill, stood arancheriacomposed of some ten cabins, inhabited by a population of sixty persons at the most, including men, women and children. These people were Coras Indians, hunters and agriculturists, belonging to the Tortoise tribe. These poor Indians lived there on terms of peace with their neighbours, under the protection of the Mexican laws. Quiet and inoffensive beings, during the nearly twenty years they had been established at this place they had never once offered a subject of complaint to their neighbours, who, on the contrary, were glad to see them prosper, owing to their gentle and hospitable manners. Though Mexican subjects, they governed themselves after their fashion, obeying their caciques, and regulating in the assembly of their elders all the difficulties that arose in their village.
On the night when we saw the squatters leave the cabin in disguise, some twenty individuals, armed to the teeth and clothed in strange costumes, with their faces blackened so as to render them unrecognizable, were bivouacked at about two leagues from the rancheria, in a plain on the river's bank. Seated or lying round huge fires, they were singing, laughing, quarrelling or gambling with multitudinous yells and oaths. Two men seated apart at the foot of an enormous cactus, were conversing in a low tone, while smoking their husk cigarettes. These two men, of whom we have already spoken to the reader, were Fray Ambrosio, chaplain to the Hacienda de la Noria, and Andrés Garote, the hunter.
Andrés was a tall, thin fellow, with a sickly and cunning face, who draped himself defiantly in his sordid rags, but whose weapons were in a perfectly good condition.
Who were the men causing this disturbance? They were "rangers," but this requires explanation.
Immediately after each of the different revolutions which have periodically overturned Mexico since that country so pompously declared its independence, the first care of the new president who reaches power is to dismiss the volunteers who had accidentally swollen the ranks of his army, and supplied him the means of overthrowing his predecessor. These volunteers, we must do them the justice of allowing, are the very scum of society, and the most degraded class human nature produces. These sanguinary men, without religion or law, who have no relations or friends, are an utter leprosy to the country.
Roughly driven back into society, the new life they are forced to adopt in no way suits their habits of murder and pillage. No longer able to wage war on their countrymen, they form free corps, and engage themselves for a certain salary, to hunt the Indios Bravos—that is to say, the Apaches and Comanches—who desolate the Mexican frontiers. In addition to this, the paternal government of North America in Texas, and of Mexico in the States of the Confederation, allots them a certain sum for each Indian scalp they bring in.
We do not fancy we are saying anything new in asserting that they are the scourge of the colonists and inhabitants, they plunder shamelessly in every way when they are not doing worse.
The men assembled at this moment on the banks of the Rio San Pedro were preparing for a war party—the name they give to the massacres they organise against the redskins.
Toward midnight Red Cedar and his three sons reached the rangers' camp. They must have been impatiently expected, for the bandits received them with marks of the greatest joy and the warmest enthusiasm. The dice, the cards, and botas of mezcal and whiskey were immediately deserted. The rangers mounted their horses, and grouped round the squatters, near whom stood Fray Ambrosio and his friend Andrés Garote.
Red Cedar took a glance round the mob, and could not repress a smile of pride at the sight of the rich collection of bandits of every description whom he had around him, and who recognised him as chief. He extended his arm to command peace. When all were silent the giant took the word.
"Señores caballeros," he said, in a powerful and marked voice, which made all these scamps quiver with delight at being treated like honest people, "the audacity of the redskins is growing intolerable. If we let them alone they would soon inundate the country, when they would end by expelling us. This state of things must have an end. The government complains about the few scalps we supply; it says we do not carry out the clauses of the agreement we have formed with it; it talks about disbanding us, as our services are useless, and therefore burdensome to the republic. It is our bounden duty to give a striking denial to these malevolent assertions, and prove to those who have placed confidence in us that we are ever ready to devote ourselves to the cause of humanity and civilisation. I have assembled you here for a war party, which I have been meditating for some time, and shall carry out this night. We are about to attack the rancheria of the Coras, who for some years past have had the impudence to establish themselves near this spot. They are pagans and thieves, who have one hundred times merited the severe chastisement we are about to inflict on them. But I implore you, señores caballeros, display no mistaken pity. Crush this race of vipers—let not one escape! The scalp of a child is worth as much as that of a man; so do not let yourselves be moved by cries or tears, but scalp, scalp to the end."
This harangue was greeted as it deserved to be; that is, by yells of joy.
"Señores," Red Cedar continued, "the worthy monk who accompanies me will call down the blessing of Heaven on our enterprise; so kneel down to receive the absolution he is about to give you."
The bandits instantaneously dismounted, took off their hats, and knelt on the sand. Fray Ambrosio then repeated a long prayer, to which they listened with exemplary patience, repeatingamenafter each occasion, and he ended by giving them absolution. The rangers rose, delighted at being thus freed from the burden of their sins, and got into their saddles again.
Red Cedar then whispered a few words in Fray Ambrosio's ears, who bowed his head in assent, and immediately set out in the direction of the Hacienda de la Noria, followed by Andrés Garote. The squatter then turned to the rangers, who were awaiting his orders.
"You know where we are going, gentlemen," he said. "Let us start, and, before all, be silent, if we wish to catch our game in its lair; for you know that the Indians are as cunning as opossums."
The band started at a gallop, Red Cedar and his sons being at their head. It was one of those calm nights which predispose the soul to reverie, such as America alone has the privilege of possessing. The dark blue sky was spangled with an infinite number of stars, in the centre of which shone the majestic Southern Cross, sparkling like a king's mantle; the atmosphere was extraordinarily transparent, and allowed objects to be noticed at a great distance; the moon profusely spread around her silvery rays, which gave the scenery a fantastic appearance; a mysterious breeze sported through the tops of the great trees; and at times vague rumours traversed the space, and were lost in the distance.
The gloomy horsemen still went on, silent and frowning, like the phantoms of the ancient legends, which glide through the shadows to accomplish a deed without a name. At the end of scarce an hour the rancheria was reached. All were resting in the village—not a light flashed in the hut. The Indians, wearied with the hard toil of the day, were reposing, full of confidence in the sworn faith, and apprehending no treason.
Red Cedar halted twenty yards from the rancheria, and drew up his horsemen so as to surround the village on all sides. When each had taken his post, and the torches were lighted, Red Cedar uttered the terrible war cry of the Apaches, and the rangers galloped at full speed on the village, uttering ferocious howls, and brandishing the torches, which they threw on the cabins.
A scene of carnage then took place which the human pen is powerless to describe. The unhappy Indians, surprised in their sleep, rushed terrified and half naked out of their poor abodes, and were pitilessly massacred and scalped by the rangers, who waved with a demoniac laugh their smoking, blood-dripping scalps. Men, women, and children, all were killed with refinements of barbarity. The village, fired by the rangers' torches, soon became an immense funebral pile, in which victims and murderers were huddled pell-mell.
Still a few Indians had succeeded in collecting. Formed in a compact troop of twenty men, they opposed a desperate resistance to their assassins, exasperated by the odour of blood and the intoxication of carnage. At the head of this band was a half-nude, tall Indian of intelligent features, who, armed with a ploughshare, which he wielded with extreme force and skill, felled all the assailants who came within reach of his terrible weapon. This man was the cacique of the Coras. At his feet lay his mother, wife, and two children—dead. The unhappy man struggled with the energy of despair. He knew his life would be sacrificed, but he wished to sell it as dearly as possible.
In vain had the rangers fired on the cacique—he seemed invulnerable: not one of the bullets aimed at him had struck him. He still fought, and the weight of his weapon did not seem to fatigue his arm. The rangers excited each other to finish him; but not one dared to approach him.
But this combat of giants could not endure longer. Of the twenty companions he had round him on commencing the struggle, the cacique now only saw two or three upright: the rest were dead. There must be an end. The circle that inclosed the hapless Indian drew closer and closer. Henceforth it was only a question of time with him. The rangers, recognising the impossibility of conquering this lion-hearted man, had changed their tactics: they no longer attacked him, but contented themselves with forming an impassable circle round him, waiting prudently for the moment when the strength of the prey, which could not escape them, was exhausted, in order to rush upon him.
The Coras understood the intention of his enemies. A contemptuous smile contracted his haughty lips, and he rushed resolutely toward these men who recoiled before him. Suddenly, with a movement quicker than thought, he threw with extraordinary strength the ploughshare among the rangers, and bounding like a tiger, leaped on a horse, and clutched its rider with superhuman vigour.
Ere the rangers had recovered from the surprise this unforeseen attack occasioned in them, by a desperate effort, and still holding the horseman, the chieftain drew from his girdle a short sharp knife, which he buried up to the hilt in the flanks of the horse. The animal uttered a shriek of pain, rushed headlong into the crowd, and bore both away with maddening speed.
The rangers, rendered furious at being played with by a single man, and seeing their most terrible enemy escape them, started in pursuit; but with his liberty the Coras had regained all his energy: he felt himself saved. In spite of the desperate efforts the rangers made to catch him up, he disappeared in the darkness.
The cacique continued to fly till he felt his horse tottering under him. He had not loosed his hold of the horseman, who was half strangled by the rude embrace, and both rolled on the ground. This man wore the costume of the Apache Indians. The Coras regarded him for an instant attentively, and then a smile of contempt played round his lips.
"You are not a redskin," he said, in a hollow voice; "you are only a paleface dog. Why put on the skin of the lion when you are a cowardly coyote?"
The ranger, still stunned by the fall he had suffered, and the hug he had endured, made no reply.
"I could kill you," the Indian continued; "but my vengeance would not be complete. You and yours must pay me for all the innocent blood you have shed like cowards this night. I will mark you, so that I may know you again."
Then, with fearful coolness, the Coras threw the ranger on his back, put his knee on his chest, and burying his finger in the socket of his eye, gave it a sharp rotatory movement, and plucked out his eyeball. On this frightful mutilation, the wretch uttered a cry of pain impossible to describe. The Indian got up.
"Go!" he said to him. "Now I am certain of finding you again whenever I want you."
At this moment the sound of hoofs could be heard a short distance off: the rangers had evidently heard their comrade's cry, and were hurrying to his aid. The Coras, rushed into the bushes and disappeared. A few moments later the rangers came up.
"Nathan, my son!" Red Cedar shouted as he leaped from his horse and threw himself on the body of the wounded man. "Nathan, my firstborn, is dead!"
"No," one of the rangers answered; "but he is very bad."
It was really the squatter's eldest son whom the cacique had mutilated. Red Cedar seized him in his arms, placed him before him on the saddle, and the band started again at a gallop. The rangers had accomplished their task: they had sixty human scalps hanging from their girdles. The rancheria of the Coras was no longer aught save a pile of ashes.
Of all the inhabitants of this hapless village only the cacique survived; but he would suffice to avenge his brothers.
Don Miguel Zarate, on leaving his son, remounted his horse and rode straight to Paso, to the house of Don Luciano Pérez, thejuez de letras(police magistrate).
The hacendero was one of the richest landed proprietors in the country; and as he was thoroughly acquainted with the spirit of the depositaries of justice in those parts, he had consequently been careful to line his purse well. Here were two reasons, then, to interest the judge in his favour, and this really happened.
The worthy Don Luciano shuddered on hearing the details of what had occurred between Don Pablo and the squatters. He swore that he would, without delay, take an exemplary vengeance for this starting felony on the part of the heretic dogs, and that it was high time to bring them reason. Confirming himself more and more in his resolution, he buckled on his sword, gave orders to twenty well-armed alguaciles to mount, and placing himself at the head of this numerous escort, he proceeded toward Buffalo Valley.
Don Miguel had witnessed with secret annoyance all these formidable preparations. He placed but slight confidence in the courage of the policemen, and he would have preferred the judge leaving him master to act as he pleased. He had even adroitly attempted to obtain from Don Luciano a regular warrant, which he would have executed however he might think proper; but the judge, burning with an unusual warlike ardor, and spurred on by the large sum he had received, would listen to nothing, but insisted on himself taking the head of the expedition.
Don Luciano Pérez was a plump little man of about sixty years of age, round as a tub, with a jolly face, adorned with a rubicund nose and two cunning little eyes. This man cordially detested the North Americans; and, in the courageous deed he was committing at this moment, hatred was as much the instigation as avarice.
The little band set out at a canter, and proceeded rapidly toward the forest. The judge hurled fire and flames at the audacious usurpers, as he called them; he spoke of nothing less than killing them without mercy, if they attempted even the slightest resistance to the orders he was about to give them. Don Miguel, who was much calmer, and foreboded no good from this great wrath, sought in vain to pacify him by telling him that he would in all probability have to do with men difficult to intimidate, against whom coolness would be the best weapon.
They gradually approached. The hacendero, in order to shorten the journey, had led the band by a cross road, which saved at least one-third the distance; and the first trees of the forest already appeared about two miles off. The mischief produced by the squatters was much more considerable than Don Pablo had represented to his father; and, at the first glance, it seemed impossible that, in so short a time, four men, even though working vigorously, could have accomplished it. The finest trees lay on the ground; enormous piles of planks were arranged at regular distances, and on the San Pedro an already completed raft only awaited a few more stems of trees to be thrust into the water.
Don Miguel could not refrain from sighing at the sight of the devastation committed in one of his best forests; but the nearer they approached the spot where they expected to meet the squatters, the more lukewarm grew the warlike zeal of the judge and his acolytes, and the hacendero soon found himself compelled to urge them on, instead of restraining them as he had hitherto done. Suddenly the sound of an axe re-echoed a few paces ahead of the band. The judge impelled by the feeling of his duty, and shame of appearing frightened, advanced boldly in the direction of the sound, followed by his escort.
"Stop!" a rough voice shouted at the moment the policemen turned the corner of a lane.
With that instinct of self-preservation which never abandons them, the alguaciles stopped as if their horses' feet had been suddenly welded to the ground. Ten paces from them stood a man in the centre of the ride, leaning on an American rifle. The judge turned to Don Miguel with such an expression of hesitation and honest terror that the hacendero could not refrain from laughing.
"Come, courage, Don Luciano," he said to him. "This man is alone; he cannot venture to bar our passage."
"Con mil diablos!" the judge exclaimed, ashamed of this impression which he could not master, and frowning portentously, "forward, you fellows, and fire on that scoundrel if he make but a sign to resist you."
The alguaciles set out again with prudential hesitation.
"Stop! I tell you again," the squatter repeated. "Did you not hear the order I gave you!"
The judge, reassured by the presence of the hacendero, then advanced, and said with a tone which he strove to render terrible, but which was only ridiculous through the terror he revealed,—
"I, Don Luciano Pérez,juez de letrasof the town of Paso, have come, by virtue of the powers delegated to me by the Government, to summon you and your adherents to quit within twenty-four hours this forest you have illegally entered, and which—"
"Ta, ta!" the stranger shouted, rudely interrupting the judge, and stamping his foot savagely. "I care as much for all your words and laws as I do for an old moccasin. The ground belongs to the first comers. We are comfortable here, and mean to remain."
"Your language is very bold, young man," Don Miguel then said. "You do not consider that you are alone, and that, failing other rights, we have strength on our side."
The squatter burst into a laugh.
"You believe that," he said. "Learn, stranger, that I care as little for the ten humbugs I now have before me as I do for a woodcock, and that they will do well to leave me at peace, unless they want to learn the weight of my arm at their expense. However, here is my father; settle it with him."
And he began carelessly whistling "Yankee Doodle." At the same instant three men, at the head of whom was Red Cedar, appeared on the path. At the sight of these unexpected reinforcements for their arrogant enemy the alguaciles made a movement in retreat. The affair was becoming singularly complicated, and threatened to assume proportions very grave for them.
"Halloh! What's up?" the old man asked roughly. "Anything wrong, Sutter?"
"These people," the young man answered, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, "are talking about driving us from the forest by virtue of some order."
"Halloh!" Red Cedar said, his eyes flashing as he cast a savage glance at the Mexicans. "The only law I recognise in the desert," he continued with a gesture of terrible energy as he struck his rifle barrel, "is this. Withdraw, strangers, if you do not wish blood to be shed between us. I am a peaceful man, wishing to do no one hurt; but I warn you that I will not allow myself to be kicked out without striking a blow."
"You will not be turned out," the judge remarked timidly; "on the contrary, you have seized on what belongs to other people."
"I won't listen to your arguments, which I do not understand," the squatter roughly exclaimed. "God gave the ground to man that he might labour on it. Every proprietor that does not fulfil this condition tacitly renounces his rights, and the earth then becomes the property of the man who tills it with the sweat of his brow; so go to the devil! Be off at full speed, if you do not wish harm to happen to you!"
"We will not suffer ourselves to be intimidated by your threats," the judge said, impelled by his anger, and forgetting for a moment his alarm; "we will do our duty, whatever may happen."
"Try it," Red Cedar said with a grin.
And he made a sign to his sons. The latter arranged themselves in a single line, and occupied the entire width of the path.
"In the name of the law," the judge said with energy, as he pointed out the old man, "alguaciles, seize that person."
But, as so frequently happens under similar circumstances, this order was more easy to give than to execute. Red Cedar and his sons did not appear at all disposed to let themselves be collared. We must, however, do the alguaciles the justice of stating that they did not hesitate for a moment. They plainly refused to carry out the order they had received.
"For the last time, will you be off?" the squatter shouted. "Let them have it."
His three sons raised their rifles. At this movement, which removed all doubts that might still remain on their minds, and which proved to them that the squatters would not hesitate to proceed to extremities, the alguaciles were seized with an invincible terror. They turned bridle and galloped off at full speed, followed by the yells of the Americans.
One man alone remained motionless before the squatters—Don Miguel Zarate. Red Cedar had not recognised him, either owing to the distance that separated them, or because the hacendero had purposely pulled over his eyes his broad-brimmed hat. Don Miguel dismounted, placed the pistols from his holsters through his belt, fastened his horse to a tree, and coolly throwing his rifle across his shoulders, boldly advanced toward the squatters. The latter, surprised by the courage of this man, who alone attempted what his comrades had given up all hopes of achieving, let him come up to them without offering the slightest opposition. When Don Miguel was a couple of paces from the old squatter; he stopped, put the butt of his rifle on the ground, and removing his hat, said,—
"Do you recognise me, Red Cedar?"
"Don Miguel Zarate!" the bandit shouted in surprise.
"As the judge deserts me," the hacendero continued, "and fled like a coward before your threats, I am obliged to take justice for myself, and, by heavens! I will do so! Red Cedar, I, as owner of this forest, in which you have settled without permission, order you to depart at once."
The young men exchanged a few muttered threats.
"Silence!" Red Cedar commanded. "Let the caballero speak."
"I have finished, and await your answer."
The squatter appeared to reflect deeply for a few minutes.
"The answer you demand is difficult to give," he at length said: "my position toward you is not a free one."
"Why so?"
"Because I owe you my life."
"I dispense you from all gratitude."
"That is possible. You are at liberty to do so; but I cannot forget the service you rendered me."
"It is of little consequence."
"Much more than you fancy, caballero. I may be, through my character, habits, and the mode of life I lead, beyond the law of civilised beings; but I am not the less a man, and if of the worst sort, perhaps, I no more forget a kindness than I do an insult."
"Prove it, then, by going away as quickly as you can, and then we shall be quits."
The squatter shook his head.
"Listen to me, Don Miguel," he said. "You have in this country the reputation of being the providence of the unfortunate. I know from myself the extent of your kindness and courage. It is said that you possess an immense fortune, of which you do not yourself know the extent."
"Well, what then?" the hacendero impatiently interrupted him.
"The damage I can commit here, even if I cut down all the trees in the forest, would be but a trifle to you; then whence comes the fury you display to drive me out?"
"Your question is just, and I will answer it. I demand your departure from my estates, because, only a few days back, my son was grievously wounded by your lads, who led him into a cowardly snare; and if he escaped death, it was only through a miracle. That is the reason why we cannot live side by side, for blood severs us."
Red Cedar frowned.
"Is this true?" he said, addressing his sons.
The young men only hung their heads in reply.
"I am waiting," Don Miguel went on.
"Come, the question cannot be settled thus, so we will proceed to my jacal."
"For what purpose? I ask you for a yes or no."
"I cannot answer you yet. We must have a conversation together, after which you shall decide to my future conduct. Follow me, then, without fear."
"I fear nothing, as I believe I have proved to you. Go on, as you demand it: I will follow you."
Red Cedar made his sons a sign to remains here they were, and proceeded with long strides toward his jacal, which was but a short distance off. Don Miguel walked carelessly after him. They entered the cabin. It was deserted. The two females were doubtless also occupied in the forest. Red Cedar closed the door after him, sat down on a bench, made his guest a sign to do the same, and began speaking in a low and measured voice, as if afraid what he had to say might be heard outside.
"Listen to me, Don Miguel," Red Cedar said, "and pray do not mistake my meaning. I have not the slightest intention of intimidating you, nor do I think of attempting to gain your confidence by revelations which you may fairly assume I have accidentally acquired."
The hacendero regarded with amazement the speaker, whose tone and manner had so suddenly changed.
"I do not understand you," he said to him. "Explain yourself more clearly, for the words you have just uttered are an enigma, the key to which I seek in vain."
"You shall be satisfied, caballero; and if you do not catch the meaning of my words this time it must be because you will not. Like all intelligent men, you are wearied of the incessant struggles in which the vital strength of your country is exhausted unprofitably. You have seen that a land so rich, so fertile, so gloriously endowed as Mexico, could not—I should say ought not—to remain longer the plaything of paltry ambitions, and the arena on which all these transitory tyrannies sport in turn. For nearly thirty years you have dreamed of emancipation, not of your entire country, for that would be too rude a task, and unrealisable; but you said to yourself, 'Let us render New Mexico independent; form it into a new State, governed by wise laws rigorously executed. By liberal institutions let us give an impetus to all the riches with which it is choked, give intellect all the liberty it requires, and perhaps within a few years the entire Mexican Confederation, amazed by the magnificent results I shall obtain, will follow my example. Then I shall die happy at what I have effected—my object will be carried out. I shall have saved my country from the abyss over which it hangs, through the double pressure of the invasion of the American Union and the exhaustion of the Spanish race.' Are not those ideas yours, caballero? Do you consider that I have explained myself clearly this time?"
"Perhaps so, though I do not yet see distinctly the point you wish to reach. The thoughts you attribute to me are such as naturally occur to all men who sincerely love their country, and I will not pretend that I have not entertained them."
"You would be wrong in doing so, for they are great and noble, and breathe the purest patriotism."
"A truce to compliments, and let us come to the point, for time presses."
"Patience: I have not yet ended. These ideas must occur to you sooner than to another, as you are the descendant of the first Aztec kings, and born defender of the Indians in this hapless country. You see that I am well acquainted with you, Don Miguel Zarate."
"Too well, perhaps," the Mexican gentleman muttered.
The squatter smiled and went on:—
"It is not chance that led me to this country. I knew what I was doing, and why I came. Don Miguel, the hour is a solemn one. All your preparations are made: will you hesitate to give New Mexico the signal which must render it independent of the metropolis which has so long been fattening at its expense? Answer me."
Don Miguel started. He fixed on the squatter a burning glance, in which admiration at the man's language could be read. Red Cedar shrugged his shoulders.
"What! You still doubt?" he said.
He rose, went to a box from which he took some papers, and threw them on the table before the hacendero, saying,—
"Read."
Don Miguel hurriedly seized the papers, and ran his eye over them.
"Well?" he asked, looking fixedly at the strange speaker.
"You see," the squatter answered, "that I am your accomplice. General Ibañez, your agent in Mexico, is in correspondence with me, as is Mr. Wood, your agent at New York."
"It is true," the Mexican said coldly, "you have the secret of the conspiracy. The only point left is to what extent that goes."
"I possess it entirely. I have orders to enlist the volunteers who will form the nucleus of the insurrectionary army."
"Good!"
"Now, you see, by these letters of General Ibañez and Mr. Wood, that I am commissioned by them to come to an understanding with you, and receive your final orders."
"I see it."
"What do you purpose doing?"
"Nothing."
"What, nothing!" the squatter exclaimed, bounding with surprise. "You are jesting, I suppose."
"Listen to me in your turn, and pay attention to my words, for they express my irrevocable resolution. I know not nor care to know, by what means, more or less honourable, you have succeeded in gaining the confidence of my partners, and becoming master of our secrets. Still it is my firm conviction that a cause which employs such men as yourself is compromised, if not lost; hence I renounce every combination in which you are called to play a part. Your antecedents, and the life you lead, have placed you without the pale of the law."
"I am a bandit—out with it! What matter so long as you succeed? Does not the end justify the means?"
"That may be your morality, but it will never be mine. I repudiate all community of ideas with men of your stamp. I will not have you either as accomplice or partner."
The squatter darted a look at him laden with hatred and disappointment.
"In serving us," Don Miguel continued, "you can only have an interested object, which I will not take the trouble of guessing at. An Anglo-American will never frankly aid a Mexican to conquer his liberty; he would lose too much by doing it."
"Then?"
"I renounce forever the projects I had formed. I had, I grant, dreamed of restoring to my country the independence of which it was unjustly stripped: but it shall remain a dream."
"That is your last word?"
"The last."
"You refuse?"
"I do."
"Good; then I now know what is left me to do."
"Well, what is it? Let me hear," the hacendero said, as he crossed his arms on his breast, and looked him boldly in the face.
"I will tell you."
"I am waiting for you to do so."
"I hold your secret."
"Entirely?"
"Hence you are in my power."
"Perhaps."
"Who will prevent me going to the Governor of the State and denouncing you?"
"He will not believe you."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Perhaps, I will say in my turn."
"Why so?"
"Oh! you shall easily see."
"I am curious to learn it."
"However rich you may be, Don Miguel Zarate, and perhaps because of those very riches, and in spite of the kindness you sow broadcast, the number of your enemies is very considerable."
"I know it."
"Very good. Those enemies will joyfully seize the first opportunity that presents itself to destroy you."
"It is probable."
"You see, then. When I go to the governor and tell him you are conspiring, and, in support of my denunciation, hand him not only these letters, but, several others written and signed by you, lying in that chest, do you believe that the governor will treat me as an impostor, and refuse to arrest you?"
"Then you have letters in my hand-writing?"
"I have three, which will be enough to have you shot."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Hang it all! you understand: that, in an affair so important as this, it is wise to take one's precautions, for no one knows what may happen; and men of my stamp," he added, with an ironical smile, "have more reasons than others for being prudent."
"Come, that is well played," the hacendero said, carelessly.
"Is it not?"
"Yes, and I compliment you on it: you are a better player than I gave you credit for."
"Oh! You do not know me yet."
"The little I do know suffices me."
"Then?"
"We will remain as we are, if you will permit me."
"You still refuse?"
"More than ever."
The squatter frowned.
"Take care, Don Miguel," he muttered, hoarsely. "I will do what I told you."
"Yes, if I allow you time."
"Eh?"
"Caspita!If you are a clever scamp, I am not altogether a fool. Do you believe, in your turn, that I will let myself be intimidated by your threats, and that I should not find means to keep you from acting, not for my own sake, as I care little personally for what you can do, but for my friends, who are men of honour, and whose lives I do not wish to be compromised by your treachery?"
"I am curious to know the means you will employ to obtain this result."
"You shall see," Don Miguel replied with perfect coolness.
"Well?"
"I shall kill you."
"Oh, oh!" the squatter said, as he looked complacently at his muscular limbs, "That is not easy."
"More so than you suppose, my master."
"Hum! and when do you reckon on killing me?"
"At once!"
The two men were seated in front of the hearth, each at the end of a bench: the table was between them, but a little back, so that while talking they only leaned an elbow on it. While uttering the last word, Don Miguel bounded like a tiger on the squatter, who did not at all expect the attack, seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. The two enemies rolled on the uneven flooring of the jacal.
The Mexican's attack had been so sudden and well directed that the half-strangled squatter, in spite of his Herculean strength, could not free himself from his enemy's iron clutch, which pressed his throat like a vice. Red Cedar could neither utter a cry nor offer the slightest resistance: the Mexican's knee crushed his chest, while his fingers pressed into his throat.
So soon as he had reduced the wretch to utter impotence, Don Miguel drew from his vaquera boot a long sharp knife, and buried the entire blade in his body. The bandit writhed convulsively for a few seconds; a livid pallor suffused his face; his eyes closed, and he then remained motionless. Don Miguel left the weapon in the wound, and slowly rose.
"Ah, ah!" he muttered as he gazed at him with a sardonic air, "I fancy that rogue will not denounce me now."
Without loss of time he seized the letters lying on the table, took from the box the few documents he found in it, hid them all in his bosom, opened the door of the cabin, which he carefully closed after him, and went off with long strides.
The squatter's sons had not quitted their post; but, so soon as they perceived the Mexican, they went up to him.
"Well," Shaw asked him, "have you come to an understanding with the old man?"
"Perfectly so," the Mexican answered.
"Then the affair is settled?"
"Yes, to our mutual satisfaction."
"All the better," the young men exclaimed joyously.
The hacendero unfastened his horse and mounted.
"Good-bye, gentlemen!" he said to them.
"Good-bye!" they replied, returning his bow.
The Mexican put his horse to a trot, but at the first turn in the road he dug his spurs into its flanks, and started at full speed.
"Now," Sutter observed, "I believe that we can proceed to the cabin without inconvenience."
And they gently walked toward the jacal, pleasantly conversing together.
Don Miguel, however, had not succeeded so fully as he imagined. Red Cedar was not dead, for the old bandit kept a firm hold on life. Attacked unawares, the squatter had not attempted a resistance, which he saw at the first glance was useless, and would only have exasperated his adversary. With marvellous sagacity, on feeling the knife blade enter his body, he stiffened himself against the pain, and resolved on "playing 'possum;" that is to say, feigning death. The success of his stratagem was complete. Don Miguel, persuaded that he had killed him, did not dream of repeating his thrust.
So long as his enemy remained in the jacal the squatter was careful not to make the slightest movement that might have betrayed him; but, so soon as he was alone, he opened his eyes, rose with an effort, drew the dagger from the wound, which emitted a jet of black blood, and looking at the door, through which his assassin had departed, with a glance so full of hatred that it is impossible to describe, he muttered,—
"Now we are quits, Don Miguel Zarate, since you have tried to take back the life of him you saved. Pray God never to bring us face to face again!"
He uttered a deep sigh, and rolled heavily on the ground in a fainting fit. At this moment his sons entered the cabin.
A few days after the events we have described in the previous chapter there was one of those lovely mornings which are not accorded to our cold climates to know. The sun poured down in profusion its warm beams, which caused the pebbles and sand to glisten in the walks of the garden of the Hacienda de la Noria. In a clump of flowering orange and lemon trees, whose sweet exhalations perfumed the air, and beneath a copse of cactus, nopals, and aloes, a maiden was asleep, carelessly reclining in a hammock made of the thread of thePhormium tenax,which hung between two orange trees.
With her head thrown back, her long black hair unfastened, and falling in disorder on her neck and bosom; with her coral lips parted, and displaying the dazzling pearl of her teeth, Doña Clara (for it was she who slept thus with an infantile slumber) was really charming. Her features breathed happiness, for not a cloud had yet arisen to perturb the azure horizon of her calm and tranquil life.
It was nearly midday: there was not a breath in the air. The sunbeams, pouring down vertically, rendered the heat so stifling and unsupportable, that everyone in the hacienda had yielded to sleep, and was enjoying what is generally called in hot countries thesiesta.Still, at a short distance from the spot where Doña Clara reposed, calm and smiling, a sound of footsteps, at first almost imperceptible, but gradually heightening, was heard, and a man made his appearance. It was Shaw, the youngest of the squatter's sons. How was he at this spot?
The young man was panting, and the perspiration poured down his cheeks. On reaching the entrance of the clump he bent an anxious glance on the hammock.
"She is there," he murmured with a passionate accent. "She sleeps."
Then he fell on his knees upon the sand, and began admiring the maiden, dumb and trembling. He remained thus a long time, with his glance fixed on the slumberer with a strange expression. At length he uttered a sigh and tearing himself with an effort from this delicious contemplation, he rose sadly, muttering in a whisper,—
"I must go—if she were to wake—oh, she will never know how much I love her!"
He plucked an orange flower, and softly laid it on the maiden; then he walked a few steps from her, but almost immediately returning, he seized, with a nervous hand, Doña Clara'srebozo,which hung down from the hammock, and pressed it to his lips several times, saying, in a voice broken by the emotion he felt,—
"It has touched her hair."
And rushing from the thicket, he crossed the garden and disappeared. He had heard footsteps approaching. In fact, a few seconds after his departure, Don Miguel, in his turn, entered the copse.
"Come, come," he said gaily, as he shook the hammock, "sleeper, will you not have finished your siesta soon?"
Doña Clara opened her eyes, with a smile.
"I am no longer asleep, father," she said.
"Very good. That is the answer I like."
And he stepped forward to kiss her; but, with sudden movement, the maiden drew herself back as if she had seen some frightful vision, and her face was covered with a livid pallor.
"What is the matter with you?" the hacendero exclaimed with terror.
The girl showed him the orange flower.
"Well," her father continued, "what is there so terrific in that flower? It must have fallen from the tree during your sleep."
Doña Clara shook her head sadly.
"No," she said: "for some days past I have always noticed, on waking a similar flower thrown on me."
"You are absurd; chance alone is to blame for it all. Come, think no more about it; you are pale as death, child. Why frighten yourself thus about a trifle? Besides the remedy may be easily found. If so afraid of flowers now, why not take your siesta in your bedroom, instead of burying yourself in this thicket?"
"That is true, father," the girl said, all joyous, and no longer thinking of the fear she had undergone. "I will follow your advice."
"Come, that is settled, so say no more about it. Now give me a kiss."
The maiden threw herself into her father's arms, whom she stifled with kisses. Both sat down on a grassy mound, and commenced one of those delicious chit-chats whose charm only those who are parents can properly appreciate. Presently a peon came up.
"What has brought you?" Don Miguel asked.
"Excellency," the peon answered, "a redskin warrior has just arrived at the hacienda, who desires speech with you."
"Do you know him?" Don Miguel asked.
"Yes, Excellency; it is Eagle-wing, the sachem of the Coras of the Rio San Pedro."
"Mookapec! (Flying Eagle)" the hacendero repeated with surprise. "What can have brought him to me? Lead him here."
The peon retired and in a few minutes returned, preceding Eagle-wing.
The chief had donned the great war-dress of the sachems of his nation. His hair, plaited with the skin of a rattlesnake, was drawn up on the top of his head; in the centre an eagle plume was affixed. A blouse of striped calico, adorned with a profusion of bells, descended to his thighs, which were defended from the stings of mosquitoes by drawers of the same stuff. He wore moccasins made of peccary skin, adorned with glass beads and porcupine quills. To his heels were fastened several wolves' tails, the distinguishing mark of renowned warriors. Round his loins was a belt of elk hide, through which passed his knife, his pipe and his medicine bag. His neck was adorned by a collar of grizzly bear claws and buffalo teeth. Finally, a magnificent robe of a white female buffalo hide, painted red inside, was fastened to his shoulders, and fell down behind him like a cloak. In his right hand he held a fan formed of a single eagle's wing, and in his left hand an American rifle. There was something imposing and singularly martial in the appearance and demeanor of this savage child of the forest.
On entering the thicket, he bowed gracefully to Doña Clara, and then stood motionless and dumb before Don Miguel. The Mexican regarded him attentively, and saw an expression of gloomy melancholy spread over the Indian chief's features.
"My brother is welcome," the hacendero said to him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing him?"
The chief cast a side glance at the maiden. Don Miguel understood what he desired, and made Doña Clara a sign to withdraw. They remained alone.
"My brother can speak," the hacendero then said; "the ears of a friend are open."
"Yes, my father is good," the chief replied in his guttural voice. "He loves the Indians: unhappily all the palefaces do not resemble him."
"What does my brother mean? Has he cause to complain of anyone?"
The Indian smiled sadly.
"Where is there justice for the redskins?" he said. "The Indians are animals: the Great Spirit has not given them a soul, as He has done for the palefaces, and it is not a crime to kill them."
"Come, chief, pray do not speak longer in riddles, but explain why you have quitted your tribe. It is far from Rio San Pedro to this place."
"Mookapec is alone: his tribe no longer exists."
"How?"
"The palefaces came in the night, like jaguars without courage. They burned the village, and massacred all the inhabitants, even to the women and little children."
"Oh, that is frightful!" the hacendero murmured, in horror.
"Ah!" the chief continued with an accent full of terrible irony, "The scalps of the redskins are sold dearly."
"And do you know the men who committed this atrocious crime?"
"Mookapec knows them, and will avenge himself."
"Tell me their chief, if you know his name."
"I know it. The palefaces call him Red Cedar, the Indians the Maneater."
"Oh! As for him, chief, you are avenged, for he is dead."
"My father is mistaken."
"How so? Why, I killed him myself."
The Indian shook his head.
"Red Cedar has a hard life," he said: "the blade of the knife my father used was too short. Red Cedar is wounded, but in a few days he will be about again, ready to kill and scalp the Indians."
This news startled the hacendero: the enemy he fancied he had got rid of still lived, and he would have to begin a fresh struggle.
"My father must take care," the chief continued. "Red Cedar has sworn to be avenged."
"Oh! I will not leave him the time. This man is a demon, of whom the earth must be purged at all hazards, before his strength has returned, and he begins his assassinations again."
"I will aid my father in his vengeance."
"Thanks, chief. I do not refuse your offer: perhaps I shall soon need the help of all my friends. And now, what do you purpose doing?"
"Since the palefaces reject him, Eagle-wing will retire to the desert. He has friends among the Comanches. They are redskins, and will welcome him gladly."
"I will not strive to combat your determination, chief, for it is just; and if, at a later date, you take terrible reprisals on the white men, they will have no cause of complaint, for they have brought it on themselves. When does my brother start?"
"At sunset."
"Rest here today: tomorrow will be soon enough to set out."
"Mookapec must depart this day."
"Act as you think proper. Have you a horse?"
"No; but at the first manada I come to I will lasso one."
"I do not wish you to set out thus, but will give you a horse."
"Thanks; my father is good. The Indian chief will remember—"
"Come, you shall choose for yourself."
"I have still a few words to say to my father."
"Speak, chief; I am listening to you."
"Koutonepi, the pale hunter, begged me to give my father an important warning."
"What is it?"
"A great danger threatens my father. Koutonepi wishes to see him as soon as possible, in order himself to tell him its nature."
"Good! My brother will tell the hunter that I shall be tomorrow at the 'clearing of the shattered oak,' and await him there till night."
"I will faithfully repeat my father's words to the hunter."
The two men then quitted the garden, and hurriedly proceeded toward the hacienda. Don Miguel let the chief choose his own horse, and while the sachem was harnessing his steed in the Indian fashion, he withdrew to his bedroom, and sent for his son to join him. The young man had perfectly recovered from his wound. His father told him that he was obliged to absent himself for some days: he intrusted to him the management of the hacienda, while recommending him on no consideration to leave the farm, and to watch attentively over his sister. The young man promised him all he wished, happy at enjoying perfect liberty for a few days.
After embracing his son and daughter for the last time Don Miguel proceeded to thepatio, where in the meanwhile, the chief had been amusing himself by making the magnificent horse he had chosen curvet. Don Miguel admired for several moments the Indian's skill and grace, for he managed a horse as well as the first Mexicanjinete;then mounted, and the two men proceeded together toward the Paso del Norte, which they must cross in order to enter the desert, and reach the clearing of the shattered oak.
The journey passed in silence, for the two men were deeply reflecting. At the moment they entered Paso the sun was setting on the horizon in a bed of red mist, which foreboded a storm for the night. At the entrance of the village they separated; and on the morrow, as we have seen in our first chapter, Don Miguel set out at daybreak, and galloped to the clearing.
We will now end this lengthy parenthesis, which was, however, indispensable for the due comprehension of the facts that are about to follow, and take up our story again at the point where we left it.
Valentine Guillois, whom we have already introduced to the reader in previous works[1], had inhabited, or, to speak more correctly, traversed the vast solitudes of Mexico and Texas during the past five or six years. We saw him just now accompanied by the Araucano chief. These two men were the boldest hunters on the frontier. At times, when they had collected an ample harvest of furs, they went to sell them in the villages, renewed their stock of powder and ball, purchased a few indispensable articles, and then returned to the desert.
Now and then they engaged themselves for a week, or even a fortnight, with the proprietors of the haciendas, to free them from the wild beasts that desolated their herds; but so soon as the ferocious animals were destroyed, and the reward obtained, no matter the brilliancy of the offers made them by the landowners, the two men threw their rifles on their shoulders and went off.
No one knew who they were, or whence they came. Valentine and his friend maintained the most complete silence as to the events of their life which had preceded their appearance in these parts. Only one thing had betrayed the nationality of Valentine, whom his comrade called Koutonepi, a word belonging to the language of the Aucas, and signifying "The Valiant." On his chest the hunter wore the cross of the Legion of Honor. The deeds of every description performed by these hunters were incalculable, and their stories were the delight of the frontier dwellers during the winter night. The number of tigers they had killed was no longer counted.
Chance had one day made them acquainted with Don Miguel Zarate under strange circumstances, and since then an uninterrupted friendship had been maintained between them. Don Miguel, during a tempestuous night, namely, had only owed his life to the accuracy of Valentine's aim, who sent a bullet through the head of the Mexican's horse at the moment when, mad with terror, and no longer obeying the bridle, it was on the point of leaping into an abyss with its master. Don Miguel had sworn eternal gratitude to his saviour.
Valentine and Curumilla had made themselves the tutors of the hacendero's children, who, for their part, felt a deep friendship for the hunters. Don Pablo had frequently made long hunting parties in the desert with them; and it was to them he owed the certainty of his aim, his skill in handling weapons, and his knack in taming horses.
No secrets existed between Don Miguel and the hunters: they read in his mind as in an ever open book. They were the disinterested confidants of his plans; for these rude wood rangers esteemed him, and only required for themselves one thing—the liberty of the desert. Still, despite the sympathy and friendship which so closely connected these different persons, and the confidence which formed the basis of that friendship, Don Miguel and his children had never been able to obtain from the hunters information as to the events that had passed prior to their arrival in this country.
Frequently Don Miguel, impelled, not by curiosity, but merely by the interest he felt in them, had tried, by words cleverly thrown into the conversation, to give them an opening for confidence; but Valentine had always repelled those hints, though cleverly enough for Don Miguel not to feel offended by this want of confidence. With Curumilla they had been even more simple. Wrapped in his Indian stoicism, intrenched in his habitual sullenness, he was wont to answer all questions by a shake of the head, but nothing further.
At length, weary of the attempt, the hacendero and his family had given up trying to read those secrets which their friends seemed obstinately determined to keep from them. Still the friendship subsisting between them had not grown cold in consequence, and it was always with equal pleasure that Don Miguel met the hunters again after a lengthened ramble in the prairies, which kept them away from his house for whole months at a time.
The hunter and the Mexican were seated by the fire, while Curumilla, armed with his scalping knife, was busy flaying the two jaguars so skillfully killed by Don Miguel, and which were magnificent brutes.
"Eh,compadre!" Don Miguel said with a laugh; "I was beginning to lose patience, and fancy you had forgotten the meeting you had yourself given me."
"I never forgot anything, as you know," Valentine answered seriously; "and if I did not arrive sooner, it was because the road is long from my jacal to this clearing."
"Heaven forbid that I should reproach you, my friend! Still I confess to you that the prospect of passing the night alone in this forest only slightly pleased me, and I should have been off had you not arrived before sunset."
"You would have done wrong, Don Miguel: what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance to you. Who knows what the result might have been had I not been able to warn you?"
"You alarm me, my friend."
"I will explain. In the first place let me tell you that you committed, a few days back, a grave imprudence, whose consequences threaten to be most serious for you."
"What is it?"
"I said one, but ought to have said two."
"I am waiting till you think proper to express yourself more clearly," Don Miguel said with a slight tinge of impatience, "before I answer."
"You have quarrelled with a North American bandit."
"Red Cedar."
"Yes; and when you had him in your power you let him escape, instead of killing him out and out."
"That is true, and I was wrong. What would you? The villain has as tough a life as an alligator. But be at ease. If ever he fall into my hands again, I swear that I will not miss him."
"In the meanwhile you did do so—that is the evil."
"Why so?"
"You will understand me. This man is one of those villains, the scum of the United States, too many of whom have lived on the frontier during the last few years. I do not know how he contrived to deceive your New York agent; but he gained his confidence so cleverly that the latter told him all the secrets he knew about your enterprise."
"He told me so himself."
"Very good. It was then, I suppose, that you stabbed him?"
"Yes, and at the same time I plucked out his claws; that is to say, I seized the letters he held, and which might compromise me."
"A mistake. This man is too thorough-paced a scoundrel not to foresee all the chances of his treason. He had a last letter, the most important of all; and that you did not take from him."
"I took three."
"Yes, but there were four. As the last, however, in itself was worth as much as the other three, he always wore it about him in a leathern bag hung round his neck by a steel chain; you did not dream of looking for that."
"But what importance can this letter, I do not even remember writing, possess, that you should attach such weight to it?"
"It is merely the agreement drawn up between yourself, General Ibañez, and Mr. Wood, and bearing your three signatures."
"Con mil demonios!" the hacendero exclaimed in terror. "In that case I am lost; for if this man really possesses such a document, he will not fail to employ it in order to be revenged on me."
"Nothing is lost so long as a man's heart beats in his breast, Don Miguel. The position is critical, I allow, but I have saved myself in situations far more desperate than the one you are now in."
"What is to be done?"
"Red Cedar has been about again for two days. His first care, so soon as he could sit a horse, was to go to Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico, and denounce you to the Governor. That has nothing to surprise you from such a man."
"Then I can only fly as speedily as I can?"
"Wait. Every man has in his heart at least one of the seven deadly sins as a bait for the demon."
"What are you driving at?"
"You will see. Fortunately for us, Red Cedar has them all seven, I believe, in the finest stage of development. Avarice, before all, has reached its acme with him."
"Well?"
"This happened. Our man denounced you to the governor as a conspirator, etc., but was careful not to give up the proofs he possessed in support of the denunciation at the outset. When General Isturitz, the governor, asked him for these proofs, he answered that he was ready to supply them in exchange for the sum of one hundred thousand piastres in gold."
"Ah!" the hacendero said, with a breath of relief, "and what did Isturitz say?"
"The general is one of your most inveterate enemies, I grant, and he would give a good deal for the pleasure of having you shot."
"That is true."
"Yes, but still the sum appeared to him, as it really is, exorbitant, the more so as he would have to pay it all himself, as the government does not recognise transactions of that nature."
"Well, what did Red Cedar do then?"
"He did not allow himself beaten; on the contrary, he told the general he would give him a week to reflect, and quietly left the Cabildo."
"Hum! And on what day was this visit paid?"
"Yesterday morning; so that you have six days still left for action."
"Six days—that is very little."
"Eh?" the Frenchman said, with a shrug of his shoulders impossible to describe. "In my country—"
"Yes, but you are Frenchmen."
"That is true: hence I allow you twice the time we should require. Come, let us put joking aside. You are a man of more than common energy; you really wish the welfare of your country, so do not let yourself be crushed by the first reverse. Who knows but that it may all be for the best?"
"Ah, my friend, I am alone! General Ibañez, who alone could help me in this critical affair, is fifty leagues off. What can I do? Nothing."
"All. I foresaw your objection. Eagle-wing, the Chief of the Coras, has gone from me to warn the general. You know with what speed Indians travel; so he will bring us the general in a few hours, I feel convinced."
Don Miguel regarded the hunter with mingled admiration and respect.
"You have done that, my friend?" he said to him as he warmly pressed his hand.
"By Jove!" Valentine said, gaily, "I have done something else too. When the time arrives I will tell you what it is. But let us not lose an hour. What do you intend to do for the present?"
"Act."
"Good: that is the way I like to hear you talk."
"Yes, but I must first come to an understanding with the general."
"That is true; but it is the least thing," Valentine answered, as he looked skyward, and attentively consulted the position of the stars. "It is now eight o'clock. Eagle-wing and the man he brings must be at midnight at the entrance of theCañon del Buitre. We have four hours before us, and that is more than we require, as we have only ten leagues to go."
"Let us go, let us go!" Don Miguel exclaimed eagerly.
"Wait a moment; there is no such hurry. Don't be alarmed; we shall arrive in time."
He then turned to Curumilla, and said to him in Araucano a few words which the hacendero did not understand. The Indian rose without replying, and disappeared in the density of the forest.
"You know," Valentine continued, "that I prefer, through habit, travelling on foot; still, as under present circumstances minutes are precious, and we must not lose them, I have provided two horses."
"You think of everything, my friend."
"Yes, when I have to act for those I love," Valentine answered with a retrospective sigh.
There was a moment's silence between the two men, and at the end of scarce a quarter of an hour there was a noise in the shrubs, the branches parted, and Curumilla re-entered the clearing, holding two horses by the bridle. These noble animals, which were nearly untamedmustangs, bore a striking resemblance to the steeds of the Apaches, on whose territory our friends now were. They were literally covered with eagle plumes, beads, and ribbons, while long red and white spots completed their disguise, and rendered it almost impossible to recognise them.
"Mount!" Don Miguel exclaimed so soon as he saw them. "Time is slipping away."
"One word yet," Valentine remarked.
"Speak."
"You still have as chaplain a certain monk by the name of 'Fray Ambrosio.'"
"Yes."
"Take care of that man—he betrays you."
"You believe it?"
"I am sure of it."
"Good! I will remember."
"All right. Now we will be off," Valentine said, as he buried his spurs in his horse's flanks.
And the three horsemen rushed into the darkness with headlong speed.