White Gazelle had rejoined Bloodson, who was encamped with his band on the top of a hill, where the prairie could be surveyed for a long distance. It was night, the fires were already lit, and the rangers, assembled around thebraseros, were supping gaily. Bloodson was delighted at seeing his niece again; both had a long conversation, at the end of which the Avenger, as he called himself, ordered the ranchero to approach.
Despite of all his impudence, it was not without a feeling of terror that worthy Andrés Garote found himself face to face with this man, whose glances seemed trying to read his inmost thoughts. Bloodson's reputation had been so long established on the prairies that the ranchero must feel affected in his presence. Bloodson was seated in front of a fire, smoking an Indian pipe, with White Gazelle by his side; and for a moment the ranchero almost repented the step he had taken. But the feeling did not last an instant; hatred immediately regained the upper hand, and every trace of emotion disappeared from his face.
"Come here, scoundrel," Bloodson said to him. "From what the señora has just said to me, you fancy you have in your hands the means of destroying Red Cedar?"
"Did I say Red Cedar?" the ranchero answered; "I do not think so, excellency."
"Whom did you allude to, then?"
"To Fray Ambrosio."
"What do I care for that scurvy monk?" Bloodson remarked, with a shrug of his shoulders; "his affairs do not concern me, and I will not trouble myself with them; other and more important duties claim my care."
"That is possible, Excellency," the ranchero answered, with more assurance than might have been assumed; "but I have only to deal with Fray Ambrosio."
"In that case you can go to the deuce, for I shall certainly not help you in your plans."
Andrés Garote, thus brutally received, was not discouraged, however; he shrugged his shoulders with a cunning look, and assumed his most insinuating tone.
"There is no knowing, Excellency," he said.
"Hum! That seems to me difficult."
"Less so than you fancy, Excellency."
"How so?"
"You bear a grudge against Red Cedar, I think?"
"How does that concern you, scoundrel?" Bloodson asked, roughly.
"Not at all; the more so as I owe him nothing; still, it is a different affair with you, Excellency."
"How do you know?"
"I presume so, Excellency; hence I intend to offer you a bargain."
"A bargain!" Bloodson repeated, disdainfully.
"Yes, Excellency," the ranchero said, boldly; "and a bargain advantageous to yourself, I venture to say."
"And for you?"
"For me too, naturally."
Bloodson began laughing.
"The man is mad," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, and, turning to his men, added—"where the deuce was your head when you brought him to me?"
"Nonsense," White Gazelle said, "you had better listen to him; that will do you no harm."
"The señora is right," the ranchero eagerly replied; "listen to me, Excellency, that pledges you to nothing; besides, you will be always able to decline if what I propose does not suit you."
"That is true," Bloodson replied, contemptuously—"Speak then, picaro, and be brief."
"Oh, I am not in the habit of making long speeches."
"Come to the point."
"It is this," the ranchero said, boldly; "you wish, I do not know why, and do not care, to revenge yourself on Red Cedar; for certain reasons, unnecessary for me to tell you, I wish to avenge myself on Ambrosio; that is clear, I fancy?"
"Perfectly so—go on."
"Very well. Now this is what I propose to you—aid me to avenge myself on the monk, and I will help you with the bandit."
"I do not need you for that."
"Perhaps you do, Excellency; and if I did not fear appearing impudent to you, I would even say—"
"What?"
"That I am indispensable to you."
"Voto a Dios!" Bloodson said, with an outburst of laughter, "This is beyond a joke; the scoundrel is absolutely making fun of me."
Andrés Garote stood unmoved before the ranger.
"Come, come," the latter continued, "this is far more amusing than I at first fancied; and how are you indispensable to me?"
"Oh, Excellency, that is very simple; you do not know what has become of Red Cedar?"
"That is true; I have been seeking him in vain for a long time."
"I defy you to find him, unless I help you."
"Then you know where he is?" Bloodson exclaimed, suddenly raising his head.
"Ah! That interests you now, Excellency," the ranchero said, with a crafty look.
"Answer, yes or no," the ranger said, roughly; "do you know where he is?"
"If I did not, should I have come to you?"
Bloodson reflected for a moment.
"Tell me where he is."
"Our bargain holds good?"
"It does."
"You swear it?"
"On my honour."
"Good!" the other said joyfully; "now listen to me."
"Go on."
"Of course you are aware that Red Cedar and the Trail-hunter had a fight?"
"I am—go on."
"After the battle, all bolted in different directions; Red Cedar was wounded, hence he did not go far, but soon fell in a fainting fit at the foot of a tree. The Frenchman and his friends sought him on all sides, and I believe they would have made him spend a very unpleasant quarter of an hour if they had laid hands on him. Fortunately for him, his horse had carried him into the middle of the virgin forest, where no one dreamed of pursuing him. Chance, or rather my good fortune, I now believe, led me to the spot where he was; his daughter Ellen was near him, and paying him the most touching attention; it really almost affected me. I cannot tell you how she got there, but there she was. On seeing Red Cedar, I thought for a moment about going to find the French hunter, and telling him of my discovery."
"Hum! And why did you not carry out that idea, scoundrel?"
"For a very simple, though conclusive reason."
"Let us hear it," said Bloodson, who had begun to listen with extreme interest to the ranchero's wandering statement.
"This is it," he went on. "Don Valentine is a rough fellow; I am not in the odour of sanctity with him; besides, he was with a crowd of Apaches and Comanches, each a bigger scamp than the other; in a word, I was frightened for my scalp, and held off, as I might have plucked the chestnuts from the fire for another man's profit."
"Not badly reasoned."
"Was it now, Excellency? hence, while I was reflecting on what I had better do, a band of some ten horsemen came, I know not whence, to the spot where that poor devil of a Red Cedar was lying half dead."
"He was really wounded?"
"Oh, yes, and dangerously, I undertake to say; the leader of the party was a French missionary you must know."
"Father Seraphin?"
"The very man."
"What did he?"
"What I should certainly not have done in his place—he carried Red Cedar away with him."
"In that I recognise him," Bloodson could not refrain from saying. "And where did he take the wounded man?"
"To a cavern, where I will lead you whenever you like."
"You are not lying?"
"Oh, no, Excellency."
"Very good, go and sleep; you can count on my promise, if you are faithful to me."
"Thanks, Excellency; be at your ease, self-interest urges me not to deceive you."
"That is true."
The ranchero withdrew, and an hour later was sleeping as every honest man should do, who feels conscious of having performed his duty. The next morning at daybreak Bloodson's band set out. But in the desert it is often very difficult to find those you seek, owing to the nomadic life everybody is obliged to lead in order to gain his livelihood; and Bloodson, who wished first to consult with Valentine and his friends, lost much time before learning the exact spot where they were. At length, one of the scouts told him that the Frenchman was at Unicorn's winter village, and he proceeded there at once.
In the interim, Bloodson ordered Andrés Garote to watch Red Cedar's movements, as he did not like to take a decisive step till he had acquired a certainty. Nothing would have been easier than to go to Father Seraphin, and demand the surrender of the wounded man; but he felt a repugnance to this. Bloodson shared in the respect the holy missionary inspired all within the Far West; and he would not have dared to summon him to surrender his guest, certain as he was beforehand that the other would peremptorily refuse; at the same time he did not like to employ violence to wrest his prey from a man whose character he admired. He must, therefore, await until Red Cedar, cured of his wounds, quitted his protection; and this Bloodson did, though having his movements watched.
At length Andrés Garote appeared, all joyous, in Bloodson's camp; he was the bearer of excellent news: Father Seraphin, after curing Red Cedar, had installed him in a jacal, where he and his daughter lived like two anchorites. Bloodson uttered a shout of joy at this news. Without even taking time to reflect, he leaped on his horse, leaving the temporary command of the band to his men, and started off at full speed for Unicorn's village.
The distance was not great, and the ranger covered it in less than two hours. Bloodson was beloved by the Comanches, to whom he had frequent opportunities of being useful; hence he was received by them with all the honours and ceremonies employed in such cases. Unicorn, accompanied by some of the principal chiefs of the tribe, came to receive him a short distance from the village, yelling, firing their muskets, and making their horses curvet. Bloodson gladly yielded to the chief's wishes, and galloped along by his side.
The Comanches are excessively discreet; they never take the liberty of asking questions of their guests before the latter authorise them. So soon as Bloodson had taken his seat by the fire of the council lodge, and smoked the great calumet of peace, Unicorn bowed to him gravely, and took the word.
"My paleface brother is welcome among his red friends," he said; "has my brother had a good hunt?"
"The buffaloes are numerous near the mountains," Bloodson answered; "my young men have killed many."
"All the better; my brother will not suffer from famine."
The ranger bowed his thanks.
"Will my brother remain some days with his red friends?" the chief again asked; "they would be happy to have him among them for a season."
"My hours are counted," Bloodson answered. "I merely intended paying a visit to my brothers to ask after their fare, as I passed their village."
At this moment Valentine appeared in the doorway.
"Here is my brother, Koutonepi," Unicorn said.
"He is welcome," the ranger said; "I wished to see him."
"What accident has brought you here?" the hunter asked him.
"To tell you where Red Cedar is hidden at this moment," Bloodson answered, distinctly.
Valentine started; and bent on him a piercing glance.
"Oh, oh," he said, "that is great news you give me."
"I do not give it, but sell it to you."
"What? explain yourself, pray."
"I will be brief. There is not a man on the prairies who has not a terrible account to settle with that vile bandit?"
"That is true."
"The monster has burdened the earth too long—he must disappear."
Bloodson uttered these words with such an accent of hatred, that all present, although they were men endowed with nerves of steel, felt a shudder course through their veins. Valentine looked sternly at the ranger.
"You owe this man a heavy grudge?" he said.
"Greater than I can express."
"Good, go on."
At this moment Father Seraphin entered the lodge, but was not noticed, so greatly was the attention of the audience concentrated on Bloodson. The missionary stood motionless in the darkest corner, and listened.
"This is what I propose," Bloodson went on. "I will reveal to you where the villain is lurking; we will spread so as to envelope him in an impassable circle, and if you or the chiefs here present are luckier than I, and seize him, you will deliver him into my hands."
"What to do with him?"
"To take an exemplary vengeance on him."
"I cannot promise that," Valentine said slowly.
"For what reason?"
"You have just given it: there is not a man on the prairie but has a terrible account to settle with this villain."
"Well?"
"The man he has most outraged is, in my opinion, Don Miguel de Zarate, whose daughter he so basely murdered. Don Miguel alone has the right to deal with him as he thinks proper."
Bloodson gave a start of disappointment.
"Oh, were he here!" he exclaimed.
"Here I am, sir," the hacendero replied as he stepped forward; "I too have vengeance to take on Red Cedar; but I wish it to be great and noble, in the light of the sun, and the presence of all: I do not wish to assassinate, but to punish him."
"Good," Bloodson exclaimed, stifling a cry of joy; "our thoughts are the same, caballero; for what I desire is to deal with Red Cedar, according to Lynch Law, in its entire rigour, on the very spot where he committed his first crime, and in the sight of the population he has horrified. In the Far West, I am not only called the Son of Blood, but also the Avenger and the judge."
After these words, spoken with feverish energy, there was a gloomy silence which lasted some time.
"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," a voice said, which made the hearers start.
All turned round; Father Seraphin, with his crucifix in his hand, and head erect, seemed to command them all by the grandeur of his evangelic mission.
"By what right do you make yourselves the instruments of divine justice?" he continued. "If this man was guilty, who tells that repentance has not come at this hour to wash the stains from his soul?"
"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth," Bloodson muttered in a hoarse voice.
These words broke the charm that enchained the audience.
"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth," they exclaimed wrathfully.
Father Seraphin saw he was conquered: he understood that all reasoning would fail with these blood-thirsty men, to whom the life of their fellow men is nothing, and who rank vengeance as a virtue.
"Farewell," he said in mournful voice; "farewell, poor misguided men. I dare not curse you, I can only pity you; but I warn you that I will do all in my power to save the victim you wish to immolate to your odious passions."
And he went out of the lodge.
When the emotion caused by the priest's words had calmed down, Don Miguel walked up to Bloodson, and laid his hand on the one the ranger offered to him.
"I accept Lynch Law," he said.
"Yes," all present shouted, "Lynch Law."
A few hours later, Bloodson regained his camp, and it was after this interview that Valentine had the conversation with Don Pablo, as he returned from Red Cedar's jacal, which we described at the beginning of the volume.
Now that we have explained the incidents that took place during the six months that had elapsed between Doña Clara's death and the conversation in the cavern during the storm, we will resume our narrative where we left it at the end of chapter three.
Only a few minutes after the hacendero's son had left, the door of the jacal was roughly opened—four men entered. They were Red Cedar, Fray Ambrosio, Sutter, and Nathan. They appeared sad and gloomy, and the water poured down from their clothes as if they had come out of the river.
"Halloh," the monk said; "what! No fire or light, and nothing in the calli to greet us. You do not care much for us, I fancy."
Red Cedar kissed his daughter on the forehead, and turning to Fray Ambrosio, to whom he gave a passionate glance, he said roughly—
"You are in my house, my master: do not oblige me to remind you of that fact; so begin by being civil to my daughter, if you do not wish me to give you a lesson."
"Hum!" the monk remarked with a growl; "Is this young woman so sacred, that you should fire up at the slightest word addressed to her?"
"I do not fire up," the squatter replied, sharply, as he struck the table with his fist; "but your way of speaking does not please me, I tell you; so do not oblige me to repeat it."
Fray Ambrosio made no answer; he understood that Red Cedar was in a state of mind unfavourable for a discussion; he therefore prudently refrained from any remark that might lead to a quarrel, which he seemed as anxious to avoid as the squatter to pick it. During the exchange of these few sentences, Ellen, helped by her brothers, had lit a torch of candle wood, rekindled the fire, the absence of which was felt, and placed on the table a meal, sufficient, if not luxurious.
"Caballeros," she said in her gentle voice, "you are served."
The four men sat round the table with the eagerness of hungry persons who are desirous of breaking a long fast. Before raising the first morsel to his lips, the squatter, however, turned to his daughter.
"Ellen," he said to her kindly, "will you not sit down with us?"
"Thank you, father, but I am not hungry; it would be really impossible for me to swallow the least morsel."
The squatter sighed, but raising no objection, he began to serve his guests, while Ellen retired into the darkest corner of the shanty. The meal was sad; the four men seemed busy in thought, and ate quickly and silently. When their hunger was appeased, they lit their pipes.
"Father," Nathan suddenly said to Red Cedar, who was sorrowfully watching the smoke ascend in spirals to the roof; "I have found a trail."
"So have I," the monk remarked.
"And I, too," the squatter said; "what of that?"
"What of that?" Fray Ambrosio shouted. "Canarios, gossip, you take things very lightly. A trail in the desert always reveals an enemy."
"What do I care for that?" Red Cedar replied, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"What?" the monk shouted, as he sprang up; "That is very fine, on my word; to hear you, one might fancy you were an entire stranger to the question, and that your life is not at stake like ours."
"Who tells you that I wish to defend it?" the squatter replied, giving him a look which made his eyes fall.
"Hum!" the monk remarked, after a moment's silence; "I can understand that you do not cling to life; you have gone through so much, that you would not regret death; but there is one thing you forget, gossip, not referring to myself, though I have a right to reproach you."
The squatter carelessly shook the ashes out of his pipe, filled it again, and went on smoking as if not paying the slightest attention to the monk's remarks. The latter frowned and clenched his fists, but recovering his temper almost immediately, he continued, with feigned indifference, while playing with his knife—
"Yes, you forget one thing, gossip, which however, is worth remembering."
"What is it?"
"Your children, cospita!"
The squatter gave him an ironical glance.
"Oh,por Dios santo!" the monk went on; "I do not refer to your sons, for they are strong and resolute men, who can always get out of a scrape; I do not trouble myself about them at all."
"About whom, then?" the squatter asked, looking at him sharply.
"Why, for your daughter Ellen, canarios! What will become of her, if you die?" the monk said, with that boldness peculiar to timid persons, who wish to know at once if the mine they have fired will crush them. The squatter shook his head sadly.
"That is true," he said, with a glance at his daughter.
The monk smiled—the blow had told, so he went on.
"In destroying yourself, you destroy her," he said; "your obstinacy may cause her death, so take care."
"What is to be done?" the squatter asked.
"Take our precautions,voto de Dios!believe me, we are watched; remaining longer here would be the utmost imprudence."
The squatter's sons nodded their assent.
"It is evident," Sutter observed, "that our enemies have discovered our trail."
"And that they will soon be here," Nathan added.
"You hear?" the monk went on.
"Once again I ask, what is to be done?" Red Cedar asked.
"Caspita, be off as speedily as possible."
"Where can we go at this advanced season of the year? The snow will soon cover the ground, and interrupt all communication; if we leave the jacal, we run a risk of dying of hunger."
"Yes, if we remain in the desert," the monk observed, in an insinuating voice.
"Where do you propose going then?" the squatter asked.
"What do I know? There is no lack of towns, I suppose, on the Indian border; we might, if absolutely necessary, return to the Paso del Norte, where we have friends, and are certain of a kind reception."
Red Cedar looked him full in the face, and said ironically—
"Out with your whole thought, señor Padre; you have an object in wishing to return to the Paso, so let me know it."
"Caspita, you are as clever as I am," the monk exclaimed, blushing the while; "what need have we to humbug one another?"
The squatter rose, and kicked back his stool.
"You are right," he said passionately, "let us deal openly with one another. I wish nothing better, and to give you an example, listen to me. You have never lost out of sight the reason that made you enter the desert; you have only one object, one desire, to reach the rich placer, the situation of which you learned by assassinating a man. Neither the fatigue you have endured, nor the peril you have incurred, has made you renounce your scheme; the hope of a rich crop of gold blinds you, and makes you mad. Is it so or not?"
"It is true," the monk coolly replied, "what next?"
"When our band was destroyed, and completely dispersed, this was the reasoning you employed—a reasoning," he added, with a bitter smile, "which does honour to your sagacity and firmness of character; 'Red Cedar all but knows the site of the placer. I must induce him to return with me to the Paso, to form another band, because if I leave him alone in the desert, so soon as my back is turned, he will go in search of the treasures, and carelessly discover it.' Have I not guessed aright, gossip?"
"Nearly so," the monk answered, furious at seeing his plans so clearly read through.
"I thought so," Red Cedar continued; "but, like all bad men, gangrened to the heart, you went beyond your object, by attributing to me the same sordid instincts you possess; and you thought that because I am an assassin, I may be a thief: that is the error in which you fell, gossip. Understand me," he said, stamping his foot violently; "were the coveted treasure at this moment beneath my heel, I would not stoop down to pick up a nugget. Gold is nothing to me, I despise it. When I consented to guide you to the placer you naturally assumed that avarice led me to do so; but you are mistaken; I had a more powerful and nobler motive—revenge. Now, do not trouble me more about your accursed placer, for which I care as little as I do for a nut. And with that, good night, gossip; I am going to sleep, or try to do so, and recommend the same to you."
And, without awaiting the monk's reply, the squatter turned his back and stalked into an inner room. For some time past, Ellen had been asleep, and so the monk remained alone with the squatter's sons. For some minutes they remained in silence.
"Bah," the monk at length said cautiously, "however much he may struggle, it must happen."
Sutter shook his head dubiously.
"No," he said, "you do not know the old one; once he has said no, he sticks to it."
"Hum!" Nathan added, "He has greatly changed lately; of all his old character, he seems only to have kept his obstinacy; I am afraid you will fail, señor Padre."
"Live and learn," the latter said gaily; "tomorrow has to come; in the meanwhile, gentlemen, let us follow his advice, and go to sleep."
Ten minutes later all slept, or seemed to sleep, in the jacal: the storm lasted the night through, howling furiously. At daybreak, the squatter rose, and went out to see what sort of weather it was. The day promised well; the sky was pure, and the sun rose radiantly. Red Cedar, therefore, started for the corral to saddle his horse, and those of his comrades. Before leaving the household, however, he looked around, and suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise as he started back. He had noticed a horseman coming up at full speed.
"Father Seraphin!" he muttered in astonishment; "What serious reason can bring him here, at such an hour and in such haste?"
At this moment the other entered the keeping room, and the squatter heard the sound of the footsteps behind him. He turned quickly.
"Hide yourselves," he said hoarsely.
"What's the matter?" the monk asked furiously, as he stepped forward.
With one blow of his fist, the squatter hurled him to the middle of the room.
"Did you not hear me?" he said passionately. But, although Red Cedar's blow had been so powerful, he could not prevent the monk recognising Father Seraphin.
"Ah, ah," he said, with an ugly smile, "Father Seraphin! If our friend wished to confess, was not I enough? He need not only have told me, instead of sending for that European magpie."
Red Cedar here turned as if a viper had stung him, and gave the three men such a glance of ferocity, that they involuntarily recoiled.
"Villain," he said, in a hollow voice, and a terrible gesture, "I know not what prevents me killing you, like the dog you are. If one of you dare utter a syllable against this holy man, by Heaven, I will flay him alive. Hide yourselves, I insist."
Subjugated by the squatter's accent, the three men left the room without replying, and ten minutes later Father Seraphin checked his horse, and dismounted in front of the jacal. Red Cedar and his daughter hurried forward to meet the father, who walked into the hut, wiping the perspiration that stood on his forehead. Red Cedar offered him a butaca.
"Sit down, father," he said to him, "you are very hot; will you take some refreshment?"
"Thanks," the missionary answered, "but we have not a moment to lose, so listen to me."
"What has happened, father? Why have you come in such haste?"
"Alas!" he went on, "because you are menaced by a terrible misfortune."
The squatter turned pale. "It is but just," he muttered, with a frown; "the expiation is beginning."
"Courage, my children," the missionary said, affectionately, "your enemies have discovered your retreat, I know not how; they will be here tomorrow—perhaps today—you must fly—fly at once."
"For what good?" the squatter remarked; "the hand of God is in this—no man can escape his destiny; better to wait."
Father Seraphin assumed a serious air, and said in a stern voice—
"God wishes to try you; it would be cowardice, suicide, to surrender yourself to those who desire your death, and Heaven would not pardon you for doing so. Every living creature must defend life when attacked. Fly—I bid you—I order you."
The squatter made no reply.
"Besides," Father Seraphin continued, in a tone he strove to render gay, "the storm may blow over; your enemies, not finding you here, will doubtless abandon the pursuit; in a few days, you will be able to return."
"No," the squatter said disconsolately, "they desire my death. As you order me to fly, father, I will obey you, but, before all, grant me one favour."
"Speak, my son."
"I," the squatter went on, with ill-concealed emotion, "am a man; I can, without succumbing, support the most excessive fatigue, brave the greatest dangers; but—"
"I understand you," the missionary quickly interrupted him; "I intend to keep your daughter with me. Be at your ease, she shall want for nothing."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, father!" he exclaimed, with an accent such a man might have been thought incapable of.
Ellen had hitherto listened to the conversation in silence, but now she stepped forward, and placing herself between the two men, said with sublime dignity:
"I am most grateful to both of you for your intentions with regard to me, but I cannot abandon my father; I will follow him wherever he goes, to console him and aid him in suffering the retributions Heaven sends on him, as a Christian should do."
The two men prepared to interrupt her.
"Stay!" she said, warmly; "hitherto I have suffered through my father's conduct, for it was guilty; but now that repentance fills his soul, I pity and love him. My resolution is unchangeable."
Father Seraphin gazed at her in admiration.
"It is well, my child," he said; "Heaven will remember such pure and noble devotion."
The squatter pressed his daughter to his heart, but had not the strength to utter a word—he had never felt such sweet emotion before. The missionary rose.
"Farewell," he said, "and take courage; put your trust in God, who will not abandon you. I will watch over you at a distance. Farewell, my children, and bless you. Go, go, without delay."
Then, tearing himself by an effort from Red Cedar's arms, Father Seraphin remounted, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and started at full speed, after giving his protégés a parting wave of the hand.
"Oh!" Red Cedar muttered, "That could not last, for I was almost happy."
"Courage, father," Ellen said to him softly.
They re-entered the jacal, where the men were awaiting them.
"Go and saddle the horses," the squatter said, "we are going away."
"Ah!" the monk whispered Sutter, "did I not tell you the demon was on our side? Canarios! He would not forget us, as we have done so much for him."
The preparations for quitting the jacal were not long, and an hour later, the five persons started.
"In what direction do we go?" the monk asked.
"Let us go in the mountains," the squatter answered, laconically, as he took a melancholy glance at this wretched hut, in which he had perhaps hoped to end his days, and which fate compelled him to leave forever. The fugitives had scarce disappeared behind a clump of trees, when a cloud of dust rose on the horizon, and five horsemen soon appeared, coming up at full speed. They were Valentine and his friends.
The hunter must have obtained precise information from Bloodson as to the situation of the jacal, for he did not hesitate a moment, but rode straight in. Don Pablo's heart beat, as if to burst his chest, though he apparently remained unmoved.
"Hum!" Valentine said, when about a dozen yards from the jacal, "Everything is very silent here."
"The squatter is no doubt out hunting," Don Miguel observed, "we shall only find his daughter."
Valentine began laughing.
"Do you think so?" he said. "No, no, Don Miguel, remember Father Seraphin's words."
General Ibañez, who was the first to reach the jacal, dismounted and opened the door.
"Nobody!" he said, in surprise.
"By Jove!" Valentine said, "I suspected that the bird had flown; but this time he will be very cunning if he escapes us. Forward, forward! They cannot be far ahead."
They started again. Curumilla remained behind for a second, and threw a lighted torch into the shanty, which was soon burned down.
"The fox is unearthed," the Indian muttered to himself, while rejoining his comrades.
About a month after the events we have just described, in the early part of December, which the Comanches call, in their picturesque language, "the Moon of the roebuck that sheds its horns," and a few minutes after sunrise, a party, consisting of five or six men, whom, by their garb, it was easy to recognise as wood rangers from the Far West, climbed one of the highest peaks of the Sierra de los Comanches, the eastern chain of the Rocky Mountains, running down into Texas, where it terminates in the Guadaloupe mountains.
The weather was cold, and a dense layer of snow covered the sides of the mountains. The slope which these bold adventurers were following, was so scarped that, although accustomed to travel in these regions, they were often compelled to bend their backs and creep along on their hands and knees. But no difficulty baffled them, no obstacle was great enough to make them turn back.
At times, worn out with fatigue, and bathed in perspiration, they stopped to take breath, lay down on the snow, and picked up some handfuls to allay the ardent thirst that devoured them; then, after resting a little while, they courageously set out again, and clambered up the eternal ice, whose gigantic masses became with each moment more abrupt.
Were these men in search of a practicable road in this frightful labyrinth of mountains, whose peaks rose around them, at an immense height, in the icy regions of the sky? Perhaps, however, they wished, for reasons known to themselves alone, to gain a spot whence they could have an extensive prospect.
If such were their hope, it was not deceived. When, after incessant toil they all at last reached the summit of the peak they were scaling, they suddenly had before them a landscape, whose grand appearance amazed and startled them through its sublime immensity. In whatever direction they looked, they were confounded by the majesty of the panorama unfolded at their feet.
In truth, the Rocky Mountains are unique in the world, bearing no resemblance with the Pyrenees, Alps, and Apennines, and those magnificent chains of mountains which here and there stride across the old world, and seem with their barren crest to protest against the pride of creatures, in the name of the Creator.
The hunters were hanging, as it were, over a world. Beneath them was the Sierra de los Comanches, an immense mountain broken up into snowy peaks, displaying all their gloomy caverns, deep and awe-inspiring valleys, their brilliant lakes, their dark defiles and their foaming torrents, which bounded noisily downward; then, far beyond these savage limits, the eye was lost in an unbounded landscape, bathed in a hazy distance, like the surface of the sea in calm weather.
Owing to the purity and transparency of the atmosphere, the adventurers distinguished the smallest objects at a surprising distance. However, in all probability, these men had not undertaken so perilous an ascent through motives of curiosity. The mode in which they examined the country and analysed the immense panorama unrolled before them, proved, on the contrary, that very serious reasons had urged them to brave the almost insurmountable difficulties they had overcome, in order to reach the point where they were.
The group formed by these men with their bronzed faces, energetic features and picturesque garb, as they leant on their rifles, with eyes fixed on space and frowning brow, had something grand about it; at this extraordinary elevation, at the summit of the peak covered with eternal snow, which served them as a pedestal in the midst of the chaos that surrounded them.
For a long time they remained there without speaking, trying to distinguish in the windings of thequebradasthe slightest break of the ground, deaf to the mournful growling of the torrents that leaped at their feet, and the sinister rolling of the avalanches, which glided down the mountain side, and fell with a crash into the valleys, dragging trees and rocks with them.
At length the man who appeared the leader of the party passed his hand over his brow, damp with exertion, though the cold was intense in these regions, and turned to his companions to say, "My friends, we are now twenty thousand feet above the level of the plain, that is to say, we have reached the spot where the Indian warrior sees for the first time after death the country of souls, and contemplates the happy hunting grounds, the brilliant abode of just, free, and generous warriors. The eagle alone could rise higher than ourselves."
"Yes," one of his comrades replied, with a shake of head; "but, though I keep looking around, I see no possibility of getting out."
"Hilloh, General!" the first speaker interposed, "What is that you are saying? We might fancy, which Heaven forbid, that you were despairing."
"Well," the other, who was General Ibañez, replied, "that supposition would not be without a certain degree of correctness; listen to me, Don Valentine; for ten days we have been lost on these confounded mountains, surrounded by ice, and snow, and with nothing to eat, under the pretext of finding the hiding place of that old villain Red Cedar, and I do not mind confessing to you, that I am beginning, not to despair, but to believe that, unless a miracle happen, it will be impossible for us to get out of this inextricable chaos in which we are enclosed."
Valentine shook his head several times. The five men standing on the peak were really the Trail-hunter and his friends.
"No matter," General Ibañez continued, "you will agree with me that our position, far from improving, is growing with each moment more difficult; for two days we have been completely out of provisions, and I do not see how we shall procure any in these icy regions. Red Cedar has tricked us with that diabolical cunning which never fails him, he has led us into a trap we cannot get out of, and where we shall find death."
There was a mournful silence. The despair of these energetic men, coldly calculating, amid the steep, northerly country that surrounded them, the few hours of existence still left them, had something crushing about it. Scarce able to stand, more like corpses than men, with haggard features and eyes reddened with fever, they stood calm and resigned, gazing on the magnificent plains stretching out at their feet, on which thousands of animals sported and covered everywhere with trees, whose fruit would so quickly have checked their hunger.
But between them and these plains stood an insurmountable barrier, which neither strength nor cunning could carry: all that was humanly possible, these men had done during the last two days to save themselves. All their plans had been foiled by a strange fatality, which made them constantly go round in a circle among these mountains, which are so like each other, and all their attempts had broken down.
"Pardon me, my friends," Don Miguel de Zarate said, with a crushing accent of sorrow, "pardon me, for I alone am the cause of your death."
"Speak not so, Don Miguel," Valentine quickly exclaimed, "all is not lost, yet."
A heart-rending smile played round the hacendero's lips.
"You are ever the same, Don Valentine," he said; "good, and generous, forgetting yourself for your friends. Alas! Had we followed your advice, we should not be dying of famine and misery in these desolate mountains."
"That will do," the hunter said, gruffly; "what is done cannot be undone; perhaps it would have been better had you listened to me some days back, I grant; but of what use is recrimination now? Let us rather seek the means to get out of this."
"It is impossible," Don Miguel continued, disconsolately, and letting his head fall in his hands, he gave way to sad reflections.
"Caray!" the hunter exclaimed, energetically, "Impossible is a word we Frenchmen have erased from our dictionary. Hang it! As long as the heart beats, there is hope. Were Red Cedar more cunning than he is, which would be most difficult, I swear you that we shall find him, and get out of this hobble."
"But how?" Don Pablo eagerly asked.
"I do not know; still I am certain we shall escape."
"Ah, if we were only by the side of those two horsemen," the general said, with a sigh, "we should be saved."
"What horsemen do you allude to, general I where do you see them?" the hunter asked.
"There," he replied, "near the clump of cork trees. Do you see them?"
"Oh," said Valentine, "they are riding quietly, like men who know they are on the right road, and have nothing to fear."
"They are very lucky," the general muttered.
"Bah! Who knows what awaits them on turning from the road they are now following so peacefully?" the hunter remarked, with a smile; "No one can answer for the next minute; they are on the road from Independence to Santa Fe."
"Hum! I should like to be there too," the general growled between his teeth.
Valentine, who first looked carelessly at the horsemen, now followed them with interest, almost with anxiety; but they soon disappeared in a bend of a road. For a long time, however, the hunter remained with his eyes fixed on the spot where he had first seen them; gradually he began frowning, a deep wrinkle was hollowed on his forehead, and he leaned on his rifle, motionless and dumb, but seeming to be suffering from great agitation. Involuntarily, his comrades followed with growing interest the current of his thoughts, which could be read, as it were, on their companion's brow. He remained for some time thus absorbed, but at length he raised his head, and looked around with a bright and intrepid glance.
"My friends," he said, joyously, as he struck the butt of his rifle on the ground, "regain courage, I believe I have found the way of getting safe and sound out of the wasp nest into which we have thrust our heads."
His comrades gave vent to a sigh of relief, almost of joy. They knew the hunter, they were aware how fertile the mind of this brave and devoted man was in expedients, and how inaccessible to despondency; they put entire faith in him. Valentine told them he believed he could save them; they did not suspect what means he would employ, but that was his business, not theirs. Now they were calm, for they had his word, which he had never been known to break; they had only to wait patiently till the hour for their deliverance arrived.
"Bah!" the general answered, gaily, "I was sure we should get out of this, my friend."
"When shall we start?" Don Pablo asked.
"As soon as it is night," Valentine replied; "but where is Curumilla?"
"On my word I do not know. I saw him about half an hour ago, gliding along the mountain side, as if he had suddenly gone mad; but I have not seen him since."
"Curumilla does nothing without a reason," the hunter said with a shake of the head; "you will soon see him return."
Indeed, the hunter had scarce finished speaking, when the Indian chief shewed his head level with the platform, and with one leap he rejoined his friends. His zarapé, knotted at the four corners, hung behind his back.
"What have you there, chief?" Valentine asked, with a smile: "Can it be food?"
"Cuerpo de Cristo!" the general exclaimed, "it would be welcome, for I have a wolf's appetite."
"Where could provisions be found in this fearful region?" Don Pablo exclaimed, in a hollow voice.
"My brothers will see," the chief simply answered.
And he threw his zarapé on the snow, where Valentine undone the knots. The hunters uttered a cry of joy, for it contained a hare, a young peccary, and several birds. These provisions, arriving so opportunely, when the hunters had been fasting for nearly forty-eight hours, seemed to them the result of magic.
To understand the emotion the four men experienced at the sight of the much-desired food, a man must have himself gone through all the agony of hunger, without any hope of stilling it—it was almost frenzy. When the first impression was slightly calmed, Valentine turned to the chief, and pressed his hand tenderly, as a tear rolled down his cheek.
"My brother is a great sorcerer," he said to him.
The Ulmen smiled softly, and stretched out his arm to an eagle flying a short distance from the spot where the hunters stood.
"We shared," he said.
Valentine could not restrain a cry of admiration, for all was explained to him. The Araucano, whom nothing escaped, had seen the eagle, guessed that it had a brood, and clambered up to its nest to procure a portion of their food, while on the summit of the peak his comrades were all but yielding to their despair.
"Oh!" Valentine said joyfully, "We are saved, since we shall regain that strength we so much need to carry out the plan we have formed. Follow me, we will return to the camp, gaily eat the dinner the eagles have supplied us with, and start this evening."
Comforted by these words, the hunters followed him, and the little party went lightly down the mountain, up which they had clambered in the morning with such difficulty and despair in their hearts.
The hunters only spent one hour in going down, though it had cost them eight to ascend. Their bivouac was formed at the top of a scarped rock, in an impregnable position.
After their visit to the jacal, they were not long in finding traces of the fugitives, and followed them during four days. As these traces led to the Sierra de los Comanches, the hunters bravely entered the obscure mountain defiles, but all at once the trail disappeared as if by enchantment, and it was impossible to find it again.
The hunters' incessant search had only produced the disastrous result of losing themselves in the sierra, and in spite of all their efforts they could not discover the path leading to the right road. For two days their provisions had been completely exhausted, and they were beginning to feel the icy clutch of hunger.
The position was no longer tenable, and they must escape from it at all risks. Valentine and his companions had, therefore, in spite of their failing strength, climbed up the peak in order to look for a road. But this bold attempt had obtained two results instead of one, for Valentine not only declared he had found what he was seeking, but Curumilla had also procured food. Hence, the five men joyously returned to that camp, which they had quitted with death in their hearts.
No one, who has not been in a similar situation, can imagine the feeling of perfect happiness that seizes on a man when he passes, without any transition, from the extremest despair to the greatest confidence. So soon as they reached the encampment, Valentine rekindled the fire, which they had not lit for two days, as it was useless. Still, as the sight of the smoke would arouse Red Cedar's suspicions, if he were, as was very possible, in the vicinity, the hunters roasted their meat in a cavern opening in the side of the hill on which they encamped. When all was ready, they began eating.
It was only when their first hunger was appeased that they thought of thanking the Indian chief for the abundant meal he had procured them by his skill, and of which they had such pressing need. But then they perceived that the Araucano had not obtained the provisions they were eating without incurring serious danger; in fact, Curumilla had on his face, chest, and shoulders serious wounds, inflicted by the beaks and talons of the eagles, which must have boldly defended their provisions.
With the Indian stoicism which nothing can equal, Curumilla, perfectly calm and silent, was staunching the blood that poured from his wounds, disdaining to complain, but, on the contrary, appearing vexed at the anxiety his comrades evidenced.
When the meal was at an end, Valentine solemnly lit his pipe, the others did the same, and ere long they were almost hidden in a cloud.
"Caballeros," Valentine said presently, "God has come to our assistance, as He always does, when men have a firm faith in His omnipotence. He has deigned to supply us with the means to restore our strength, so we must not feel despondent; by this time tomorrow we shall have escaped from this unlucky trap. When you have finished smoking, lie down on the ground and sleep. I will awaken you when the time comes, for at the hour of departure you must feel ready to undertake a long journey. We have about four hours' daylight left, so profit by them, for I warn you we shall have plenty to do tonight in every way. Now that you are warned, you had better follow my advice."
And, adding example to precept, Valentine shook the ash from his pipe, returned it to his belt, lay down on the ground, and almost immediately slept. His comrades probably found the advice good, for they followed it without hesitation, and in ten minutes all were asleep excepting Curumilla.
How long their sleep had lasted when Valentine awakened them, they could not say, but the night had set in. The sky, studded with an infinity of stars, stretched out over their heads its dark blue vault: the moon appeared to be floating in a sea of mist, and spread over the landscape a melancholy light, which imparted a fantastic appearance to objects.
"Up with you," Valentine said in a low voice, as he tapped his comrades in turn on the shoulder.
"Are we off?" General Ibañez asked, as he checked a yawn, and drew himself up, as if worked by a spasm.
"Yes," was all the hunter answered.
Ere long all were ready to start.
"We must profit by the darkness," Valentine remarked, "our enemies are doubtless watching round us."
"We are at your orders, my friend," Don Miguel answered.
By a sign, the hunter collected his comrades round him.
"Listen to me carefully," he said, "for, before attempting the bold enterprise I have conceived, I wish to have your full consent. Our position is desperate: remaining longer here is death: death by hunger, cold, thirst, and wretchedness, after enduring intolerable sufferings for I know not how many days. You are quite convinced of this, I fancy?"
"Yes," they replied unanimously.
"Good," he continued; "trying longer to find the road we have lost would be a vain attempt, which would have no chance of success."
"Yes," they said again.
The hunter continued—
"Well, then, I am about to make an equally mad attempt at this moment. If it does not succeed, we shall perish; but at any rate we shall do so without suffering—almost instantaneously. If we succeed by a miracle—for it is almost a miracle I expect from the inexhaustible mercy of Heaven—we are saved. Reflect ere replying; my friends, are you firmly resolved to follow me, and obey me in all I order, without hesitation or murmuring? In a word, surrender your own will for a few hours only to follow me? Answer me."
The hunters exchanged a glance.
"Command, my friend," the hacendero said, answering for his comrades; "we swear to follow and obey you, whatever may happen."
There was a moment's silence, which Valentine was the first to break.
"Very good," he said, "I have your promise, and must now accomplish mine."
With a gesture of sublime dignity, the wood ranger took off his hat, and raised his eyes to Heaven.
"Oh Lord," he murmured, "our life is in thy hands: we confide in thy justice and mercy." Then, turning to his comrades, he said in a firm voice—
"Let us go!"
The hunters prepared to leave their camp, and Valentine placed himself at the head of the little band.
"And now," he added sharply, "the greatest silence."
The hunters advanced in Indian file, Valentine leading, Curumilla last. In this dark night it was certainly no easy task to proceed through this inextricable chaos of rocks, whose rude crests rose above immeasurable abysses, in the bottom of which an invisible stream could be heard indistinctly murmuring.
One false step was mortal; still, Valentine went on with as much assurance as if he were walking in the dazzling sunshine along the finest path of the prairie, turning to the right, then to the left, clambering up a rock, or gliding along an almost perpendicular wall, without once hesitating, or turning to his comrades, to whom he merely said at times in a low voice:
"Courage."
These four men must have been gifted with hearts of bronze, not to display some slight weakness during this rude journey, in regions which the eagle itself does not visit without hesitation. They marched thus for two hours, without exchanging a word; and after a long descent, during which they had twenty times run a risk of rolling to the bottom of a precipice, Valentine made his companions a sign to stop.
They then took an anxious glance around them: they found themselves on a platform of about ten square yards, all around being gloom, and it hung over an abyss of immeasurable depth. The mountain, cut asunder as if by Roland's sword, was separated, into two portions, between which was a yawning gulf about twelve or fifteen yards in width.
"We must pass over this," Valentine said; "you have ten minutes to draw breath and prepare."
"What, across here?" Don Miguel said in amazement: "why, I only see precipices on both sides."
"Well," the hunter replied, "we will cross it."
The hacendero shook his head despondingly, and Valentine smiled.
"Do you know where we are?" he asked.
"No," his comrades replied.
"I will tell you," he continued; "this spot is mournfully celebrated among the redskins and hunters of the prairie; perhaps you have heard its name mentioned, little suspecting that the day would come for you to be so near it: it is called El Mal Paso, owing to that enormous canyon which intersects the mountain, and suddenly intercepts a communication with the opposite side."
"Well?" Don Miguel asked.
"Well," Valentine went on, "some hours back, when from the top of the peak I watched the two travellers we saw at a distance on the Santa Fe road, my eye settled accidentally on the Mal Paso; then I understood that a chance of salvation was left us, and before confessing ourselves beaten, we must try to cross it."
"Then," Don Miguel said, with a shudder, "you are resolved to make this mad attempt?"
"I am."
"It is tempting Heaven."
"No, it is asking for a miracle, that is all. Believe me, my friend, God never abandons those who fully trust in Him. He will come to our help."
"Still," the hacendero began; but Valentine quickly interrupted him.
"Enough," he said; "you have sworn to obey me. I have sworn to save you; keep your oath as I shall mine."
His comrades, awed by Valentine, bowed their heads and made no reply.
"Brothers," the hunter said, solemnly, "let us pray that God will not desert us."
And, giving the example, he fell on his knees on the rock, his comrades imitating him. At the end of a moment, Valentine rose again.
"Have hope," he said.
The hunter then walked to the extremity of the platform and bent over the abyss, and his comrades followed his movements without comprehending them. After remaining motionless for some minutes, the hunter rejoined his friends.
"All goes well," he said.
He then unfastened his lasso from his belt, and coolly began rolling it round his right hand. Curumilla smiled; he had comprehended his meaning, and, according to his wont, without speaking, he unfastened his lasso and imitated his friend.
"Good," Valentine said to him, with a nod of approval; "it's our turn, chief."
The two wood rangers put forward their right legs, threw their bodies back to get a balance, and whirled their lassos round their heads; at an agreed-on signal, the lassos slipped from their hand and whizzed through the air. Valentine and Curumilla had held the end of the rope in their left hand; they pulled at them, but, in spite of all their efforts, the hunters could not unloose them. Valentine uttered a shout of joy, for he had succeeded; he connected the two lassos, twisted them round a rock; and fastened them securely, then he turned to his comrades.
"Here is a bridge," he said.
"Ah!" the Mexicans exclaimed, "now we are saved."
These men, with their hearts of bronze, who feared no danger, and recognised no obstacle, could speak thus, although the road was most perilous. Valentine and Curumilla had thrown their lassos round a rock that stood on the other side of the canyon, and the running knot had drawn. In this way the communication was established; but the bridge, as Valentine called it, merely consisted of two leathern cords of the thickness of a forefinger, stretched over a precipice of unknown depth, at least fifteen yards in width, and which must be crossed by the strength of the wrists.
Certainly, before crossing this strange bridge, there was matter for reflection, even to the bravest man. To go fifteen yards hanging thus by the arms over an abyss was not tempting this gloomy night, and upon a rope which might break or become unfastened. The hunters hesitated.
"Well;" Valentine said to them, "shall we be off?"
No one answered.
"That is true," the hunter said with a smile; "you wish to know if the bridge be firm. Very good."
Then with that calmness usual to him the hunter advanced to the edge of the barranca. On reaching the lasso, he took it in both hands, and turned to his comrades.
"Look," he said with that carelessness which he never could put off; "the sight costs nothing."
And gently, without hurrying, with the coolness of a professor giving a lesson, he crossed the canyon backwards, in order to show his friends how they were to manage. On reaching the opposite bank, where he left his rifle, he quietly returned to his friends—the latter had anxiously watched him, trembling involuntarily at the danger he had incurred.
"I hope," he said, when he remounted the platform, "that you are now quite sure the lasso is firm, and you will not hesitate."
Without replying, Curumilla crossed.
"There's one," Valentine said with a laugh; "there is no difficulty about it. Whose turn next?"
"Mine," Don Pablo answered.
He crossed.
"Now it is my turn," Don Miguel said.
"Go," Valentine replied.
The hacendero soon found himself on the opposite side; only two men remained, General Ibañez and the hunter.
"Come," Valentine said, "it is your turn, general; I must be the last to pass."
The general shook his head despondingly.
"I cannot," he said.
Valentine fancied he had misunderstood him.
"What!" he said, as he leaned over to the general.
"I can never pass," he answered.
The hunter looked at him in astonishment. He had known the general in too many critical circumstances, to doubt his courage.
"Why so?" he asked him.
The general rose, seized his arm, and almost placing his mouth to his ear, whispered in a low voice as he looked timidly around:
"Because I am afraid."
At this expression, which he was so far from expecting, Valentine gave a start of surprise, and examining his friend with the utmost attention, so monstrous did what he had just heard appear to him from the mouth of such a man, answered—
"You must be joking."
"No," he said, sadly, "I am afraid. Yes, I understand," he added a moment later with a sigh, "it seems strange to you, does it not, that I should say so; I, whom you have seen brave the greatest dangers with a laugh, and whom, up to the present, nothing has surprised. What would you have? My friend, it is so, I am afraid. I know not why, but the idea of crossing that barranca, holding on by my hands to that cord, which may break, causes me a ridiculous, invincible terror for which I cannot account, and which makes me shudder with terror. That death seems to me hideous, and I could not run the risk of it."
While the general spoke, the hunter examined him with the closest attention. He was no longer the same man; his forehead was livid, a cold perspiration inundated his face, a convulsive tremor agitated all his limbs, and his voice was hollow.
"Nonsense!" Valentine said, attempting to smile, "it is nothing; a little resolution, and you will overcome this terror, which is nothing but dizziness."
"I know not what it is, I cannot say; I can only assure you that I have done all it is morally possible to do, in order to conquer this feeling which overpowers me."
"Well."
"All has been useless: even now, I believe that my terror increases with my efforts to overcome it."
"What! You who are so brave!"
"My friend," the general answered with a sad smile, "courage is an affair of the nerves; it is no more possible for a man to be constantly brave than to be continually a coward; there are days when the matter overcomes the intellect, and physical feelings gain the upper hand over the moral. On those days the most intrepid man is afraid; and this is one of those days with me, that is all."
"Come, my friend," Valentine answered, "reflect a little; hang it all; you cannot remain here—returning is impossible; make a virtue of necessity."
"All you say to me," the general interrupted him, "I have said to myself; and I repeat to you, that, sooner than venture by that cord, I would blow out my brains."
"Why, that is madness," the hunter shouted; "there is no common sense in it."
"Call it what you like; I understand as well as you do how ridiculous I am, but it is stronger than I am."
Valentine stamped his foot angrily as he looked across at his comrades, who, collected on the other side of the barranca, knew not to what to attribute this incomprehensible delay.
"Listen, general," he said, after a moment's delay. "I will not desert you thus, whatever may happen; too many reasons connect us for me to leave you to perish of hunger on this rock; you do not live nearly a year with a man in the desert, sharing with him dangers, cold and heat, hunger and thirst, to separate in this way. If it be really impossible for you to cross the canyon as your comrades have done, and will leave me to act, I will find other means."
"Thanks, my friend," the general sadly replied, as he pressed his hand; "but believe me, do not trouble yourself about me, but leave me here: your comrades are growing impatient, so pray be off at once."
"I will not go," the hunter said resolutely; "I swear that you shall come with me."
"No, I tell you, I cannot."
"Try."
"It is useless; I feel that my heart fails me. Good-bye, my friend."
Valentine made no answer—he was thinking. After an instant he raised his head, and his face was radiant.
"By Jove!" he said, gaily, "I was certain I should discover a way before long. Leave me alone, I answer for everything. You shall cross as if in a carriage."
The general smiled.
"Brave heart!" he muttered.
"Wait for me," Valentine went on; "in a few minutes I will return, only grant me the time to prepare what I want."
The hunter seized the rope and passed, but as soon as the general saw him on the other side, he unfastened the lasso and threw it across.
"What are you doing?—Stop!" the hunters shouted in stupor, mingled with horror.
The general bent over the barranca, holding on to a rock with his left hand.
"Red Cedar must not discover your trail," he said; "that is why I unfastened the lasso. Good-bye, brother, and may the Almighty aid you."
An explosion was heard, echoed in the distance by the mountains, and the general's corpse rolled into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock with a dull sound. General Ibañez had blown out his brains.[1]
At this unexpected dénouement the hunters were petrified. They could not understand how, through the fear of killing himself in crossing the canyon, the general had preferred blowing out his brains. Still, the action was logical in itself; it was not death, but only the mode of death that terrified him; and as he fancied it an impossibility to follow his comrades, he had preferred sudden death. Still, in dying, the brave general had rendered them a final and immense service. Thanks to him, their trail had so entirely disappeared, that it would be impossible for Red Cedar to find it again.
The hunters, although they had succeeded in escaping from the fatal circle in which the pirate had thrust them, owing to Valentine's daring resolve, still found themselves in a most critical situation: they must get down into the plain as speedily as possible, in order to find some road, and, as always, happens in the desert under such circumstances, every sympathy must promptly yield to the necessity that held them in its iron arms; the common danger suddenly aroused in them that feeling of self-preservation which never does more than sleep.