Chapter Five.Pepé’s Revanche.When Pepé the Sleeper had made himself master of the secret of Captain Despierto—which he had found of such profitable service—he was not aware that the captain had held back another. Nevertheless, the coast-guard felt some kind of remorse of conscience—though he had as yet no idea of the terrible consequences that had resulted. His remorse was simply that he had betrayed his post of sentinel; and he determined that he would make up for it by a more zealous performance of duty whenever an opportunity should offer. To bring about this contingency, he went on the very next night, and requested to be once more placed on the post of Ensenada.His wish was gratified; and while Don Lucas believed him asleep as usual, Pepé kept wide awake, as on the preceding night.We shall leave him at his post, while we recount what was taking place off the coast not far from the Ensenada.The night was as foggy as that which preceded it, when about the hour of ten o’clock acoasterwas observed gliding in towards the cliffs, and entering among a labyrinth of rocks that lay near the mouth of the bay.This vessel appeared well guided and wellsailed. The shape of her hull, her rigging, her sails, denoted her to be a ship-of-war, or at the least a privateer.The boldness with which she manoeuvred, in the middle of the darkness, told that her pilot must be some one well acquainted with this dangerous coast; and also that her commander had an understanding with some people on the shore.The sea dashed with fury against both sides of the rocky strait, through which the coaster was making her way, but still she glided safely on. The strait once cleared, a large bay opened before her, in which the sea was more calm, and rippled gently up against a beach of sand and pebble.The coaster at length succeeded in gaining this bay; and then by a manoeuvre directed by the officer of the watch she hove-to with a celerity that denoted a numerous crew.Two boats were let down upon the water, and, being instantly filled with men, were rowed off in the direction of the upper end of the bay, where some houses, which could be distinguished by their whiteness, stood scattered along the beach.To end the mystery, let us say that the little coaster was a French vessel—half-privateer half-smuggler—and had entered the bay with a double design—the disposing of merchandise and the procuring of provisions, of which the crew began to stand in need. Further we shall add, that the pilot was a skilful fisherman of Elanchovi, furnished by Don Lucas Despierto, captain of the coast-guard!The officer of the watch silently walked the deck—now listening to the waves surging against the sides of the little vessel—now stooping a moment over the light of the binnacle—anon watching the sails that napped loosely upon the yards, now turned contrary to the direction of the wind.An hour had been passed in this manner, when a brisk fusillade was heard from several points on the shore. Other reports of musketry appeared to respond and shortly after the two boats came hastening back to the coaster.It was Pepé who had caused all this; Pepé, who, to the great chagrin of his captain, had given warning to the coast-guards. He had been too late, notwithstanding his zeal, for the boats came back laden with sheep and other provisions of every soft.The last of the men who climbed over the gangway—just as the boats were being hoisted up—was a sailor of gigantic height, of colossal proportions, and Herculean vigour. He was a Canadian by birth. He carried in his arms a young child that was cold and motionless, as if dead. A slight trembling in its limbs, however, proclaimed that there was still life in it.“What the deuce have you got there, Bois-Rose?” demanded the officer of the watch.“With your leave, lieutenant, it’s a young child that I found in a boat adrift, half dead with hunger and cold. A woman, quite dead, and bathed in her own blood, still held it in her arms. I had all the trouble in the world to get the boat away from the place where I found it, for those dogs of Spaniards espied it, and took it for one of ours. There was a terrible devil of a coast-guard kept all the while firing at me with as much obstinacy as awkwardness. I should have silenced him with a single shot, had I not been hindered in looking after this poor little creature. But if ever I return—ah!”“And what do you intend to do with the child?”“Take care of it, lieutenant, until peace be proclaimed, then return here and find out who it belongs to.”Unfortunately the only knowledge he was able to obtain about the infant was its name, Fabian, and that the woman who had been assassinated was its mother.Two years passed during which the French privateer did not return to the coast of Spain. The tenderness of the sailor towards the child he had picked up—which was no other than the young Count Fabian de Mediana—did not cease for an instant, but seemed rather to increase with time. It was a singular and touching spectacle to witness the care, almost motherly, which this rude nurse lavished upon the child, and the constantrusesto which he had recourse to procure a supplement to his rations for its nourishment. The sailor had to fight for his own living; but he often indulged in dreams that some day a rich prize would be captured, his share of which would enable him to take better care of his adopted son. Unfortunately he did not take into his calculations the perilous hazards of the life he was leading.One morning the privateer was compelled to run from an English brig of war of nearly twice her force; and although a swift sailer, the French vessel soon found that she could not escape from her pursuer. She disdained to refuse the combat, and the two vessels commenced cannonading each other.For several hours a sanguinary conflict was kept up, when the Canadian sailor, dashed with blood, and blackened with powder, ran towards the child and lifting it in his arms, carried it to the gangway. There, in the midst of the tumult, with blood running over the decks, amidst the confusion of cries and the crash of falling masts, he wished to engrave on the child’s memory the circumstance of a separation, of which he had a strong presentiment. In this moment, which should leave even upon the memory of an infant, a souvenir that would never be effaced, he called out to the child, while shielding it with his huge body, “Kneel, my son!”The child knelt, trembling with affright.“You see what is going on?”“I am afraid,” murmured Fabian, “the blood—the noise—” and saying this he hid himself in the arms of his protector.“It is well,” replied the Canadian, in a solemn tone. “Never forget, then, that in this moment, a sailor, a man who loved you as his own life, said to you—kneel and pray for your mother!”He was not permitted to finish the speech. At that moment a bullet struck him and his blood spouting over the child, caused it to utter a lamentable cry. The Canadian had just strength left to press the boy to his breast, and to add some words; but in so low a tone that Fabian could only comprehend a single phrase. It was the continuation of what he had been saying—“Your mother—whom I found—dead beside you.”With this speech ended the consciousness of the sailor. He was not dead, however; his wound did not prove fatal.When he came to his senses again he found himself in the fetid hold of a ship. A terrible thirst devoured him. He called out in a feeble voice, but no one answered him. He perceived that he was a prisoner, and he wept for the loss of his liberty, but still more for that of the adopted son that Providence had given him.What became of Fabian? That the history of the “Wood-Rangers” will tell us; but before crossing from the prologue of our drama—before crossing from Europe to America—a few events connected with the tragedy of Elanchovi remain to be told.It was several days after the disappearance of the Countess, before anything was known of her fate. Then some fishermen found the abandoned boat driven up among the rocks and still containing the body of the unfortunate lady. This was some light thrown upon the horrid mystery; but the cause of the assassination long remained unknown, and the author of it long unpunished.The old steward tied black crape upon the vanes of the chateau, and erected a wooden cross on the spot where the body of his beloved mistress had been found; but, as everything in this human world soon wears out, the sea-breeze had not browned the black crape, nor the waves turned green the wood of the cross, before the tragic event ceased to cause the slightest emotion in the village—ay, even ceased to be talked of.
When Pepé the Sleeper had made himself master of the secret of Captain Despierto—which he had found of such profitable service—he was not aware that the captain had held back another. Nevertheless, the coast-guard felt some kind of remorse of conscience—though he had as yet no idea of the terrible consequences that had resulted. His remorse was simply that he had betrayed his post of sentinel; and he determined that he would make up for it by a more zealous performance of duty whenever an opportunity should offer. To bring about this contingency, he went on the very next night, and requested to be once more placed on the post of Ensenada.
His wish was gratified; and while Don Lucas believed him asleep as usual, Pepé kept wide awake, as on the preceding night.
We shall leave him at his post, while we recount what was taking place off the coast not far from the Ensenada.
The night was as foggy as that which preceded it, when about the hour of ten o’clock acoasterwas observed gliding in towards the cliffs, and entering among a labyrinth of rocks that lay near the mouth of the bay.
This vessel appeared well guided and wellsailed. The shape of her hull, her rigging, her sails, denoted her to be a ship-of-war, or at the least a privateer.
The boldness with which she manoeuvred, in the middle of the darkness, told that her pilot must be some one well acquainted with this dangerous coast; and also that her commander had an understanding with some people on the shore.
The sea dashed with fury against both sides of the rocky strait, through which the coaster was making her way, but still she glided safely on. The strait once cleared, a large bay opened before her, in which the sea was more calm, and rippled gently up against a beach of sand and pebble.
The coaster at length succeeded in gaining this bay; and then by a manoeuvre directed by the officer of the watch she hove-to with a celerity that denoted a numerous crew.
Two boats were let down upon the water, and, being instantly filled with men, were rowed off in the direction of the upper end of the bay, where some houses, which could be distinguished by their whiteness, stood scattered along the beach.
To end the mystery, let us say that the little coaster was a French vessel—half-privateer half-smuggler—and had entered the bay with a double design—the disposing of merchandise and the procuring of provisions, of which the crew began to stand in need. Further we shall add, that the pilot was a skilful fisherman of Elanchovi, furnished by Don Lucas Despierto, captain of the coast-guard!
The officer of the watch silently walked the deck—now listening to the waves surging against the sides of the little vessel—now stooping a moment over the light of the binnacle—anon watching the sails that napped loosely upon the yards, now turned contrary to the direction of the wind.
An hour had been passed in this manner, when a brisk fusillade was heard from several points on the shore. Other reports of musketry appeared to respond and shortly after the two boats came hastening back to the coaster.
It was Pepé who had caused all this; Pepé, who, to the great chagrin of his captain, had given warning to the coast-guards. He had been too late, notwithstanding his zeal, for the boats came back laden with sheep and other provisions of every soft.
The last of the men who climbed over the gangway—just as the boats were being hoisted up—was a sailor of gigantic height, of colossal proportions, and Herculean vigour. He was a Canadian by birth. He carried in his arms a young child that was cold and motionless, as if dead. A slight trembling in its limbs, however, proclaimed that there was still life in it.
“What the deuce have you got there, Bois-Rose?” demanded the officer of the watch.
“With your leave, lieutenant, it’s a young child that I found in a boat adrift, half dead with hunger and cold. A woman, quite dead, and bathed in her own blood, still held it in her arms. I had all the trouble in the world to get the boat away from the place where I found it, for those dogs of Spaniards espied it, and took it for one of ours. There was a terrible devil of a coast-guard kept all the while firing at me with as much obstinacy as awkwardness. I should have silenced him with a single shot, had I not been hindered in looking after this poor little creature. But if ever I return—ah!”
“And what do you intend to do with the child?”
“Take care of it, lieutenant, until peace be proclaimed, then return here and find out who it belongs to.”
Unfortunately the only knowledge he was able to obtain about the infant was its name, Fabian, and that the woman who had been assassinated was its mother.
Two years passed during which the French privateer did not return to the coast of Spain. The tenderness of the sailor towards the child he had picked up—which was no other than the young Count Fabian de Mediana—did not cease for an instant, but seemed rather to increase with time. It was a singular and touching spectacle to witness the care, almost motherly, which this rude nurse lavished upon the child, and the constantrusesto which he had recourse to procure a supplement to his rations for its nourishment. The sailor had to fight for his own living; but he often indulged in dreams that some day a rich prize would be captured, his share of which would enable him to take better care of his adopted son. Unfortunately he did not take into his calculations the perilous hazards of the life he was leading.
One morning the privateer was compelled to run from an English brig of war of nearly twice her force; and although a swift sailer, the French vessel soon found that she could not escape from her pursuer. She disdained to refuse the combat, and the two vessels commenced cannonading each other.
For several hours a sanguinary conflict was kept up, when the Canadian sailor, dashed with blood, and blackened with powder, ran towards the child and lifting it in his arms, carried it to the gangway. There, in the midst of the tumult, with blood running over the decks, amidst the confusion of cries and the crash of falling masts, he wished to engrave on the child’s memory the circumstance of a separation, of which he had a strong presentiment. In this moment, which should leave even upon the memory of an infant, a souvenir that would never be effaced, he called out to the child, while shielding it with his huge body, “Kneel, my son!”
The child knelt, trembling with affright.
“You see what is going on?”
“I am afraid,” murmured Fabian, “the blood—the noise—” and saying this he hid himself in the arms of his protector.
“It is well,” replied the Canadian, in a solemn tone. “Never forget, then, that in this moment, a sailor, a man who loved you as his own life, said to you—kneel and pray for your mother!”
He was not permitted to finish the speech. At that moment a bullet struck him and his blood spouting over the child, caused it to utter a lamentable cry. The Canadian had just strength left to press the boy to his breast, and to add some words; but in so low a tone that Fabian could only comprehend a single phrase. It was the continuation of what he had been saying—“Your mother—whom I found—dead beside you.”
With this speech ended the consciousness of the sailor. He was not dead, however; his wound did not prove fatal.
When he came to his senses again he found himself in the fetid hold of a ship. A terrible thirst devoured him. He called out in a feeble voice, but no one answered him. He perceived that he was a prisoner, and he wept for the loss of his liberty, but still more for that of the adopted son that Providence had given him.
What became of Fabian? That the history of the “Wood-Rangers” will tell us; but before crossing from the prologue of our drama—before crossing from Europe to America—a few events connected with the tragedy of Elanchovi remain to be told.
It was several days after the disappearance of the Countess, before anything was known of her fate. Then some fishermen found the abandoned boat driven up among the rocks and still containing the body of the unfortunate lady. This was some light thrown upon the horrid mystery; but the cause of the assassination long remained unknown, and the author of it long unpunished.
The old steward tied black crape upon the vanes of the chateau, and erected a wooden cross on the spot where the body of his beloved mistress had been found; but, as everything in this human world soon wears out, the sea-breeze had not browned the black crape, nor the waves turned green the wood of the cross, before the tragic event ceased to cause the slightest emotion in the village—ay, even ceased to be talked of.
Chapter Six.Sonora.Sonora, naturally one of the richest provinces of Mexico, is also one of the least known. Vast tracts in this State have never been explored; and others have been seen only by the passing traveller. Nevertheless, Nature has been especially bountiful to this remote territory. In some parts of it the soil, scarce scratched by the plough, will yield two crops in the year; while in other places gold is scattered over the surface, or mixed with the sands, in such quantity as to rival theplacersof California.It is true that these advantages are, to some extent neutralised by certain inconveniences. Vast deserts extend between the tracts of fertile soil, which render travelling from one to the other both difficult and dangerous; and, in many parts, of the province the savage aborigines of the country are still masters of the ground. This is especially the case in those districts where the gold is found inplacers.Those placers are not to be approached by white men, unless when in strong force. The Indians repel all such advances with warlike fury. Not that they care to protect the gold—of whose value they have been hitherto ignorant—but simply from their hereditary hatred of the white race. Nevertheless, attempts are frequently made to reach the desired gold fields. Some that result in complete failure, and some that are more or less successful.The natural riches of Sonora have given rise to very considerable fortunes, and not a few very large ones, of which the origin was the finding a “nugget” of virgin gold; while others again had for their basis the cultivation of the rich crops which the fertile soil of Sonora can produce.There is a class of persons in Sonora, who follow no other business than searching for goldplacersor silver mines, and whose only knowledge consists of a little practical acquaintance with metallurgy. These men are calledgambusinos. From time to time they make long excursions into the uninhabited portions of the State; where, under great privations, and exposed to a thousand dangers, they hastily and very superficially work some vein of silver, or wash the auriferous sands of some desert-stream, until, tracked and pursued by the Indians, they are compelled to return to their villages. Here they find an audience delighted to listen to their adventures, and to believe the exaggerated accounts which they are certain to give of marvellous treasures lying upon the surface of, the ground, but not to be approached on account of some great danger, Indian or otherwise, by which they are guarded.Thesegambusinosare to mining industry, what the backwoodsmen are to agriculture and commerce. They are its pioneers. Avarice stimulated by their wonderful stories, and often too by the sight of real treasure brought in from the desert—for the expeditions of thegambusinosdo not always prove failures—avarice thus tempted, is ready to listen to the voice of some adventurous leader, who preaches a crusade of conquest and exploration. In Sonora, as elsewhere, there are always an abundance of idle men to form the material of an expedition—the sons of ruined families—men who dislike hard work, or indeed any work—and others who have somehow got outside the pale of justice. These join the leader and an expedition is organised.In general, however, enterprises of this kind are too lightly entered upon, as well as too loosely conducted; and the usual consequence is, that before accomplishing its object the band falls to pieces; many become victims to hunger, thirst, or Indian hostility; and of those who went forth only a few individuals return to tell the tale of suffering and disaster.This example will, for a while, damp the ardour for such pursuits. But the disaster is soon forgotten; fresh stories of thegambusinosproduce new dreams of wealth; and another band of adventurers is easily collected.At the time of which I am writing—that is, in 1830—just twenty-two years after the tragedy of Elanchovi, one of these expeditions was being organised at Arispe—then the capital of the State of Sonora. The man who was to be the leader of the expedition was not a native of Mexico, but a stranger. He was a Spaniard who had arrived in Sonora but two months before, and who was known by the name, Don Estevan de Arechiza.No one in Arispe remembered ever to have seen him; and yet he appeared to have been in the country before this time. His knowledge of its topography, as well as its affairs and political personages, was so positive and complete, as to make it evident that Sonora was no stranger to him; and the plan of his expedition appeared to have been conceived and arranged beforehand—even previous to his arrival from Europe.Beyond doubt, Don Estevan was master of considerable resources. He had his train of paid followers, kept open house, made large bets at themontétables, lent money to friends without appearing to care whether it should ever be returned, and played “grand Seigneur” to perfection.No one knew from what source he drew the means to carry on such a “war.”Now and then he was known to absent himself from Arispe for a week or ten days at a time. He was absent on some journey; but no one could tell to what part of the country these journeys were made—for his well-trained servants never said a word about the movements of their master.Whoever he might be, his courteous mannerà l’Espagnol, his generosity, and his fine free table, soon gave him a powerful influence in the social world of Arispe; and by this influence he was now organising an expedition, to penetrate to a part of the country which it was supposed no white man had ever yet visited.As Don Estevan almost always lost at play, and as he also neglected to reclaim the sums of money which he so liberally lent to his acquaintances, it began to be conjectured that he possessed not far from Arispe some richplacerof gold from which he drew his resources. The periodical journeys which he made gave colour to this conjecture.It was also suspected that he knew of someplacer—still more rich—in the country into which he was about to lead his expedition. What truth there was in the suspicion we shall presently see.It will easily be understood that with such a reputation, Don Estevan would have very little difficulty in collecting his band of adventurers. Indeed it was said, that already more than fifty determined men from all parts of Sonora had assembled at thePresidio of Tubacon the Indian frontier—the place appointed for the rendezvous of the expedition. It was further affirmed that in a few days Don Estevan himself would leave Arispe to place himself at their head.This rumour, hitherto only conjecture, proved to be correct; for at one of the dinners given by the hospitable Spaniard, he announced to his guests that in three days he intended to start for Tubac.During the progress of this same dinner, a messenger was introduced into the dining-room, who handed to Don Estevan a letter, an answer to which he awaited.The Spaniard, begging of his guests to excuse him for a moment, broke the seal and read the letter.As there was a certain mystery about the habits of their convivial host, the guests were silent for a while—all watching his movements and the play of his features; but the impassible countenance of Don Estevan did not betray a single emotion that was passing his mind, even to the most acute observer around the table. In truth he was a man who well knew how to dissemble his thoughts, and perhaps on that very occasion, more than any other, he required all his self-command.“It is well,” he said, calmly addressing himself to the messenger. “Take my answer to him who sent you, that I will be punctual to the rendezvous in three days from the present.”With this answer the messenger took his departure. Don Estevan, turning to his guests, again apologised for his impoliteness; and the dinner for an instant suspended once more progressed with renewed activity.Nevertheless the Spaniard appeared more thoughtful than before; and his guests did not doubt but that he had received some news of more than ordinary interest.We shall leave them to their conjectures, and precede Don Estevan to the mysterious rendezvous which had been given him, and the scene of which was to be a small village lying upon the route to the Presidio of Tubac.The whole country between Arispe and the Presidio in question may be said to be almost uninhabited. Along the route only mean hovels are encountered, with here and there ahaciendaof greater pretensions. These houses are rarely solitary, but collected in groups at long distances apart. Usually a day’s journey lies between them, and, consequently, they are the stopping-places for travellers, who may be on their way towards the frontier. But the travellers are few, and the inhabitants of these miserable hovels pass the greater part of their lives in the middle of a profound solitude. A little patch of Indian corn which they cultivate,—a few head of cattle, which, fed upon the perfumed pastures of the plains, produce beef of an exquisite flavour,—a sky always clear,—and, above all, a wonderful sobriety of living,—enable these dwellers of the desert steppes of Sonora to live, if not in a state of luxury, at least free from all fear of want. What desires need trouble a man who sees a blue sky always over his head, and who finds in the smoke of a cigarette of his own making, a resource against all the cravings of hunger?At one part of the year, however, these villages of hovels are uninhabited—altogether abandoned by their occupants. This is thedry season, during the greater portion of which the cisterns that supply the villages with water become dried up. The cisterns are fed by the rains of heaven, and no other water than this can be found throughout most tracts of the country. When these give out, the settlements have to be abandoned, and remain until the return of the periodical rains.In a morning of the year 1830, at the distance of about three days’ journey from Arispe, a man was seated, or rather half reclining, upon hisserapéin front of a rude hovel. A few other huts of a similar character were near, scattered here and there over the ground. It was evident, from the profound silence that reigned among these dwellings, and the absence of human forms, or implements of household use, that therancheriawas abandoned by its half nomad population. Such in reality was the fact, for it was now the very height of the dry season. Two or three roads branched out from this miserable group of huts, leading off into a thick forest which surrounded it on all sides. They were rather paths than roads, for the tracks which they followed were scarce cleared of the timber that once grew upon them. At the point of junction of these roads the individual alluded to had placed himself; and his attitude of perfect ease told that he was under no apprehension from the profound and awe-inspiring loneliness of the place. The croak of the ravens flitting from tree to tree hoarsely uttered in their flight; the cry of thechaculucasas they welcomed the rising sun, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the scene.Presently the white fog of the night began to rise upward and disappear under the strength of the sunbeams. Only a few flakes of it still hung over the tops of the mezquite and iron-wood trees that grew thickly around the huts.Near where the man lay, there might be seen the remains of a large fire. It had been kindled no doubt to protect him from the chill dews of the night; and it now served him to prepare his breakfast. Some small cakes of wheaten meal, with few pieces oftasajo, were already placed upon the red embers of the fire; but notwithstanding that these would made but a meagre repast the man appeared eagerly to await the enjoyment of it.Near at hand, with a frugality equal to that of his master, a horse was browsing upon the tufts of dry yellow grass, that grew thinly over the ground. This horse, with a saddle and bridle lying near, proved the solitary individual to be a traveller. Contrary to the usual custom of the country, the horse had nolazo, or fastening of any kind upon him; but was free to wander where he pleased.The costume of the traveller consisted in a sort of jacket or vest of brick-coloured leather, without buttons or any opening in front, but drawn over the head after the manner of a shirt. Wide pantaloons of the same material, open from the knee downwards, and fastened at the waist by a scarf of red China crape. Under the pantaloons, and covering the calf of the leg nearly up to the knee, could be seen thebotasof strong stamped leather, in one of which was stuck a long knife with a horn hilt—thus ready to the hand whether the owner was seated, standing, or on horseback. A large felt hat, banded with atoquillaof Venetian pearls, completed a costume sufficiently picturesque, the vivid colours of which were in harmony with that of theserapéon which the traveller was reclining. This costume denoted one of those men accustomed to gallop among the thorny jungles that cover the desert steppes of North Mexico; and who in their expeditions, whether against Indian enemies, or for whatever purpose, sleep with indifference under the shadow of a tree, or the open heaven itself,—in the forest, or upon the naked plain.There was in the features of this traveller a singular mixture of brutal ferocity and careless good-humour. A crooked nose, with thick bushy eyebrows, and black eyes that sparkled from time to time with a malicious fire, gave to his countenance a sinister aspect, and belied the expression of his mouth and lips, that presented rather a pleasant and smiling contour. But the man’s features, when viewed as a whole, could not fail to inspire a certain feeling of repulsiveness mingled with fear. A short carbine that lay by his side, together with the long knife, whose haft protruded above the top of his boots, did not in any way tame down the ferocious aspect of his face. On the contrary they proclaimed him one whom it would not be desirable to have for a companion in the desert.Despite thenonchalanceof his attitude, it was evident that he awaited some one; but as everything in these countries is on a large scale, so also is the virtue of patience. This outlaw—for everything about him signified that he was one of some sort—this outlaw, we say, having made three days’ journey before arriving upon the ground where he now was, thought nothing of a few hours, less or more, spent in expectation. In the desert, he who has travelled a hundred leagues, will consider it a mere bagatelle to wait for a hundred hours: unlike to him who keeps an appointment in the midst of a great city, where a delay of a quarter of an hour will be endured with feverish impatience.So it was with our solitary traveller; and when the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard at some distance off in the forest, he did nothing more than to make a slight change in the attitude in which he had been reclining; while his steed, also hearing the same sounds, tossed up his head and neighed joyously. The hoof-strokes each moment were heard more distinctly; and it was evident that a horseman was galloping rapidly in the direction of the huts. After a little the strokes became more gentle, and the gallop appeared to be changed to a walk. The rider was approaching with caution.A few seconds intervened, and then upon one of the roads—that leading to Arispe—the horseman was perceived coming on at a slow and cautious pace.On perceiving the traveller, still half reclining upon hisserapé, the horseman drew his rein still tighter and halted, and the two men remained for some seconds regarding each other with a fixed and interrogative glance.
Sonora, naturally one of the richest provinces of Mexico, is also one of the least known. Vast tracts in this State have never been explored; and others have been seen only by the passing traveller. Nevertheless, Nature has been especially bountiful to this remote territory. In some parts of it the soil, scarce scratched by the plough, will yield two crops in the year; while in other places gold is scattered over the surface, or mixed with the sands, in such quantity as to rival theplacersof California.
It is true that these advantages are, to some extent neutralised by certain inconveniences. Vast deserts extend between the tracts of fertile soil, which render travelling from one to the other both difficult and dangerous; and, in many parts, of the province the savage aborigines of the country are still masters of the ground. This is especially the case in those districts where the gold is found inplacers.
Those placers are not to be approached by white men, unless when in strong force. The Indians repel all such advances with warlike fury. Not that they care to protect the gold—of whose value they have been hitherto ignorant—but simply from their hereditary hatred of the white race. Nevertheless, attempts are frequently made to reach the desired gold fields. Some that result in complete failure, and some that are more or less successful.
The natural riches of Sonora have given rise to very considerable fortunes, and not a few very large ones, of which the origin was the finding a “nugget” of virgin gold; while others again had for their basis the cultivation of the rich crops which the fertile soil of Sonora can produce.
There is a class of persons in Sonora, who follow no other business than searching for goldplacersor silver mines, and whose only knowledge consists of a little practical acquaintance with metallurgy. These men are calledgambusinos. From time to time they make long excursions into the uninhabited portions of the State; where, under great privations, and exposed to a thousand dangers, they hastily and very superficially work some vein of silver, or wash the auriferous sands of some desert-stream, until, tracked and pursued by the Indians, they are compelled to return to their villages. Here they find an audience delighted to listen to their adventures, and to believe the exaggerated accounts which they are certain to give of marvellous treasures lying upon the surface of, the ground, but not to be approached on account of some great danger, Indian or otherwise, by which they are guarded.
Thesegambusinosare to mining industry, what the backwoodsmen are to agriculture and commerce. They are its pioneers. Avarice stimulated by their wonderful stories, and often too by the sight of real treasure brought in from the desert—for the expeditions of thegambusinosdo not always prove failures—avarice thus tempted, is ready to listen to the voice of some adventurous leader, who preaches a crusade of conquest and exploration. In Sonora, as elsewhere, there are always an abundance of idle men to form the material of an expedition—the sons of ruined families—men who dislike hard work, or indeed any work—and others who have somehow got outside the pale of justice. These join the leader and an expedition is organised.
In general, however, enterprises of this kind are too lightly entered upon, as well as too loosely conducted; and the usual consequence is, that before accomplishing its object the band falls to pieces; many become victims to hunger, thirst, or Indian hostility; and of those who went forth only a few individuals return to tell the tale of suffering and disaster.
This example will, for a while, damp the ardour for such pursuits. But the disaster is soon forgotten; fresh stories of thegambusinosproduce new dreams of wealth; and another band of adventurers is easily collected.
At the time of which I am writing—that is, in 1830—just twenty-two years after the tragedy of Elanchovi, one of these expeditions was being organised at Arispe—then the capital of the State of Sonora. The man who was to be the leader of the expedition was not a native of Mexico, but a stranger. He was a Spaniard who had arrived in Sonora but two months before, and who was known by the name, Don Estevan de Arechiza.
No one in Arispe remembered ever to have seen him; and yet he appeared to have been in the country before this time. His knowledge of its topography, as well as its affairs and political personages, was so positive and complete, as to make it evident that Sonora was no stranger to him; and the plan of his expedition appeared to have been conceived and arranged beforehand—even previous to his arrival from Europe.
Beyond doubt, Don Estevan was master of considerable resources. He had his train of paid followers, kept open house, made large bets at themontétables, lent money to friends without appearing to care whether it should ever be returned, and played “grand Seigneur” to perfection.
No one knew from what source he drew the means to carry on such a “war.”
Now and then he was known to absent himself from Arispe for a week or ten days at a time. He was absent on some journey; but no one could tell to what part of the country these journeys were made—for his well-trained servants never said a word about the movements of their master.
Whoever he might be, his courteous mannerà l’Espagnol, his generosity, and his fine free table, soon gave him a powerful influence in the social world of Arispe; and by this influence he was now organising an expedition, to penetrate to a part of the country which it was supposed no white man had ever yet visited.
As Don Estevan almost always lost at play, and as he also neglected to reclaim the sums of money which he so liberally lent to his acquaintances, it began to be conjectured that he possessed not far from Arispe some richplacerof gold from which he drew his resources. The periodical journeys which he made gave colour to this conjecture.
It was also suspected that he knew of someplacer—still more rich—in the country into which he was about to lead his expedition. What truth there was in the suspicion we shall presently see.
It will easily be understood that with such a reputation, Don Estevan would have very little difficulty in collecting his band of adventurers. Indeed it was said, that already more than fifty determined men from all parts of Sonora had assembled at thePresidio of Tubacon the Indian frontier—the place appointed for the rendezvous of the expedition. It was further affirmed that in a few days Don Estevan himself would leave Arispe to place himself at their head.
This rumour, hitherto only conjecture, proved to be correct; for at one of the dinners given by the hospitable Spaniard, he announced to his guests that in three days he intended to start for Tubac.
During the progress of this same dinner, a messenger was introduced into the dining-room, who handed to Don Estevan a letter, an answer to which he awaited.
The Spaniard, begging of his guests to excuse him for a moment, broke the seal and read the letter.
As there was a certain mystery about the habits of their convivial host, the guests were silent for a while—all watching his movements and the play of his features; but the impassible countenance of Don Estevan did not betray a single emotion that was passing his mind, even to the most acute observer around the table. In truth he was a man who well knew how to dissemble his thoughts, and perhaps on that very occasion, more than any other, he required all his self-command.
“It is well,” he said, calmly addressing himself to the messenger. “Take my answer to him who sent you, that I will be punctual to the rendezvous in three days from the present.”
With this answer the messenger took his departure. Don Estevan, turning to his guests, again apologised for his impoliteness; and the dinner for an instant suspended once more progressed with renewed activity.
Nevertheless the Spaniard appeared more thoughtful than before; and his guests did not doubt but that he had received some news of more than ordinary interest.
We shall leave them to their conjectures, and precede Don Estevan to the mysterious rendezvous which had been given him, and the scene of which was to be a small village lying upon the route to the Presidio of Tubac.
The whole country between Arispe and the Presidio in question may be said to be almost uninhabited. Along the route only mean hovels are encountered, with here and there ahaciendaof greater pretensions. These houses are rarely solitary, but collected in groups at long distances apart. Usually a day’s journey lies between them, and, consequently, they are the stopping-places for travellers, who may be on their way towards the frontier. But the travellers are few, and the inhabitants of these miserable hovels pass the greater part of their lives in the middle of a profound solitude. A little patch of Indian corn which they cultivate,—a few head of cattle, which, fed upon the perfumed pastures of the plains, produce beef of an exquisite flavour,—a sky always clear,—and, above all, a wonderful sobriety of living,—enable these dwellers of the desert steppes of Sonora to live, if not in a state of luxury, at least free from all fear of want. What desires need trouble a man who sees a blue sky always over his head, and who finds in the smoke of a cigarette of his own making, a resource against all the cravings of hunger?
At one part of the year, however, these villages of hovels are uninhabited—altogether abandoned by their occupants. This is thedry season, during the greater portion of which the cisterns that supply the villages with water become dried up. The cisterns are fed by the rains of heaven, and no other water than this can be found throughout most tracts of the country. When these give out, the settlements have to be abandoned, and remain until the return of the periodical rains.
In a morning of the year 1830, at the distance of about three days’ journey from Arispe, a man was seated, or rather half reclining, upon hisserapéin front of a rude hovel. A few other huts of a similar character were near, scattered here and there over the ground. It was evident, from the profound silence that reigned among these dwellings, and the absence of human forms, or implements of household use, that therancheriawas abandoned by its half nomad population. Such in reality was the fact, for it was now the very height of the dry season. Two or three roads branched out from this miserable group of huts, leading off into a thick forest which surrounded it on all sides. They were rather paths than roads, for the tracks which they followed were scarce cleared of the timber that once grew upon them. At the point of junction of these roads the individual alluded to had placed himself; and his attitude of perfect ease told that he was under no apprehension from the profound and awe-inspiring loneliness of the place. The croak of the ravens flitting from tree to tree hoarsely uttered in their flight; the cry of thechaculucasas they welcomed the rising sun, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the scene.
Presently the white fog of the night began to rise upward and disappear under the strength of the sunbeams. Only a few flakes of it still hung over the tops of the mezquite and iron-wood trees that grew thickly around the huts.
Near where the man lay, there might be seen the remains of a large fire. It had been kindled no doubt to protect him from the chill dews of the night; and it now served him to prepare his breakfast. Some small cakes of wheaten meal, with few pieces oftasajo, were already placed upon the red embers of the fire; but notwithstanding that these would made but a meagre repast the man appeared eagerly to await the enjoyment of it.
Near at hand, with a frugality equal to that of his master, a horse was browsing upon the tufts of dry yellow grass, that grew thinly over the ground. This horse, with a saddle and bridle lying near, proved the solitary individual to be a traveller. Contrary to the usual custom of the country, the horse had nolazo, or fastening of any kind upon him; but was free to wander where he pleased.
The costume of the traveller consisted in a sort of jacket or vest of brick-coloured leather, without buttons or any opening in front, but drawn over the head after the manner of a shirt. Wide pantaloons of the same material, open from the knee downwards, and fastened at the waist by a scarf of red China crape. Under the pantaloons, and covering the calf of the leg nearly up to the knee, could be seen thebotasof strong stamped leather, in one of which was stuck a long knife with a horn hilt—thus ready to the hand whether the owner was seated, standing, or on horseback. A large felt hat, banded with atoquillaof Venetian pearls, completed a costume sufficiently picturesque, the vivid colours of which were in harmony with that of theserapéon which the traveller was reclining. This costume denoted one of those men accustomed to gallop among the thorny jungles that cover the desert steppes of North Mexico; and who in their expeditions, whether against Indian enemies, or for whatever purpose, sleep with indifference under the shadow of a tree, or the open heaven itself,—in the forest, or upon the naked plain.
There was in the features of this traveller a singular mixture of brutal ferocity and careless good-humour. A crooked nose, with thick bushy eyebrows, and black eyes that sparkled from time to time with a malicious fire, gave to his countenance a sinister aspect, and belied the expression of his mouth and lips, that presented rather a pleasant and smiling contour. But the man’s features, when viewed as a whole, could not fail to inspire a certain feeling of repulsiveness mingled with fear. A short carbine that lay by his side, together with the long knife, whose haft protruded above the top of his boots, did not in any way tame down the ferocious aspect of his face. On the contrary they proclaimed him one whom it would not be desirable to have for a companion in the desert.
Despite thenonchalanceof his attitude, it was evident that he awaited some one; but as everything in these countries is on a large scale, so also is the virtue of patience. This outlaw—for everything about him signified that he was one of some sort—this outlaw, we say, having made three days’ journey before arriving upon the ground where he now was, thought nothing of a few hours, less or more, spent in expectation. In the desert, he who has travelled a hundred leagues, will consider it a mere bagatelle to wait for a hundred hours: unlike to him who keeps an appointment in the midst of a great city, where a delay of a quarter of an hour will be endured with feverish impatience.
So it was with our solitary traveller; and when the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard at some distance off in the forest, he did nothing more than to make a slight change in the attitude in which he had been reclining; while his steed, also hearing the same sounds, tossed up his head and neighed joyously. The hoof-strokes each moment were heard more distinctly; and it was evident that a horseman was galloping rapidly in the direction of the huts. After a little the strokes became more gentle, and the gallop appeared to be changed to a walk. The rider was approaching with caution.
A few seconds intervened, and then upon one of the roads—that leading to Arispe—the horseman was perceived coming on at a slow and cautious pace.
On perceiving the traveller, still half reclining upon hisserapé, the horseman drew his rein still tighter and halted, and the two men remained for some seconds regarding each other with a fixed and interrogative glance.
Chapter Seven.Two Honest Gentlemen.The new-comer was a tall man with a dark complexion, and thick black beard, costumed very similarly to the other—in vest and pantaloons of brick-red leather, felt sombrero, sash, and boots. He was mounted upon a strong active horse.It may appear strange that during the period of mutual examination, each of these two men made a very similar reflection about the other; but it was scarcely strange either, considering that both presented an equally suspicious aspect.“Carramba!” muttered the horseman as he eyed the man on theserapé, “if I wasn’t sure that he is the gentleman I have been sent to meet, I should believe that I had chanced upon a very unlucky acquaintance.”At the same instant he upon the ground said to himself—“Por Dios! if that infernal Seven of Spades had left any dollars in my purse, I should have considered them in danger of being taken out of it just now.”Despite the nature of his reflection, the horseman did not hesitate any longer, but spurring his horse forward to the edge of the fire, lifted his hat courteously from his head, and saluted him on the ground, at the same time saying interrogatively:—“No doubt it is the Señor Don Pedro Cuchillo I have the honour to address?”“The same, cavallero!” replied the other, rising to his feet, and returning the salute with no less politeness than it had been given.“Cavallero! I have been sent forward to meet you, and announce to you the approach of the Señor Arechiza, who at this time cannot be many leagues distant. My name is Manuel Baraja, your very humble servant.”“Your honour will dismount?”The horseman did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, but at once flung himself from the saddle. After unbuckling his enormous spurs, he speedily unsaddled his horse, fastened a long lazo around his neck, and then giving him a smart cut with the short whip which he carried, despatched the animal without further ceremony to share the meagre provender of his companion.At this movement thetasajo, beginning to sputter over the coals, gave out an odour that resembled the smell of a dying lamp. Notwithstanding this, Baraja cast towards it a look of longing.“It appears to me Señor Cuchillo,” said he, “that you are well provided here. Carramba!—tortillas, of wheaten meal!tasajo!—it is a repast for a prince!”“Oh, yes,” replied Cuchillo, with a certain air of foppishness, “I treat myself well. It makes me happy to know that the dish is to your liking; I beg to assure you, it is quite at your service.”“You are very good, and I accept your offer without ceremony. The morning air has sharpened my appetite.”And saying this, Baraja proceeded to the mastication of the tassajo and tortillas. After being thus engaged for some time, he once more addressed himself to his host.“Dare I tell you, Señor Cuchillo, the favourable impression I had of you at first sight?”“Oh! you shock my modesty, señor. I would rather state the good opinion your first appearance gave me ofyou!”The two new friends here exchanged a salute, full of affability, and then continued to eat, Baraja harpooning upon the point of his long knife another piece of meat out of the ashes.“If it please you, Señor Baraja,” said Cuchillo, “we may talk over our business while we are eating. You will find me a hostsans cérémonie.”“Just what pleases me.”“Don Estevan, then, has received the message which I sent him?”“He has, but what that message was is only known to you and him.”“No doubt of that,” muttered Cuchillo to himself.“The Señor Arechiza,” continued theenvoy, “started for Tubac shortly after receiving your letter. It was my duty to accompany him, but he ordered me to proceed in advance of him with these commands: ‘In the little village of Huerfano you will find a man, by name Cuchillo; you shall say to him that the proposal he makes to me deserves serious attention; and that since the place he has designated as a rendezvous is on the way to Tubac, I will see him on my journey.’ This instruction was given by Don Estevan an hour or so before his departure, but although I have ridden a little faster to execute his orders, he cannot be far behind me.”“Good! Señor Baraja, good!” exclaimed Cuchillo, evidently pleased with the communication just made, “and if the business which I have with Don Estevan be satisfactorily concluded—which I am in hopes it will be—you are likely to have me for a comrade in this distant expedition. But,” continued he, suddenly changing the subject, “you will, no doubt, be astonished that I have given Don Estevan a rendezvous in such a singular place as this?”“No,” coolly replied Baraja, “you may have reasons for being partial to solitude. Who does not love it at times?”A most gracious smile playing upon the countenance of Cuchillo, denoted that his new acquaintance had correctly divined the truth.“Precisely,” he replied, “the ill-behaviour of a friend towards me, and the malevolent hostility of the alcalde of Arispe have caused me to seek this tranquil retreat. That is just why I have established my headquarters in an abandoned village, where there is not a soul to keep company with.”“Señor Don Pedro,” replied Baraja, “I have already formed too good an opinion of you not to believe that the fault is entirely upon the side of the alcalde, and especially on the part of your friend.”“I thank you, Señor Baraja, for you good opinion,” returned Cuchillo, at the same time taking from the cinders a piece of the meat, half burnt, half raw, and munching it down with the most perfect indifference; “I thank you sincerely, and when I tell you the circumstances you may judge for yourself.”“I shall be glad to hear them,” said the other, easing himself down into a horizontal position; “after a good repast, there is nothing I so much enjoy as a good story.”After saying this, and lighting his cigarette, Baraja turned upon the broad of his back, and with his eyes fixed upon the blue sky, appeared to enjoy a perfect beatitude.“The story is neither long nor interesting,” responded Cuchillo; “what happened to me might happen to all the world. I was engaged with this friend in a quiet game of cards, when he pretended that I hadtrickedhim. The affair came to words—”Here the narrator paused for an instant, to take a drink from his leathern bottle, and then continued—“My friend had the indelicacy to permit himself to drop down dead in my presence.”“What at your words?”“No, with the stab of a knife which I gave him,” coolly replied the outlaw.“Ah! no doubt your friend was in the wrong, and you received great provocation?”“The alcalde did not think so. He pestered me in the most absurd manner. I could have forgiven the bitterness of his persecution of me, had it not been that I was myself bitterly roused at the ill-behaviour of my friend, whom up to that time I had highly esteemed.”“Ah! one has always to suffer from one’s friends,” rejoined Baraja, sending up a puff of smoke from his corn-husk cigarette.“Well—one thing,” said Cuchillo, “the result of it all is that I have made a vow never to play another card; for the cards, as you see, were the original cause of this ugly affair.”“A good resolution,” said Baraja, “and just such as I have come to myself. I have promised never to touch another card; they have cost me a fortune—in fact, altogether ruined me.”“Ruined you? you have been rich then?”“Alas! I had a splendid estate—ahacienda de ganados(cattle farm) with a numerous flock upon it. I had a lawyer for myintendant, who took care of the estate while I spent my time in town. But when I came to settle accounts with this fellow I found I had let them run too long. I discovered that half my estate belonged to him!”“What did you do then?”“The only thing I could do,” answered Baraja, with the air of a cavalier, “was to stake my remaining half against his on a game, and let the winner take the whole.”“Did he accept this proposal?”“After a fashion.”“What fashion?”“Why, you see I am too timid when I play in presence of company, and certain to lose. I prefer, therefore, to play in the open air, and in some quiet corner of the woods. There I feel more at my ease; and if I should lose—considering that it was my whole fortune that was at stake—I should not expose my chagrin to the whole world. These were the considerations that prompted me to propose the conditions of our playing alone.”“And did the lawyer agree to your conditions?”“Not a bit of it.”“What a droll fellow he must have been!”“He would only play in the presence of witnesses.”“And you were forced to his terms?”“To my great regret, I was.”“And of course you lost—being so nervous in presence of company?”“I lost the second half of my fortune as I had done the first. The only thing I kept back was the horse you see, and even him my ex-intendant insisted upon having as part of the bet. To-day I have no other hope than to make my fortune in this Tubac expedition, and if I should do so I may get back, and settle accounts with the knave. After that game, however, I swore I should never play another card; and, carramba! I have kept my oath.”“How long since this happened?”“Five days.”“The devil!—You deserve credit for keeping your word.”The two adventurers after having exchanged these confidences, began to talk over their hopes founded on the approaching expedition—of the marvellous sights that they would be likely to see—but more especially of the dangers that might have to be encountered.“Bah!” said Baraja, speaking of these; “better to die than live wearing a coat out at elbows.”Cuchillo was of the same opinion.Meanwhile the sun was growing hotter and hotter. A burning wind began to blow through the trees, and the horses of the two travellers, suffering from thirst, uttered their plaintive neighings. The men themselves sought out the thickest shade to protect them from the fervid rays of the sun, and for a while both observed a complete silence.Baraja was the first to resume the conversation.“You may laugh at me, Señor Cuchillo,” said he, fanning himself with his felt hat, “but to say the truth the time appears very long to me when I am not playing.”“The same with myself,” hastily responded Cuchillo.“What do you say to our staking, on word of honour, a little of that gold we are going to find?”“Just what I was thinking myself, but I daren’t propose it to you;—I am quite agreeable.”Without further parley each of the two thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a pack of cards—with which, notwithstanding the oath they had taken, both were provided.The play was about to commence, when the sound of a bell, and the clattering of hoofs at a distance, announced the approach, most probably, of the important personage whom Cuchillo awaited.
The new-comer was a tall man with a dark complexion, and thick black beard, costumed very similarly to the other—in vest and pantaloons of brick-red leather, felt sombrero, sash, and boots. He was mounted upon a strong active horse.
It may appear strange that during the period of mutual examination, each of these two men made a very similar reflection about the other; but it was scarcely strange either, considering that both presented an equally suspicious aspect.
“Carramba!” muttered the horseman as he eyed the man on theserapé, “if I wasn’t sure that he is the gentleman I have been sent to meet, I should believe that I had chanced upon a very unlucky acquaintance.”
At the same instant he upon the ground said to himself—
“Por Dios! if that infernal Seven of Spades had left any dollars in my purse, I should have considered them in danger of being taken out of it just now.”
Despite the nature of his reflection, the horseman did not hesitate any longer, but spurring his horse forward to the edge of the fire, lifted his hat courteously from his head, and saluted him on the ground, at the same time saying interrogatively:—
“No doubt it is the Señor Don Pedro Cuchillo I have the honour to address?”
“The same, cavallero!” replied the other, rising to his feet, and returning the salute with no less politeness than it had been given.
“Cavallero! I have been sent forward to meet you, and announce to you the approach of the Señor Arechiza, who at this time cannot be many leagues distant. My name is Manuel Baraja, your very humble servant.”
“Your honour will dismount?”
The horseman did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, but at once flung himself from the saddle. After unbuckling his enormous spurs, he speedily unsaddled his horse, fastened a long lazo around his neck, and then giving him a smart cut with the short whip which he carried, despatched the animal without further ceremony to share the meagre provender of his companion.
At this movement thetasajo, beginning to sputter over the coals, gave out an odour that resembled the smell of a dying lamp. Notwithstanding this, Baraja cast towards it a look of longing.
“It appears to me Señor Cuchillo,” said he, “that you are well provided here. Carramba!—tortillas, of wheaten meal!tasajo!—it is a repast for a prince!”
“Oh, yes,” replied Cuchillo, with a certain air of foppishness, “I treat myself well. It makes me happy to know that the dish is to your liking; I beg to assure you, it is quite at your service.”
“You are very good, and I accept your offer without ceremony. The morning air has sharpened my appetite.”
And saying this, Baraja proceeded to the mastication of the tassajo and tortillas. After being thus engaged for some time, he once more addressed himself to his host.
“Dare I tell you, Señor Cuchillo, the favourable impression I had of you at first sight?”
“Oh! you shock my modesty, señor. I would rather state the good opinion your first appearance gave me ofyou!”
The two new friends here exchanged a salute, full of affability, and then continued to eat, Baraja harpooning upon the point of his long knife another piece of meat out of the ashes.
“If it please you, Señor Baraja,” said Cuchillo, “we may talk over our business while we are eating. You will find me a hostsans cérémonie.”
“Just what pleases me.”
“Don Estevan, then, has received the message which I sent him?”
“He has, but what that message was is only known to you and him.”
“No doubt of that,” muttered Cuchillo to himself.
“The Señor Arechiza,” continued theenvoy, “started for Tubac shortly after receiving your letter. It was my duty to accompany him, but he ordered me to proceed in advance of him with these commands: ‘In the little village of Huerfano you will find a man, by name Cuchillo; you shall say to him that the proposal he makes to me deserves serious attention; and that since the place he has designated as a rendezvous is on the way to Tubac, I will see him on my journey.’ This instruction was given by Don Estevan an hour or so before his departure, but although I have ridden a little faster to execute his orders, he cannot be far behind me.”
“Good! Señor Baraja, good!” exclaimed Cuchillo, evidently pleased with the communication just made, “and if the business which I have with Don Estevan be satisfactorily concluded—which I am in hopes it will be—you are likely to have me for a comrade in this distant expedition. But,” continued he, suddenly changing the subject, “you will, no doubt, be astonished that I have given Don Estevan a rendezvous in such a singular place as this?”
“No,” coolly replied Baraja, “you may have reasons for being partial to solitude. Who does not love it at times?”
A most gracious smile playing upon the countenance of Cuchillo, denoted that his new acquaintance had correctly divined the truth.
“Precisely,” he replied, “the ill-behaviour of a friend towards me, and the malevolent hostility of the alcalde of Arispe have caused me to seek this tranquil retreat. That is just why I have established my headquarters in an abandoned village, where there is not a soul to keep company with.”
“Señor Don Pedro,” replied Baraja, “I have already formed too good an opinion of you not to believe that the fault is entirely upon the side of the alcalde, and especially on the part of your friend.”
“I thank you, Señor Baraja, for you good opinion,” returned Cuchillo, at the same time taking from the cinders a piece of the meat, half burnt, half raw, and munching it down with the most perfect indifference; “I thank you sincerely, and when I tell you the circumstances you may judge for yourself.”
“I shall be glad to hear them,” said the other, easing himself down into a horizontal position; “after a good repast, there is nothing I so much enjoy as a good story.”
After saying this, and lighting his cigarette, Baraja turned upon the broad of his back, and with his eyes fixed upon the blue sky, appeared to enjoy a perfect beatitude.
“The story is neither long nor interesting,” responded Cuchillo; “what happened to me might happen to all the world. I was engaged with this friend in a quiet game of cards, when he pretended that I hadtrickedhim. The affair came to words—”
Here the narrator paused for an instant, to take a drink from his leathern bottle, and then continued—
“My friend had the indelicacy to permit himself to drop down dead in my presence.”
“What at your words?”
“No, with the stab of a knife which I gave him,” coolly replied the outlaw.
“Ah! no doubt your friend was in the wrong, and you received great provocation?”
“The alcalde did not think so. He pestered me in the most absurd manner. I could have forgiven the bitterness of his persecution of me, had it not been that I was myself bitterly roused at the ill-behaviour of my friend, whom up to that time I had highly esteemed.”
“Ah! one has always to suffer from one’s friends,” rejoined Baraja, sending up a puff of smoke from his corn-husk cigarette.
“Well—one thing,” said Cuchillo, “the result of it all is that I have made a vow never to play another card; for the cards, as you see, were the original cause of this ugly affair.”
“A good resolution,” said Baraja, “and just such as I have come to myself. I have promised never to touch another card; they have cost me a fortune—in fact, altogether ruined me.”
“Ruined you? you have been rich then?”
“Alas! I had a splendid estate—ahacienda de ganados(cattle farm) with a numerous flock upon it. I had a lawyer for myintendant, who took care of the estate while I spent my time in town. But when I came to settle accounts with this fellow I found I had let them run too long. I discovered that half my estate belonged to him!”
“What did you do then?”
“The only thing I could do,” answered Baraja, with the air of a cavalier, “was to stake my remaining half against his on a game, and let the winner take the whole.”
“Did he accept this proposal?”
“After a fashion.”
“What fashion?”
“Why, you see I am too timid when I play in presence of company, and certain to lose. I prefer, therefore, to play in the open air, and in some quiet corner of the woods. There I feel more at my ease; and if I should lose—considering that it was my whole fortune that was at stake—I should not expose my chagrin to the whole world. These were the considerations that prompted me to propose the conditions of our playing alone.”
“And did the lawyer agree to your conditions?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“What a droll fellow he must have been!”
“He would only play in the presence of witnesses.”
“And you were forced to his terms?”
“To my great regret, I was.”
“And of course you lost—being so nervous in presence of company?”
“I lost the second half of my fortune as I had done the first. The only thing I kept back was the horse you see, and even him my ex-intendant insisted upon having as part of the bet. To-day I have no other hope than to make my fortune in this Tubac expedition, and if I should do so I may get back, and settle accounts with the knave. After that game, however, I swore I should never play another card; and, carramba! I have kept my oath.”
“How long since this happened?”
“Five days.”
“The devil!—You deserve credit for keeping your word.”
The two adventurers after having exchanged these confidences, began to talk over their hopes founded on the approaching expedition—of the marvellous sights that they would be likely to see—but more especially of the dangers that might have to be encountered.
“Bah!” said Baraja, speaking of these; “better to die than live wearing a coat out at elbows.”
Cuchillo was of the same opinion.
Meanwhile the sun was growing hotter and hotter. A burning wind began to blow through the trees, and the horses of the two travellers, suffering from thirst, uttered their plaintive neighings. The men themselves sought out the thickest shade to protect them from the fervid rays of the sun, and for a while both observed a complete silence.
Baraja was the first to resume the conversation.
“You may laugh at me, Señor Cuchillo,” said he, fanning himself with his felt hat, “but to say the truth the time appears very long to me when I am not playing.”
“The same with myself,” hastily responded Cuchillo.
“What do you say to our staking, on word of honour, a little of that gold we are going to find?”
“Just what I was thinking myself, but I daren’t propose it to you;—I am quite agreeable.”
Without further parley each of the two thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a pack of cards—with which, notwithstanding the oath they had taken, both were provided.
The play was about to commence, when the sound of a bell, and the clattering of hoofs at a distance, announced the approach, most probably, of the important personage whom Cuchillo awaited.
Chapter Eight.The Senator Tragaduros.The two players suspended operations, and turned their faces in the direction whence came the sounds.At some distance along the road, a cloud of dust suddenly rising, indicated the approach of a troop of horses.They were without riders. One only was mounted; and that was ridden by the driver of the troop. In short, it was aremuda—such as rich travellers in the north of Mexico usually take along with them for a remount. These horses, on account of the half-wild life they lead upon the vast plains where they are pastured, after a gallop of twenty leagues without carrying a rider, are almost as fresh as if just taken out of the stable. On long routes, each is saddled and mounted at regular intervals; and in this way a journey is performed almost as rapidly as by a mail express, with relays already established.According to usual custom, abell-marepreceded this drove, which appeared to consist of about thirty horses. It was this bell that had first attracted the attention of the players.When within a hundred yards or so of the huts, the driver of theremudagalloped to the front, and catching the bell-mare, brought her to a stop. The other horses halted on the instant.Shortly after, five cavaliers appeared through the dust, riding in the direction of the huts. Two were in advance of the other three, who, following at a little distance, were acting as attendants or servants.The most distinguished looking of the two who rode in advance, was a man of somewhat over medium height. He appeared to have passed the age of forty. A greyish-colouredsombrero, with broad brim, screened his face from the fervent sunbeams. He was habited in a pelisse, ordolman, of dark blue, richly laced with gold, and almost concealed under a large white kerchief, embroidered with sky-blue silk, and known in Mexico aspano de sol. Under the fiery atmosphere, the white colour of this species of scarf, like theburnousof the Arabs, serves to moderate the rays of the sun, and for this purpose was it worn by the cavalier in question. Upon his feet were boots of yellow Cordovan leather, and over these, large spurs, the straps of which were stitched with gold and silver wire. These spurs, with their huge five-pointed rowels, and little bells, gave out a silvery clinking that kept time to the march of the horse—sounds most agreeable to the ear of the Mexicancavallero.Amango, richly slashed with gold lace, hung over the pommel of the saddle in front of the horseman, half covering with its folds a pair of wide pantaloons, garnished throughout their whole length with buttons of filigree gold. In fine, the saddle, embroidered like the straps of the spurs, completed a costume that, in the eyes of a European, would recall the souvenirs of the middle ages. For all that, the horseman in question did not require a rich dress to give him an air of distinction. There was that in his bearing and physiognomy that denoted a man accustomed to command and perfectlyau faitto the world.His companion, much younger, was dressed with far more pretension: but his insignificant figure, though not wanting in a certain degree of elegance, was far from having the aristocratic appearance of him with the embroidered kerchief.The three servants that followed—with faces blackened by dust and sun, and half savage figures—carried long lances adorned with scarlet pennons, andlazoshung coiled from the pommels of their saddles. These strange attendants gave to the group that singular appearance peculiar to a cavalcade of Mexican travellers. Several mules, pack laden, and carrying enormous valises, followed in the rear. These valises contained provisions and theménagenecessary for a halt.On seeing Cuchillo and Baraja, the foremost of the two cavaliers halted, and the troop followed his example.“’Tis the Señor Don Estevan,” said Baraja, in a subdued voice. “This is the man, señor,” he continued, presenting Cuchillo to the cavalier with thepano de sol.Don Estevan—for it was he—fixed upon Cuchillo a piercing glance, that appeared to penetrate to the bottom of his soul, at the same time the look denoted a slight expression of surprise.“I have the honour to kiss the hands of your excellency,” said Cuchillo. “As you see, it is I who—”But in spite of his habitual assurance, the outlaw paused, trembling as vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory; for these two men had met before, though not for a very long time.“Eh! if I don’t deceive myself,” interrupted the Spaniard, in an ironical tone, “the Señor Cuchillo and I are old acquaintances—though formerly I knew him by a different name?”“So too your excellency, who was then called—”Arechiza frowned till the hairs of his black moustache seemed to stand on end. The outlaw did not finish his speech. He saw that it was not the time to tell what he knew; but this species of complicity appeared to restore him to his wonted assurance.Cuchillo was, in truth, one of those gentlemen who have the ill luck to give to whatever name they bear a prompt celebrity; and for this reason he had changed his more than once.“Señor Senator,” said Arechiza, turning toward hiscompagnon de voyage, “this place does not appear very suitable for our noon siesta?”“The Señor Tragaduros y Despilfarro, will find the shade of one of these cottages more agreeable,” interposed Cuchillo, who knew the senator of Arispe. He knew, moreover, that the latter had attached himself to the fortunes of Don Estevan, in default of better cause: and in hopes of repairing his own fortune, long since dissipated.Despite the low state of his finances, however, the Senator had not the less a real influence in the congress of Sonora; and it was this influence which Don Estevan intended using to his own advantage. Hence the companionship that now existed between them.“I agree with all my heart to your proposal,” answered Tragaduros, “the more so that we have now been nearly five hours in the saddle.”Two of the servants dismounting, took their masters’ horses by the bridle, while the other two looked after thecargasof the mules. The camp-beds were taken from the pack saddles, and carried into two of the houses that appeared the most spacious and proper.We shall leave the Senator reclining upon his mattress, to enjoy that profound slumber which is the portion of just men and travellers; while we accompany Don Estevan into the hut which he had chosen for himself, and which stood at some distance from that occupied by the legislator.
The two players suspended operations, and turned their faces in the direction whence came the sounds.
At some distance along the road, a cloud of dust suddenly rising, indicated the approach of a troop of horses.
They were without riders. One only was mounted; and that was ridden by the driver of the troop. In short, it was aremuda—such as rich travellers in the north of Mexico usually take along with them for a remount. These horses, on account of the half-wild life they lead upon the vast plains where they are pastured, after a gallop of twenty leagues without carrying a rider, are almost as fresh as if just taken out of the stable. On long routes, each is saddled and mounted at regular intervals; and in this way a journey is performed almost as rapidly as by a mail express, with relays already established.
According to usual custom, abell-marepreceded this drove, which appeared to consist of about thirty horses. It was this bell that had first attracted the attention of the players.
When within a hundred yards or so of the huts, the driver of theremudagalloped to the front, and catching the bell-mare, brought her to a stop. The other horses halted on the instant.
Shortly after, five cavaliers appeared through the dust, riding in the direction of the huts. Two were in advance of the other three, who, following at a little distance, were acting as attendants or servants.
The most distinguished looking of the two who rode in advance, was a man of somewhat over medium height. He appeared to have passed the age of forty. A greyish-colouredsombrero, with broad brim, screened his face from the fervent sunbeams. He was habited in a pelisse, ordolman, of dark blue, richly laced with gold, and almost concealed under a large white kerchief, embroidered with sky-blue silk, and known in Mexico aspano de sol. Under the fiery atmosphere, the white colour of this species of scarf, like theburnousof the Arabs, serves to moderate the rays of the sun, and for this purpose was it worn by the cavalier in question. Upon his feet were boots of yellow Cordovan leather, and over these, large spurs, the straps of which were stitched with gold and silver wire. These spurs, with their huge five-pointed rowels, and little bells, gave out a silvery clinking that kept time to the march of the horse—sounds most agreeable to the ear of the Mexicancavallero.
Amango, richly slashed with gold lace, hung over the pommel of the saddle in front of the horseman, half covering with its folds a pair of wide pantaloons, garnished throughout their whole length with buttons of filigree gold. In fine, the saddle, embroidered like the straps of the spurs, completed a costume that, in the eyes of a European, would recall the souvenirs of the middle ages. For all that, the horseman in question did not require a rich dress to give him an air of distinction. There was that in his bearing and physiognomy that denoted a man accustomed to command and perfectlyau faitto the world.
His companion, much younger, was dressed with far more pretension: but his insignificant figure, though not wanting in a certain degree of elegance, was far from having the aristocratic appearance of him with the embroidered kerchief.
The three servants that followed—with faces blackened by dust and sun, and half savage figures—carried long lances adorned with scarlet pennons, andlazoshung coiled from the pommels of their saddles. These strange attendants gave to the group that singular appearance peculiar to a cavalcade of Mexican travellers. Several mules, pack laden, and carrying enormous valises, followed in the rear. These valises contained provisions and theménagenecessary for a halt.
On seeing Cuchillo and Baraja, the foremost of the two cavaliers halted, and the troop followed his example.
“’Tis the Señor Don Estevan,” said Baraja, in a subdued voice. “This is the man, señor,” he continued, presenting Cuchillo to the cavalier with thepano de sol.
Don Estevan—for it was he—fixed upon Cuchillo a piercing glance, that appeared to penetrate to the bottom of his soul, at the same time the look denoted a slight expression of surprise.
“I have the honour to kiss the hands of your excellency,” said Cuchillo. “As you see, it is I who—”
But in spite of his habitual assurance, the outlaw paused, trembling as vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory; for these two men had met before, though not for a very long time.
“Eh! if I don’t deceive myself,” interrupted the Spaniard, in an ironical tone, “the Señor Cuchillo and I are old acquaintances—though formerly I knew him by a different name?”
“So too your excellency, who was then called—”
Arechiza frowned till the hairs of his black moustache seemed to stand on end. The outlaw did not finish his speech. He saw that it was not the time to tell what he knew; but this species of complicity appeared to restore him to his wonted assurance.
Cuchillo was, in truth, one of those gentlemen who have the ill luck to give to whatever name they bear a prompt celebrity; and for this reason he had changed his more than once.
“Señor Senator,” said Arechiza, turning toward hiscompagnon de voyage, “this place does not appear very suitable for our noon siesta?”
“The Señor Tragaduros y Despilfarro, will find the shade of one of these cottages more agreeable,” interposed Cuchillo, who knew the senator of Arispe. He knew, moreover, that the latter had attached himself to the fortunes of Don Estevan, in default of better cause: and in hopes of repairing his own fortune, long since dissipated.
Despite the low state of his finances, however, the Senator had not the less a real influence in the congress of Sonora; and it was this influence which Don Estevan intended using to his own advantage. Hence the companionship that now existed between them.
“I agree with all my heart to your proposal,” answered Tragaduros, “the more so that we have now been nearly five hours in the saddle.”
Two of the servants dismounting, took their masters’ horses by the bridle, while the other two looked after thecargasof the mules. The camp-beds were taken from the pack saddles, and carried into two of the houses that appeared the most spacious and proper.
We shall leave the Senator reclining upon his mattress, to enjoy that profound slumber which is the portion of just men and travellers; while we accompany Don Estevan into the hut which he had chosen for himself, and which stood at some distance from that occupied by the legislator.
Chapter Nine.The Compact.After having followed Don Estevan, at the invitation of the latter, inside the hovel, Cuchillo closed behind him the wattle of bamboos that served as a door. He did this with great care—as if he feared that the least noise should be heard without—and then he stood waiting for the Spaniard to initiate the conversation.The latter had seated himself on the side of his camp-bedstead, and Cuchillo also sat down, using for his seat the skull of a bullock,—which chanced to be in the house. It is the ordinary stool of this part of the country, where the luxury of chairs is still unknown—at least in the houses of the poor.“I suppose,” said Arechiza, breaking silence, “that you have a thousand reasons why I should know you by no other than your present name. I, with motives very different from yours, no doubt, desire to be here nothing more thanDon Estevan Arechiza. Now! Señor Cuchillo,” continued the speaker with a certain affectation of mockery; “let us have this grand secret that is to make your fortune and mine!”“A word first, Señor Don Estevan de Arechiza,” replied Cuchillo, in the same tone; “one word, and then you shall have it.”“I listen to you; but observe, sir, say nothing of the past—no more perfidy. We are here in a country where there aretrees, and you know how I punish traitors.”At this allusion to some past event—no doubt some mysterious souvenir—the face of the outlaw became livid.“Yes,” replied he, “I remember that it is not your fault that I was not hung to a tree. It may be more prudent not to recall old wrongs—especially as you are no longer in a conquered country, but in one of forests—forests both sombre and dumb.”There was in this response of the outlaw such an evident air of menace, that, joined with his character and sinister antecedents, it required a firm heart on the part of Don Estevan not to regret having recalled the souvenir. With a cold smile he replied:“Ha! another time I shall entrust the execution of a traitor in the hands of no human being. I shall perform that office myself,” continued he, fixing upon Cuchillo a glance which caused the latter to lower his head. “As to your threats, reserve them for people of your own kind; and never forget, that between my breast and your dagger there is an insurmountable barrier.”“Who knows?” muttered Cuchillo, dissembling the anger which was devouring him. Then in a different tone, he continued: “But I am no traitor, Señor Don Estevan; and the proposal I am now about to make to you is frank and loyal.”“We shall see, then.”“Know, then, Señor Arechiza, that for several years past I have followed the profession of agambusino, and have rambled over most of this country in the exercise of my calling. I have seen a deposit of gold such as mortal eye perhaps never looked upon!”“You have seen it, and not possessed yourself of it?”“Do not mock me, Don Estevan; I am in earnest. I have seen aplacerso rich that the man who gets it might for a whole year play the game of hell with luck all the while against him, and not be impoverished! So rich as to satisfy the most insatiable avarice; so rich, in fact, as to buy a kingdom!”At these words, which responded to some hopes and desires already conceived, Don Estevan could not hinder himself from the manifestation of a certain emotion.“So rich,” continued the outlaw, in an exalted tone, “that I would not hesitate for one instant to give my soul to the devil in exchange for it.”“The devil is not such a fool as to value so highly a soul which he knows he will getgratis. But how didyoudiscover thisplacer?”“Thus, señor. There was agambusinocalled Marcos Arellanos, who was celebrated throughout the whole province. It was he who discovered thisbonanzain company with another of the same calling as himself; but just as they were about to gather some of the gold, they were attacked by the Apache Indians. The associate of Marcos Arellanos was killed, and he himself had to run a thousand risks before he succeeded in making his escape.“It was after he came home again that by chance I met him at Tubac. There he proposed to me to join him, and go back to theplacer. I accepted his offer, and we started. We arrived safely at theGolden Valley, for by that name he called the place. Powers of Heaven!” exclaimed Cuchillo, “it only needed to see those blocks of gold shining in the sun to bring before one’s eyes a thousand dazzling visions!“Alas! we were only permitted to feast our eyes. The savages were upon us. We were compelled to fly in our turn, and I alone escaped. Poor Marcos! he fell under the horrible war clubs; and I—I have sorely grieved for him! Now, señor, this is the secret of the Golden Valley which I desire to sell to you.”“To sell to me:—and who is to answer for your fidelity?”“My own interest. I sell you the secret, but I do not intend to alienate my rights to theplacer. I have vainly endeavoured to get up an expedition such as yours, for without a strong force it would be of no use going there. It would be certain death to a party of only two or three. With your band, however, it will be easy, and success would be certain. I only ask the tenth part of all the gold that may be gathered, which I would deserve as guide of the expedition; and going as guide I will be at the same time a hostage for my good faith.”“Is that what I am to understand; you estimate the price of your secret and services a tenth part of the whole?”“That and two hundred dollars paid down to enable me to equip myself for the expedition.”“You are more reasonable than I expected, Cuchillo. Very well, then let it be so; the two hundred dollars you shall have, and I promise you the tenth part.”“Agreed.”“Agreed, and you have my word upon it. Now, answer me some questions which I wish to put. Is this Golden Valley in that part of the country where I intended to have taken my expedition?”“It is beyond the Presidio of Tubac; and since your men are to meet there you will not need to make any change in the dispositions you have already taken.”“Good. And you have seen this Golden Valley you say with your own eyes?”“I have seen it without the power of touching it. I have seen it grinding my teeth as I looked upon it, like the damned in hell who get a glimpse of Paradise.”As Cuchillo spoke, his countenance betrayed beyond doubt the anguish he felt, at his cupidity having been balked.Arechiza knew too well how to read the human physiognomy to doubt the truth of Cuchillo’s report. Two hundred dollars were to him a mere bagatelle; and taking an ebony case from his bed, small but heavy, he drew from it a rouleau of gold pieces and handed them to the gambusino, who immediately put them in his pocket.There was a little more in the rouleau than had been bargained for. The Spaniard took no notice of this, but forming a cross with his thumb and index finger of his right handà la mode Espagnole, he held it before Cuchillo, directing him to make an oath upon it.“I swear by the cross,” said the latter, “to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At the end of ten days’ journey beyond Tubac, going in a north-western direction, we shall arrive at the foot of a range of mountains. They are easy to recognise—for a thick vapour hangs over them both night and day. A little river traverses this range of hills. It is necessary to ascend it to a point where another stream runs into it. There in the angle where the two meet, is a steep hill, the summit of which is crowned by the tomb of an Indian chief. I was not near enough to distinguish the strange ornaments that surround this tomb; but at the foot of the hill there is a small lake by the side of a narrow valley in which the water from rain torrents has thrown to the surface immense treasures of gold, this is theGolden Valley.”“The way will be easily found?” inquired Don Estevan.“But difficult to travel,” replied Cuchillo. “The arid deserts will be no obstacle compared with the danger from the hostility of Indians. This tomb of one of their most celebrated chiefs they hold in superstitious veneration. It is the constant object of their pilgrimages, and it was during one of these visits that we were surprised. Arellanos and myself.”“And this Arellanos—do you think, he has not revealed this secret to any one besides yourself?”“You must know,” replied Cuchillo, “that it is a custom of the gambusinos, before starting upon any expedition, to swear before the Holy Evangelists not to reveal thebonanzasthey may find without the consent of their associates. This oath Arellanos took, and his death of course prevented him from betraying it.”“You have said that after his return from his first expedition, you met him in Tubac. Was there no woman whom he may perchance have had in his confidence?”“His wife only—he may have told it to her. But yesterday a vaquero gave me the news that she has lately died. For all that, she may have revealed the secret to her son.”“Arellanos had a son then?”“An adopted son—a young man whose father or mother no one knows anything about.”Don Estevan could not repress an involuntary movement.“This young fellow is, no doubt, the son of some poor devil of this province?” said the Spaniard, in a careless way.“No,” replied Cuchillo, “he was born in Europe, and very likely in Spain.”Arechiza appeared to fall into a reverie, his head bending towards his breast. Some souvenirs were disturbing his spirit.“This much at least is known,” continued Cuchillo. “The commander of an English brig-of-war brought him to Guaymas. He stated that the child, who spoke both French and Spanish, had been captured in an affair between the brig and a French privateer. A sailor who was either killed in the fight or taken prisoner, was beyond doubt his father. The captain of the English brig, not knowing what to do with him, gave him to Arellanos—who chanced to be in Guaymas at the time—and Arellanos brought him up and has made a man of him—my faith! that he has. Young as the fellow is, there is not such arastreadornor horse-tamer in the province.”The Spaniard, while apparently not listening to Cuchillo, did not lose a word of what he was saying; but whether he had heard enough, or that the subject was a painful one, he suddenly interrupted the gambusino:“And don’t you think, if this wonderful tracker and horse-breaker has been told the secret of his adopted father he might not be a dangerous rival to us?”Cuchillo drew himself up proudly, and replied:—“I know a man who will yield in nothing—neither at following a trail, nor taming a wild horse—to Tiburcio Arellanos; and yet this secret has been almost worthless in his keeping, since he has just sold it for the tenth part of its value!”This last argument of Cuchillo’s was sufficiently strong to convince Don Estevan that the Golden Valley was so guarded by these fierce Indians that nothing but a strong party could reach it—in short, that he himself was the only man who could set this force afoot. For a while he remained in his silent reverie. The revelations of Cuchillo in regard to the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos had opened his mind to a new set of ideas which absorbed all others. For certain motives, which we cannot here explain, he was seeking to divine whether this Tiburcio Arellanos was not the young Fabian de Mediana!Cuchillo on his part was reflecting on certain antecedents relative to the gambusino Arellanos and his adopted son; but for powerful reasons he did not mention his reflections to Don Estevan. There are reasons, however, why the reader should now be informed of their nature.The outlaw, as we have said, frequently changed his name. It was by one of these aliases used up so quickly, that he had been passing, when at the Presidio Tubac he made the acquaintance of the unfortunate Arellanos. When the latter was about starting out on his second and fatal journey—before parting with his wife and the young man whom he loved as well as if he had been his own son—he confided to his wife the object of his new expedition; and also the full particulars of the route he intended to take. Cuchillo was nevertheless ignorant of this revelation. But the knowledge which the outlaw carefully concealed, was that he himself after having reached the Golden Valley guided by Arellanos, murdered his companion, in hope of having all the treasure to himself. It was true enough that the Indians appeared afterwards, and it was with difficulty that the assassin could save his own scalp. We shall now leave him to tell his own story as to how he made the acquaintance of young Arellanos, and it will be seen that this story is a mere deception practised upon Don Estevan.“Nevertheless,” resumed Cuchillo in breaking the silence, “I was determined to free my mind from all doubt upon the subject. On my return to Arispe I repaired to the dwelling of the widow of Arellanos to inform her of the death of poor Marcos. But with the exception of the great grief which the news caused her, I observed nothing particular—nothing that could give me the least suspicion that I am not the sole possessor of the secret of the Golden Valley.”“One easily believes what he wishes to believe,” remarked Arechiza.“Hear me, Señor Don Estevan! There are two things on which I pride myself. One is, that I have a conscience easily alarmed; the other, that I am gifted with a perspicuity not easily deluded.”The Spaniard made no further objections. He was satisfied, not with the outlaw’s conscience, but his perspicuity.With regard to Tiburcio Arellanos, we need hardly state what the reader has no doubt already divined—that this young man was in reality no other than Fabian, the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana. Cuchillo has already related how the English brig brought him to Guaymas. Left without a guide to enable him to discover his family—disinherited of his rich patrimonial estates—an orphan knowing nothing of his parents, here he was in a strange land, the possessor of nothing more than a horse and a hut of bamboos.
After having followed Don Estevan, at the invitation of the latter, inside the hovel, Cuchillo closed behind him the wattle of bamboos that served as a door. He did this with great care—as if he feared that the least noise should be heard without—and then he stood waiting for the Spaniard to initiate the conversation.
The latter had seated himself on the side of his camp-bedstead, and Cuchillo also sat down, using for his seat the skull of a bullock,—which chanced to be in the house. It is the ordinary stool of this part of the country, where the luxury of chairs is still unknown—at least in the houses of the poor.
“I suppose,” said Arechiza, breaking silence, “that you have a thousand reasons why I should know you by no other than your present name. I, with motives very different from yours, no doubt, desire to be here nothing more thanDon Estevan Arechiza. Now! Señor Cuchillo,” continued the speaker with a certain affectation of mockery; “let us have this grand secret that is to make your fortune and mine!”
“A word first, Señor Don Estevan de Arechiza,” replied Cuchillo, in the same tone; “one word, and then you shall have it.”
“I listen to you; but observe, sir, say nothing of the past—no more perfidy. We are here in a country where there aretrees, and you know how I punish traitors.”
At this allusion to some past event—no doubt some mysterious souvenir—the face of the outlaw became livid.
“Yes,” replied he, “I remember that it is not your fault that I was not hung to a tree. It may be more prudent not to recall old wrongs—especially as you are no longer in a conquered country, but in one of forests—forests both sombre and dumb.”
There was in this response of the outlaw such an evident air of menace, that, joined with his character and sinister antecedents, it required a firm heart on the part of Don Estevan not to regret having recalled the souvenir. With a cold smile he replied:
“Ha! another time I shall entrust the execution of a traitor in the hands of no human being. I shall perform that office myself,” continued he, fixing upon Cuchillo a glance which caused the latter to lower his head. “As to your threats, reserve them for people of your own kind; and never forget, that between my breast and your dagger there is an insurmountable barrier.”
“Who knows?” muttered Cuchillo, dissembling the anger which was devouring him. Then in a different tone, he continued: “But I am no traitor, Señor Don Estevan; and the proposal I am now about to make to you is frank and loyal.”
“We shall see, then.”
“Know, then, Señor Arechiza, that for several years past I have followed the profession of agambusino, and have rambled over most of this country in the exercise of my calling. I have seen a deposit of gold such as mortal eye perhaps never looked upon!”
“You have seen it, and not possessed yourself of it?”
“Do not mock me, Don Estevan; I am in earnest. I have seen aplacerso rich that the man who gets it might for a whole year play the game of hell with luck all the while against him, and not be impoverished! So rich as to satisfy the most insatiable avarice; so rich, in fact, as to buy a kingdom!”
At these words, which responded to some hopes and desires already conceived, Don Estevan could not hinder himself from the manifestation of a certain emotion.
“So rich,” continued the outlaw, in an exalted tone, “that I would not hesitate for one instant to give my soul to the devil in exchange for it.”
“The devil is not such a fool as to value so highly a soul which he knows he will getgratis. But how didyoudiscover thisplacer?”
“Thus, señor. There was agambusinocalled Marcos Arellanos, who was celebrated throughout the whole province. It was he who discovered thisbonanzain company with another of the same calling as himself; but just as they were about to gather some of the gold, they were attacked by the Apache Indians. The associate of Marcos Arellanos was killed, and he himself had to run a thousand risks before he succeeded in making his escape.
“It was after he came home again that by chance I met him at Tubac. There he proposed to me to join him, and go back to theplacer. I accepted his offer, and we started. We arrived safely at theGolden Valley, for by that name he called the place. Powers of Heaven!” exclaimed Cuchillo, “it only needed to see those blocks of gold shining in the sun to bring before one’s eyes a thousand dazzling visions!
“Alas! we were only permitted to feast our eyes. The savages were upon us. We were compelled to fly in our turn, and I alone escaped. Poor Marcos! he fell under the horrible war clubs; and I—I have sorely grieved for him! Now, señor, this is the secret of the Golden Valley which I desire to sell to you.”
“To sell to me:—and who is to answer for your fidelity?”
“My own interest. I sell you the secret, but I do not intend to alienate my rights to theplacer. I have vainly endeavoured to get up an expedition such as yours, for without a strong force it would be of no use going there. It would be certain death to a party of only two or three. With your band, however, it will be easy, and success would be certain. I only ask the tenth part of all the gold that may be gathered, which I would deserve as guide of the expedition; and going as guide I will be at the same time a hostage for my good faith.”
“Is that what I am to understand; you estimate the price of your secret and services a tenth part of the whole?”
“That and two hundred dollars paid down to enable me to equip myself for the expedition.”
“You are more reasonable than I expected, Cuchillo. Very well, then let it be so; the two hundred dollars you shall have, and I promise you the tenth part.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed, and you have my word upon it. Now, answer me some questions which I wish to put. Is this Golden Valley in that part of the country where I intended to have taken my expedition?”
“It is beyond the Presidio of Tubac; and since your men are to meet there you will not need to make any change in the dispositions you have already taken.”
“Good. And you have seen this Golden Valley you say with your own eyes?”
“I have seen it without the power of touching it. I have seen it grinding my teeth as I looked upon it, like the damned in hell who get a glimpse of Paradise.”
As Cuchillo spoke, his countenance betrayed beyond doubt the anguish he felt, at his cupidity having been balked.
Arechiza knew too well how to read the human physiognomy to doubt the truth of Cuchillo’s report. Two hundred dollars were to him a mere bagatelle; and taking an ebony case from his bed, small but heavy, he drew from it a rouleau of gold pieces and handed them to the gambusino, who immediately put them in his pocket.
There was a little more in the rouleau than had been bargained for. The Spaniard took no notice of this, but forming a cross with his thumb and index finger of his right handà la mode Espagnole, he held it before Cuchillo, directing him to make an oath upon it.
“I swear by the cross,” said the latter, “to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At the end of ten days’ journey beyond Tubac, going in a north-western direction, we shall arrive at the foot of a range of mountains. They are easy to recognise—for a thick vapour hangs over them both night and day. A little river traverses this range of hills. It is necessary to ascend it to a point where another stream runs into it. There in the angle where the two meet, is a steep hill, the summit of which is crowned by the tomb of an Indian chief. I was not near enough to distinguish the strange ornaments that surround this tomb; but at the foot of the hill there is a small lake by the side of a narrow valley in which the water from rain torrents has thrown to the surface immense treasures of gold, this is theGolden Valley.”
“The way will be easily found?” inquired Don Estevan.
“But difficult to travel,” replied Cuchillo. “The arid deserts will be no obstacle compared with the danger from the hostility of Indians. This tomb of one of their most celebrated chiefs they hold in superstitious veneration. It is the constant object of their pilgrimages, and it was during one of these visits that we were surprised. Arellanos and myself.”
“And this Arellanos—do you think, he has not revealed this secret to any one besides yourself?”
“You must know,” replied Cuchillo, “that it is a custom of the gambusinos, before starting upon any expedition, to swear before the Holy Evangelists not to reveal thebonanzasthey may find without the consent of their associates. This oath Arellanos took, and his death of course prevented him from betraying it.”
“You have said that after his return from his first expedition, you met him in Tubac. Was there no woman whom he may perchance have had in his confidence?”
“His wife only—he may have told it to her. But yesterday a vaquero gave me the news that she has lately died. For all that, she may have revealed the secret to her son.”
“Arellanos had a son then?”
“An adopted son—a young man whose father or mother no one knows anything about.”
Don Estevan could not repress an involuntary movement.
“This young fellow is, no doubt, the son of some poor devil of this province?” said the Spaniard, in a careless way.
“No,” replied Cuchillo, “he was born in Europe, and very likely in Spain.”
Arechiza appeared to fall into a reverie, his head bending towards his breast. Some souvenirs were disturbing his spirit.
“This much at least is known,” continued Cuchillo. “The commander of an English brig-of-war brought him to Guaymas. He stated that the child, who spoke both French and Spanish, had been captured in an affair between the brig and a French privateer. A sailor who was either killed in the fight or taken prisoner, was beyond doubt his father. The captain of the English brig, not knowing what to do with him, gave him to Arellanos—who chanced to be in Guaymas at the time—and Arellanos brought him up and has made a man of him—my faith! that he has. Young as the fellow is, there is not such arastreadornor horse-tamer in the province.”
The Spaniard, while apparently not listening to Cuchillo, did not lose a word of what he was saying; but whether he had heard enough, or that the subject was a painful one, he suddenly interrupted the gambusino:
“And don’t you think, if this wonderful tracker and horse-breaker has been told the secret of his adopted father he might not be a dangerous rival to us?”
Cuchillo drew himself up proudly, and replied:—
“I know a man who will yield in nothing—neither at following a trail, nor taming a wild horse—to Tiburcio Arellanos; and yet this secret has been almost worthless in his keeping, since he has just sold it for the tenth part of its value!”
This last argument of Cuchillo’s was sufficiently strong to convince Don Estevan that the Golden Valley was so guarded by these fierce Indians that nothing but a strong party could reach it—in short, that he himself was the only man who could set this force afoot. For a while he remained in his silent reverie. The revelations of Cuchillo in regard to the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos had opened his mind to a new set of ideas which absorbed all others. For certain motives, which we cannot here explain, he was seeking to divine whether this Tiburcio Arellanos was not the young Fabian de Mediana!
Cuchillo on his part was reflecting on certain antecedents relative to the gambusino Arellanos and his adopted son; but for powerful reasons he did not mention his reflections to Don Estevan. There are reasons, however, why the reader should now be informed of their nature.
The outlaw, as we have said, frequently changed his name. It was by one of these aliases used up so quickly, that he had been passing, when at the Presidio Tubac he made the acquaintance of the unfortunate Arellanos. When the latter was about starting out on his second and fatal journey—before parting with his wife and the young man whom he loved as well as if he had been his own son—he confided to his wife the object of his new expedition; and also the full particulars of the route he intended to take. Cuchillo was nevertheless ignorant of this revelation. But the knowledge which the outlaw carefully concealed, was that he himself after having reached the Golden Valley guided by Arellanos, murdered his companion, in hope of having all the treasure to himself. It was true enough that the Indians appeared afterwards, and it was with difficulty that the assassin could save his own scalp. We shall now leave him to tell his own story as to how he made the acquaintance of young Arellanos, and it will be seen that this story is a mere deception practised upon Don Estevan.
“Nevertheless,” resumed Cuchillo in breaking the silence, “I was determined to free my mind from all doubt upon the subject. On my return to Arispe I repaired to the dwelling of the widow of Arellanos to inform her of the death of poor Marcos. But with the exception of the great grief which the news caused her, I observed nothing particular—nothing that could give me the least suspicion that I am not the sole possessor of the secret of the Golden Valley.”
“One easily believes what he wishes to believe,” remarked Arechiza.
“Hear me, Señor Don Estevan! There are two things on which I pride myself. One is, that I have a conscience easily alarmed; the other, that I am gifted with a perspicuity not easily deluded.”
The Spaniard made no further objections. He was satisfied, not with the outlaw’s conscience, but his perspicuity.
With regard to Tiburcio Arellanos, we need hardly state what the reader has no doubt already divined—that this young man was in reality no other than Fabian, the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana. Cuchillo has already related how the English brig brought him to Guaymas. Left without a guide to enable him to discover his family—disinherited of his rich patrimonial estates—an orphan knowing nothing of his parents, here he was in a strange land, the possessor of nothing more than a horse and a hut of bamboos.