Gustave Aimard
Stronghand: or, The Noble Revenge

Although the hunters had, from excess of precaution, formed torches of ocote wood to help them, the darkness was so complete – the trees were so close together – that it was with extreme difficulty that they succeeded in advancing in this inextricable labyrinth. Forced to take continual detours– obliged at times to walk in water up to their waists – deafened by the discordant cries of the birds, which the flash of the torches aroused – they saw all around them the wild beasts flying, with hoarse roars and eyes glaring through the darkness. It was then that Doña Marianna fully comprehended what frightful peril she had escaped, and how certain her death would have been, had not the hunter come to her assistance with such noble self-devotion; and at the remembrance of all that had occurred, and which was now but a dream, a convulsive tremor passed over her limbs, and she felt as if she were about to faint. Stronghand, who seemed to guess what was going on in the maiden's mind, frequently spoke to her, in order to change the current of her ideas by compelling her to answer him. They had been marching for a long distance, and the forest seemed as savage as when they started.

"Do you believe," Doña Marianna asked, "that we are on the right road?"

"Even admitting, señora, what might be possible," the hunter answered, "that Mariano and myself were capable of falling into an error, we have with us an infallible guide in Bigote, who, you may be quite certain, will not lead us astray."

"Within ten minutes, señorita," the tigrero said, "we shall enter the road that runs from the rancho to the hacienda."

All at once the two men stopped. At the same moment Doña Marianna heard shouts that seemed to answer each other in various directions.

"Forward! Forward!" said Stronghand; "Let us not leave your relatives and friends in anxiety longer than we can help."

"Thanks," she answered.

They continued their march; and, as the tigrero had announced, in scarce ten minutes they reached the road to the hacienda.

"What shall we do now?" Marianna asked.

"I think," Stronghand answered, "that we ought to announce our presence by a cry for help, and then proceed in the direction of those who answer us. What is your opinion, señora?"

"Yes," she said, "I think we ought to do so; for otherwise we run a risk of reaching the hacienda without meeting any of the persons sent to seek me, and who might continue their search till morning, which would be ingratitude on my part."

"You are right, niña; for all these worthy people are attached to you, and besides, your brother and Don Paredes are also seeking you."

"That is a further reason why we should hasten to announce our return," the young lady answered.

The two hunters, after consulting for a moment, uttered together that long shrill yell, which, in the desert as in the mountains, serves as the rallying cry, and may be heard for an enormous distance. Almost immediately the whole forest seemed to be aroused; similar cries broke out in all directions, and the hunters noticed red dots running with extreme rapidity between the trees, and all converging on the spot where they stood, as if they radiated from a common centre. Certain of having been heard, the hunters once again uttered their shout for help. The reply was not delayed; the galloping of horses soon became distinct, and then riders, holding torches, appeared from all parts of the forest coming at full speed, waving their hands, and resembling the fantastic huntsmen of the old German legends. In a few minutes all the persons were assembled round the litter on which the young lady reclined; and Don Ruiz and the majordomo were not long ere they arrived. We will not describe the joy of brother and sister on seeing each other again.

"Brother," Doña Marianna said to Don Ruiz, "if you find me still alive, you owe it to the man who before saved us both from the pirates of the prairies; had it not been for him, I should have been lost."

"You may safely say that, and no mistake," Marianna said, in confirmation.

"Where is he?" Don Ruiz asked – "Where is he? that I may express all my gratitude to him."

But he was sought for in vain. During the first moment of confusion, Stronghand had summoned a peon to take his place – had glided unnoticed into the forest and disappeared – no one being able to say in what direction he had gone.

"Why this flight?" Doña Marianna murmured, with a stifled sigh; "Does this strange man fear lest our gratitude should prove too warm?"

And she thoughtfully bowed her head on her bosom.

CHAPTER XXIII
CHANCE WORK

Although he allowed nothing to be visible, Don Ruiz was vexed at heart with the affectation the hunter seemed to display in avoiding him, and escaping from his thanks. This savageness in a man to whom he owed such serious obligations appeared to him to conceal either a disguised enmity, or dark schemes whose accomplishment he feared, though he could not assign any plausible motive for them, especially after the manner in which the hunter had not hesitated on two occasions to imperil his life in assisting himself and his sister. These thoughts, which incessantly thronged to the mind of Don Ruiz, plunged him into deep trouble for some moments; still, when the peons he had sent off to seek the hunter all returned one after the other, declaring that they could not possibly find his trail, the young man shook his head several times, frowned, and then gave orders for the start.

Doña Marianna's return to the hacienda was a real triumphal procession. The peons, delighted at having found their mistress again safe and sound, gaily bore her on their shoulders, laughing, singing, and dancing along the road, not knowing how otherwise to express their joy, and yet desirous to make her comprehend the pleasure they felt. In spite of the fatigue that crushed her, and the state of exhaustion into which she had fallen through the terrific emotions she had undergone, Doña Marianna, sensible of these manifestations of gratitude, made energetic efforts in order to appear to share their joy, and prove to them how greatly she was affected by it. But, although she gave them her sweetest smiles and gentlest words, she could not have endured much longer the constraint, and she was really exhausted when the little party at length reached the hacienda.

The Marquis, who was suffering the most frightful agitation, had gone to the last gate to meet them, and would possibly have gone further still, had not Don Ruiz taken the precaution, so soon as his sister was found, to send off a peon to tranquillize his mind and announce the successful result. At the first moment the Marquis completely forgot his aristocratic pride, only to think of the happiness of pressing to his heart the child he feared he had lost for ever. Don Rufino Contreras, carried away by the example, shared in the general joy, and pretended to pump up a tear of sympathy while fixing on the young lady his huge grey eyes, to which he tried in vain to give a tender expression.

The maiden threw herself with an outburst of tears into her father's arms, and at length, yielding to her feelings, fainted – an accident which, by arousing the anxiety of the spectators, cut short all the demonstrations. Doña Marianna was conveyed to her apartments, and the peons were dismissed after the majordomo had, by the order of the Marquis, distributed among them pesetas and tragos of refino, which set the crown of the delight of these worthy fellows.

In spite of the offer of No Paredes, who invited him to spend the night at the hacienda, the tigrero would not consent; and after freeing Bigote from the jaguars' skins, which seemed to cause the dog considerable pleasure, they both started gaily for the rancho. It was about two o'clock, a.m., and a splendid night, and the tigrero, with his gun under his arm and his dog at his heels, was walking at a steady pace while whistling a merry jarana, when, just as he was entering the shadow of the forest, Stronghand suddenly emerged from a thicket two paces ahead of him.

"Hilloh!" the tigrero said, on recognising him; "Where the deuce did you get to just now, that it was impossible to find you? What bee was buzzing in your bonnet?"

The hunter shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you fancy," he replied, "that it is so very pleasant to be stared at by those semi-idiotic peons for performing so simple a deed as mine was?"

"Well, opinions are free, compadre, and I will not argue with you on that score; still, I should not have run off in that way."

"¿Quién sabe? You are more modest than you like to show, brother; and I feel certain that, under similar circumstances, you would have acted as I did."

"That is possible, though I do not believe it; still, I thank you," he added, with a laugh, "for having discovered in me a quality which I was not aware I possessed. But where on earth are you going at such an hour?"

"I was looking for you."

"In that case all is for the best, since you have found me; what do you want of me?"

"To ask hospitality of you for a few days."

"Our house is not large, but sufficiently so to contain a guest, especially when you are he; you can remain with us so long as you please."

"I thank you, gossip, but I shall not abuse your complaisance; I am obliged to remain for a few days in these parts, and, as the nights are fresh, I will confess that I prefer passing them under a roof instead of the star spangled arch of heaven."

"As you please, Stronghand; the door of my humble rancho is ever open to let you in or out. I do not want to know the reason for your stay here; but the longer you remain with us, the greater honour and pleasure you will afford us."

"Thanks, comrade."

All was settled in a few words. The two men continued their walk, and soon reached the rancho. The tigrero led the hunter to his bedroom, where they lay down side by side, and soon fell asleep. A few days elapsed, during which the hunter saw Doña Marianna several times, while careful not to let her notice him, although it was evident to Stronghand that the young lady would have liked nothing better than meeting him; perhaps she really desired it, without daring to confess it to herself.

One day, about a week after the scene with the jaguars, the hunter was lying half asleep in a copse whose leafy branches completely hid him from sight, and quietly enjoying his siesta during the great midday heat, when he fancied he heard the sound of footsteps not far from the spot where he was. He instinctively opened his eyes, raised himself on his elbow, and looked carefully around him; he checked a cry of surprise on recognising the man, who had stopped close to the thicket and dismounted, like a man who has reached the spot he desired. This man was Kidd, the bandit, with whom the reader has already formed acquaintance.

"What does that scoundrel want here?" the hunter asked himself. "He is doubtless plotting some infamy, and I bless the chance that brings him within earshot, for this demon is one of the men who cannot be watched too closely."

In the meanwhile Kidd had removed his horse's bit, in order to let it graze freely; he himself sat down on a rock, lit a husk cigarette, and began smoking with all the nonchalance of a man whose conscience is perfectly at its ease. Stronghand racked his brains in vain to try and discover the motive for the presence of the bandit in these parts, so remote from the ordinary scene of his villainy, when chance, which had already favoured him, gave him the clue to the enigma, which he had almost despaired of obtaining. A sound made him turn his head, and he saw a stout horseman, with rubicund face and handsomely dressed, coming up at an amble. When he reached the adventurer, the latter rose, bowed respectfully, and assisted him to dismount.

"Ouf!" the stout man said, with a sigh of relief, "What a confounded ride!"

"Well," the bandit replied with a grin, "you must blame yourself, Don Rufino, for you arranged it. May the fiend twist my neck if I would damage myself, no matter for what purpose, and ride across the plain at this hour of the day."

"Everybody is the best judge of his own business, Master Kidd," Don Rufino remarked, drily, as he wiped his steaming face, with a fine cambric handkerchief.

"That is possible; but if I had the honour to be Don Rufino Contreras, enormously rich, and senator to boot, hang me if I would put myself out of my way to run after an adventurer like Master Kidd, whatever pleasure I might take at other times in the conversation of that worthy caballero."

The senator began laughing.

"Ha! Ha! Scoundrel; you have scented something."

"Hang it!" the bandit replied, impudently, "I do not deceive myself, and am well aware that whatever attractions my conversation may offer, you would not have come this distance expressly to hear it."

"That is possible, scamp. However, listen to me."

"I can see from your familiarity that the job will be an expensive one; well, I do not dislike that way of entering upon the subject, for it forebodes a good business."

The senator shrugged his shoulders with ill-disguised contempt. "Enough of this," he said, "let us come to facts."

"I ask nothing better."

"Are you fond of money?"

"I certainly have a weakness for gold."

"Good. Would you hesitate about killing a man to earn it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I ask you, scoundrel, whether in a case of necessity you would kill a man for money?"

"I perfectly understood you."

"Then why make me repeat it?"

"Because your doubt is offensive to my feelings."

"How so?"

"Hang it, I fancy I speak clearly. Killing a man is nothing when you are well paid for it."

"I will pay well."

"Beforehand?"

"Yes, if you like."

"How much?"

"I warn you that the man I refer to is but a poor fellow."

"Yes, a poor fellow who is troublesome to you. Well, go on."

"One thousand piastres. Is that enough?"

"It is not too much."

"Confound it, you are expensive."

"That is possible; but I do my work conscientiously. Well, tell me who the man is that is in your way."

"José Paredes."

"The majordomo at the Toro?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that he is not an easy man to kill? You must owe him a sore grudge, I suppose?"

"I do not know him."

The bandit looked in amazement at the speaker.

"You do not know him, and yet offer one thousand piastres for his death? Nonsense!"

"It is so."

"But you must have a reason. Caray, a man is not killed as one twists a fowl's neck. I know that, bandit though I am."

"You said it just now. He is in my way."

"That is different," the adventurer replied, convinced by this peremptory reason.

"Listen to me attentively, and engrave my words on your mind."

"Go on, señor. I will not lose a word."

"In two or three days the majordomo will leave for Hermosillo, carrying bills to a considerable amount."

"Good," the bandit said, rubbing his hands gleefully; "I will kill him as he passes, and take possession of the bills."

"No, you will let him go on in peace, and you will kill him on his return, when he has cashed the bills."

"That is true. Where the deuce was my head? That will be much better."

Don Rufino looked at him ironically.

"You will deliver to me the sum this man is the bearer of," he said.

The bandit gave a start of alarm,

"I suppose the sum is large?"

"Fifty thousand piastres."

"¡Viva Dios! Surrender such a fortune? I would sooner be burned alive."

"You must, though,"

"Never, señor."

"Nonsense," the senator remarked, contemptuously. "You know you are in my hands. All the worse for you if you hesitate, for you will then lose two thousand piastres."

"You said one thousand."

"I made a mistake."

"And when will you give them to me?"

"At once."

"Have you the amount about you?"

"Yes."

Suddenly the bandit's eye gleamed with a sinister flash; he drew himself up, and leaped, knife in hand, upon the senator. But the adventurer had a powerful adversary. Don Rufino had long known the man he was treating with, and, while conversing, had not once taken his eye off, and attentively watched all his movements. Hence, though Kidd's action was so rapid, Don Rufino was before him; he seized his arm with his left hand, while with the right he placed a pistol to his chest.

"Hilloh, my master," he said, coldly, and with the most perfect tranquillity, "are you mad, or has a wasp stung you?"

Abashed by his failure, the bandit gave him a savage look.

"Let me loose!"

"Not before you have thrown your knife away, scoundrel!"

Kidd opened his hand, the knife fell on the ground, and Don Rufino put his foot upon it.

"You are not half clever enough," he said, sarcastically; "you deserve to have your brains blown out, in order to teach you to take your measures better another time."

"I do not always miss my mark," he replied, with a menacing accent.

There was a moment of silence between the two men. Stronghand still watched them, not losing one of their words or gestures, which interested him to the highest degree. At length Don Rufino spoke.

"Have you reflected?" he asked the bandit.

"Of what?" the latter remarked, roughly; "Of this proposal?"

"Yes."

"Well, I accept."

"But you understand," the senator continued, laying a stress upon every word, "you must deal frankly this time. No trickery, eh?"

"No, no," Kidd answered, with a shake of the head; "you may be sure of that."

"I reckon on your honesty. Moreover, profit by what has occurred today. I am not always so good tempered; and if a misunderstanding, like that just now, again arose between us, the consequences might be very serious to you."

These few words were uttered with an intonation of voice, and accompanied by a look, that produced a profound impression on the bandit.

"All right," he said, shrugging his shoulders savagely; "there is no need to threaten, as all is settled."

"Very good."

"Where shall I come to you after the business?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that. I shall manage to find you."

"Ah!" he said, with a side-glance; "then that is your affair?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Give me the money."

"Here it is. But remember, if you deceive me – "

"Nonsense," the bandit interrupted him. "Did I not tell you that it was all settled?"

The senator drew from his pocket a long purse, through whose meshes gold coins could be seen. He weighed it for an instant in his hand, and then threw it twenty paces from him.

"Go and fetch it," he said.

The bandit dashed at the gold, which as it fell produced a ringing sound. Don Rufino took advantage of this movement to get into his saddle.

"Good-bye," he said to the bandit. "Remember!" and he started at a gallop. Kidd made no reply, for he was too busy counting the ounces contained in the purse.

"All right," he at last said, with a smile upon his features, as he hid the purse in his bosom. "No matter," he added, as he looked savagely after the senator, "I allow that I am in your power, demon; but if I ever had you in my hands as you had me today, and I manage to discover one of your secrets, I should not be so mad as to show you any mercy."

After this soliloquy the bandit went up to his horse, tightened the girths, and set out in his turn, but in a direction opposite to that which the senator had taken. So soon as he was alone, the hunter rose.

"Oh, oh!" he muttered, "That is a dark plot. That man cannot want to kill Paredes merely to rob him; it is plain that the blow is meant for the Marquis. I will be on my guard."

We have already seen that the hunter religiously kept his promise.

CHAPTER XXIV
FATHER AND SON

Now that we have given the reader all necessary information about the events accomplished at the Hacienda del Toro, we will resume our narrative at the point where we were compelled to leave it – that is to say, we will return to the village of the Papazos, and be present at the conversation between Thunderbolt and Stronghand in the Pyramid. The two men, walking side by side, went up to the top of the Pyramid. They traversed the bridge of lianas thrown over the Quebrada at a great height, and entered the Pyramid on the right. They descended to the first floor – the Indians they met bowing respectfully to them – and stopped before a securely fastened door. On reaching it, Thunderbolt gave it two slight taps; an inner bolt was drawn, the door opened, and they went in. They had scarce crossed the threshold ere the young Indian who had opened the door closed it again after them. A strange change had taken place in the two men; the Indian stoicism they had hitherto affected made way for manners that revealed men used to frequent the highest society of cities.

"Maria," Thunderbolt said to the girl, "inform your mistress that her son has returned to the village." In giving this order the old gentleman employed Spanish, and not the Comanche idiom which he had used up to the present.

"The señora was already aware of her son's return, mi amo," Maria answered, with a smile.

"Ah!" said the old man, "then she has seen somebody."

"The venerable Padre Fray Serapio came an hour ago to pay the señora a visit, and he is still with her."

"Very good; announce us, my child."

The girl bowed and disappeared, returning a moment after to tell the two gentlemen that they could enter. They were then introduced into a rather spacious room, lighted by four glazed windows – an extraordinary luxury in such a place – in front of which hung heavy red damask curtains. This room, entirely lined with stamped Cordovan leather, was furnished in the Spanish style, with that good taste which only the Castilians of the old race have kept, and was, through its arrangement, half drawing room, half oratory. In one corner an ebony prie-dieu, surmounted by an ivory crucifix, which time had turned yellow, and several pictures of saints, signed by Murillo and Zurbaran, would have caused the apartment to be taken for an oratory, had not comfortable sofas, tables loaded with books, and butacas, proved it to be a drawing room. Near a silver brasero two persons were sitting in butacas.

Of these, one was a lady, the other a Franciscan monk; both had passed midlife, or, to speak more correctly, were close on fifty years of age.

The lady wore the Spanish garb fashionable in her youth – that is to say, some thirty years before. Although her hair was beginning to grow white, and a few deep wrinkles altered the purity of her features, still it was easy to see that she must have been very lovely once on a time. Her skin, of a slightly olive hue, was extremely fine, and in the firm marked lines of her face, the distinctive character of the purest Aztec race could be recognised. Her black eyes, shaded by long lashes, and whose corners rose slightly, like those of the Mongolians, had an expression of strange gentleness, and her whole face revealed mildness and intelligence. Although she was below the ordinary height of women, she still retained the elegance of youth; and her exquisitely modelled hands and feet were almost of a microscopic smallness. Fray Serapio was the true type of the Spanish monk – handsome, majestic, and dreamy – and seemed as if he had stepped out of a picture by Zurbaran. When the two gentlemen entered, the lady and the Padre rose.

"You are welcome, my darling child," the old lady said, opening her arms to her son.

The latter rushed into them, and for some minutes there was an uninterrupted series of caresses between mother and son.

"Forgive me, Padre Serapio," Stronghand at length said, as he freed himself from the gentle bondage; "but it is so long since I had the pleasure of embracing my mother, that I cannot leave off."

"Embrace your mother, my child," the monk answered, with a smile; "a mother's caresses are the only ones that do not entail regret."

"What are you about, Padre?" Thunderbolt asked; "Are you going to leave us already?"

"Yes; and pray excuse me for going away so soon; but after a lengthened separation, you must have much to say to one another, and a third person, however friendly he may be, is always in the way at such a time. Moreover, my brothers and I have a good deal to do at present, owing to so many white hunters and trappers being in the village."

"Are you satisfied with your neophytes?"

The monk shook his head mournfully.

"No," he at length answered; "the Indians love and respect us, owing to the protection you have deigned to afford us, Señor Don – "

"Silence!" the chief interrupted him, with a smile; "no other name but that of Thunderbolt."

"That is true; I always forget that you have surrendered the one received at your baptism; still it is one of the most noble in the martyrology. Well," he continued with a sigh, "the will of Heaven be done! The glorious days of conversion have passed since we have become Mexicans; the Indians no longer believe in the Spanish good faith, and sooner than accept our God, persist in their old errors. This makes me remember that I have a favour to ask of you."

"Of me? Oh, it is granted beforehand, if it be in my power to satisfy you."

"Doña Esperanza, with whom I have spoken about it, leads me to hope that you will not refuse it."

"Did you not say to me one day that the señora's name brought you good luck? It will probably be the same today."

The monk took a furtive glance at the old lady.

"This is the matter, my dear," she said, mingling in the conversation; "the good father wishes your authority to follow, with another monk, the warriors during the coming expedition."

"That is a singular idea, father; and what may your object be? For I presume you do not intend to fight in our ranks."

"No," the monk answered with a smile, "my tastes are not warlike enough for that; but if I may judge from the preparations I see you making, this will be a serious expedition."

"It will," the old man answered, pensively.

"I have noticed that generally, during these expeditions, the wounded are left without assistance. I should like to accompany the Indians, in order to attend to their wounds, and console those whose hurts are so serious that they cannot recover; still, if the request appear to you exorbitant, I will recall it, though I shall do so reluctantly."

The old gentleman gazed at the monk for a moment with an expression of admiration and tenderness impossible to describe.

"I grant your request, Padre," he at length said, affectionately pressing his hand. "Still, I am bound to make one remark."

"What is it?"

"You run a risk of falling into the hands of the Mexicans."

"Well, what matter? Can they regard it as a crime if I perform on the battlefield the duties which my religion imposes on me?"

"Who knows? Perhaps they will regard you as a rebel."

"And in that case – "

"Treat you as such."

"That is to say – "

"You will run a risk, father, of being shot; and that is worth thinking about, I suppose."

"You are mistaken, my friend; between duty and cowardice no hesitation is possible. I will die, if it be necessary – but with the conviction that I have fulfilled to the close the sacred mission I have undertaken. Then you grant my request?"

"I do so, father, and thank you for having made it."

"Blessings on your kindness, my son; and now the Lord be with you. I shall retire."

In spite of much pressing, the worthy father insisted on going away, and was conducted to the door of the apartment by the two gentlemen, in spite of his efforts to escape a mark of honour of which he considered himself unworthy. When the door closed after him, and the three persons were really alone, Doña Esperanza, after a long look at her son, gently drew him towards her, and obliging him to sit down on an equipal, she lovingly parted off his forehead his clustering locks, and said in a sweet, harmonious voice, in which all the jealous tenderness of a mother was revealed —

"I find you sad, Diego; your face is pale, your features are worn, and your eyes sparkle with a gloomy fire. What has happened to you during your absence?"

"Nothing extraordinary, mother," he answered, with an embarrassment he tried in vain to conceal. "As usual, I have hunted a great deal, travelled a long distance, and consequently, endured great fatigue; hence, doubtless, comes the pallor you notice upon my face."

The old lady shook her head with an incredulous air.

"A mother cannot be deceived, my boy," she said, gently. "Since you have been a man I have seen you return only too often, alas, from long and perilous expeditions. You were fatigued – at times ill, but that was all; while today you are gloomy, restless – "

"Mother!"

"Do not argue, for my mind is made up, and nothing will alter it. If you refuse me your confidence, Heaven grant that you may select a confidant who understands you so thoroughly."

"Oh, mother! This is the first time a reproach has passed your lips."

"Because, Diego, this is the first time you have refused to let me read your heart."

The young man sighed and hung his head, without replying. Thunderbolt, who had hitherto been a silent spectator of the scene, gave Doña Esperanza a meaning glance, and walked up to her son.

"Diego," he said to him, as he laid his hand on his shoulder, "you forget that you have to give me a report of the mission I entrusted to you."

Stronghand started, and eagerly sprang up.

"That is true, father," he replied; "forgive me. I am ready to furnish you with all the details you desire of what I have been doing during my absence from the village."

"Sit down, my son; your mother and I give you permission."

The young man took a chair, and after reflecting for a few seconds, at a further remark from his father, he commenced the recital of all he had been doing while away. The narrative was long, and lasted nearly two hours; but we will not relate it, because the reader is acquainted with most of the facts the young man stated. Thunderbolt and Doña Esperanza listened without interruption, and gave unequivocal signs of the liveliest interest. When he had concluded his story, his mother fondly embraced him, while congratulating him on his noble and generous conduct. But Thunderbolt regarded the matter from another point of view.

"Then," he asked his son, "the man who arrived with you is the majordomo of this Don Hernando de Moguer?"