Gustave Aimard
The Flying Horseman
NOTICE
Gustave Aimard was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of the Prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, Gustave Aimard has traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless of the morrow. Hence it is that Gustave Aimard only describes his own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known – the manners he depicts are his own.
CHAPTER I
THE STORM
We left the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter Eva prisoners of the Pincheyra.1
Thanks to the presence of the strangers in the camp, no one came to trouble the solitude of the captives.
Towards the evening they were warned by a somewhat brief message to make all their preparations, so as to be ready to commence a journey at the first signal.
The baggage of the two ladies had been, strange to say, scrupulously respected by the partisans; it was therefore somewhat considerable, and required four mules to carry it. They were promised that beasts of burden should be placed at their disposal.
The night was dark; the moon, hidden by thick clouds, fringed with greyish tints, gave no light; the sky was black; dull sounds were carried on the wind, and, repeated by the echoes, awakened the wild beasts in the depth of their secret lairs.
A funereal silence reigned over the camp, where all the fires were extinguished; the sentinels were mute, and their long motionless shadows stood out in relief from the darker tints of the surrounding hills. Towards four o'clock in the morning, when the horizon began to be tinged by greyish streaks of light, the noise of horses was heard.
The captives understood that the moment of their departure had come.
They had passed the night in prayer, without sleep having come for a single minute to close their eyelids.
At the first knock at their door they opened it.
A man entered; it was Don Pablo. A thick cloak enveloped him, and a broad-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"We are," laconically answered the marchioness.
"Here are your horses, ladies," said the Pincheyra; "will you mount?"
"Are we to leave immediately?" ventured the marchioness.
"It must be so, Madame," answered Don Pablo, respectfully; "we are threatened with a storm, and any delay might cause us serious injury."
"Would it not be better to defer our journey for some hours?" pursued the marchioness.
"You do not know our Cordilleras, my lady," answered the Pincheyra, smiling. "A storm of two hours generally occasions such disasters that the means of communication are stopped for weeks; but for that matter I am completely at your orders."
The marchioness did not reply, and was at once escorted to the horses which awaited them.
The two ladies were placed about the centre of a troop formed by some twenty horsemen. By a remarkable refinement of courtesy on the part of uncultivated soldiers, Don Pablo had placed two horsemen to the right of the ladies, in order to preserve them from a fall during the darkness.
A group of a dozen horsemen, separated from the body of the troop, proceeded in advance as pioneers.
Notwithstanding the precarious situation in which she found herself, and the apprehensions by which her mind was harassed, the marchioness experienced a certain satisfaction, and an indefinable feeling of joy, to find herself at last out of the camp of the bandits.
Don Pablo, in order no doubt to avoid annoying the ladies, kept with the advanced guard, and, as soon as the day had become light enough to direct his course with safety, the two horsemen placed near the ladies were removed, so that the latter enjoyed a degree of liberty, and could talk to each other without fear of their words being heard.
"Mother," said Doña Eva, "does it not seem strange to you, that since our departure from Casa-Frama, Señor Sebastiao Vianna has not come near us."
"Yes; this conduct on the part of an intimate friend does appear to me singular; however, we must not be in a hurry. Perhaps Don Sebastiao has reasons for keeping aloof."
"Don Sebastiao ought to know how anxious we are to receive news of my father. I confess I am more concerned about it than I can explain."
"My dear, our parts are changed," said the marchioness; "it is you who fear, and I who hope."
"That's true, mother. I have misgivings about this journey. The warnings of Don Emile; his precipitate departure; what Don José told you yesterday, and even the courteous manner of Don Pablo, and the attentions which he heaps upon us, increase my suspicions. The more we advance in this direction, the more I am disquieted. Is it presentiment, or low spirits? I cannot tell you, mother."
"You are mad, Eva," answered the marchioness; "your presentiments arise from low spirits. What can we have further to fear. The men in whose hands we now are are completely masters of our fate."
At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard; the ladies turned, and a horseman passed rapidly, slightly jolting against them, doubtless on account of the narrowness of the path.
But quickly as this man had passed, he had time to skilfully throw on the knees of the marchioness a Book of Hours, bound in red morocco, and closed by clasps in chased gold.
The marchioness uttered a cry of astonishment, as she placed her hand on the book.
This prayer book was the one she had given some days before to the young painter. How was it that he returned it to her in such a singular way?
His pace had been so rapid, and the brim of his hat had so thoroughly concealed his face, that the marchioness did not recognise him.
We have said that the two ladies were almost alone; in fact, the soldiers walked at some distance before and behind. The marchioness assured herself that no one observed them, and opened the book.
A note, folded in two, was placed at the first page; this note, written in pencil, was in French, and signed Emile Gagnepain.
The two ladies at once recognised the writing of the painter; both spoke French a little, and they did not experience any trouble in reading the letter. Its contents were as follows: —
"They are deceiving you, while they deceive themselves; the bandit is of good faith in the treason of which he is an accomplice, without knowing it. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, manifest no surprise. Do not offer any resistance, do not ask any explanation; I am watching over you; all that is possible to do I will attempt: I have to take revenge on the man to whom you are about to be given up, in a few hours. I shall be more than a match for the deceiver. We shall see who is the more cunning, he or I."
"Do not keep this paper, which might compromise you. Have confidence in God, and trust to the devotion of the man who has already delivered you once. Especially, I urge you not to be astonished at anything."
"EMILE GAGNEPAIN."
When Doña Eva had ascertained the purport of the note, on a sign from her mother, she tore it into minute fragments, and scattered them by degrees on the road.
For some time the prisoners remained pale, motionless, and speechless, weighed down by this horrible disillusion.
"You were right, my daughter," at last said the marchioness; "your presentiments were true; it was I who was mad to suppose that fate was weary of persecuting us."
"Mother," answered Doña Eva, "it is better for us to have the certainty of misfortune than to continue to buoy ourselves up with chimeras. In warning us, Don Emile has rendered us an immense service. When the blow with which we are threatened shall fall, thanks to him, we shall be prepared to receive it; besides, does he not assure us that all is not yet lost? He has a brave heart; he will save us, mother. And then the fashion in which this book has come to us – does not even that prove that we have one friend?"
"Alas! Dear child, what can I do? Nothing, if not strictly follow the counsel our friend gives us. Unhappily, he is struggling single-handed; he will be lost, without saving us."
"No, mother; Don Emile has doubtless taken his precautions. You have already seen how he works; you know how prudent he is."
"Prudence and courage are not sufficient. Power alone can give success, and, unhappily, it is power that fails us. He is isolated, without a friend; in a country, the language of which he can hardly speak. Oh," she cried, with feverish energy, "if I alone were in the power of these wretches! If I did not tremble for you, my child, I should long since have finished with these tigers – these cowardly and heartless monsters who are not ashamed to torture women."
"Calm yourself, mother."
"You are right, my daughter," she said.
Doña Eva leaned towards her mother, threw her arms around her, and kissed her several times.
"You are brave and courageous, mother," she said; "I am proud and happy to be your daughter."
Meanwhile, for some little time the sky had taken a threatening appearance; the sun had lost its brilliancy, and only appeared drowned in copper-coloured clouds, which drifted rapidly, and concealed its disc. The heat was suffocating, the atmosphere heavy; without a breath of air, the trees trembled from root to summit. A yellowish vapour rose from the chasms of the rocks, by degrees condensed, and enveloped the landscape as with an ominous winding sheet. The birds wheeled in long flights, above the chasms, uttering discordant cries, and at intervals were heard rumblings of bad omen. All appeared to presage the approach of a storm.
Suddenly – a horseman approached; they recognised Don Pablo Pincheyra; the soldier made signs as he galloped, and uttered cries that the great distance prevented them from understanding, although it was evident that he gave them warning.
"Are you good horsewomen?" he asked, as he reached them; "Do you feel yourselves capable of keeping your seats with the horses galloping at their utmost speed?"
"If it must absolutely be so, yes, señor," answered the marchioness.
"Listen! the moment is critical. Before an hour the storm will have burst upon us; if it overtakes us here, we are lost; it will envelope us in its whirlwind, and twist us like wisps of straw. I do not guarantee to save you, but I will do all that I can towards success. Will you have faith in me?"
"Command, señor!"
"Well, spur your horses, and give them the rein. Ahead, then, and God help us!"
"God help us!" repeated the two ladies, crossing themselves.
"Santiago! ah! Santiago!" cried Don Pablo, putting the spurs to the flanks of his horse.
We have said that the travellers followed the meanderings of a path on the flanks of an abrupt mountain. But unless a person has himself traversed the new world, it is impossible to make sure of what, in these wild countries, is honoured by the name of a road. One of our village paths, separating fields, is certainly more safe and practicable than some American roads. The path of which we speak, and which served at this time as a track for travellers, had originally been marked out by wild beasts. The men had adopted it from the beginning of the war of independence, as it formed the only means of reaching the plain of Casa-Frama, the headquarters of the Pincheyras; the latter had naturally taken good care to make it, we will not say convenient, but at all events practicable for others than themselves. It was six feet wide in its widest parts, and often it narrowed to about two feet; from time to time it was interrupted by ravines, hollowed by the torrents formed from the melting of the snow – ravines which it was often necessary to leap at a single bound, at the risk of personal injury, or to cross on stones rendered slippery by the green waters. The ground was rugged, and obstructed nearly everywhere by pieces of rock or shrubbery. To the right it was bounded by a precipice of immense depth, and to the left by a wall of granite, which rose nearly perpendicularly, it was by such a road as this that the two ladies and their escort were obliged to gallop at full speed.
Ravines, ditches, and bogs were passed with giddy rapidity in this, desperate flight; the sun was without heat and without rays, like a ball of yellowish copper; the clouds lowered more and more, and ominous sounds rose mournfully from the depths of the chasms.
The travellers galloped without exchanging a word, desperately urging forward their horses whose efforts appeared almost supernatural.
Suddenly the voice of Don Pablo was heard.
"Halt!" he cried; "Alight, and throw yourselves on your faces. If you value your lives, make haste."
There was in the sound of his voice such an accent of anguish, that the bravest felt themselves tremble.
But all knew that the accomplishment of the order which they had just received was a matter of life and death. By a desperate effort they reined up their horses short; two or three cries of agony, followed by the harsh sounds of several falls, were heard.
They came from the horsemen, whose horses had, becoming restive, stumbled over the edge of the path.
These horrible yells passed unperceived; the instinct of self-preservation was too powerful for anyone to care for others than himself.
In an instant all the horsemen had alighted, and were lying on the ground near their horses, which, instinctively understanding the danger had also crouched themselves on the path, burying their nostrils, and presenting their croup to the tempest.
"The hurricane! The hurricane!" cried the Pincheyra, in a loud clear voice; "Hold on to anything that you can seize!"
All of a sudden, a horrible rumbling was heard, and the wind was let loose with such extraordinary fury, that the mountain seemed to tremble as if it had been shaken by an earthquake. A horrible squall swept the valley with a roaring sound, and for some minutes separating the veil of fog.
Don Pablo half raised himself up at the risk of being carried away like a dry leaf, by the whirlwind which was raging, twisting, and tearing up the trees as though they were wisps of straw, and carrying them away in wild disorder, with a rapid but certain glance, the soldier explored the scene; then he assured himself that but a few steps farther, after a rather gentle descent, the path suddenly widened, and formed a platform of about three or four yards.
It was this spot towards which all the efforts of the soldiers had been directed. Once arrived in the valley, the situation would not be so critical.
It was necessary, then, that come what might, they should reach the valley.
Only, at the first terrible shock of the tempest, which in these wild regions assumes such formidable proportions, an avalanche bad been detached from the summit of the mountain, and had been precipitated from rock to rock with a frightful crash, dragging with it the earth, the underwood, and the trees which were in its way, and blocking up the path.
The case was so much the more desperate as the storm redoubled its violence, and the darkness had fallen thicker.
But the Pincheyra was one of those iron-hearted men who took no account of apparently impossible things. Born in the mountains, he had often struggled face to face with the tempest, and always he had come forth a conqueror from this gigantic struggle.
To attempt to rise and walk would have been madness; the soldier did not dream of it for a moment. Taking in his hand the knife from his right pocket, in order to give himself a hold, and planting it in the ground, the hardy mountaineer began to crawl gently, and with precaution, on his knees and elbows by the side of the ruins massed across the path.
At every step he stopped, and lowered his head to allow the squall around him to pass.
It required nearly an hour for him to traverse a distance of less than sixty yards. During this time his companions remained motionless, holding on to the ground.
At last Don Pablo reached the spot on which the avalanche had fallen. He looked around.
Brave as the soldier was, he could not repress a cry of anguish at the terrible spectacle.
The rocks over which the path was traced, torn away by the fall of the avalanche, had in some places given way for a space of more, than six yards, and had rolled over the precipice, opening a frightful chasm.
The ruins left by the avalanche were composed in a great measure of trees, and fragments of rock, which, entangled together, and massed, so to speak, by the branches and the underwood, formed a thick wall on the very edge of the gulf.
It was of no use thinking of forcing the passage with horses and mules.
The soldier with rage struck with his fist the obstacle that he could not destroy, and proceeded to rejoin his companions. After having cast a last look on the chasm, he prepared himself to retreat, when suddenly he thought he heard a sharp and prolonged cry, like that used by the mountaineers of all countries to communicate between themselves, often at considerable distances.
Don Pablo stopped suddenly and listened, but a considerable lapse of time passed, during which he could hear nothing but the horrible sounds of the storm. The soldier supposed that he had been the sport of an illusion, but suddenly the same cry, stronger and nearer, reached his ear, "Good God!" he cried, "Are other Christians lost in the mountains, amidst this horrible tempest?"
He stood for some moments, and cast a searching glance around.
CHAPTER II
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
"I am deceived," he murmured, after a few seconds of reflection; "these mountains are deserted, no one would dare to venture so near the Casa-Frama."
At this moment he felt that someone touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned round trembling; a man had joined him, and was crouching behind him.
It was Don Zeno Cabral.
Since the departure from the camp, the soldier had continually remained in the advanced guard with the three Spaniards, in order to escape the looks of the two ladies, by whom he did not wish to be recognised till the last moment.
"Ah, 'tis you, Don Sebastiao," said Don Pablo; "what do you think of our situation?"
"It is bad – very bad indeed; however, I do not think it desperate," coldly answered the soldier.
"I am persuaded, on the contrary, that it is desperate."
"It may be so; but we are not yet dead."
"No; but pretty near to it."
"Have you thought of a means to escape from the bad position in which we are?"
"I have thought of a thousand; but I have not thought of one which is practicable."
"That is because you have not thought in the right direction, my dear sir. In this world, you know as well as I do, that as long as the heart beats in the breast, there is some resource left, however critical may be the position in which we are placed. The remedy exists. Shall I aid you in doing so?"
"Well! I do not stand on my self-love," answered Don Pablo slightly smiling; "but I believe we shall have difficulty in finding the remedy."
"I am a bold man, as you are yourself. My pride revolts at the thought of dying a ridiculous death in this mousetrap, and I wish to escape – that's all."
"By Jove! You please me by speaking like that; you are really a charming companion."
"You flatter me, señor."
"No. I tell you what I think; rely on me as I rely on you, and we shall do wonders, I am sure."
"Keep your mind easy; we shall do our best, and if we fail, it will only be after having disputed our life inch by inch in a desperate struggle. But first, where are we?"
"We are at a few steps from the Valle del Tambo, where we should already have been in safety a long time ago, had it not been for this cursed avalanche."
"Very well – but," stopping himself suddenly; "did you not hear something?" asked he.
"Yes," answered the Pincheyra; "several times I have heard that noise strike on my ear."
"By Jove! And you have told me nothing of it."
"I feared that I was deceived; besides, you know that the country we are traversing is a desert, and that no one can be here."
"We are here, though, eh?"
"That is not a reason; we are at home, or nearly so."
Don Zeno smiled with irony.
"That is possible; however, till we find to the contrary, let us act as if we were certain of meeting someone."
"If there were other travellers in the neighbourhood, would they not find themselves in the same situation as us, if not worse; and what you take for cries to help us may probably be, on the contrary, cries of distress."
"That is why we ought to assure ourselves of the truth."
"You are right; answer, then, if you think proper."
"Let us wait for a new cry, in order to assure ourselves as much a possible of the direction we ought to turn to in answering."
"Be it so, let us wait," answered the Pincheyra.
They stretched themselves again on the ground, their ears to the earth, listening with the greatest anxiety.
The situation momentarily became more critical; already several horses had been precipitated into the gulf, and it was with extreme difficulty that men and horses could resist the efforts of the tempest, which every moment threatened to carry them away.
However, after some minutes, which appeared to be an age, the two men again heard the cry.
This time it appeared nearer; it was sharp and perfectly distinct.
"It is a cry to help us," said Don Zeno, with joy.
And placing his two hands at the corners of his mouth, so as to carry his voice, he immediately answered by a cry not less shrill, which swept on the wind, echoed and re-echoed, to die away at a great distance.
"You are sure that is a cry to help us that we have just heard?" said the Pincheyra.
"Yes, thank God, it is," answered Zeno Cabral; "and now let us to work, for if we escape from here, master, we shall escape safe and sound; you may take my word for it."
Don Pablo shook his head sadly.
"You still doubt," pursued the hardy partisan in a tone of disdain. "Perhaps you are afraid?"
"Yes, I am afraid," candidly said the Pincheyra; "and I do not think there is anything humiliating in that avowal. I am but a man after all – very weak, and very humble before the anger of God; I cannot prevent my nerves from trembling, nor my heart from sinking."
Zeno Cabral held out his hand to him with a sympathising smile.
"Excuse me, Don Pablo," said he, in a gentle voice, "for having spoken to you as I have. A man must be really brave to avow so candidly that he is afraid."
"Thank you, Don Sebastiao," answered the Pincheyra, affected more than he wished to show. "Act, order, I will be the first to obey you."
"Above all, let us rejoin our companions; we want their aid and their counsel; let us make haste."
The two men then rejoined their companions, crawling on elbows and knees, with the same difficulty they had previously experienced; for although the weather began to brighten, the wind had not ceased to howl with fury, and to sweep the path.
In a few words, Don Pablo Pincheyra put his adherents in possession of the facts of the situation, and imparted to them the feeble hope he himself possessed. All energy had been crushed within them, and they awaited death with stolid apathy.
"There is nothing to expect from these brutes," said Zeno Cabral, with disdain: "fear has neutralised all human sentiments."
"What is to be done, then?" murmured the partisan.
"If it only depended on you and me," pursued Don Zeno – "strong, determined, and active as we are, we should soon know how to escape this peril; but I do not wish to abandon these unhappy Women."
"I completely share your opinion on that matter."
"So I can depend upon you?"
"Most thoroughly; but what can we do?"
"Bethink yourself; you know these mountains well, do you not?"
"They do not possess a gorge – a hidden retreat – that I have not twenty times explored."
"Good! You are sure, then, of the place where we are?"
"Oh, perfectly."
"The path we follow, is it the only one that leads to the place where you wish us to go?"
"There is another, but to take that, it would be necessary we retrace our steps for at least four leagues."
"We could never accomplish that. What direction does this path take?"
"Upon my word, I cannot positively tell you."
"We have only one recourse left," pursued Don Zeno; "it is to join the man whose cry to help us has been several times heard."
"I should think nothing better; but how shall we descend the precipice?"
"This is my project. We will take all the lassos of those poltroons, and tie them end to end; one of us will tie the end of these round his body, and will attempt the descent, whilst his companions will hold the rope in his hand, letting it out only in such a way as, precarious as the support may be, it may serve to maintain the equilibrium of the one who descends. Do you agree with it?"
"Yes," decisively answered the Pincheyra, "but on one condition."
"What is it?"
"It is that it shall be I who descends."
"No, I cannot admit that condition; but I propose another."
"Let us hear it."
"Time presses; we must make an end of this. Every minute that we lose brings us nearer death. Let chance decide it."
The partisan drew from the pockets of his trousers a purse full of gold, and placed it between himself and the Pincheyra.
"I do not know what this purse contains," said he, "I swear it. Odd or even! If you guess, you descend; if not, you give up the place to me."
Notwithstanding the prostration in which they were, some of the adventurers, excited by the irresistible attraction of this strange game, played in the midst of a horrible tempest, and of which death was the stake, half rose up, and fixed their ardent gaze on the two.
Don Pablo cried Even, and then the purse was opened.
"Forty-seven!" cried Don Zeno, in a joyful accent; "I have gained."
"True," answered Don Pablo; "do as you wished to do!"
Without losing a moment the partisan seized the lassos from the Pincheyras, tied them firmly together, and after having fixed one of the ends round his girdle, he gave the other to Don Pablo, and prepared to commence his hazardous descent.
The countenance of Don Zeno was grave and sad.
"I confide these two poor ladies to you," said he in a low voice; "if, as is probable, I shall not be able to resist the strength of the tempest, promise me to watch over them till your last breath."
"Go boldly; I swear to you to do it."
"Thank you," merely answered Don Zeno.
He knelt down, addressed to Heaven a mental prayer; then, seizing his knife in one hand, and his dagger in the other:
"God help me," said he firmly, and in a crawling attitude he approached the edge of the precipice.
Don Zeno commenced his descent with the courage of a man who, while he has resolutely risked the sacrifice of his life, nevertheless applies all the energy of his will to the success of his perilous enterprise.
The edge of the precipice was less steep than it appeared from above. Although with great difficulty, the partisan succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium pretty well, by holding on to the grass and shrubbery which were within his reach.
Don Zeno continued to descend, as upon a narrow ledge, which seemed insensibly to retreat, and upon which he could only maintain himself by a desperate effort. Then, having reached a tree which had thrown out its branches horizontally, he disappeared in the midst of the foliage, and after a moment the adventurers felt that the tension of the lasso, which they had given out inch by inch, had suddenly ceased, Don Pablo drew towards him the cord; it came without resistance, floating backwards and forwards to the sport of the wind.
Don Zeno had let go his hold. It was in vain that the adventurers tried to discover the young man. A considerable lapse of time passed; they could not discover him; then all of a sudden, the tree, in the branches of which he had disappeared, oscillated slowly, and fell with a noise down the precipice.
"Oh," cried Don Pablo in despair, throwing himself back, "the unhappy man; he is lost!"
Meanwhile the partisan, cool and calm, looking at danger in its full extent, but regarding it, thanks to his habits of desert life, in a common-sense light, had continued his terrible journey, step by step, only advancing slowly, and with precaution.
He thus attained the tree of which we have spoken, and which formed nearly a right angle with the precipice, just below the spot where the avalanche had blocked up the path, although between the tree and the other edge of the precipice, the distance was pretty considerable. However, Zeno Cabral, after mature reflection, did not despair of getting past it.
To do this, he relieved himself of the lasso, which had only become useless to him.
Encircling the trunk of the tree, he raised himself as far as the principal branch, and making use of it as a bridge, at the same time holding on to the upper branches, he advanced towards its extremity.
But scarcely had he reached halfway the length of the branch, than he perceived with horror that the tree, broken by the fall of the avalanche, oscillated under him. A shudder of terror ran through his veins; his hair stood on end; a cold sweat broke upon his temples; his look was riveted, spite of himself, upon the yawning gulf which opened beneath, ready to bury him; giddiness seized him; he felt that he was lost, and closed his eyes, murmuring a last prayer. But at the moment when he was about to abandon himself and fall into the gulf, the instinct of life suddenly awoke. By a last effort of will he subdued the giddiness, ordered, so to speak, his arteries to cease to beat, and resolving to try a last effort, he darted along the branch which bent more and more under him, sprang ahead and reached the opposite edge of the precipice, at the very moment when the tree, suddenly losing its balance, rolled into the gulf with a horrible sound.
Weakened by the terrible effort he had been obliged to make, and not yet knowing whether he was lost or saved, the young man remained for some minutes stretched on the ground, pale, panting, his eyes starting; not caring to think of the miraculous way in which he had escaped from a nearly inevitable death, or to stir – so much did he still seem to feel the ground stealing from under him.
