Gustave Aimard
The Smuggler Chief: A Novel

"What do you mean?" Diego replied.

"That in the name of the friendship which unites us, in the name of the love which I have for Doña Maria, I have come to ask you to restore to liberty the brother of her whom I love."

And Leon ceased speaking.

The man who, walking along a road bordered by flowers and turf, suddenly saw the ground open under his feet, and a bottomless precipice present itself, would not feel a greater commotion of surprise than that which assailed the descendant of Tahi-Mari: his lips were clenched, his cheeks turned livid, and he fell crushed on the ponchos which remained on the ground.

"Have I rightly understood? Leon, it is at the moment when after waiting twenty years for the solemn hour of victory I at length hear it strike, that you ask me to surrender my enemy to you! What I should have broken all the obstacles which opposed the success of the holy cause which I am defending; I should have sacrificed without pity for myself all that attached me to life, after tearing from my heart all the illusions of my youth, in order only to leave my hatred, and all that in order to renounce the hope of attaining the object which I was pursuing! Oh, no, that is not possible; and it is not you, Leon, my friend, my brother, who would ask such a sacrifice of me. No!"

"Brother, forgive me!" Leon exclaimed; "but I love this woman."

"Yes, you love her; and if I give you the life of the brother, you will ask me tomorrow for that of the father; and each day, implored by you, I must, I suppose, abandoning one by one the victims I have marked, efface from my memory every recollection of the past, and allow the assassins of Tahi-Mari to live amid the joys which power and wealth produce. No, no! I pity you, brother, for you must have left all your reason at the bottom of that love to which you refer when you dare to make me such a proposal."

"Enough, Diego; enough! I implored you in the name of our friendship, and I was wrong, since you believe that you are committing an act of justice in killing those for whom I implore your mercy. Pardon me; and now farewell, brother, I will leave you."

"Where are you going, madman?" Diego asked, as he held him back.

"I do not know, but I wish to fly far from here."

"What! leave me! thus break a friendship like ours! You cannot think of such a thing."

"Do you not know that I love Maria with all the strength of my soul: as I told you it is an impossibility to give up that love, and yet I do not wish to betray your cause; so let me go and seek far from her, if not oblivion, at least death."

"Grief leads you astray, Leon. Come, listen to me."

"What! – your justification! I do not accuse you; but once again I say we must separate, for if Maria were to ask me for her brother and I should not give him to her, she would curse me, do you hear? Because she would refuse to believe that I love her, as I did not know how to die to save him whom your hatred has condemned! You see plainly that I must depart."

"Well, then," said Diego, with some amount of emotion, "an insurmountable barrier is raised between us."

"Yes, brother; but though we are parted the memory of our friendship will survive our separation."

A silence of some minutes' duration followed these words, and nothing could be heard but the hurried breathing of the two men. Diego was the first to speak.

"Leon," he suddenly exclaimed, making a violent effort over himself; "you have spoken the truth; one of us must depart, as we are both following a different road; but it shall be I, for my place is at the head of the Indians, my brothers. As for you, remain with those whom you are protecting, and ere I go to resume the life of the proscript, and continue in broad daylight the struggle which I have been carrying on for so many years in the darkness, give me your hand, that I may press it in mine for the last time; and then, to the mercy of God!"

"Oh!" Leon replied, eagerly, "most gladly so, or rather let us embrace, for we are still worthy of each other."

And the two smugglers fell into each other's arms.

"Be happy, Diego," said Leon.

"God grant that you may find happiness in the love of Doña Maria," said Diego.

Then the latter, taking his lasso, whistled to his colt, which came up at the appeal, and, after saddling it, he leaped lightly on its back. He remained motionless for a moment, taking a sorrowful glance at the men sleeping a short distance from him; and then, after breathing a deep sigh, he addressed Leon once again.

"Farewell!" he said to him: "remember that you are an adopted son of the Araucanos, and that if you please one day to come among your brothers to seek a supporter or a defender, you will find one and the other."

"Farewell!" murmured Leon, whose eyes were moist.

Ere long the half-breed's mustang, sharply spurred, leaped at one bound over the bales which formed the enclosure of the camp, and darted across the plain with the rapidity of an arrow.

CHAPTER XV
A FIRST LOSS

After Diego's departure, Leon remained for a long time leaning on the baggage which he had before him; the last words of his departing friend rang in his ear like the sound of a knell; a deep sorrow, a deadly discouragement had seized upon him, and a state of undefinable morbidness preyed on his whole being.

A friendship like that which united him to the Vaquero is not broken so suddenly without the heart suffering from it, and in spite of the exceptional circumstances which had caused the separation of the two men, Leon could not refrain from a species of remorse.

Turning over in his mind the different phases of his past existence and those of the four last years of his life, spent in the midst of llanos and Pampas, he asked himself whether he had not consciously exchanged the quietude of an unclouded present for the painful agitation of a future big with tempests.

With his eye fixed on the dark and bold outline of Diego, which was vaguely designed on the horizon, and was gradually disappearing in space, twenty times he was on the point of dashing forward and begging him to return, while swearing to give up the ardent passion which mastered him; but an invincible force nailed him to the ground, his choking voice died away on his lips, and his courage failed him. Ere long an impenetrable mist spread between the eyes of the young man and his friend, who entirely disappeared.

Then Leon began cursing the fatal love which had come to torture his heart, and the hours of the night passed away unnoticed by him, so greatly were his thoughts concentrated in his soul.

The sky was gloomy; heavy black clouds strangely edged, and driven from the south-west by a cold wind, coursed through the air with extreme velocity. When, at rare intervals, the moon appeared during the short period which separated a cloud on the horizon from the advent of another which dashed after it, its pale and sickly rays hardly lit up the objects on which they cast their vague light.

The scenery, plunged in darkness at each new obscuration of the moon, was mournful and silent, and nothing could be heard but the regular footfall of the sentry echoing on the hardened soil. All were asleep in the camp, save the sentry and Leon, and the latter, not afraid of being seen, gave a free course to his grief, and heavy tears fell from his eyes.

What secret and acrid sorrows are contained in each of these drops of burning water which trickle down a man's face. Tears! the supreme expression of impotence and despair. Tears! the height of weakness and despondency which brutally restore man to his place, by showing him the vanity of his pride, and the nullity of his pretended strength.

The captain of the smugglers was still weeping when a hand was laid on, or rather slightly touched, his shoulder. He quickly raised his head, and with difficulty restrained a cry of surprise. Doña Maria was standing before him, with her finger laid on her lip, in order to recommend silence.

Half hidden by the white lace which surrounded her face, and fell in long streamers on her shoulders, the maiden presented herself to Leon's astonished gaze, like a celestial apparition which had come from on high to restore him hope and courage.

"You!" he murmured, with a tenderness of expression impossible to render.

"Speak lower," the maiden replied, and she pointed to the sentry, who had stopped, and seemed to be spying her movements. Leon looked for a moment at the man to whom the guard of the camp was temporarily confided.

"Reassure yourself," he said to her; "he is the bravest and most devoted man in my band. Stop here for a moment."

Then walking a few paces, Leon made a signal to the sentry to come to him.

"Wilhelm," he said to him, "stop as sentry till I give you orders myself to call one of your comrades, and look out."

"Yes, captain," the man replied, with a marked German accent; "I understand."

"Very good," Leon replied; "begone."

The sentry retired, and Leon returned to the maiden, whose bosom was hurriedly heaving. The captain knew Wilhelm, and that at the slightest movement which took place in the Soto-Mayor's tent, he should be warned. Hence he was enabled to talk freely with her whom he loved, without fear of being surprised.

"You here so close to me!" Leon went on, seizing one of the maiden's hands. "Oh, Doña Maria, how kind you are!"

"You are suffering," she said, as she bent on the young man a glance in which the signs of a sympathising interest were visible; "you are suffering, and seem to avoid and shun me, and that is why I have resolved on asking you the cause of your sorrow."

"Oh, no! I am no longer suffering since I see you; since I hear fall from your lips sweet words which dilate my heart with hope and joy."

"Oh, be silent!" Maria replied; "for I only wish to know the cause of the sorrow which I have remarked, since this morning, on your countenance."

"What! has your attention been so directed to me as to make you feel anxious on seeing me sad and despondent?"

"Do you not know that I love you?" Maria said, with an accent of such sublime simplicity, that Leon fancied himself the sport of a dream.

There was a moment of supreme silence, which the maiden was the first to break.

"I know," she said, "how strange and unusual is the step which I am now taking, and how dangerous it would be with a man whose heart was not so noble or so great as yours; but, alas! we are at this moment in a situation so different from all the ordinary laws of life, that I thought I must frankly come and find you."

"You were right, señorita," muttered Leon, with his eyes ardently fixed upon her.

"Let me," she continued, "express to you all the gratitude I feel to you for your conduct, so full of self-denial and so loyal."

"Oh!" he said.

"I know all; I was an invisible hearer of your conversation; and nothing said by you or your friend escaped my ear. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your devotion to our family. Alas!" she said, as if speaking to herself, "perhaps it would have been better for you and for us had you abandoned us."

"I will carry out, whatever may happen, the oath which I took to you, señorita, to lead you in safety to your destination."

"But," she said, with a movement of fear, "that man, your friend, that gloomy and stern individual, I tremble lest he may try to make us fall into some horrible trap. I have a dark foreboding that a danger menaces us."

"Whatever may be the danger, señorita," the young man exclaimed passionately, "be convinced that my friend will have no share in it; his word is sacred, and I place the most perfect confidence in him."

"Heaven grant that you are not mistaken!" she said, with a stifled sigh.

"Moreover," he continued, "whatever may happen, I shall be there, and no one will reach you without passing over my body. I have sworn to escort you and your family safe and sound to the end of this long journey, and that oath I will keep, whatever may happen."

"Thanks," she murmured, with emotion, as she offered him her white and delicate hand; "thanks, Leon – I love you!" and she disappeared light as a shadow, leaving the young man plunged into indescribable ecstasy.

The rest of the night passed without further incident, and at daybreak Leon, who had not slept for an instant, gave the signal for starting. In spite of himself, the young man felt a vague terror for which he could not account. The maiden's parting words echoed in his ear and the presentiment which she stated that she felt, caused him a preoccupation which he sought in vain to dissipate, by proving to himself that no possible danger could threaten the persons whom he was escorting.

Still, before reaching the districts where any fear would become chimerical owing to the distance from the country frequented by the Indians, the caravan would be obliged to pass through a passage called the Parumo de San Juan Bautista, a very difficult pass to cross, and which, as it served as the extreme limit of the Indian border, was the more favourable for the preparation of an ambush.

The captain wished to arrive before nightfall at this pass, in order to reconnoitre the approaches carefully, and guard against any surprise. But to do this speed was required. Gene Soto-Mayor asked the young man why he raised the camp at so early an hour, but the latter without telling him all his thoughts, managed to give him reasons which, without being good, closed his mouth, and the caravan started. The three ladies, carefully wrapped up in their ponchos and rebozos in order to protect themselves from the cold, rode side by side, preceded by General Soto-Mayor and Don Pedro Sallazar.

Leon was a few paces ahead plunged into serious reflections.

"Eh, Caballero!" Don Pedro shouted to him, "I should like, with your permission, to ask you a question."

The captain stopped.

"A question, señor," he said; "what is it, if you please?"

"Well, I fancy it very simple; still if, unconsciously, I am guilty of any indiscretion, I beg you beforehand to excuse me, and I authorize your not answering me."

The young man bowed.

"Let me hear the question," he said.

"Since we have started," Don Pedro continued, "I have sought your friend in vain, but could not find him; can he have left us, or has he gone ahead to reconnoitre?"

"My friend, señor," the young man answered, somewhat drily, "has left us not to return. He went away last night while you were asleep, but I have remained, and shall not abandon you. Does this explanation suit you, señor? Or have you any other questions to ask me?"

"Hum!" Don Pedro replied, internally offended by the way in which the young man had answered him, and checking his horse, so as to let the others pass.

The caravan continued its journey, and not one of those who composed it – numbed by the cold which gradually grew more intense, and which they had great difficulty in guarding themselves against – attempted to stripe up even the most frivolous conversation.

The nearer the travellers came to the Parumo de San Juan Bautista, the more nervous did the captain grow, though he could not guess the reason; at length this anxiety became so great, that, after temporarily entrusting the command of the troop to Wilhelm, he made a signal to four of his adventurers to follow him; and, putting himself at their head, he dashed his horse at the flanks of the mountain which the travellers were ascending at the moment. As he passed Doña Maria, the latter slightly pulled aside the rebozo that covered her face, and bent down to him.

"Are you leaving us in that way, Leon?" she murmured, in a voice faint as a sigh.

The young man started at the sound of the beloved voice.

"No!" he answered; "on the contrary, I am going to watch over your safety." And dashing off, he at once disappeared among the trees.

"Heaven grant," the maiden said as she crossed herself, "that my fears are chimerical, and that the danger which I apprehend may only exist in my imagination."

And wrapping herself once more in her rebozo, the maiden rode pensively on by the side of her mother and sister, who seemed not to have paid any attention to the few words she had exchanged with the captain.

CHAPTER XVI
THE PARUMO DE SAN JUAN BAUTISTA

The Cordilleras of the Andes are strange mountains, with which no others in the world could be compared, and they form, so to speak, the backbone of the New World, the entire length of which they traverse. It is in Chili, whose natural frontier they form, that they assume the sternest and most gloomy proportions; raising to the clouds their snow-covered heads, it seems as if it were under the pressure of an omnipotent will, as Ervilla, the poet of Araucania, says, that they allow at certain periods daring travellers to enter their dark gorges and cross their denuded peaks.

The Cordilleras cannot at any season be everywhere crossed, and it is only during four months at the most that at certain spots caravans are enabled to make their way through the snow, escalade the crests of these inhospitable mountains, and descend the opposite sides.

These spots, called passages, are very few in number: they are only three in Chili, and they are quebradas, or gaps, the dried beds of torrents, or streams, through which men, horses, and mules pass with great difficulty, at the expense of extraordinary cost and privations.

The most frequented of these passages is the Parumo of San Juan Bautista, a narrow gorge between two lofty mountains, which can only be reached by a track a yard in width, bordered on the right by a forest, which rises in an amphitheatrical shape, and on the left by a precipice of immense depth, at the bottom of which an invisible stream may be heard murmuring.

This was the road which the caravan was following.

About four in the evening, at the moment when night was beginning to brood over these elevated regions, the travellers came out on a plateau of about forty yards in circumference; before them, nearly at their feet, and half bathed in the early mist of night, were vaguely designed the plains to which they would descend on the morrow, while around them were dark, inextricable forests, which seemed to enfold them.

Wilhelm, in obedience to the orders which he had received from his captain, commanded a halt, and all preparations to be made for the night encampment, as going any further would have been committing great imprudence, especially during the darkness. No one raised any objection, but all dismounted, and began actively unloading the mules and pitching the tent set apart for the Soto-Mayor family.

While some were piling up the bales, and others unsaddling the horses and draught animals, several adventurers, selected by the leader, entered the forest, in order to seek for dry wood necessary to keep up the watch fires.

The duties were thus allotted, in order that they might be completed as speedily as possible, when suddenly a terrible yell was heard, and a band of Indians burst forth from the forest, and rushed at the travellers with brandished weapons.

There was a moment of disorder which it is impossible to describe. The travellers, so suddenly surprised, and for the most part unarmed, offered but a feeble resistance to their assailants; but, speedily obeying the voice of Wilhelm, and excited by the shouts of General Soto-Mayor, and of Don Pedro Sallazar, they collected round the tent in which the three ladies had sought shelter, and arming themselves with any weapon they came across, they bravely resisted the Indians; not hoping, it is true, to emerge as victors from the contest they were sustaining, but resolved to sell their lives dearly, and only yield to death.

The combat then assumed gigantic proportions; the white men knew that they had no quarter to expect from their ferocious enemies, while the latter, whose great number heightened their boldness, and who counted on an easy victory, exasperated by the resistance offered them, redoubled their efforts to finish with the white men, whom they execrated.

The fight became with each instant more terrible; Chilians and Indians were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight, rending each other like wild beasts, and howling like tigers when a combatant fell on either side.

The issue of this frightful butchery was impossible to foresee, when suddenly several shots were fired, and a band of horsemen rushed desperately into the thickest of the fight. They were Leon, and his adventurers, who, after a futile search, when returning to join their friends, heard the sound of the battle, and hurried up to take their part in the danger, and claim the right of dying with their comrades.

It was time that this succour arrived, for the Chilians who, crushed by numbers, did not feel their courage give way, but the moment approaching when they would fall not to rise again in front of the tent which they had undertaken to defend with the last drop of their blood. Hence the unforeseen and almost providential arrival of the captain changed the aspect of the fight.

The Indians, astonished at this unforeseen attack, and not knowing what enemy they had to combat, hesitated for an instant, which Leon took advantage of to redouble his blows. A ray of hope animated the Spaniards, who regained their courage, and their resistance threatened to become fatal to the Indians; but this triumph, alas! was of short duration.

All at once a Redskin of colossal height rushed to meet the smuggler captain, with the evident intention of fighting him. When the two adversaries faced, they looked at each other with attention, each in his heart doing justice to the elegant form and muscular appearance of his opponent.

As frequently happens under such circumstances, Indians and Spaniards suspended the blows they were dealing one another, in order to be spectators of the combat in which Leon was about to engage with the Indian, who appeared to be one of the chiefs of the band. On the issue of this struggle the fate of the combatants on either side might depend. By a common agreement, the Redskin threw his axe on the ground and Leon his gun. Then after drawing their machetes, the two men looked at each other attentively, and suddenly making a bound forward, seized each other round the body, but neither could make use of his knife, as each had seized his enemy's right arm with his left hand. Activity and skill could alone triumph.

For some minutes they could be seen intertwined like serpents, with frowning brows, haggard eyes, and set teeth; they writhed in a hundred ways, and tried, to throw each other, but in vain. The panting breath of both combatants could be heard escaping from their heaving chests like a whistle. The perspiration poured down their faces, and a whitish foam gathered at the corners of their mouths.

At length the Indian chief uttered a savage yell, and, collecting all his strength in a supreme effort, threw Leon, who dragged him down with him. Both rolled on the hardened snow. A long cry of joy burst from the Indians, and a cry of despair from the Spaniards; and, as if they had only expected this denouement to renew the combat, they rushed upon each other with fresh strength.

In the midst of this dark forest, which was plunged into a sort of demi-obscurity, these scenes had something awful and sinister. The groans of the ladies, and the cries of agony from the men, who fell before the bullets and the blade, echoed mournfully far and wide; add to these lugubrious sounds the plaintive howling raised by the animals at the sight of the fire which was devouring the rest of the baggage, and the reader will have an idea of the sad picture which we are drawing.

In the meanwhile the Indian who had thrown Leon had set his knee on his chest with ferocious delight, and was brandishing his knife; but all was not yet over for Leon; by a movement rapid as thought he hurled away his foe, who fell, letting his knife slip from his grasp. It was now the Indian's turn to tremble. Leon seized him by the throat, and throttled him by the pressure of his left hand, while in his right he raised his machete to kill him.

"Die, scoundrel!" he shouted.

He had not finished the sentence when a blow from the butt end of a gun fell on his head, and the smuggler captain fell senseless, while his enemy was dragged away by the man who had thus saved him from a certain death.

When Leon recovered his senses, the Indians had disappeared; of his twenty-five companions, ten still lived, while the others, scalped and horribly mutilated, were stretched out on the ground. Don Pedro Sallazar was stanching, as well as he could, a wound which he had received in the chest; while General Soto-Mayor was on his knees, and holding in his arms the body of his wife, who had been killed by a bullet through the temples.

The old man looked at the wound with a lacklustre eye, and seemed to be no longer conscious of what was going on around him; still the heavy tears that coursed down his pallid cheeks fell one by one on the face of the dead woman.

"And the young ladies?" Leon anxiously asked, as he rose with great difficulty; "I do not see them."

"They have been carried off by the Indians," Don Pedro replied, in a hollow, sullen voice.

"Oh!" said Leon, mad with despair, "I am accursed!"

And, overcome by grief, he fell as if stunned to the ground. At this moment a horseman entered the clearing; it was Major Don Juan, the son of General Soto-Mayor.