Gustave Aimard
The Trappers of Arkansas: or, The Loyal Heart
CHAPTER III.
THE SENTENCE
On the morrow the sun rose splendidly on the horizon. The storm of the night had completely cleared the sky, which was one of deep blue; the birds warbled gaily, concealed beneath the leaves, and all nature seemed to have resumed its accustomed festive air.
The bell sounded joyously at the Hacienda del Milagro; the peons began to disperse in all directions, some leading horses to the pasturage, others driving cattle to the artificial prairies, others again wending their way to the fields, whilst the rest were employed in the patio in milking the cows and repairing the damages done by the hurricane.
The only traces left of the tempest of the preceding night were two magnificent jaguars stretched dead before the gate of the hacienda, not far from the carcass of a half-devoured horse.
Nô Eusebio, who was walking about in the patio, carefully overlooking the occupations of all, ordered the rich trappings of the horse to be taken off and cleaned, and the jaguars to be skinned; all of which was done in the shortest time possible.
Nô Eusebio was, however, very uneasy; Don Ramón, generally the first person stirring in the hacienda, had not yet appeared.
On the preceding evening, after the terrible accusation brought by the juez de letras against the eldest son of the hacendero, the latter had ordered his servants to retire, and after having himself, in spite of the tears and prayers of his wife, firmly bound his son, he led Don Inigo Albaceyte into a retired apartment of the farm, where they both remained in private till a far advanced hour of the night.
What had passed in that conversation, in which the fate of Don Rafaël was decided, nobody knew – Nô Eusebio no more than the others.
Then, after having conducted Don Inigo to a chamber he had had prepared for him, and having wished him good night, Don Ramón proceeded to rejoin his son, with whom the poor mother was still weeping: without pronouncing a word, he took the boy in his arms, and carried him into his bedroom, where he laid him on the ground near his bed; then the hacendero shut and locked the door, went to bed, with two pistols under his pillow. The night passed away thus, the father and son darting at each other through the darkness the looks of wild beasts, and the poor mother on her knees on the sill of that chamber, which she was forbidden to enter, weeping silently for her first-born, who, as she had a terrible presentiment, was about to be ravished from her for ever.
"Hum!" the mayoral murmured to himself, biting, without thinking of doing so, the end of his extinguished cigarette, "what will be the end of all this? Don Ramón is not a man to pardon, he will not compromise his honour. Will he abandon his son to the hands of justice! Oh no! but, in that case what will he do?"
The worthy mayoral had arrived at this point in his reflections, when Don Inigo Albaceyte and Don Ramón appeared in the patio.
The countenances of the two men were stern; that of the hacendero, in particular, was dark as night.
"Nô Eusebio," Don Ramón said in a sharp tone, "have a horse saddled, and prepare an escort of four men to conduct this cavalier to Hermosillo."
The mayoral bowed respectfully, and immediately gave the necessary orders.
"I thank you a thousand times," continued Don Ramón, addressing the judge; "you have saved the honour of my house."
"Do not be so grateful, señor," Don Inigo replied; "I swear to you that when I left the city yesterday, I had no intention of making myself agreeable to you."
The hacendero only replied by a gesture.
"Put yourself in my place; I am criminal judge above everything; a man is murdered – a worthless fellow, I admit – but a man, although of the worst kind; the assassin is known, he traverses the city at full gallop, in open daylight, in the sight of everybody, with incredible effrontery. What could I do? – set off in pursuit of him. I did not hesitate."
"That is true," Don Ramón murmured, holding down his head.
"And evil have been the consequences to me. The scoundrels who accompanied me abandoned me, like cowards, in the height of the storm, and took shelter I know not where; and then, to crown my troubles, two jaguars, magnificent animals, by the bye, rushed in pursuit of me; they pressed me so hard that I came and fell at your door like a mass. It is true I killed one of them, but the other was very nearly snapping me up, when you came to my assistance. Could I, after that, arrest the son of the man who had saved my life at the peril of his own? That would have been acting with the blackest ingratitude."
"Thanks, once more."
"No thanks; we are quits, that is all. I say nothing of some thousands of piastres you have given me; they will serve to stop the mouths of my lynxes. Only, let me beg of you, Don Ramón, keep a sharp eye upon your son; if he should fall a second time into my hands, I don't know how I could save him."
"Be at ease, in that respect, Don Inigo; my son will never fall into your hands again."
"The hacendero pronounced these words in so solemn and melancholy a tone, that the judge started at hearing them, and turned round saying, —
"Take care what you are about to do!"
"Oh, fear nothing," replied Don Ramón; "only, as I am not willing that my son should mount a scaffold, and drag my name in the mud, I must endeavour to prevent him."
At that moment the horse was led out, and the juez de letras mounted.
"Well, adieu, Don Ramón," he said in an indulgent voice; "be prudent, this young man may still reform; he is hot blooded, that is all."
"Adieu, Don Inigo Albaceyte," the hacendero replied, in so dry a tone that it admitted of no reply.
The judge shook his head, and clapping spurs to his horse, he set off at full trot, followed by his escort, after having made the farmer a farewell gesture.
The latter looked after him, as long as he could see him, and then re-entered the house with long and hasty strides.
"Nô Eusebio," he said to the mayoral, "ring the bell to call together all the peons, as well as the other servants of the hacienda."
The mayoral, after having looked at his master with astonishment, hastened to execute the order he had received.
"What does all this mean?" he said to himself.
At the sound of the bell, the men employed on the farm ran to answer it in haste, not knowing to what cause they should attribute this extraordinary summons.
They were soon all collected together in the great hall, which served as a refectory. The completest silence reigned among them. A secret pang pressed on their hearts, – they had the presentiment of a terrible event.
After a few minutes of expectation, Doña Jesuita entered, surrounded by her children, with the exception of Rafaël, and proceeded to take her place upon a platform, prepared at one end of the hall.
Her countenance was pale, and her eyes proclaimed that she had been weeping.
Don Ramón appeared.
He was clothed in a complete suit of black velvet without lace; a heavy gold chain hung round his neck, a broad leafed hat of black felt, ornamented with an eagle's feather, covered his head, a long sword, with a hilt of polished steel, hung by his side.
His brow was marked with wrinkles, his eyebrows were closely knitted above his black eyes, which appeared to dart lightning.
A shudder of terror pervaded the ranks of the assembly – Don Ramón Garillas had put on the robe of justice.
Justice was then about to be done?
But upon whom?
When Don Ramón had taken his place on the right hand of his wife, he made a sign.
The mayoral went out, and returned a minute after, followed by Rafaël.
The young man was bareheaded, and had his hands tied behind his back.
With his eyes cast down, and a pale face, he placed himself before his father, whom he saluted respectfully.
At the period at which our history passes, in those countries remote from towns and exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians, the heads of families preserved, in all its purity, that patriarchal authority which the efforts of our depraved civilization have a tendency to lessen, and, at length, to destroy. A father was sovereign in his own house, his judgments were without appeal, and executed without murmurs or resistance.
The people of the farm were acquainted with the firm character and implacable will of their master; they knew that he never pardoned, that his honour was dearer to him than life; it was then with a sense of undefinable fear that they prepared to witness the terrible drama which was about to be performed before them between the father and the son.
Don Ramón arose, cast a dark glance round upon the assembly, and threw his hat at his feet:
"Listen all to me," he said in a sharp but most distinct voice; "I am of an old Christian race, whose ancestors have never done wrong; honour has always in my house been considered as the first of earthly goods; that honour which my ancestors transmitted to me intact, and which I have endeavoured to preserve pure, my first-born son, the inheritor of my name, has sullied by an indelible stain. Yesterday, at Hermosillo, in consequence of a tavern quarrel, he set fire to a house, at the risk of burning down the whole city, and when a man endeavoured to prevent his escape, he killed him with a poniard stroke. What can be thought of a boy who, at so tender an age, is endowed with the instincts of a wild beast? Justice must be done, and, by God's help, I will do it severely."
After these words, Don Ramón crossed his arms upon his breast, and appeared to reflect.
No one durst hazard a word in favour of the accused; all heads were bent down, all hearts were palpitating.
Rafaël was beloved by his father's servants on account of his intrepidity, which yielded to no obstacles, for his skill in managing a horse, and in the use of all arms, and more than all, for the frankness and kindness which formed the most striking features of his character. In this country particularly, where the life of a man is reckoned of so little value, everyone was inwardly disposed to excuse the youth, and to see nothing in the action he had committed but the result of warmth of blood and hasty passion.
Doña Jesuita arose; without a murmur she had always bent to the will of her husband, whom for many years she had been accustomed to respect; the mere idea of resisting him terrified her, and sent a cold shudder through her veins; but all the loving powers of her soul were concentrated in her heart. She adored her children, Rafaël in particular, whose indomitable character stood more in need than the others, of the watchful cares of a mother.
"Sir," she said to her husband, in a voice choked with tears, "remember that Rafaël is your first-born; that his fault, however serious it might be, ought not to be inexcusable in your eyes, as you are his father; and that I – I – " she continued, falling on her knees, clasping her hands and sobbing, "I implore your pity! pardon, sir! pardon for your son!"
"Don Ramón coldly raised his wife, whose face was inundated with tears, and after obliging her to resume her place in her chair, he said, —
"It is particularly as a father, that my heart ought to be without pity! Rafaël is an assassin and an incendiary; he is no longer my son!"
"What do you mean to do?" Doña Jesuita cried, in accents of terror.
"What does that concern you, madam?" Don Ramón replied harshly; "the care of my honour concerns me alone. Sufficient for you to know that this fault is the last your son will commit."
"Oh!" she said with terror, "will you then become his executioner?"
"I am his judge," the implacable gentleman replied in a terrible voice. "Nô Eusebio, get two horses ready."
"My God! my God!" the poor mother cried, rushing towards her son, whom she folded closely in her arms, "will no one come to my succour?"
All present were moved; Don Ramón himself could not restrain a tear.
"Oh!" she cried with a wild joy, "he is saved! God has softened the heart of this inflexible man!"
"You are mistaken, madam," Don Ramón interrupted, pushing her roughly back, "your son is no longer mine, he belongs to my justice!"
Then fixing on his son a look cold as a steel blade, he said in a voice so stern that in spite of himself it made the young man start.
"Don Rafaël, from this instant you no longer form a part of this society, which your crimes have horrified; it is with wild beasts that I condemn you to live and die."
At this terrible sentence, Doña Jesuita took a few steps towards her son, but, tottering, she fell prostrate – she had fainted.
Up to this moment Rafaël had, with a great effort, suppressed in his heart the emotions which agitated him, but at this last accident he could no longer restrain himself; he sprang towards his mother, burst into tears, and uttered a piercing cry:
"My mother! my mother!"
"Come this way," said Don Ramón, laying his hand upon his shoulder.
The boy stopped, staggering like a drunken man.
"Look, sir! pray look!" he cried, with a heartbroken sob; "my mother is dying!"
"It is you who have killed her!" the hacendero replied coldly.
Rafaël turned round as if a serpent had stung him; he darted at his father a look of strange expression, and, with clenched teeth and a livid brow said to him,
"Kill me, sir; for I swear to you that in the same manner as you have been pitiless to my mother and me, if I live I will be hereafter pitiless to you!"
Don Ramón cast upon him a look of contempt.
"Come on!" he said.
"Come on, then!" the boy repeated in a firm tone.
Doña Jesuita, who was beginning to recover her senses, perceived the departure of her son, as if in a dream.
"Rafaël! Rafaël!" she shrieked.
The young man hesitated for a second; then, with a bound, he sprang towards her, kissed her with wild tenderness, and rejoining his father, said —
"Now I can die! I have bidden adieu to my mother!"
And they went out.
The household, deeply moved by this scene, separated without communicating their impressions to each other, but all penetrated with sincere grief.
Under the caresses of her son, the poor mother had again lost all consciousness.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MOTHER
Two horses, held by the bridle by Nô Eusebio, were waiting at the door of the hacienda.
"Shall I accompany you, señor?" asked the major-domo.
"No!" the hacendero replied drily.
He mounted and placed his son across the saddle before him.
"Take back the second horse," he said; "I do not want it."
And plunging his spurs into the sides of his horse, which snorted with pain, he set off at full speed.
The major-domo returned to the house, shaking his head sadly.
As soon as the hacienda had disappeared behind a swell in the ground, Don Ramón stopped, drew a silk handkerchief from his breast, bandaged the eyes of his son without saying a word to him, and then again resumed his course.
This ride in the desert lasted a long time; it had something dismal about it that chilled the soul.
This horseman, clothed in black, gliding silently along through the sands, bearing before him on his saddle a securely-bound boy, whose nervous starts and writhings alone proclaimed his existence, had a fatal and strange aspect, which would have impressed the bravest man with terror.
Many hours had passed without a word being exchanged between the son and the father; the sun began to sink in the horizon, a few stars already appeared in the dark blue of the sky – but the horse still went on.
The desert, every instant, assumed a more dismal and wild appearance; every tree of vegetation had disappeared; only here and there heaps of bones, whitened by time, marbled the sand with livid spots; birds of prey hovered slowly over the horsemen, uttering hoarse cries; and in the mysterious depths of the chaparrals, wild beasts, at the approach of night, preluded their rude concerts with dull roarings.
In these regions twilight does not exist; as soon as the sun has disappeared, the darkness is complete.
Don Ramón continued to gallop on. His son had not addressed a single prayer to him, or uttered a single complaint.
At length, towards eight o'clock, the horsemen stopped. This feverish ride had lasted ten hours. The horse panted and throbbed, and staggered at every step.
Don Ramón cast an anxious glance around him; a smile of satisfaction curled his lip. On all sides the desert displayed its immense plains of sand; on one alone the skirt of a virgin forest cut the horizon with its strange profile, breaking in a sinister manner the monotony of the prospect.
Don Ramón dismounted, placed his son upon the sand, took the bridle from his horse, that it might eat the provender he gave it; then, after having acquitted himself of all these duties, with the greatest coolness he approached his son, and removed the bandage from his eyes.
The boy remained silent, fixing upon his father a dull, cold look.
"Sir!" Don Ramón said, in a sharp, dry tone, "you are here more than twenty leagues from my hacienda, in which you will never set your foot again under pain of death; from this moment you are alone, you have no longer either father, mother, or family; as you have proved yourself almost a wild beast, I condemn you to live with wild beasts; my resolution is irrevocable, your prayers could not change it. Spare them then!"
"I shall not pray to you," the boy replied, "people do not intreat an executioner!"
Don Ramón started; he walked about in feverish agitation; but soon recovering himself, he continued,
"In this pouch are provisions for two days. I leave you this rifle, which in my hands never missed its mark; I give you also these pistols, this machete, and this knife, this hatchet, and powder and balls in these buffalo horns. You will find with the provisions a steel and everything necessary for kindling a fire. I add to these things a Bible, belonging to your mother. You are dead to society, into which you can never return; the desert is before you; it belongs to you; for me, I have no longer a son, adieu! The Lord be merciful to you, all is ended between us on earth; you are left alone, and without a family; it depends upon yourself, then, to commence a second existence, and to provide for your own wants. Providence never abandons those who place their confidence in it; henceforward, it alone will watch over you."
After having pronounced these words, Don Ramón, his countenance still impassible, replaced the bridle on his horse, restored his son to liberty by cutting the cords which bound him, and then getting into his saddle, he set off at his horse best speed.
Rafaël rose upon his knees, bent his head forward, listened with anxiety to the retreating gallop of the horse on the sand, followed with his eyes, as long as he was able, the fatal profile which was thrown in black relief by the moonbeams; and when the horseman was at length confounded with the darkness, the boy placed his hand upon his breast, and an expression of despair impossible to be described convulsed his features.
"My mother! my mother!" he cried.
He fell lifeless upon the sand. He had fainted.
After a long gallop, Don Ramón, insensibly and as if in spite of himself, slackened the speed of his horse, lending a keen ear to the vague noises of the desert, listening with anxiety, without rendering an account to himself why he did so, but expecting, perhaps, an appeal from his unfortunate son to return to him. Twice even his hand mechanically pulled the bridle as if he obeyed a secret voice which commanded him to retrace his steps; but the fierce pride of his race was still the stronger, and he continued his course homewards.
The sun was rising at the moment Don Ramón arrived at the hacienda.
Two persons were standing side by side at the gate, waiting his return.
The one was Doña Jesuita, the other the major-domo.
At sight of his wife, pale, mute, and motionless before him, like the statue of desolation, the hacendero felt an unutterable sadness weigh upon his heart; he wished to pass, but Doña Jesuita, making two steps towards him and seizing the bridle of his horse, said with agonized emotion, —
"Don Ramón, what have you done with my son?"
The hacendero made no reply; on beholding the grief of his wife, remorse shot a pang into his heart, and he asked himself mentally if he had really the right to act as he had done.
Doña Jesuita waited in vain for an answer. Don Ramón looked earnestly at his wife; he was terrified at perceiving the indelible furrows which grief had imprinted upon that countenance, so calm, so placid, but a few hours before.
The noble woman was livid; her contracted features had an inexpressible rigidity; her eyes, burnt with fever, were red and dry, two black and deep lines rendered them hollow and haggard; a large stain marbled each of her cheeks, the trace of tears the source of which was dried up; she could weep no more, her voice was hoarse and broken, and her oppressed breast heaved painfully to allow the escape of a panting respiration.
After having waited some minutes for a reply to her question, "Don Ramón," she repeated, "what have you done with my son?"
The hacendero turned away his head with something like confusion.
"Oh! you have killed him!" she said, with a piercing shriek.
"No;" Don Ramón replied, terrified at her grief, and for the first time in his life forced to acknowledge the power of the mother who demands an account of her child.
"What have you done with him?" she screamed persistently.
"Presently, when you are more calm, you shall know all."
"I am calm," she replied, "why should you feign a pity you do not feel? My son is dead, and it is you who have killed him!"
Don Ramón alighted from his horse.
"Jesuita," he said to his wife, taking her hands and looking at her with tenderness, "I swear to you by all that is most sacred in the world, that your son exists; I have not touched a hair of his head."
The poor mother remained pensive for a few seconds.
"I believe you," she said; then after a pause she added, "What is become of him?"
"Well!" he replied, with some hesitation, "since you insist upon knowing all, learn that I have abandoned your son in the desert, but have left him the means to provide for his safety and his wants."
Doña Jesuita started, a nervous shudder crept through the whole of her frame.
"You have been very clement," she said in a cutting tone, and with bitter irony; "you have been very clement towards a boy of sixteen, Don Ramón; you felt a repugnance to bathe your hands in his blood, and you have preferred leaving that task to the wild beasts and ferocious Indians who alone people those solitudes."
"He was guilty!" the hacendero replied, in a low but firm voice.
"A child is never guilty in the eyes of her who has borne him in her bosom, and nourished him with her milk," she said with energy. "It is well, Don Ramón, you have condemned your son, I – I will save him!"
"What would you do?" the hacendero said, terrified at the resolution he saw kindled in the eyes of his wife.
"What matters it to you? Don Ramón, I will accomplish my duty as you believe you have accomplished yours! God will judge between us! Tremble, lest He should one day demand of you an account of the blood of your son!"
Don Ramón bent his head beneath this anathema; with a pale brow, and a mind oppressed by heavy remorse, he went slowly into the hacienda.
Doña Jesuita looked after him for an instant.
"Oh!" she cried, "may God grant that I may arrive in time!"
She then went out from the portico, followed by Nô Eusebio.
Two horses awaited them, concealed behind a clump of trees. They mounted immediately.
"Where are we going, señora?" the major-domo asked.
"In search of my son!" she replied in a shrill voice.
She seemed transfigured by hope; a bright colour flushed her cheeks; her black eyes darted lightning.
Nô Eusebio untied four magnificent bloodhounds, called rastreros in the country, and which were kept to follow trails; he made them smell a shirt belonging to Rafaël; the hounds rushed forward on the scent, baying loudly. Nô Eusebio and Doña Jesuita galloped after them, exchanging a look of sanguine hope.
The dogs had no trouble in following the scent, it was straight and without obstruction, therefore they did not stop an instant.
When Doña Jesuita arrived at the spot where Rafaël had been abandoned by his father, the place was void! – the boy had disappeared!
The traces of his having sojourned there were visible; a fire was not yet burnt out; everything indicated that Rafaël could not have quitted that place more than an hour.
"What is to be done?" Nô Eusebio asked anxiously.
"Push forward!" Doña Jesuita replied resolutely, urging her horse again into action, and the generous steed responding with unflagging spirit.
Nô Eusebio followed her.
On the evening of that day the greatest consternation prevailed at the Hacienda del Milagro, Doña Jesuita and Nô Eusebio had not returned.
Don Ramón ordered all the household to mount on horseback.
Provided with torches, the peons and vaqueros commenced a battue of an immense extent in search of their mistress and the major-domo.
The whole night passed away without bringing the least satisfactory result.
At daybreak, the horse of Doña Jesuita was found half devoured in the desert. Its trappings were wanting.
The ground round the carcass of the horse appeared to have been the scene of a desperate conflict of some kind.
Don Ramón, in despair, gave orders for return.
"Great Heaven!" he cried, as he re-entered the hacienda, "is it possible that my chastisement has already commenced?"
Weeks, months, years passed away, without any circumstance, lifting the corner of the mysterious veil which enveloped these sinister events, and, notwithstanding the most active and persevering researches, nothing could be learnt of the fate of Rafaël, his mother, and Nô Eusebio.
