Майн Рид
Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora
At last Diaz disengaged himself from his adversary’s clasp, and backed his horse, still facing the Indian. Then, when he was a little way off, he caused his horse to rear so furiously that the animal seemed for a moment to be raised over the Indian. At the same moment Diaz lifted his right leg, and with a blow from the large heavy iron-bound stirrup, broke his adversary’s skull, whom his horse carried away dead from the spot.
This last magnificent exploit seemed to end the battle; some arrows flew harmlessly around Diaz, who was welcomed back with shouts of triumph by his companions.
“Poor Benito!” cried Baraja; “may God rest his soul, I regret even his terrific histories.”
“What is still more to be regretted,” interrupted Oroche, “is the death of the illustrious Cuchillo, the guide of the expedition.”
“Your ideas are still confused from the blow you received on your head,” said Diaz, as he tried the flexibility of a new sword. “But for the illustrious Cuchillo, as you call him, we should not have lost to-night at least twenty brave comrades. Cuchillo unluckily died a day too late, and I cannot say ‘God rest his soul.’”
Meanwhile the Indians were deliberating. The last exploit of Diaz, the death that so many of their party had met with in the camp, and those killed by the filing, had thinned their ranks.
The Indian never persists in a hopeless struggle: a singular mixture of prudence and contempt of life characterises this singular race, and prudence counselled them to retreat; they did so precipitately as they had attacked.
But the tactics of the white men were different; they were anxious to profit by a victory the fame of which would penetrate to the furthest end of the desert, and render their future more secure. Therefore an order to pursue the fugitives given by Don Estevan was received with acclamations. Twenty cavaliers instantly rushed forward, Pedro Diaz among the foremost. Sword in one hand, and lasso and bridle in the other, he was soon out of sight.
Those who remained behind, though nearly all more or less wounded, occupied themselves first with reconstructing the intrenchment in case of any new attack; then, overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, after clearing the camp of the dead bodies which encumbered it, they lay down on the earth, still wet with blood, to seek for repose.
Chapter Thirty Eight
After the Fight
In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or bloody faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought.
All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention, and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded. The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying man – in whom he immediately recognised Benito.
“Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?” said he, with a look of profound pity.
“Yes,” replied the old shepherd, “it is old Benito, dying in the desert where he has nearly always lived. As for me – I know not who you are; my eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?”
“I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I hope, to bid you a last adieu.”
“I doubt it,” replied Benito; “I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?”
“Not a word.”
“Ah! I must do without it,” said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, “I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion – an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did.”
“A brother doubtless.”
“Better than that; my horse.”
“I shall remind him – do not fear.”
“Thank you,” said the old man. “As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth – now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner. That – ” he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.
“He was a brave man – peace be with him!” said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.
Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses’ feet indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they entered the camp.
The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his forehead.
“Señor Don Estevan,” said he, “we have not been lucky in our pursuit. We have but wounded one or two of the Indians, and have lost one of our own men. However I bring you a prisoner; do you wish to interrogate him?”
So saying, Diaz detached his lasso from the saddle-bow, and pointed to a mass held in its noose. It was an Indian, who, pitilessly dragged along over the sand and stones, had left behind at every step pieces of flesh, and now scarcely retained any vestige of humanity.
“He was alive when I took him, however,” cried Diaz, “but it is just like these dogs of Indians, he must have died in order not to tell anything.”
Without replying to this ferocious jest, Don Estevan signed to Diaz to accompany him to a place where they might converse without being overheard. When the new-comers had lain down and silence reigned anew, Don Estevan began:
“Diaz,” said he, “we are close on the end of our expedition: to-morrow, as I told you, we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains; but in order that success may crown our efforts, treason must not throw obstacles in our way. It is on this subject that I wish to consult you to-night. You have known Cuchillo long, but not so long as I have; and certainly, not as thoroughly. From his earliest youth he has always betrayed those to whom he appeared most devoted. I know not which of all the vices with which he is endowed has the ascendant; but in a word, the sinister look of his face is but a feeble reflection of the blackness of his soul. It was he who sold to me the secret of the rich and mysterious placer to which I am leading you – and of this secret he had made himself the sole master by murdering the friend who had freely confided it to him, and who thought to find him a faithful companion in his dangers.
“I have ever, therefore, kept a watchful eye over him. His disappearance for the last two days alarmed me, but it might have been the result of an accident common in these deserts. The attack, however, from which we have so narrowly escaped has confirmed my suspicions. He has advanced under our protection, until we have reached the place where he would, be able to seize a part of these immense treasures. He had need of auxiliaries in order to murder our sixty men, and the Indians who have attacked us were but his instruments.”
“Indeed,” replied Diaz, “his report seemed to me suspicious. But the simplest method will be to hold a court-martial, interrogate him, and if he be convicted of treason, let us shoot him at once.”
“At the commencement of the attack, I assigned him a post near me, in order to watch him more easily. I saw him totter and then fall apparently mortally wounded, and I was glad to be rid of a traitor and a coward. But I have just turned over and examined all the dead, and Cuchillo is not amongst them. It is therefore urgent that without loss of time we should follow him; he cannot be far off. You are accustomed to this sort of expedition; we must, without delay, set off in pursuit of him, and execute prompt justice on a villain whose life must pay for his treachery.”
Diaz appeared to reflect for a moment, and then said, “To trace him can neither be tedious nor difficult. Cuchillo must have gone towards the Golden Valley – therefore in that direction we must seek him.”
“Go rest for an hour, for you must be worn out,” said the chief. “Ah! Diaz, if all these men were like you, how easy our path would be – gold in one hand, and the sword in the other.”
“I have only done my duty,” said Diaz, simply.
“Say to our men that it is necessary for us to reconnoitre the environs of the camp, and tell the sentinels to keep strict watch until our return, and then we shall proceed towards the valley.”
“Cuchillo must certainly be there, and we shall catch him either going or returning.”
“We shall find him in the valley,” said Don Estevan. “When you have seen it, you will find it a place that a man like Cuchillo could not make up his mind to leave.”
Diaz departed to execute his orders, and Don Estevan caused his tent to be pitched again, that even in his absence his starry banner might float over the camp as a sign of his protective authority. This done, he threw himself on his couch, and slept the sleep of a soldier after a day of fighting and fatigue.
Little more than an hour after, Diaz stood before him, “Señor Don Estevan,” said he, “all is prepared for starting.”
The chief rose and found his horse awaiting him ready saddled.
“Diaz,” said he, “ask the sentinels if Gayferos has returned.”
Diaz questioned one of the men, who replied, “The poor fellow will probably never return. The Indians must have surprised and killed him before attacking us, and that probably was the cause of the firing that we heard in the afternoon.”
“I fear it is but too certain that he has been murdered,” replied Diaz; “but as for the firing that we heard, I believe that had a different origin.”
Don Estevan now mounted his horse, and the two set off in, the direction of the mountains.
Chapter Thirty Nine
The Islet
While the Indians, united in council, were deliberating on the means of attacking the camp of the gold-seekers, let us see how the three men on the island were occupied.
It was about four o’clock, and the fog was beginning to rise slowly from the water. Willows and aspens grew on the shores of the river Gila, within rifle-range of the little island, and so near the water that their roots were in the river. The spaces between the trees were filled up by vigorous osier and other shoots; but just in front of the island was a large open space. This had been made by the troops of wild horses and buffaloes, that came down to drink at the river; and through this opening any one on the island could see clearly over the plain.
The little island had been formed originally by trees that had taken root in the bed of the river; other trees, some green and others without branches or foliage, had rested against these, and their roots had become interlaced. Since then, many summers and winters must have passed; and grasses and sedges, detached from the banks by the water, had filled up the interstices. Then the dust, brought there by the wind, had covered these with a crust of earth, and formed a kind of solid ground for the floating island. Plants had grown along the banks; the trunks of the willows had sent forth vigorous shoots, and, with the reeds, had surrounded the island with a fringe of verdure. The island was only a few feet in diameter; but a man lying, or even kneeling upon it, was completely hidden by the willow-shoots.
The sun was going down, and a little shade was thrown by the leaves and trees; in this shade was stretched the form of Fabian asleep. Bois-Rose seemed to be watching over his sleep, hastily taken after the fatigues of a long march, while Pepé refreshed himself by plunging in the water. While Fabian slumbers, we shall raise the veil by which the young Count hid from the eyes of his two friends his most secret and dearest thoughts.
After his fall into the torrent, Pepé had forgotten that the enemy on whom he had sworn vengeance was escaping, and both he and Bois-Rose had thought only of rendering prompt assistance to Fabian. On returning to consciousness, Fabian’s first thought was to resume his interrupted pursuit. The acquisition of the Golden Valley, and even the remembrance of Doña Rosarita, were forgotten by the ardent wish of revenging his mother.
Pepé, on his side, was not the man to draw back from his vow; and as for Bois-Rose, his whole affections were centred in his two companions, and he would have followed them to the end of the world. Their first failure, far from discouraging them, did but excite their ardour; in hatred as in love, obstacles are always a powerful stimulant to vigorous minds. The pursuit had gradually presented a double object to Fabian; it brought him near to the Golden Valley in the desert; and he nourished a vague hope that the place pointed out to him was not the same as that which the expedition led by Antonio de Mediana proposed to conquer.
Fabian said to himself, that the daughter of Don Augustin doubtless only yielded obedience to the ambitious views of her father, and that it might yet be easy for him, noble and rich, to win the day against such a rival as Tragaduros.
Still, discouragement often seized upon Fabian; he loved the daughter of the haciendado with his whole soul; and the thought of owing her love only to the treasures that he might possess, distressed him. Moreover, he felt that the ardent and jealous affection of the Canadian, had founded on him the sole aim of his life, and that, like the eagle who carries away his young one and places it in an eyrie, inaccessible to the hand of man, Bois-Rose, who had forever quitted civilised life, wished to make of him his inseparable companion in the desert; and that, to disappoint the old man would be to throw a shadow over his whole future life. As yet, no confidence as to their future had been exchanged between them; but in face of a love that he believed hopeless, and of the ardent, though secret wishes of the man who now acted as a father to him, and who would half break his heart at a separation, Fabian had generously and silently sacrificed his tastes and hopes that would not die. He who had but to hold out his hand to seize the things that the whole world desires – riches, titles, and honours – was like one whose life tortured by an unhappy love, disclaiming the future, seeks within the cloister forgetfulness of the past. For Fabian de Mediana, the desert was the cloister; and his mother once revenged, it only remained to him to bury himself in it forever. Sad and inefficacious, as a remedy, would be solitude, with its mysterious voice, and the ardent contemplations that it awakens, for a passion so fondly awakened in the young heart of Fabian.
One single hope remained to him – that amidst the ever-renewed dangers of an adventurous life, the day was not far distant when his life would be cut short in some contest with the Indians, or in one of those desperate attempts that he meditated against the murderer of his mother. He had carefully hidden from the Canadian the love that he buried in the depths of his heart; and it was in the silence of the night that he dared to look into his own bosom. Then, like the light which shines in the horizon above great cities, and which the traveller contemplates with joy, a radiant and cherished image rose before his eyes in the desert, standing on that breach in the wall of the hacienda, where his last souvenirs carried him. But during the day, the heroic young man tried to hide under an apparent calm, the melancholy that devoured him. He smiled, with sad resignation, at those plans for the future which the Canadian sometimes enlarged on before him – he so happy in having found him, and who trembled to lose again his beloved Fabian, whose hand he hoped would one day close his eyes. The blind tenderness of Bois-Rose did not divine the abyss under the calm surface of the lake, but Pepé was rather more clear-sighted.
“Well,” said Pepé, after a long silence, “the inhabitants of Madrid would pay dearly for such a stream of water in the Manzanares; but we have not the less lost a day which might have brought us nearer to the Golden Valley, and from which we cannot now be far distant.”
“I allow that,” replied Bois-Rose, “but the child,” for so he called the vigorous young man before them, “is not so accustomed as we are to long marches, and though sixty leagues in twelve days is not very much for us, it begins to tell on him. But before he has been a year with us, he will be able to walk as far as ourselves.”
Pepé could not help smiling at this answer, but the Canadian did not perceive it.
“See,” said the Spaniard, pointing to Fabian, “how the poor lad has changed in a few days. For my part, at his age, I should have preferred the glance of a damsel and the Puerta del Sol at Madrid to all the magnificence of the desert. Fatigue alone has not produced this change in him. There is some secret which he does not tell us, but I will penetrate it one of these days,” added Pepé mentally.
At these words the Canadian turned his head quickly towards his beloved child, but a smile of joy from Fabian chased away the sudden cloud from the brow of his adoptive father. Fabian indeed smiled; he was dreaming that he was on his knees before Rosarita, listening to the sweet voice of the young girl, who was recounting her anguish during his long absence, and that Bois-Rose stood behind them leaning on his rifle and blessing them both. Ah! it was only a dream.
The two hunters looked for a moment silently at the sleeper.
“There lies the last descendant of the Medianas,” said Pepé, with a sigh.
“What care I for the Medianas and their powerful race?” replied the Canadian. “I know but Fabian. When I saved him, and attached myself to him as though he had been my own, did I ask about his ancestors?”
“You will wake him if you talk so loud,” said Pepé; “your voice roars like a cataract.”
“Why are you always recalling to me things that I do not wish to know, or rather wish to forget. I know that some years in the desert will accustom him – ”
“You deceive yourself strangely, Bois-Rose, if you imagine that with the prospects that await him in Spain, and the rights that he can claim, this young man will consent to pass his whole life in the desert. It is good for us, but not for him.”
“What! is not the desert preferable to cities?” cried the old sailor, who vainly tried to conceal from himself that Pepé was right. “I undertake to make him prefer a wandering life to a settled one. Is it not for movement, for fighting, and for the powerful emotions of the desert that man is born?”
“Certainly,” said Pepé, gravely, “and that is just why the towns are deserted and the deserts peopled!”
“Do not jest, Pepé; I am speaking of serious things. While I leave Fabian free to follow his own inclinations, I shall make him love this captivating life. Is not this short sleep, snatched hastily between two dangers, preferable to what one tastes after a day of idle security in the towns. You yourself, Pepé – would you wish to return to your own country, since you have known the charms of a wandering life?”
“There is between the heir of the Medianas,” replied Pepé, “and the old coast-guard man a great difference. To him will come a fine property, a great name, and a beautiful Gothic castle with towers like the cathedral at Burgos; while I should be sent to fish for mackerel at Ceuta – which is the most execrable life I know of and which I should have but one chance of escaping from – that of waking some fine morning, at Tunis or Tetuan, as a slave to our neighbours the Moors. I have here, it is true, the daily chance of being scalped or burnt alive by the Indians. Still the town is worse for me – but for Don Fabian – ”
“Fabian has always lived in solitude, and will, I trust, prefer the calm of the desert to the tumult of cities. How solemn and silent is all around us! See here!” and he pointed to Fabian, “how the child sleeps, softly lulled by the murmur of the waters, and by the breeze in the willows. Look there, in the horizon at those fogs just coloured by the sun, and that boundless space where man wanders in his primitive liberty, like the birds in the air!”
The Spaniard shook his head doubtfully, although he partook the ideas of the Canadian, and like him felt the charm of this wandering life.
“Look,” continued the old hunter, “at that troop of wild horses coming down to drink before going for the night to their distant pasturage. See how they approach in all the proud beauty that God gives to free animals – ardent eyes, open nostrils, and floating manes! Ah! I should almost like to awake Fabian in order that he might see and admire them.”
“Let him sleep, Bois-Rose; perhaps his dreams show him more graceful forms than those horses of the desert – forms such as abound in our Spanish towns, in balconies or behind barred windows.”
Bois-Rose sighed, as he added —
“Yet this is fine sight – how these noble beasts bound with joy at their liberty!”
“Yes, until they are chased by the Indians, and then they bound with terror!”
“There! now they are gone like the cloud driven by the wind!” continued the Canadian. “Now the scene changes. Look at that stag, who shows from time to time his shining eyes and black nose through the trees; he snuffs the wind, he listens. Ah! now he also approaches to drink. He has heard a noise, he raises his head; do not the drops that fall from his mouth look like liquid gold? I will wake the lad!”
“Let him sleep, I tell you; perhaps his dream now shows him black eyes and rosy lips, or some nymph sleeping on the banks of a clear stream.”
The old Canadian sighed again.
“Is not the stag the emblem of independence?” said he.
“Yes, until the time when the wolves assemble to pursue and tear him to pieces. Perhaps he would have more chance of life in our royal parks. Everything to its time, Bois-Rose; old age loves silence, youth noise.”
Bois-Rose still fought against the truth. It was the drop of gall that is found at the bottom of every cup of happiness; it is not permitted that there should be perfect felicity, for it would then be too painful to die; neither is unmixed misery allowed to mortals, or it would be painful to live. The Canadian hung his head and looked sad as he glanced at the sleeping youth, while Pepé put on his buffalo-skin buskins.
“Well! what did I tell you?” said he, presently; “do you not hear from afar those howlings – I mean those barkings, for the wolves have voices like dogs when they hunt the stags. Poor stag! he is, as you said, the emblem of life in the desert.”
“Shall I wake Fabian now?” said Bois-Rose.
“Yes, certainly; for after a love dream a stag hunt is the thing most worthy of a nobleman like him, and he will rarely see such a one as this.”
“He will see nothing like it in the towns,” cried the Canadian, enchanted; “such scenes must make him love the desert.”
And he shook the young man gently.
With head thrown back, to inhale more freely the air necessary to his lungs, the stag flew like an arrow along the plain. Behind him a hungry pack of wolves, a few white, but the greater number black, pursued him at full speed. The stag had an immense start, but on the sand heaps, almost lost in the horizon, the piercing eye of the hunter might distinguish other wolves watching. The noble animal either did not see, or else disdained them, for he flew straight towards them. As he neared them he halted a moment. Indeed, he found himself shut in by a circle of enemies, who constantly advanced upon him as he stopped to take breath. All at once he turned round, faced the other wolves, and tried one last effort to escape. But he could not now clear the solid masses that had formed around him, and he fell in the midst of them. Some rolled under his feet, and two or three were tossed in the air. Then, with a wolf hanging to his flanks, bleeding and with tongue protruding, the poor animal advanced to the edge of the water, in front of the three spectators of the strange chase.
“It is magnificent!” cried Fabian clapping his hands, and carried away by the hunter’s enthusiasm, which for the time silences humanity in the heart of men.
“Is it not fine?” cried Bois-Rose, doubly pleased, happy at Fabian’s pleasure, and at his own. “And we shall witness many such fine sights, my Fabian! here you see only the worst side of these American solitudes, but when you go with Pepé and me to the great rivers, and the great lakes of the north – ”
“The animal has got rid of his enemy,” interrupted Fabian, “he is about to spring into the river!”
The water bubbled after the leap of the stag, then a dozen times more as the wolves followed; then amidst the foam were visible the head of the stag, and those of the wolves who were pursuing him, howling with hunger, while the more timid ones ran along the banks uttering their lamentable howls. The stag had neared the island, when the wolves on the bank suddenly ceased their cries and fled precipitately away.
“What is that?” cried Pepé; “what causes this sudden panic?” but no sooner had he spoken than he cried again, “Hide yourselves, in God’s name! the Indians are in chase also.”
Other and more formidable hunters now appeared in their turn upon the arena. A dozen of the wild horses, which they had seen before, were now seen galloping wildly over the plain, while some Indians, mounted bareback on their horses (having taken their saddles off for greater speed), with their knees almost up to their chins, were pursuing the terrified animals. At first there were but three Indians visible; but one by one about twenty appeared, some armed with lances, and others brandishing their lassoes of plaited leather – all uttering those cries by which they express their joy or anger.
Pepé glanced at the Canadian as though to ask whether he had calculated these terrible chances when he wished to make Fabian share their adventurous career. For the first time, at such a crisis, the intrepid hunter looked deadly pale. An eloquent but sad glance was his reply to the Spaniard’s mute interrogation.
“A too great affection in the heart of the bravest man,” thought Pepé, “makes him tremble for him who he loves more than life; and adventurers like us should have no ties. There is Bois-Rose trembling like a woman!”
However, they felt almost certain that even the practiced eyes of the Indians could not discover them in their retreat; and the three men, after their first alarm had passed over, watched coolly the manoeuvres of the Indians. These continued to pursue the flying horses; the numberless obstacles so thickly strewn over the plain – the ravines, the hillocks, and the sharp-pointed cacti – could not stop them. Without slackening the impetuosity of their pace or turning aside from any obstacle, these horsemen cleared them with wonderful address. Bold rider as he was himself, Fabian looked with enthusiasm on the astonishing agility of these wild hunters, but the precautions which they were forced to take, in order to conceal themselves, made the three friends lose a part of this imposing spectacle.
The vast savannahs, late so deserted, were suddenly changed into a scene of tumult and confusion. The stag, returning to the bank, continued to fly, with the wolves still after him. The wild horses galloped before the Indians – whose howlings equalled that of the wolves – and described great circles to avoid the lance or the lasso, while numerous echoes repeated these various sounds.
The sight of Fabian, who followed with an ardent eye all these tumultuous evolutions, not appearing to disquiet himself about a danger which he now braved for the first time, deprived Bois-Rose of that confidence in himself which had brought him safe and sound out of perils apparently greater than this.
“Ah!” muttered he, “these are scenes which the inhabitants of cities can never see, it is only in the desert one can meet with them.”
But his voice trembled in spite of himself; and he stopped, for he felt that he would have given a year of his life that Fabian had not been present. At this moment a new subject of apprehension added to his anguish.
The scene became more solemn; for a new actor, whose rôle was to be short though terrible, now appeared upon it. It was a man, whom by his dress the three recognised with terror as a white man like themselves. The unlucky man suddenly discovered in one of the evolutions of the chase, had become in his turn the exclusive object of pursuit. Wild horses, wolves, the stag, had all disappeared in the distant fog. There remained only the twenty Indians scattered over a circle, of which the white man occupied the centre. For an instant the friends could see him cast around him a glance of despair and anguish. But, excepting on the river-side, the Indians were everywhere. It was, therefore, in this direction that he must fly; and he turned his horse towards the opening opposite to the island. But his single moment of indecision had sufficed for the Indians to get near him.
“The unhappy man is lost, and no help for it,” said Bois-Rose; “he is too late now to cross the river.”
“But,” said Fabian, “if we can save a Christian, shall we let him be murdered before our eyes?”
Pepé looked at Bois-Rose.
“I answer for your life before God,” said the Canadian, solemnly, “if we are discovered we are but three against twenty. The life of three men – yours especially, Fabian – is more precious than that of one; we must let this unhappy man meet his fate.”
“But intrenched as we are?” persisted Fabian.
“Intrenched! Do you call this frail rampart of osiers and reeds an intrenchment? Do you think these leaves are ball proof? And these Indians are but twenty now; but let one of our shots be fired at them, and you will soon see one hundred instead of twenty. May God pardon me if I am unfeeling, but it is necessary.”
