EL VADO DEL TORO.
Red Cedar reasoned correctly when he told Fray Ambrosio and Garote that Doña Clara was in safety at the rancho, and no one would dream of seeking her there. In truth, Valentine knew the squatter's cunning too well to suppose that he would commit the impudence of bringing his prisoner back to the very spot where she was discovered.
The squatter's two accomplices passed the day quietly in playing, on credit, at monte; each cheating with a dexterity which did honor to their knowledge of that noble game. No one came to disturb them, or cast an indiscreet glance into this famous den, which, in the bright sunshine, had an air of respectability pleasant to look on, and amply sufficient to dispel all suspicions. About nine in the evening, the moon, though new, rose magnificently on a deep blue sky, studded with brilliant stars.
"I fancy it is time to get ready, gossip," Fray Ambrosio said, "the moon is peering through the trees in your neighbour's garden."
"You are right, señor Padre, we will be off; but let me, I implore you, first finish this deal; it is one of the most magnificent I ever witnessed. Caspita! I will bet a nugget as big as my thumb on the seven of clubs."
"I'll back the two of spades. Something tells me it will turn up first, especially if you pull up the sleeves of your jacket, which must be horribly in the way when dealing."
"Oh dear, no, I assure you; but stay, what did I tell you? There is the seven of clubs."
"That is really extraordinary," Fray Ambrosio replied, with feigned surprise, for he was not duped by the gambusino's trickery; "but I fancy we had better make haste."
"Decidedly," said Andrés, as he hid his greasy cards in his vaquera boots, and proceeded to the room in which Doña Clara was confined. She followed him out, weeping bitterly.
"Come, come," the gambusino said to her, "dry your tears, señorita; we do not mean you any harm. Hang it all! Who knows but this may end perhaps better than you expect; ask that holy monk what he thinks."
Fray Ambrosio bowed an assent, but the maiden made no response to the gambusino's consolation; she allowed herself to be disguised unresistingly, but still continued to weep.
"In truth, it is absurd," the worthy Andrés muttered, in an aside to himself, while attiring his prisoner and looking covetously at the pearls with which she was adorned, "to waste gold and pearls in this fashion; would it not be much better to use them in buying something serviceable? What she has on her is worth at least three thousand piastres—what a splendid game of monte a fellow could have with that sum—and if that demon of a Red Cedar had only been willing—well, we shall see presently."
While making these judicious reflections, the gambusino had completed the maiden's Indian toilet. He perfected the disguise by throwing a zarapé over her shoulders; then giving a parting glance round his domicile, he put in his pocket a pack of cards accidentally left on the table, drank a large glass of spirits, and left the room, followed by Doña Clara and the monk, who, in spite of the varying incidents of the last few days had regained all his good humour, doubtless owing to the good company in which he was, and the game of monte—that inveterate passion in every Mexican.
Doña Clara was placed on a horse; Andrés and the monk also mounted, and leaving the house to the problemical care of Providence, the gambusino gave the signal for departure. He made a wide circuit, to avoid passing through the Presidio, and then started at a gallop in the direction of the Cerro Prieto.
Red Cedar had lost no time, and all was ready for departure. The newcomers did not even dismount, but so soon as they were sighted, the caravan, composed, as we have stated of some hundred and twenty resolute men, after forming in Indian file, started in the direction of the prairies, having first prudently detached two scouts to watch the neighbourhood.
Nothing is so mournful as a night march in an unknown country, covered with snares of every description, when you fear least the ever-watchful enemy may pounce on you from every bush. Thus, the gambusinos, restless, and starting at the slightest rustling of the leaves, advanced silently and gloomily, with their eyes fixed on the clumps that grew along the wayside, rifle in hand, ready to fire at the slightest suspicious movement. They marched, however, for upwards of three hours, and nothing happened to justify their fears; a solemn calmness continued to prevail around them. Gradually these apprehensions were dissipated; they began talking in a suppressed voice, and laughing at their past terrors, when they reached, on the banks of the Del Norte, the vado, or Ford del Toro.
In the interior of Southern America, and specially in New Mexico, a country still almost entirely unknown, the means of communication are nil, and consequently bridges may be looked for in vain. There are only two methods of crossing even the widest rivers—looking for a ford, or, if you are in a great hurry, forcing your horse into the oft-times rapid current, and trying to reach the other bank by swimming.
The squatter had selected the first method, and in a few minutes the whole party was in the water. Although the ground of the ford was uneven, and at times the horses were up to their chests, and compelled to swim, the gambusinos managed to get across safely. The only persons left on the bank were Red Cedar, Eagle-wing, the guide, Doña Clara, and Andrés Garote.
"It is our turn now, Heart of Stone," the squatter said, addressing Eagle-wing; "you see that our men are in safety, and only await us to set out again."
"The squaw first," the Indian replied, laconically.
"That is true, chief," the squatter said, and, turning to the prisoner, "Go across," he said to her, coarsely.
The maiden, not deigning to answer, boldly made her horse enter the river, and the three men followed. The night was dark, the sky covered with clouds, and the moon, constantly veiled, only shone forth at lengthened intervals, which rendered the passage difficult and even dangerous, as it did not allow objects to be distinguished, even at a distance. Still, after a few seconds, Red Cedar fancied he saw that Doña Clara's horse was not following the line traced by the ford, but was turning to the left, as if carried away by the current. He pushed his horse forward, to assure himself of the reality of the fact; but suddenly a vigorous hand seized his right leg, and before he could even think of resisting, he was hurled back into the water, and his throat seized by an Indian. Andrés Garote hurried to his assistance.
During this time, Doña Clara's horse, probably obeying a hidden impulse, was proceeding still further from the spot where the gambusinos had landed. Some of them, at the head of whom were Dick, Harry, and the squatter's three sons, perceiving what was going on, returned to the water, to proceed to their chiefs help, while the others, guided by Fray Ambrosio, galloped down the river bank, in order to cut off retreat, when Doña Clara's horse landed.
Andrés Garote, after several fruitless efforts, succeeded in catching Red Cedar's horse, which he brought to him at the moment when the latter had scalped his enemy. The American got into his saddle again, reached the bank, and tried to restore some order among his band, while actually watching the incidents of the silent drama being played in the river between Eagle-wing and the young Spanish girl.
The Coras sachem had urged his steed in pursuit of Doña Clara's, and both were following almost the same line down the stream, the former striving to catch up the latter, who, for her part, was doing her utmost to widen the distance between them. Suddenly the Coras horse gave a leap, while uttering a snort of pain, and began madly beating the water with its forelegs, while the river was tinged with blood around it. The chief, perceiving that his horse was mortally wounded, leaped from the saddle, and leant over the side, ready to leap off. At this moment, a hideous face appeared flush with water, and a hand was stretched out to grasp him. With that imperturbable coolness that never deserts the Indians, even under the most critical circumstances, the Coras seized his tomahawk, split his enemy's skull open, and glided into the river.
A formidable war yell was, at this moment, heard from the forest, and some fifty shots were fired from both banks at once, illumining the scene with their fugitive flashes. A multitude of redskins rushed on the gambusinos, and a terrible fight commenced. The Mexicans, taken unawares, defended themselves at first poorly, giving ground and seeking shelter behind trees; but, obeying the thundering voice of the squatter, who performed prodigies of valor while exciting his comrades to sell their lives dearly, they regained courage, formed in close column, and charged the Indians furiously, beating them down with the butts of their muskets, or slashing them with their machetes.
The combat was short; the redskins, who were only a party of marauding Pawnees, seeing the ill-result of their surprise, grew discouraged, and disappeared as rapidly as they had come. Two minutes later calmness and silence were so perfectly re-established, that had it not been for a few wounded gambusinos, and several Indians stretched dead on the battlefield, the strange scene would have appeared as a dream.
So soon as the Indians were routed, Red Cedar bent an eager glance up the river; on that side the struggle was also over, and Eagle-wing, mounted behind the young lady, was guiding her horse to the bank, which it soon reached.
"Well?" the squatter asked.
"The Pawnees are cowardly coyotes," the Coras answered, pointing to two human scalps that hung all bloody from his girdle; "they fly like old women, so soon as they see the war plume of a warrior of my nation."
"Good!" the squatter said, gleefully, "My brother is a great warrior; he has a friend."
The Coras bowed with a smile of indescribable meaning. His object was gained; he had acquired the confidence of the man he meant to destroy. Doña Clara, Ellen, and the squatter's wife were placed in the centre of the caravan, and the band started again.
An hour later, a second party of horsemen also crossed the Vado del Toro. It was much less numerous than the first, as it consisted of only five men, but they were Valentine, Curumilla, Don Miguel, his son, and General Ibañez. The real struggle was about to commence: behind them they left the civilised world, to find themselves face to face on the desert with their enemies.
(Those of our readers who take an interest in the Trail-hunter, we must ask to follow his adventures through a second volume, to be called—THE PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES.)