NATHAN.
Nathan was not asleep, as Ellen supposed, when she urged on Shaw to devote himself to liberate Doña Clara, and he had listened attentively to the conversation. Nathan was a man of about thirty years of age, who, both physically and morally, bore a marked resemblance to his father. Hence the old squatter had concentrated in him all the affection which his uncultivated savage nature was capable of feeling. Since the fatal night, when the chief of the Coras had avenged himself for the burning of his village and the murder of its inhabitants, Nathan's character had grown still more gloomy; a dull and deep hatred boiled in his heart against the whole human race; he only dreamed of assassination: he had sworn in his heart to revenge on all those who fell into his hands the injury one man had inflicted on him; in a word, Nathan loved none and hated everything.
When Shaw had disappeared among the bushes, and Ellen, after taking a final glance around to convince herself that all was in order, re-entered the hut that served her as a shelter, Nathan rose cautiously, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and rushed after his brother. Another reason urged him to foil Shaw and Ellen's plans; he had a double grudge against Don Miguel—the first for the stab the Mexican gentlemen had given his father; the second because Don Miguel had compelled him to leave the forest in which his family had so daringly installed itself.
Convinced of the importance of the affair, and knowing the value the squatter attached to carrying off the maiden, who was a most precious hostage for him, Nathan did not lose a moment, but reached Santa Fe by the most direct route, bounding with the agility of a tiger cat over the obstacles that beset his path. Presently he reached an isolated house, not far from which several men were conversing together in a low voice. Nathan stopped and listened; but he was too far off, and could distinguish nothing. The squatter's son, reared in the desert, was thoroughly versed in all its stratagems; with the piercing eye of a man accustomed to night journeys in the prairie, he recognised well-known persons, and his mind was at once made up.
He laid himself on the ground, and following the shadow cast by the moon, lest he might be perceived by the speakers, he advanced, inch by inch, crawling like a serpent, stopping at intervals lest the waving of the grass might reveal his presence, in short, employing all the precautions usual under such circumstances. At length he reached a clump of Peru trees only a few yards distant from the spot where the men he wished to overhear were standing. He then got up, leaned against the largest tree, and prepared to listen. His expectations were not deceived; though a few words escaped him here and there, he was near enough perfectly to catch the sense of the conference. This conversation was, in truth, most interesting to him; a sinister smile lit up his face, and he eagerly clenched the barrel of his rifle.
Presently the party broke into two. Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn, took the road leading to the open country, while Don Pablo and Father Seraphin returned toward the town. Valentine and his two friends almost touched the young man as they passed, and he instinctively carried his hands to his pistols; they even stopped for a moment and cast suspicious glances at the clump that concealed their foe. While conversing in whispers, Unicorn drew a few branches aside and peered in; for some seconds Nathan felt an indescribable agony; a cold perspiration stood at the root of his hair and the blood coursed to his heart; in a word, he was afraid. He knew that if these men, his mortal enemies, discovered him, they would be pitiless to him and kill him like a dog. But this apprehension did not last longer than a lightning flash. Unicorn carelessly let the leafy curtain fall again, saying only one word to his comrades:—
"Nothing."
The latter resumed their march.
"I do not know why," said Valentine, "but I fancy there is someone hidden there."
"No," the chief answered, "there is nobody."
"Well, be it so," the hunter muttered, with a toss of his head.
So soon, as he was alone, Nathan drew two or three deep breaths, and started in pursuit of Don Pablo and the missionary, whom he soon caught up. As they did not suppose they were followed, they were conversing freely together.
In Spanish America, where the days are so warm and the nights so fresh, the inhabitants, shut up at home so long as the sun calcines the ground, go out at nightfall to breathe a little pure air; the streets, deserted in consequence of the heat, are gradually peopled; benches are placed before the doors, on which persons recline to smoke and gossip, drink orangeade, strum the guitar, and sing. Frequently the entire night is passed in these innocent amusements, and folks do not return home till dawn, in order to indulge in the sleep so grateful after this long watch. Hence the Hispano-American towns must be especially visited by night, if you wish to judge truthfully the nature of this people—a strange composite of the most discordant contrasts, who only live for enjoyment, and only accept from existence the most intoxicating pleasures. Still, on the night to which we refer, the town of Santa Fe, usually so laughing and chattering, was plunged into a gloomy sadness, the streets were deserted, the doors closed; no light filtered through the hermetically closed windows; all slept or at least feigned to sleep. The fact was, that Santa Fe was at this moment in a state of mortal agitation, caused by the condemnation of Don Miguel Zarate, the richest land owner in the province—a man who was loved and revered by the whole population. The agitation took its origin in the unexpected apparition of the Comanche war detachment—those ferocious enemies whose cruelties have become proverbial on the Mexican frontier, and whose presence presaged nothing good.
Don Pablo and his companion walked quickly, like persons anxious to reach a place where they knew they are expected, exchanging but a few words at intervals, whose meaning, however, caught up by the man who followed them, urged them still more not to let them out of sight. They thus traversed the greater part of the town, and on reaching the Calle de la Merced, they stopped at their destination—a house of handsome aspect.
A weak light burned at the window of a ground floor room. By an instinctive movement, the two gentlemen turned round at the moment of entering the house but Nathan had slipped into a doorway, and they did not perceive him. Father Seraphin tapped gently; the door was at once opened, and they went in. Nathan stationed himself in the middle of the street, with his eye ardently fixed on the only window of the house lit up. Ere long, shadows crossed the curtains.
"Good!" the young man muttered; "But how to warn the old one that the dove is in her nest?"
All at once, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and Nathan turned, fiercely clutching a bowie knife. A man was before him, gloomy, silent and wrapped in the thick folds of his cloak. The American started.
"Go your way," he said in a menacing voice.
"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked.
"How does that concern you? The street is free to all."
"No."
This word was pronounced with a sharp accent. Nathan tried in vain to scan the features of the man with whom he had to deal.
"Give way," he said, "or blood will surely be shed between us."
As sole reply, the stranger took a pistol in his right hand, a knife in his left.
"Ah!" Nathan said, mockingly, "You mean fighting."
"For the last time, withdraw."
"Nonsense, you are mad, señor Caballero; the road belongs to all, I tell you. This place suits me, and I shall remain."
"I wish to be alone here."
"You mean to kill me, then?"
"If I must, yes, without hesitation."
The two speakers had exchanged these words in a low and hurried voice, in less time than we have employed to write them. They stood but a few paces apart with flashing eyes, ready to rush on each other. Nathan returned his pistol to his belt.
"No noise," he said; "the knife will do; besides, we are in a country where that is the only weapon in use."
"Be it so," the stranger replied; "then, you will not give way to me?"
"You would laugh at me if I did," the American said with a grin.
"Then your blood will be on your own head."
"Or on yours."
The two foemen each fell back a pace, and stood on guard, with their cloaks rolled round their left arms. The moon, veiled by clouds, shed no light; the darkness was perfect; midnight struck from the cathedral; the voice of the serenos chanting the hour could be heard in the distance, announcing that all was quiet. There was a moment's hesitation, which the enemies employed in scrutinising each other. Suddenly Nathan uttered a hoarse yell rushed on his enemy, and threw his cloak in his face, to put him on his guard. The stranger parried the stroke dealt him, and replied by another, guarded off with equal dexterity. The two men then seized each other round the waist, and wrestled for some minutes, without uttering a word; at length the stranger rolled on the ground with a heavy sigh; Nathan's knife was buried in his chest. The American rose with a yell of triumph—his enemy was motionless.
"Can I have killed him?" Nathan muttered.
He returned his knife to his vaquera boot, and bent over the wounded man. All at once he started back, for he had recognised his brother Shaw.
"What is to be done now?" he said; but then added carelessly, "Pshaw! all the worse for him. Why did he come across my path?"
And, leaving there the body of the young man, who gave no sign of life—
"Well, Heaven knows, I ought not, and could not have hesitated," he said.
Shaw lay to all appearance dead, with pale and drawn cheeks, in the centre of the street.