THE HUNTERS.
At about two leagues from Santa Fe, in a clearing situated on the banks of the stream which borders that town, and on the evening of the same day, a man was seated before a large fire, which he carefully kept up, while actively engaged in making preparations for supper. A frugal meal, at any rate, this supper! It was composed of a buffalo hump, a few potatoes, and maize tortillas baked on the ashes, the whole washed down with pulque.
The night was gloomy. Heavy black clouds coursed athwart the sky, at times intercepting the sickly rays of the moon, which only shed an uncertain light over the landscape, which was itself buried in one of those dense mists that, in equatorial countries, exhale from the ground after a hot day. The wind blew violently through the trees, whose branches came in contact, with plaintive moans: and in the depths of the woods the miawling of the wild cats was mingled with the snarl of the coyotes and the howls of the pumas and jaguars. All at once the sound of galloping horses could be heard in the forest, and two riders burst into the clearing. On seeing them the hunter uttered an exclamation of joy, and hurried to meet them. They were Don Pablo and Curumilla.
"Heaven be praised!" the hunter said. "Here you are at last. I was beginning to grow alarmed at your long absence."
"You see that nothing has happened to me," the young man answered, affectionately pressing the hunter's hands.
Don Pablo had dismounted, and hobbled his own horse and Curumilla's near Valentine, while the Indian chief busied himself in preparing the supper.
"Come, come," the hunter said gaily, "to table. You must be hungry, and I am dying of inanition. You can tell me all that has occurred while we are eating."
The three men went to the table; that is, they seated themselves on the grass in front of the fire, and vigorously assailed their meagre repast. Desert life has this peculiarity—that in whatever position you may find yourself, as the struggles you go through are generally physical rather than moral, nature never resigns her claims: you feel the need of keeping up your strength, so as to be ready for all eventualities. There is no alarm great enough to prevent you from eating and drinking.
"Now," Valentine asked presently, "what have you done? I fancy you remained much longer than was necessary in that accursed town."
"We did, my friend. Certain reasons forced me to remain longer than I had at first intended."
"Proceed in regular order, if you have no objection. I fancy that is the only way of understanding each other."
"Act as you please, my friend."
"Very good: the chief and I will light our Indian pipes while you make your cigarette. We will sit with our backs to the fire, so as to watch the neighbourhood, and in that way can converse without apprehension. What do you say, Pablo?"
"You are always right, my friend. Your inexhaustible gaiety, your honest carelessness, restore me all my courage, and make me quite a different man."
"Hum!" Valentine said, "I am glad to hear you speak so. The position is serious, it is true; but it is far from being desperate. The chief and I have many times been in situations were our lives only depended on a thread: and yet we always emerged from them honourably—did we not, chief?"
"Yes," the Indian answered laconically, drawing in a mouthful of smoke, which he sent forth again from his mouth and nostrils.
"But that is not the question of the moment. I have sworn to save your father and sister, Pablo, and will do so, or my carcass shall be food for the wild beasts of the prairie; so leave me to act. Have you seen Father Seraphin?"
"Yes, I have. Our poor friend is still very weak and pale, and his wound is scarce cicatrised. Still, paying no heed to his sufferings, and deriving strength from his unbounded devotion to humanity, he has done all we agreed on. For the last week he has only left my father to hasten to his judges. He has seen the general, the governor, the bishop—everybody, in short—and has neglected nothing. Unfortunately all his exertions have hitherto been fruitless."
"Patience!" the hunter said with a smile of singular meaning.
"Father Seraphin believes for certain that my father will be placed in the capilla within two days. The governor wishes to have done with it—that is the expression he employed; and Father Seraphin told me that we have not a moment to lose."
"Two days are a long time, my friend; before they have elapsed many things may have occurred."
"That is true; but my father's life is at stake, and I feel timid."
"Good, Don Pablo; I like to hear you speak so. But reassure yourself; all is going on well, I repeat."
"Still, my friend, I believe it would be wise to take certain precautions. Remember it is a question of life or death, and we must make haste. How many times, under similar circumstances, have the best arranged plans failed! Do you think that your measures are well taken? Do you not fear lest an unhappy accident may derange all your plans at the decisive moment?"
"We are playing at this moment the devil's own game, my friend," Valentine answered coldly. "We have chance on our side; that is to say, the greatest power that exists, and which governs the world."
The young man lowered his head, as if but slightly convinced. The hunter regarded him for a moment with a mixture of interest and tender pity, and then continued in a soothing voice,—
"Listen, Don Pablo de Zarate," he said. "I have said that I will save your father, and mean to do so. Still I wish him to leave the prison in which he now is, like a man of his character ought to leave it, in open day, greeted by the applause of the crowd, and not by escaping furtively during the night, like a vile criminal. Hang it all! Do you think it would have been difficult for me to enter the town, and effect your father's escape by filing the bars or bribing the jailer? I would not do it. Don Miguel would not have accepted that cowardly and shameful flight. Your father shall leave his prison, but begged to do so by the governor himself, and all the authorities of Santa Fe. So regain your courage, and no longer doubt a man whose friendship and experience should, on the contrary, restore your confidence."
The young man had listened to these words with even increasing interest. When Valentine ceased speaking he seized his hand.
"Pardon me, my friend," he answered him. "I know how devoted you are to my family; but I suffer, and grief renders me unjust. Forgive me."
"Child, let us forget it all. Was the town quiet today?"
"I cannot tell you, for I was so absorbed in thought that I saw nothing going on around me. Still I fancy there was a certain agitation, which was not natural, on the Plaza Mayor, near the governor's palace."
Valentine indulged once again in that strange smile that had already played round the corners of his delicate lips.
"Good!" he said. "And did you, as I advised, try to gain any information about Red Cedar?"
"Yes," he answered with a start of joy, "I did; and I have positive news."
"Ah, ah! How so?"
"I will tell you."
And Don Pablo described the scene that had taken place in the rancho. The hunter listened to it with the utmost attention, and when it was finished he tossed his head several times with an air of dissatisfaction.
"All young people are so," he muttered; "they always allow their passion to carry them beyond the bounds of reason. You were wrong, extremely wrong, Don Pablo," he then added. "Red Cedar believed you dead, and that might have been of great use to us presently. You do not know the immense power that demon has at his disposal: all the bandits on the frontier are devoted to him. Your outbreak will be most injurious to your sister's safety."
"Still, my friend—"
"You acted like a madman in arousing the slumbering fury of the tiger. Red Cedar will persist in destroying you. I have known the wretch for a long time. But that is not the worst you have done."
"What is it, then?"
"Why, madman as you are, instead of keeping dark, watching your enemies without saying a word—in short, seeing through their game—by an unpardonable act of bravado you have unmasked all your batteries."
"I do not understand you, my friend."
"Fray Ambrosio is a villain of a different stamp from Red Cedar, it is true; but I consider him even a greater scoundrel than the scalp hunter. At any rate, the latter is purely a rogue, and you know what to expect from him: all about him bears the stamp of his hideous soul. Had you stabbed that wild beast, who perspires blood by every pore, and dreams of naught but murder, I might possibly have pardoned you; but you have completely failed, not only in prudence, but in good sense, by acting as you have done with Fray Ambrosio. That man is a hypocrite. He owes all to your family, and is furious at seeing this treachery discovered. Take care, Don Pablo. You have made at one blow two implacable enemies, the more terrible now because they have nothing to guard against."
"It is true," the young man said; "I acted like a fool. But what would you? At the sight of those two men, when I heard from their very lips the crimes they had committed, and those they still meditate against us, I was no longer master of myself. I entered the rancho, and you know the rest."
"Yes, yes, the cuchillada was a fine one. Certainly the bandit deserved it; but I fear lest the cross you so smartly drew on his face will cost you dearly some day."
"Well, let us leave it in the hand of Heaven. You know the proverb, 'It is better to forget what cannot be remedied.' Provided my father escape the fate that menaces him, I shall be happy. I shall take my precautions to defend myself."
"Did you learn nothing further?"
"Yes; Red Cedar's gambusinos are encamped a short distance from us. I know that their chief intends starting tomorrow at the latest."
"Oh, oh! Already? We must make haste and prepare our ambuscade, if we wish to discover the road they mean to follow."
"When shall we start?"
"At once."
The three men made their preparations; the horses were saddled, the small skins the horseman always carries at his saddle-bow in these dry countries were filled with water, and five minutes later the hunters mounted. At the moment they were leaving the clearing a rustling of leaves was heard, the branches parted, and an Indian appeared. It was Unicorn, the great sachem of the Comanches. On seeing him the three men dismounted and waited. Valentine advanced alone to meet the Indian.
"My brother is welcome," he said. "What does he want of me?"
"To see the face of a friend," the chief answered in a gentle voice.
The two men then bowed after the fashion of the prairie. After this ceremony Valentine went on:
"My father must approach the fire, and smoke from the calumet of his white friends."
"I will do so," Unicorn answered.
And drawing near the fire, he crouched down in Indian fashion, took his pipe from his belt, and smoked in silence. The hunters, seeing the turn this unexpected interview was taking, had fastened up their horses, and seated themselves again round the fire. A few minutes passed thus, no one speaking, each waiting till the Indian chief should explain the motive of his coming. At length Unicorn shook the ashes from his calumet, returned it to his belt, and addressed Valentine.
"Is my brother setting out to hunt buffaloes again?" he said. "There are many this year on the prairies of the Rio Gila."
"Yes," the Frenchman replied, "we are going hunting. Does my brother intend to accompany us?"
"No; my heart is sad.
"What means the chief? Has any misfortune happened to him?"
"Does not my brother understand me, or am I really mistaken? It is that my brother only really loves the buffaloes, whose meat he eats, and whose hides he sells at the toldería?"
"Let my brother explain himself more clearly; then I will try to answer him."
There was a moment of silence. The Indian seemed to be reflecting deeply: his nostrils were dilated, and at times his black eye flashed fire. The hunters calmly awaited the issue of this conversation, whose object they had not yet caught. At length Unicorn raised his head, restored all the serenity to his glance, and said in a soft and melodious voice,—
"Why pretend not to understand me, Koutonepi? A warrior must not have a forked tongue. What a man cannot do alone, two can attempt and carry out. Let my brother speak: the ears of a friend are open."
"My brother is right. I will not deceive his expectations. The hunt I wish to make is serious. I am anxious to save a woman of my colour; but what can the will of one man effect?"
"Koutonepi is not alone: I see at his side the best two rifles of the frontier. What does the white hunter tell me? Is he no longer the great warrior I knew? Does he doubt the friendship of his brother Haboutzelze, the great sachem of the Comanches?"
"I never doubted the friendship of my brother. I am an adopted son of his nation. At this very moment is he not seeking to do me a service?"
"That service is only half what I wish to do. Let my brother speak the word, and two hundred Comanche warriors shall join him to deliver the virgin of the palefaces, and take the scalps of her ravishers."
Valentine started with joy at this noble offer.
"Thanks, chief," he said eagerly. "I accept; and I know that your word is sacred."
"Michabou protects us," the Indian said. "My brother can count on me. A chief does not forget a service. I owe obligations to the pale hunter, and will deliver to him the gachupino robbers."
"Here is my hand, chief: my heart has long been yours."
"My brother speaks well. I have done what he requested of me."
And, bowing courteously, the Comanche chief withdrew without adding a word.
"Don Pablo," Valentine exclaimed joyously, "I can now guarantee your father's safety: this night—perhaps tomorrow—he will be free."
The young man fell into the hunter's arms, and hid his head on his honest chest, not having the strength to utter a word. A few minutes later, the hunters left the clearing to go in search of the gambusinos, and prepare their ambuscade.