THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS.
On leaving the jacal, Red Cedar proceeded towards the mountains. The squatter was one of those old hands to whom all the tracks of the desert are known. From the few words uttered by Father Seraphin, and the haste he had shown in coming to warn him, Red Cedar understood that this time the final contest was about to begin, without truce or pity, in which his enemies would employ all their knowledge and skill to finish with him once for all.
He had been fortunate enough to reach the Sierra de los Comanches soon enough to be able, to efface his trail. During a month he and Valentine had carried on one of those incredible campaigns of skill and boldness in which each employed every scheme his fertile mind suggested to deceive his adversary.
As frequently happens under such circumstances, Red Cedar, who at the outset only accepted unwillingly the struggle into which he was forced, had gradually felt his old wood ranger instincts aroused. His pride had been excited, for he knew he had to deal with Valentine, that is to say, the cleverest hunter on the prairie, and he had consequently displayed a degree of skill that surprised himself, in order to prove to his terrible adversary that he was not unworthy of him.
For a whole month the two had been unsuccessfully manoeuvring within a circle of less than ten leagues, constantly turning round one another, and often only separated by a screen of foliage, or a ravine. But this contest must have an end sooner or later, Red Cedar felt, and being no longer sustained by the same passions which formerly served as the motive of all his actions, despondency was beginning to seize upon him, the more so, because physical pain had been recently joined to his moral sufferings, and threatened to deal him the final blow. Let us see in what condition Red Cedar was at the moment when the exigencies of our story compel us to return to him.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening; three men and a girl, assembled round a scanty fire of bois de vache, were warming themselves, and, at times, casting a dull glance at the gloomy gorges of the surrounding mountains. These four persons were Nathan, Sutter, Fray Ambrosio, and Ellen.
The spot where they found themselves was one of those narrow ravines, the bed of dried torrents, so many of which are met with in the Sierra de los Comanches. On the flanks of the ravine was a thick chaparral, the commencement of a gloomy virgin forest, from the mysterious depths of which could be heard at intervals the lengthened howling and roar of wild beasts.
The situation of the fugitives was most critical, and even desperate. Shut up for a month amid these arid mountains, tracked on all sides, they had hitherto only escaped their persecutors through the immense sacrifices and the prodigious craft displayed by Red Cedar. The pursuit had been so active, that, being constantly on the point of being surprised by their enemies, they did not dare kill the few head of game they came across. A shot, by revealing the direction in which they were, would have been sufficient to betray them.
In the meanwhile, the scanty stock of food they had brought with them from the jacal, in spite of their saving, had been consumed, and hunger, but before all, thirst, was beginning to be felt. Of all the scourges that afflict hapless travellers, thirst is indubitably the most terrible. Hunger may be endured during a certain length of time, without excessive suffering, especially at the end of a few days; but thirst occasions atrocious pain, which, after a while, produces a species of furious madness; the palate is parched, the throat is on fire, the eyes are suffused with blood, and the wretched man, a prey to a horrible delirium, which makes him see the desired water everywhere, at length dies in atrocious agony, which nothing can calm.
When their provisions were exhausted, they were compelled to procure others; but in the mountains that was almost impossible, as the fugitives were deprived of their freedom of action. For a few days they continued to support life on roots, and small birds caught in a snare; but unfortunately, the cold became daily sharper, and the birds withdrew to warmer regions; hence they were deprived of this resource.
The little water remaining was by common agreement reserved for Ellen. The maiden declined to accept this sacrifice, but thirst grew upon her with every moment, and, overcome by the entreaties of her companions, she eventually accepted it. The others found no other way of quenching the thirst that devoured them, than slitting the ears of their horses and drinking the blood as it ran. Next, they killed a horse, for the poor brutes found no more food than did their masters. The roasted flesh of this horse enabled them to pass a few days: in short, all four horses were eaten one after the other.
Now, nothing was left the adventurers, and for two days they had nothing to eat. Hence they maintained a mournful silence, exchanging stern glances, and plunging deeper and deeper into sinister reflections.
They felt their senses gradually leaving them and madness seizing on them; they felt the moment approaching when they would be no longer masters of their reason, and become the prey of the fearful calenture, which already pressed their temples as in a vice, and made the most startling images glitter before their fever-dried eyes.
It was a heart-breaking sight to see these three men, round the expiring fire, in this stern desert, lying without strength and almost without courage by the side of the maiden, who, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, prayed in a low voice.
Time passed; the wind howled mournfully in the quebradas; the moon, half veiled by a mass of vapour, only emitted at intervals its pallid rays, which fantastically illumined the scene of desolation, whose sinister silence was only disturbed by a suppressed oath or a groan drawn forth by pain. Ellen raised her head, and looked compassionately at her companions.
"Courage," she murmured in her gentle voice, "courage, brothers! God cannot abandon us thus."
A nervous groan was the only reply she obtained.
"Alas!" she continued, "Instead of, then yielding to despair, why not pray, brothers? It gives strength and restores hope."
"Will it quench the thirst that parches my throat?" the monk asked, brutally, as he rose with an effort on his elbow and gave her a furious glance.
"Silence! You foolish child, if you have no other help than your silly words to give us."
"Silence, villain!" Sutter interrupted him with a groan, "Do not insult my sister; she alone may perchance save us; for if God have pity on us, it will be for her sake."
"Ah!" the monk said, with a hideous grin, "Now you believe in God, my master. You must fancy yourself very near death to be so frightened? God! You poor fool, rejoice that there is none, instead of calling on Him for help; for if He really existed, He would have crushed you long ago."
"Well said, monk," Nathan remarked. "Come, let us have peace. If we are to die here like the dogs we are, let us die, at any rate, pleasantly. That is not asking too much I suppose?"
"Oh, how I suffer!" Sutter muttered, as he rolled wildly on the ground.
Ellen got up, gently approached her; brother, and putting to his lips the mouth of the skin, in which a little water yet remained, she bade him drink. The young man made a movement as if to seize the skin; but at the same instant he repulsed it, shaking his head in refusal.
"No," he replied, mournfully, "keep that, sister; you would give me your life."
"Drink, I insist," she said, authoritatively.
"No," he answered firmly, "that would be cowardly. I am a man, sister; I can suffer."
Ellen understood that her entreaties would be useless, for she knew the superstitious affection her brothers bore her; hence she returned to the fire. She sat down, took three buffalo-horn cups, which she filled with water, and placed before her; then she took a sharp pointed knife, and turning to the three men, who were anxiously watching her, she said—
"Here is water, drink. I swear that if you do not instantly obey me, I will slit the skin in which the little stock of water is left; all will then be lost, and I shall suffer the same pains as you do."
The men made no answer, but looked at each other.
"For the last time, will you drink or not?" she cried, as she placed the point of the knife on the skin.
"Stay," the monk shouted, as he rose and rushed towards her. "Demonios! She would do as she said."
And seizing a cup, he emptied it at a draught, his companions following his example. This mouthful of water—for the cups were very small—sufficed, however to calm their irritation—the fire that burned them was extinguished, they breathed more easily, and gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction, as they fell back on the ground. An angelic smile lit up the maiden's radiant face.
"You see," she said, "all is not lost yet."
"Come, come, Niña," the monk remarked, tranquilly, "why lull us with foolish hopes? The drop of water you have given us can only check our sufferings for a little while; within an hour our thirst will be more ardent and terrible than ever."
"Do you know what Heaven may reserve for you between this and then?" she asked, softly. "A respite, however short it may be, is in your position everything; all depends for you, not on the present moment, but on the coming one."
"Good, good! We'll not dispute after the service you have rendered us, Niña; still, everything seems to prove you wrong."
"How so?"
"Why, Caspita, what I say is very easy to understand; without going further, your father, who pledged his word never to desert us—"
"Well?"
"Where is he? Since daybreak he has left us to go—the deuce alone knows where? Night has long set in, and, and as you see, he has not returned."
"What does that prove?"
"Canarios! That he has gone away, that is all."
"Do you believe it, señor?"
"I am sure of it, Niña."
Ellen gave a contemptuous look.
"Señor," she haughtily answered, "you do not know my father if you consider him capable of such cowardice."
"Hum! In our position he would almost have an excuse for doing so."
"He might have done so, perhaps," she went on, quickly, "if he had no other comrade but yourself, caballero; but he would leave his children here, and he is not the man to abandon them when in danger."
"That is true," the monk said, with humility; "I did not think of that, so forgive me. Still, you will permit me to remark that it is an extraordinary thing your father has not yet returned?"
"Well, señor," the maiden said, warmly, "although you are so ready to accuse a friend, who has constantly offered you the most unequivocal proofs of his unknown devotion, how do you know that he is not delayed by his desire to save us?"
"Well spoken, by Heaven!" a rough voice said; "Thank you, my daughter."
The adventurers turned with an involuntary start; at this moment the bushes were parted by a firm hand, a heavy step sounded on the pebbles, and Red Cedar appeared, bearing a doe on his shoulder. On reaching the light of the fire he stopped, threw his burden the ground, and looked sarcastically around him.
"Oh, oh," he said, with a grin, "it seems that I have arrived just in time, señor Padre. Viva Dios! you were giving me a fine character in my absence; is that the way in which you understand Christian charity, gossip? Cristo! I do not compliment you on it, if that be the case."
The monk, startled by the sudden appearance and rough address, found no answer, so Red Cedar went on:
"By Jove! I am a better fellow than yourself, for I bring you food, and it was not without difficulty that I succeeded in killing that confounded animal, I can tell you. But now look sharp and roast a joint."
Sutter and Nathan had not waited for their father's orders, but had already begun skinning the doe.
"Hilloh!" Nathan remarked, "to roast this meat, we must enlarge our fire; and how about our pursuers?"
"It is a risk to run," Red Cedar replied; "settle among ourselves if you will incur it."
"What is your opinion?" the monk asked.
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me; but I wish you to understand one thing, once for all, as I am intimately convinced that we shall fall into the hands of our pursuers, I care very little whether it happen today or in a week's time."
"Confusion! You are not at all encouraging, gossip," Fray Ambrosio exclaimed. "Have you lost your courage too, or discovered any suspicious trail?"
"My courage never fails me; I know very well the fate reserved for me, and hence my mind is made up. As for suspicious signs, as you say, a man must be blind not to see them."
"Then there is no hope," the three men said, with ill-disguised terror.
"On my honour I do not think there is; but," he added, with a mocking accent, "why do you not roast the meat? You must be almost dead of hunger."
"That is true; but what you tell us has taken away our appetite," Fray Ambrosio remarked, sadly.
Ellen rose, approached the squatter, and laying her hand softly on his shoulder, placed her charming face close to his. Red Cedar smiled.
"What do you want, my girl?" he asked her.
"I wish, father," she said, in a coaxing voice, "that you should save us."
"Save you, poor child," he said, as he shook his head gravely, "I am afraid that is impossible."
"Then," she continued, "you will let us fall into the hands of our enemies?"
The squatter shuddered.
"Oh! Do not say that, Ellen," he replied, hoarsely.
"Still, my father, as you cannot help us to escape—"
Red Cedar passed the back of his hard hand over his dark forehead.
"Listen," he said presently, "there is perhaps one way—"
"What is it?" the three men said, eagerly, as they collected round him.
"It is very precarious, dangerous, and probably will not succeed."
"Tell it us for all that," the monk pressed him.
"Yes, yes—speak father," Ellen urged him.
"You desire it?"
"Yes, yes."
"Very well, then, listen to me attentively, for the means I am about to propose, strange as they may at first appear to you, offer a chance of success, which, in our desperate situation, must not be despised."
"Speak, pray speak!" the monk said impatiently.
Red Cedar looked at him with a grin.
"You are in a precious hurry," he said; "perhaps you will not be so presently."