Chapter Ninety Three.
A Bloody Bridal.
“Puez señor! what I am about to tell you happened full ten years ago, though it’s as fresh in my mind as if it was yesterday. You may have heard of the village of Valverde? It is about fifty leagues south of Santa Fé, on the Rio del Norte—that portion of the valley we call the Rio Abajo. It was at one time a settlement of some importance—rich and prospering as any in New Mexico—but, in consequence of the incursions of the Apachés, it fell into decay. Is now a complete ruin without a single inhabitant.”
“Well, amigo; it was there I was born: and there lived I, till I was twenty-five years of age—up to the time when that calamity befell me, and mine—the same I am about to speak of. I may say two years after that time; for I did not leave the neighbourhood till I had taken revenge upon those who were the cause of my misfortunes. I have spoken of Gabriella Gonzales. I have told you that I loved her; but I could not find words to tell you how much I loved her. You, who have come all this way in pursuit of a sweetheart,—you, cavallero, can understand all that. Like you with yours, I too could have followed Gabriella to the end of the world! Puez amigo! Like you, I had the good fortune to be loved in return.”
I could not divine the object of the Mexican in proclaiming this similitude. Perhaps it was done with the view of cheering me—for the quick-witted fellow had not failed to notice my despondency. It could only be a conjecture on his part: for how could he know ought of Lilian, beyond the fact of my preference for her, and that she was the object of our expedition? Of course he was aware, like all the others, of the purpose of our pursuit. From Sure-shot, or Wingrove, he might have learnt a little more; but neither he nor they could possibly have been acquainted with a sentiment of which, alas! I was myself in doubt—the very doubt which was producing my despondency. His incidental allusion could have been only conjecture. I would have joyed to believe it just; but whether just or not it had the effect of soothing me; and, silently accepting it, I permitted him to continue his narration.
“I need not enter into the particulars of my wooing. Gabriella lived upon a hato some distance below Valverde, and nearer to the desert of the Dead Man’s Journey (Jornada del muerto)—of which no doubt you have heard mention. Her father was a hatero, and owned large flocks of sheep. He pastured them upon the great plains on the eastern side of the Sierra Blanca—where I was in the habit of going in my capacity of cibolero to hunt the buffaloes. The hatero and I became acquainted—became friends. He invited me to visit his house, and I went. I saw Gabriella for the first time; and ever afterwards was her beautiful face before my eyes. I went often, as you may believe, cavallero; but for a long time I was uncertain whether I was welcome—I mean to Gabriella: for her father still continued my friend. It was only after the incident I have mentioned—my saving her from the bear—that I felt certain my love was returned.
“She had ventured too far into the mountains, where I had chanced to be at the time. I heard her voice calling for help. I ran through the rocks, and came up, just as a huge bear was springing upon her. I was a good shot, and my bullet brought down the monster—stretching him lifeless at her feet. Gabriella thanked me with sweet words—with smiles that were far sweeter, and told me still more. From that hour I knew that she was mine. Shortly after she consented to marry me.”
“You were married, then?”