Daylight had not yet quite appeared when a new actor advanced in his turn towards the same scenes. He came alone; his horse in its impetuous course made the sand fly under his feet, and the rider, who was no other than Cuchillo, showed symptoms on his sinister countenance of some secret terror. His flight might not have been unobserved even in the tumult of action, or some of the Indians might have noticed his desertion, and hence his fears. But Cuchillo was not a man to undertake a bold stroke without calculating the chances. As a hunter wishing to take the lion’s whelps, throws him some bait to distract his attention, so Cuchillo had delivered to the lords of the desert his companions as a prey. He had calculated that the struggle would last a great part of the night, and that conquered or conquering, the adventurers would not dare, during the following day, to leave their intrenchments. He would therefore have long hours before him in which to seize on some of the treasures of the Golden Valley, with which he would afterwards return to the protection of his companions, and when they all reached the place he could still claim his share as soldier and as guide. Pretexts would not fail him for this second absence, but he had forgotten to calculate on Don Estevan’s suspicions concerning him. To conclude his bargain with him he had been forced to give such a precise account of the situation of the valley that Don Estevan could scarcely miss the right road. After Cuchillo, followed by his horse, had glided out from the camp he had ridden straight towards the mountains, and cupidity, the most blinding of passions, had closed his eyes to the danger of his plan.
His heart palpitating with alternate hopes and fears, he had advanced rapidly, and only stopped occasionally to listen to the vague murmurs of the desert. Then recognising the groundlessness of his apprehensions, he had continued his road with renewed ardour.
Sometimes also the aspect of the places he had seen before, awakened gloomy souvenirs. On that hillock, he had rested with Marcos Arellanos; that nopal had furnished them with refreshing fruit; they had both contemplated with mysterious terror the strange aspect of the Misty Mountains, and his horse in its rapid course carried the murderer to the spot where his victim had fallen beneath his blows! Then to the fear of enemies succeeded that inspired by conscience, which while it often sleeps by day, awakes and resumes its empire during the night. The bushes—the thorny nopals—rose before him like accusing phantoms, opposing his advance with extended arms; a cold perspiration stood on his brow, but cupidity, stronger than fear, spurred him on towards the valley, and he began to laugh at his own apprehensions.
“Phantoms,” said he, “are like alcaldes, who never address poor devils like me; but let me only get one or two arrobas of gold, and I shall have so many masses said for the soul of Arellanos, that he will be glad to have met his death in such generous hands.”
He laughed at this quaint conceit, and then rode on quickly. In a few minutes he stopped and listened again, but heard no noise save the loud breathing of his horse.
“I am alone,” thought he; “those brutes whom I have guided are fighting to give me leisure to despoil the sands of some of that precious gold. Who is to prevent me presently, when daylight appears, from picking up as much as I can carry without betraying my secret? This time, it will not be as when along with Arellanos; I shall not have to fly from the Indians: they are busy. Afterwards I can come back with such of my companions as escape the Apaches. How many will remain to partake with me? Oh! the thought of these treasures makes the blood boil in my veins. Is it not gold that gives glory, pleasure, and every good of this world? our priests say its power extends even beyond the tomb!”
While Cuchillo was advancing blindly to where his destiny led him, Don Estevan and Pedro Diaz were also on their way. Although the hills were but six leagues from the camp, yet, uncertain of the time of his absence, Don Estevan had left orders to his people to await his return. The two advanced silently, full of desire for the gold, but equally desirous of intercepting the traitor. Two hours’ quick riding had produced no result. Thanks to his advance, Cuchillo was invisible; and the darkness would have hidden his track even from the eye of an Indian.
“There is no doubt,” said Pedro Diaz, breaking silence, “that the knave must have profited by the confusion to fly towards the valley, and seize on a part of the treasures which he has sold to us.”
“That is not what I fear most,” said Don Estevan. “If Cuchillo has not exaggerated the riches of the place, there will be plenty left for all of us. But now so near attaining that for which I have crossed the desert—after having left a position envied by all, to brave the dangers of an expedition like this—a vague fear of failing agitates me. The desert is like the sea, abounding in pirates, and the soul of Cuchillo is full of treason: it seems to me that the villain will be fatal to us.”
Suddenly Diaz dismounted, and picked up off the sand a dark object; it was a kind of valise, which Diaz at once recognised as belonging to Cuchillo.