“‘God alone knows who this man was,’ said Tiburcio, ‘he alone knows him.’
“‘He only!’ cried the dying woman, with an air of disdain. ‘Is this the language of a man? When the Indians come to steal his cattle from the vaquero, does he sit still and say: God only can prevent them? No!—with his eye bent, and his hand ready, he follows upon their traces, till he has recovered his herds, or perished in the attempt. Go you and do as the vaquero! Track out the assassin of your father. That is the last wish of her who nourished you, and has never failed in her affection.’
“‘I shall obey you, my mother,’ answered the young man, in a firm voice.
“‘Listen, then, to what I have got to say!’ continued the widow. ‘The murder of Arellanos is no longer a supposition, but a reality. I have it from a herdsman who came from the country beyond Tubac. Some days before, he had met two travellers. One was your father Marcos; the other was a stranger to him. The herdsman was travelling on the same route, and followed them at some distance behind. At a place where certain signs showed that the two travellers had made their bivouac, the herdsman had found the traces of a terrible struggle. The grass was bent down, and saturated with blood. There were tracks of blood leading to a precipice that hung over a stream of water; and most likely over this the victim was precipitated. This victim must have been Marcos; for the herdsman was able to follow the trail of the murderer by the tracks of his horse; and a little further on he noticed where the horse had stumbled on the left fore-leg. The assassin himself must have been wounded in the struggle, for the herdsman could tell by his tracks leading to the precipice that he had limped on one leg.’”
Don Augustin listened with attention to this account—proving the wonderful sagacity of his countrymen, of which he had almost every day some new proof. The monk went on with his narration.
“‘Swear then, Tiburcio, to avenge your father!’ continued the dying woman. ‘Swear it, and I promise to make you as rich as the proudest in the land; rich enough to bend to your wishes the most powerful—even the daughter of Augustin Peña, for whom your passion has not escaped me. This day you may aspire to her hand without being deemed foolish; for I tell you, you are as rich as her own father. Swear, then, to pursue to the death the murderer of Arellanos?’
“‘I swear it,’ rejoined Tiburcio, with a solemn gesture.
“Upon this, the dying woman placed in the hands of the young man a piece of paper, upon which Arellanos, before leaving his home for the last time, had traced the route of his intended journey.
“‘With the treasure which that paper will enable you to find,’ continued the dying woman, ‘you will have gold enough to corrupt the daughter of a viceroy, if you wish it. Meanwhile, my child, leave me for a while to confess to this holy man: a son should not always hear the confession of his mother.’”
The monk, in a few more words, related the closing scene of the widow’s death, and then finished by saying:—