Last of the Incas: A Romance of the Pampas

One of them, hobbled by the bolas, and surrounded by dogs, rolled on the ground, digging up the sand with its contracted claws, and uttering a fearful yell. Don Valentine finished it by putting a bullet in its eye.

The second cougar remained, which was still unwounded, and by its bounds, foiled the attack and skill of the hunters. The dogs, worn out, did not dare approach it. Its flight had brought it within a few paces of the caravan; all at once it turned to the right, bounded over the mules, and crouched right in front of the litter. Doña Concha, pale as death, with closed eyes, instinctively clasped her hands, recommended her soul to Heaven, and fainted.

At the moment when the lion was about to dart on the girl, two shots struck it right in the middle of the chest. It turned round on its new adversary, no other than the worthy capataz, who, with extended legs, and eye fixed on the lion, awaited the monster. The cougar hesitated, took a parting glance at its prey still lying in the litter, and rushed with a roar on Blas, who pulled the trigger again. The animal writhed on the ground, and the capataz ran up to it, machete in hand. The man and the lion rolled together, but only one of them rose again – it was the man.

Doña Concha was saved. Her father pressed her joyously to his breast; she opened her eyes again at last, and aware to whose devotion she owed her life, held out her hand to Don Blas.

"I can no longer count the number of times you have saved the lives of my father and myself."

"Oh, señorita!" the worthy man said, as he kissed the tips of her fingers.

"You are my foster brother, and I can only discharge my debt to you by eternal gratitude," Don Valentine said. "Strip the lions of their skins, my men," he said, turning to the servants. "I suppose they will not frighten you, when they are converted into carpets, Conchita."

No one equals the Hispano-Americans in the art of flaying animals; in a minute, the two lions, above which the urubús and vultures of the Andes were already hovering, were stripped of their skins.

Order was restored in the caravan, which started again, and within an hour arrived at the Estancia of San Julian, where it was received by Patito and all the farm peons.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ESTANCIA OF SAN JULIAN

The bomberos, accompanied by Mercedes, buried themselves in the desert. Their journey lasted four hours, and brought them to the banks of the Rio Negro, to one of the charming oases created by the river mud, and covered with clumps of willows, nopals, palms, chirimoyas, lemon trees, and flowering jessamines, in whose branches thousands of birds of the most varying colour and note gaily warbled.

Pedrito seized Mercedes in his robust arms, lifted her from the front of his saddle and laid her gently on the turf. The horses began quietly nibbling the young tree shoots.

"Tell us, how did you find our sister?" Juan said.

The elder brother, as if he had not heard, made no reply, and with his eyes fixed on the girl, he listened to a voice that spoke within him; he fancied he saw again the living portrait of his mother, and said to himself, "The same look, at once gentle and tender! The smile full of kindness! Poor mother, poor sister! Mercedes," he added in a louder voice, "do you remember your grown-up brothers, who loved you so dearly?"

"Come, come," Pepe exclaimed, stamping his foot angrily, "that is not fair, brother! You keep our bills in the water like a lot of ducks, and confiscate the girl's kind looks. If she is really our deeply-regretted Mercedes, speak; ¡caray! we have as much right to embrace her as you have, and are all longing to do so."

"You are right," Pedrito answered; "forgive me, brothers, but joy rendered me egotistic. Yes, it is our dear little sister, so embrace her."

The bomberos did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, and without asking the slightest explanation from Pedrito, disputed with each other as to who should devour her with caresses. The maiden, who was deeply affected, and whom the Indians had not accustomed to such happiness, yielded to the intoxication of joy. While they were indulging in these transports, Pedrito had lit a fire and prepared a substantial meal, composed of fruit and a leg of guanaco. They sat down and ate with good appetites. Pedrito recounted his adventures at the tree of Gualichu, without omitting a single detail. His story occupied a long time, for it was at times interrupted by the young men, who laughed most heartily at the tragi-comical incidents of the scene between the matchi and Gualichu.

"Do you know," Lopez said to him, "that you have been a god?"

"A god who ran a greater risk of becoming immortal than he cared for," Pedrito replied; "for I feel that I love life since I have found the child again. Well, here she is, and he will be a clever fellow who takes her from us again. Still, we cannot keep her with us and let her share our precarious existence."

"That is true," the other brothers said.

"What is to be done?" Pepe muttered sadly.

"Our poor sister would die," said Pedrito; "we cannot make a female bombero of her, drag her after us into danger, or leave her alone."

"I shall never be alone when with you, my kind brothers."

"Our life is at the mercy of an Indian bullet. The fear that you may fall again into the hands of the Aucas or the Puelches troubles me; and if you remained with us and shared our dangers, I should turn a coward, and not have the courage to perform my duties as bombero."

"During the ten years we have been prowling about the Pampas," Pepe remarked, "we have broken with all our old acquaintances."

"Suppose, though," Lopez observed, "we find her a safe shelter? I have an idea."

"Out with it."

"You remember the capataz of the Estancia de San Julian, what is his name?"

"Don Blas Salazar."

"The very man," Lopez continued; "I fancy we have saved his life and his master's ere now, and that both owe us a candle as thick as my arm in gratitude."

"Don Valentine and his capataz," Juan said, "would have yielded their skins to that demon of a Pincheira, who wished to flay them alive, had it not been for our rifles."

"That is our affair. Lopez is right."

"Don Valentino passes for a good-hearted man."

"He has, I think, a daughter whom he tenderly loves, and will understand the difficulty we are in."

"Yes," said Pepe, "but we cannot go to Carmen."

"Let us ride to the Estancia, then; it will only take us a couple of hours."

"We will be off," said Pedrito; "Juan and Lopez will remain here, while Pepe and I escort the chica. Kiss your brothers, Mercedes. Now then, Pepe; you two keep good watch and expect us at sunset."

Mercedes waved a parting farewell to her brothers, and, escorted by Pepe and Pedro, started at a gallop for San Julian.

At about three o'clock they perceived, fifty yards from them, the estancia, which Don Valentine and his daughter had reached hardly two hours before.

The Estancia of San Julian, undoubtedly the richest and strongest position on the entire Patagonian coast, stood on a peninsula six miles in circumference, covered with wood and pastures, on which upwards of two thousand head of cattle grazed at liberty. Surrounded by the sea, which forms a natural fortification, the strip of land, twenty feet in width at the most, was guarded by a battery of five heavy guns. The house, which was surrounded by lofty parapeted and bastioned walls, was a species of fortress, capable of sustaining a regular siege, thanks to eight guns, which, planted on the four bastions, defended the approaches. It was composed of a large main building with a terraced roof, having ten windows on the frontage, and with two wings. A large flight of steps, protected by a double curiously-worked balustrade, protected by a verandah, gave access to the rooms, which were furnished with the simple and picturesque luxury peculiar to the Spanish farms of America.

Between the house and the wall, in which there was, opposite the steps, a cedar gate five inches thick, and lined with strong iron plates, extended a large English garden, well wooded and beautifully laid out. The space left free behind the farm was occupied by the corrals in which the cattle were shut up at night, and an immense courtyard in which the annual slaughtering took place.

This white house was gay and pleasant, and could be seen for some distance off, half-hidden by the branches which crowned it with foliage. From the first floor windows there was a view on one side of the sea, on the other of the Rio Negro, which ran capriciously through the plain like a silver thread, and was lost in the azure distance of the horizon.

Ever since the last war with the Indians, ten years back, and during which the estancia was all but surprised by the Aucas, a mirador had been built on the roof of the main building, where a sentry stood day and night, ordered to watch and announce the approach of strangers upon a buffalo horn. In addition, the isthmus battery was guarded by six men, ready to discharge the guns at the slightest alarm. Hence, when the bomberos were still some distance from the Estancia, their coming had been signalled, and Don Blas Salazar, accompanied by Patito, was standing behind the battery in order to challenge them when they came within hail.

The bomberos were aware of the orders, which are common to all the Spanish establishments, especially on the borders, where people are exposed to the continual depredations of the Indians. On coming within twenty paces of the battery, the two men stopped and waited.

"Who goes there?" a voice shouted.

"Friends?" Pedrito answered.

"Who are you?"

"Bomberos."

"Good; what do you want?"

"To speak to the Señor Capataz, Don Blas Salazar."

"Why," Blas himself exclaimed, "it is Pedrito."

"Yes, yes, Don Blas," Pedrito said, "and I recognized you at once, but duty is duty. This is my brother Pepe, at your service."

"As he has been before, Don Blas, by your leave," Pepe said, insinuatingly.

"That is true, lower the drawbridge."

The bomberos entered, and the bridge was immediately pulled up after them.

"¡Caray! What a pleasant surprise, my friends," the capataz said, "we see you most remarkably seldom. Come to my house, and while we drain a cup, you will tell me what brings you here, and it must be a serious matter, if I know you."

"Very serious indeed," Pedrito answered.

"Patito," said Blas, "you stay here; I am going to the estancia."

The capataz mounted his horse, and drew up alongside Pedrito.

"May I ask, caballero, without indiscretion, who that girl dressed in the Indian fashion is? She is white, is she not?"

"She is our sister, capataz."

"Your sister, Don Pedro! Are you joking?"

"Heaven forbid?"

"I was not aware you had a sister, so forgive me, for I am not a sorcerer."

The horsemen had arrived at their destination. The capataz dismounted, the bomberos followed his example, and followed him into a spacious ground floor room, where an elderly, healthy-looking woman was busy peeling Indian corn. It was Don Blas's mother, and Don Valentine's nurse. She greeted the newcomers with a good-humoured smile, offered them seats, and went to fetch a jug of chicha, which she placed before them.

"To your health, señores," said the capataz, after filling the pewter cups to the brim. "The sun is confoundedly hot, and travellers will find this refreshing."

"Thanks," said Pedrito, who had emptied his glass.

"Come, what have you to tell me? Speak freely; unless," Blas added, "my mother is in your way. If so, the worthy woman would go into the next room."

"No," Pedro said, eagerly; "no! The señora, on the contrary, must remain, for what we have to say everybody may hear, and especially your mother; we have come here on the subject of our sister."

"I do not wish to offend you, Don Pedro," the capataz interrupted him, "but you did wrong in keeping the young lady with you, for she cannot share all the perils of your diabolical life, can she, mother?"

The old lady gave a nod of assent, and the brothers exchanged a hopeful glance.

"You can do what you please, of course," Don Blas continued; "everybody is at liberty to arrange his life as he pleases, provided that it be honestly. But now to business."

"Your remark, Don Blas," Pedrito said, "overwhelms us with joy. You are a man of good counsel and good heart."

And without farther delay, he told Mercedes' singular story. Toward its close Doña Salazar left the room, unnoticed by her son or the bomberos.

"You are a worthy man, Don Pedro," Don Blas exclaimed. "Yes, deuce take me if you are not, though the bomberos generally are considered sorry fellows. You have judged me rightly, and I thank you for thinking of me."

"Then you consent?" Pepe asked.

"One moment, sapristi! Let me conclude," the capataz said, as he filled the glasses again, "here's to your health, and that of the señorita. I am only a poor fellow, and a bachelor in the bargain, hence my protection would compromise a young lady's reputation, for tongues are wicked here as elsewhere, and though I live with my mother, an excellent woman, a wicked word is soon uttered. Señores, a girl's reputation is like an egg; once cracked it cannot be mended. You understand?"

"What is to be done?" Pedrito muttered with discouragement.

"Patience, compadre! I am nothing myself, but, canario, Don Valentine Cardoso, my master, is kind, he is fond of me, and has a charming daughter; I will plead your sister's cause to him."

"The cause is already gained, my friend," said Don Valentine, whom Doña Salazar had informed of the bomberos' wishes.

Doña Concha, who accompanied her father, had been greatly affected by the story of Mercedes' misfortunes; a good action had tempted her heart, and she begged her father to take charge of the bomberos' sister, who would be a companion for her. Pepe and Pedrito knew not how to express their gratitude to Señor Cardoso.

"My friends," the latter said, "I am only too happy to discharge my debt to you. We have an old account outstanding between us. Eh, Blas! And if my daughter still has a father, she owes it to you."

"Oh, señor!" the two young men protested.

"My daughter, Conchita, will have a sister, and I two daughters instead of one. Do you wish it so, Conchita?"

"I thank you, father," as she repeatedly kissed Mercedes. "My dear girl," she added, "kiss your brothers and follow me to my apartments; I will myself give you the articles of clothing you most require, and enable you to get rid of this heathen costume at once."

Mercedes threw herself into her brother's arms with tears.

"Come, come, little maid," Doña Concha said, as she drew her away, "do not cry thus, you will see them again, wipe your eyes, for I mean you to be happy, do you understand? Come, smile at once, my darling, and follow me."

The sentinel's horn at this moment announced that a stranger was asking admission to the estancia.

"Thanks, once again, Don Valentine," Pedrito said, "we go away with minds at rest."

"Good-bye, till we meet again, my friends."

Pedrito and Pepe, light both in body and mind, left the estancia, and crossed on their passage a horseman, who was coming up to the steps at a sharp trot.

"That is strange," said Pedrito, "where have I seen that man? I do not know, but I feel certain I have met him before."

"Do you know Don Torribio Carvajal?" the capataz asked.

"I am not aware if that is the Caballero's name, who he is, or where I have seen him; still, I am certain that we met a very little while ago."

"Ah!"

"Good-bye, Don Blas, and thank you," the bomberos said, as they shook his hand.

CHAPTER IX.

DON SYLVIO D'ARENAL

An hour before the bomberos' arrival at the estancia, a visitor had presented himself, who was eagerly greeted by Don Valentine and his daughter. This visitor, about eight-and-twenty years of age, and elegantly built, possessed the manners of a man of distinction, and a clever, noble face. His name was Don Sylvio d'Arenal, and he belonged to one of the richest and most respected families in Buenos Aires. The death of a relative had endowed him with a fortune of 500,000 piastres a year; that is to say, about one hundred thousand a year – a fortune large even for this country, where gold is so common.

The family of Don Sylvio and of Don Valentine, both originally from Spain, and connected by ancient ties, had ever lived on a footing of the greatest intimacy. The young man and the young lady were educated together, and hence, when her handsome cousin came to say good-bye to her, and told her of his departure for Europe, where he was to travel for some years to complete his education, and assume elegant manners, Doña Concha, who was at that time twelve years of age, felt a great vexation. Since their childhood, unconsciously, they loved each other with the simple gentle affection of youth, which only thinks of happiness.

Don Sylvio went away, bearing his love with him, and Conchita retained him in her heart.

Only a few days previously the young man had returned to Buenos Aires, and after making a tour through the most renowned cities of the civilized world, hastened to arrange his affairs. Then he freighted a schooner, and set sail for Carmen, burning with desire to see again the woman he loved, and whom he had not seen for three years – his Conchita, the pretty child who, he thought, had, doubtless, become a lovely and accomplished maiden.

At Carmen he found Don Valentine's house empty, and from the information he received from Tío Peralta, the old Negro, he rode at a gallop to the estancia of San Julian. The surprise and joy of Don Valentine and his daughter were extreme. Conchita was especially happy, for she thought daily of Sylvio, and saw him through her recollections, but at the same time she felt in her heart an emotion of mingled pleasure and sorrow. Sylvio perceived it, understood that he was still loved, and his happiness equalled that of Doña Concha.

"Come, come, children," the father said with a smile, "kiss each other; I permit it."

Doña Concha offered Don Sylvia her blushing forehead, which he respectfully touched with his lips.

"What sort of kiss do you call that?" Don Valentine continued, "come, come, no hypocrisy! kiss one another openly; hang it all! Do not play the coquette, Conchita, because you are a pretty girl, and he is a handsome fellow; and you, Sylvio, who fall here like a bombshell without notice, do you suppose, if you please, that I had not guessed for what reason you made a sea voyage of several hundred leagues? Is it for my sake you have hastened here from Buenos Aires? You love each other, so kiss like lovers and betrothed people, and if you behave yourselves you will be married in a few days."

The young folks, affected by these kind words and this merry humour, fell into the arms of the worthy man, in order to conceal their emotion.

"Children," he said, "the Rubicon is past; indulge your joy at meeting after so lengthened a separation. It is the last, for you have met again forever."

"Oh, forever," the young people repeated.

"Let us kill the fatted calf, as the prodigal child has come back. Don Sylvio, you will remain here, and not return to Carmen, except to be married. Does that suit you?"

"Yes," said Sylvio, looking amorously at Conchita, "on condition that it is soon, father."

"That's the way with lovers; they are always eager and impatient. Everyone in his turn; I was like that and as happy, then our children take our places, and the happiness of old men is produced by their happiness."

One of those sweet and intimate conversations then began, in which the recollections of the past and the certainty of speedy happiness were blended. They were interrupted by Doña Salazar entering the room. Don Sylvio proceeded to his apartment, while Concha and her father followed the old lady to the bomberos.

Don Valentine, surprised and irritated by the unexpected arrival of Don Torribio Carvajal, resolved to get rid of him, and come to an end with this mysterious man.

"You did not expect me so soon?" Don Torribio said, as he leapt from his horse, and bowed to the master of the house.

"I did not expect you at all; the less so because you spoke only yesterday, if I have a good memory, of a journey."

"That is true," he said with a smile, "but who knows yesterday what will take place tomorrow? Then you, too," Don Torribio continued, as he followed Don Valentine to the drawing room, "did not even dream yesterday of leaving El Carmen."

"Well, as you know, we estancieros are often compelled to go to our estates suddenly, from one moment to another."

"The same thing happens to me. I am, like you, compelled to live as a country gentleman for some time."

"Then you are living at your estancia?"

"Yes, we are neighbours, and you will be condemned to my presence, unless – "

"You will always be welcome."

"You are most polite," said Don Torribio, seating himself in an easy chair.

"I am afraid, though, that I shall not long enjoy the pleasure of being your neighbour."

"Why so?"

"It is possible that I may return to Carmen within a week."

"Then you have only paid a passing visit here?"

"Not exactly. I had intended to remain here some months, but, as you said just now, who knows what the morrow will bring forth?"

The two speakers, like practised duellists, before crossing weapons and dealing a decisive blow, were feeling each other's strength by quickly parried feints.

"May I be allowed to pay my respects to Doña Concha?" Don Torribio asked.

"She will soon be here. Just imagine, my dear neighbour, that through a concourse of extraordinary circumstances we have just taken charge of a girl of rare beauty, who has been two years a slave of the Indians, and whom her brothers brought to me scarce an hour ago, after having miraculously saved her from the hands of the pagans."

"Ah!" Torribio said, in a choking voice.

"Yes," Don Valentine continued, without noticing the young man's emotion; "her name is Mercedes, I believe; she appears very gentle; you know my daughter, she is wild about her already, and at this moment she is taking off her Indian clothes, and clothing her in a decent fashion."

"Very good; but are you sure that this woman is what she seems to be? The Indians are villains, as you are aware, and this – "

"Mercedes."

"Mercedes is perhaps an Indian spy."

"For what object?"

"What do I know? Can we trust anybody?"

"You are mistaken, Don Torribio. I can trust the men who brought her to me."

"Watch her; take my advice."

"But she is a Spaniard."

"That proves nothing. Look at Pincheira; is he not an ex-officer of the Chilian army? He is now a chief of one of the principal Patagonian nations, and the most cruel adversary of the Spaniards."

"Pincheira, that is different."

"As you please," said Don Torribio, "I trust that you may be right."

As Don Torribio uttered these words, Doña Concha appeared, accompanied by Don Sylvio.

"Don Torribio," said the estanciero, "I have the honour to present to you Don Sylvio d'Arenal."

"I believe," said Torribio, "that I have already had the honour of meeting this gentleman."

"Nonsense! It cannot have been in America, most certainly, for Don Sylvio has been away for three years."

"No, Don Valentine; it was in Paris."

"Your memory is faithful, sir," Don Sylvio replied, "we met at the house of the Marchioness de Lucenay."

"I was not aware of your return to America."

"I only reached Buenos Aires a few days ago; this morning I was at Carmen, and now I am here."

"Already here!" Don Torribio could not refrain from saying.

"Oh!" Concha's father said, with a marked accent, "This rather hasty visit was so natural, that my daughter and I heartily pardoned Don Sylvio."

"Ah!" Don Torribio muttered, to say something, for he understood that he had a rival before him.

Doña Concha, carelessly reclining on a sofa, anxiously followed the conversation, while playing with a fan that trembled in her hand.

"I hope, sir," Don Torribio said courteously, "that we shall renew here the imperfect friendship commenced in Madame de Lucenay's salons."