The Bee Hunters: A Tale of Adventure

Feeling calmer after this action, which, in her superstitious ignorance, she fancied would shroud her from the piercing eye of her heavenly protectress, Doña Hermosa regained her couch, and touched a silver bell standing beside her. At the sound, the door softly opened half way, and the arch face of a charming chola (maid) appeared at the opening with a look of inquiry.

"Come in, chica" (girl), said her mistress, making a sign for her to approach.

The chola, a slim maiden, of lithe figure, and whose skin was slightly tawny, like that of all half-breeds kneeled gracefully at the feet of her mistress, fixed her great black eyes upon her, and smilingly asked what she wanted.

"Nothing," was the evasive answer, "only to see and talk to you a little."

"How glad I am!" said the girl, passionately clasping her hands together; "It is so long since I have seen you, niña" (a term of endearment).

"Did my absence distress you much, Clarita?"

"What a question to ask, señorita! Do I not love you like a sister? Do they not say you have been in great danger?"

"Who says that?" asked Hermosa carelessly.

"Everyone; they talk of nothing but your adventures in the prairie. All the peones have left their work to hear the news; the hacienda is in an uproar."

"Indeed!"

"For the two whole days of your absence, we did not know what saint to commend you to; I vowed a gold ring to my good patroness Santa Clara."

"Thank you," said she, with a smile.

"But you should only have seen Don Estevan! He would not be comforted; the poor fellow was like a madman, accusing himself as the cause of all that had happened: he tore his hair, asserting that he ought to have disobeyed your father, and to have remained with you in defiance of his orders."

"Poor Estevan!" said the lady, whose thoughts were elsewhere, and who began to get weary of the chattering of her maid; "Poor Estevan! He loves me like a brother."

"Yes, he does; so he has sworn by his head that such a thing shall not happen to you again, and that from henceforth he will never lose sight of you."

"Was he really in such alarm about me?"

"You cannot imagine how dreadfully frightened he was, particularly as they said you had fallen into the hands of the most ferocious robber in the prairie."

"Yet, I can assure you, chica, that the man who gave us shelter overwhelmed us with civility and attention."

"Exactly what your father says; but Don Estevan maintains he has known this man for a long time; that his kindness was feigned, and intended to conceal some monstrous treachery."

Doña Hermosa had suddenly become thoughtful.

"Don Estevan has gone mad," she said; "his friendship for me bewilders his brains; I am sure he is mistaken. But you remind me that I escaped from him the moment after my arrival without offering him a word of thanks. I must make reparation for this involuntary forgetfulness; is he still in the hacienda?"

"I think he is, señorita."

"Go and find out, and ask him to come here, if he has not gone already."

The maid rose and left her.

"As he knows him," said Hermosa, as soon as she was alone, "I will make him speak, and teach me what I want to learn."

So she awaited impatiently the return of her messenger.

The latter seemed to have divined the anxiety of her mistress, and made such haste to execute her commission that scarcely ten minutes elapsed before she announced Don Estevan.

We have already said that Don Estevan was a handsome man; he had the heart of a lion, the eye of an eagle; his carriage full of grace and suppleness, betrayed his race. He entered, saluting the lady with a winning familiarity authorised by his long and intimate connection with one whom he had known from her cradle.

"Dear Estevan," said she, stretching out her hand gaily, "how happy I am to see you! Sit down here and let us talk."

"Yes; let us have some chat," answered Don Estevan, gladly entering into the spirit of Hermosa's gaiety.

"Give Estevan a chair, chica, and then go; I do not want you any longer."

The maid obeyed without replying.

"What a number of things I have to tell you, my friend!" resumed the doña. "But first excuse me for running away from you. My sole thought was to be alone, and put my ideas into a little order."

"I can easily understand that, dear Hermosa."

"Then you are not angry with me, Estevan?"

"Not the least in the world, I assure you."

"Are you quite sure?" said she, pouting half seriously.

"Do not talk about it anymore, my dear child; one cannot encounter such dangers as you have been exposed to without feeling their effect upon the mind for a long time afterwards."

"But it is all over now, believe me; yet, between ourselves, my dear Estevan, these dangers have not been so great as your affection for me led you to suppose."

The other shook his head in token of his want of conviction, and replied:

"On the contrary, niña, these dangers have been much more serious than you choose to believe."

"No, they were not Estevan; the people we met treated us with the most cordial hospitality."

"I admit it; but will reply with one question."

"Ask it; and I will answer it, if I can."

"Do you know the name of the man who treated you with this cordial hospitality?" And he laid considerable stress on the last words.

"I confess that I not only do not know it, but that I did not even take the pains to ask him."

"You were wrong, señorita: for he would have answered that his name was 'the Tigercat.'"

"The Tigercat!" she exclaimed, turning deadly pale; "The execrable miscreant who for years has spread terror over the frontiers! You are wrong, Estevan; it could not be he."

"No, señorita, I am not wrong; I know the truth of my assertion. I can have no doubt, after what I have gathered from your father."

"But how did it happen that this man should have received us so kindly, and that he should have profited by the accident which placed us in his power?"

"No one can penetrate into the dark windings of that man's heart. Besides, who can prove he was not laying a snare for you? Were you not pursued by the redskins?"

"We were; but we escaped from them, thanks to the devotion of our guide." And she spoke with a little uncertainty of voice.

"You are right again," said Don Estevan ironically "But the guide himself – do you know who he is?"

"He constantly refused to tell us his name, in spite of the pressing entreaties of my father."

"He had good reasons for doing so, niña; the name would have filled you with horror."

"Then who and what is this man?"

"He is the son of the Tigercat; he is called Stoneheart."

Hermosa recoiled with instinctive terror, and hid her face in her hands.

"It is impossible," she cried: "this man cannot be a monster; this man who proved himself so faithful, so loyal – who saved my life, too."

"What!" exclaimed Don Estevan: "He saved your life?"

"Have you not heard it? Has not my father told you the story?"

"No; Don Pedro did not say anything about it."

"Then I will tell you, Estevan; for whatever this man may be, I must render him justice. I owe it to him, to him alone, that I did not die in horrible agony."

"In the name of Heaven, explain yourself, Hermosa."

"While we were wandering in the forest, a prey to despair," she replied, in extreme agitation – "while we were expecting the death that could not be long in coming, – I felt my foot bitten by a snake of the most venomous kind. At first I overcame my pain, in order not to increase the discouragement of my companions."

"How well I recognise your strength and courage there, niña!"

"Let me continue," said she, with a sad smile. "The pain soon became so piercing, that my strength failed me, in spite of my courage. At that moment God sent to our aid, him whom you call Stoneheart. The first thought of that man was to help me."

"It is wonderful!" said Don Estevan Diaz.

"By the use of some sort of leaf, he managed to neutralise the effect of the poison, so that, shortly after having been bitten, I felt no pain from the wound, and am quite recovered today. Can you now deny that I owe him my life?"

"No," said he frankly; "for he saved you indeed. Yet for what purpose? That is what puzzles me."

"For the sake of saving me, – for humanity's sake; his after conduct sufficiently proves it. It is to him alone we owe our subsequent escape from the Apaches, who were on our trail."

"All you say, niña, appears like an incomprehensible dream; I do not know whether I am asleep or awake while I listen to you."

"But has this man really been guilty of the infamous actions which excite your indignation?"

Estevan Diaz did not answer: he seemed embarrassed; and there was a short silence.

"I will be frank with you, Hermosa," said he, at last. "It is necessary that you should know who your deliverer is. I will tell you all I know of him myself; and perhaps this knowledge may be useful to you hereafter, should fate ever again bring you into the presence of this extraordinary man."

"I am listening attentively; proceed."

"Be on your guard, Hermosa; do not let the impulse of your heart carry you away too far; do not expose yourself to future heartache. Stoneheart is, as I told you, the son of the Tigercat. I need tell you nothing about his father; that monster with a human face has built up for himself an infamous notoriety, too well known for me to enter into its details. The infamy of the father has reflected on the son, and enveloped him in a halo of murder and rapine which makes him almost as much dreaded as his father. However, in justice to the man, I must confess that, although he is accused of a thousand evil deeds and odious crimes, it has been impossible hitherto to obtain positive proof of any accusation preferred against him. All they say of him is wrapped up in impenetrable mystery; yet everyone relates the most horrible tales of him, although nobody can speak with certainty as to the truth of one of them."

"They are not true," said Hermosa.

"Do not be too eager to pronounce him innocent, niña; recollect that a modicum of truth is to be found at the bottom of every suspicion; and, strictly speaking, this man's trade would of itself suffice as proof against him, and bear testimony to his natural ferocity."

"I cannot understand you, Estevan. What dreadful trade is it?"

"Stoneheart is a bee-hunter."

"A bee-hunter!" she exclaimed, with a burst of laughter. "Truly there is nothing offensive in that?"

"The word is pleasant to the ear; the trade itself one of the most inoffensive; but the bees, those advanced sentinels of civilisation, who, in proportion as the whites push forward in America, bury themselves deeper in the prairies, and take refuge in more inaccessible wildernesses, require a special organism in the men who hunt them, – a heart of bronze in a body of steel, a fortitude beyond proof, indomitable courage, and unswerving will."

"Excuse me for the interruption, Estevan; but in all you have told me, there seems nothing that is not highly honourable to the men who devote themselves to this perilous trade."

"Your observation would be just, if these men – half savages from the life they lead, ceaselessly exposed to most serious danger, constantly obliged to strive, in defence of their lives, against the wild beast and the redskin, by whom they are perpetually threatened – had not contracted, perhaps in spite of themselves, the habit of shedding blood; a habit of such cold-blooded cruelty, in a word, that they set no value on human life, – kill a man with the same indifference as they smoke the bees from the tree, and often, for mere pastime, fire on the approaching stranger, white or redskin. For this reason, the Indians dread them more than the fiercest animals, and, unless they happen to be in force, fly before a bee-hunter with more terror and precipitation than from the grizzly bear, that redoubtable inhabitant of our American forests. Believe me, niña, I am not exaggerating. It results from what I have related, that when these men reappear upon the frontiers, their arrival creates a general panic; for their road is a bloody one, marked by the corpses of those whom they have slain under the most frivolous pretexts. In one word, niña, the bee-hunters are completely beyond the pale of humanity, – beings with all the vices of whites and redskins, and without the virtues of either: both races abjure and repudiate them with horror."

"Estevan," gravely replied Doña Hermosa, "I have listened seriously to what you have said. I thank you; but, in my opinion, it proves nothing either for or against the person about whom I questioned you. I grant you that the bee-hunters maybe semi-savages, of profound cruelty; yet, are there no noble and loyal hearts, no generous spirits, among them? You have spoken of the rule; who will tell me that Stoneheart is not the exception? His conduct compels me to think so. I am only a young, ignorant, and inexperienced girl; but were I bidden to open my heart, and speak frankly, I should answer: 'My friend, this man, condemned from infancy to a life of shame and trial, has striven valiantly against the current which was dragging him away, and the force of bad example assailing him on every side. Son of a criminal father, associated, against his will, with bandits to whom every restraint is an abomination, and by whom every sentiment of honour has been trodden under foot, this man, far from imitating their actions, – far from burning, pillaging and assassinating as they do, – has preferred to adopt a career of perpetual peril. His heart has remained pure; and when chance offered him an opportunity of doing a good deed, he seized it eagerly and gladly.' This is what I should say to you, Estevan, – and if, like me, you had studied this strange man for two whole days, you would be of my opinion, – which is, that he is more to be pitied than blamed; for, placed among ferocious brutes, he has retained his humanity."

Don Estevan remained for a time lost in thought; then he turned towards the girl, took her hand, pressed it in his own, and looked at her with tender compassion.

"I pity and admire you, Hermosa. You are just what I thought you – I, who have watched the development of your character from your infancy. The woman fulfils all the promise held out by the child and the girl. Your heart is noble, your sentiments are exalted; you are indeed perfect – a chosen soul. I do not blame you for following the impulse of your heart – you are only obeying the instinct for good or evil which sways you in spite of yourself; but, alas! Dear child, I am your elder brother, and my experience is larger than your own. To me, the horizon seems to be clouding over. Without prejudging what the future may be preparing for us, let me prefer one entreaty."

"An entreaty! You, Estevan! Oh, speak; I shall be so happy to do anything to please you."

"Thanks, Hermosa; but the entreaty has no connection with myself – it concerns you alone."

"So much the greater reason for my granting it," she said with a gracious smile.

"Listen, child: the events of the last two days have completely changed your life, and feelings have germinated in your mind of which you ignored the existence until now. You have always placed entire confidence in me: I demand the continuance of that confidence. My only desire is to see you happy; all my thoughts, all my actions, tend to that goal. Never believe that I dream of betraying you or thwarting your projects. If I am tenacious on this point, it is to aid you with my counsel and experience; it is to save you even from yourself; to insure your escape from the snares which the future may lay for your innocent frankness. Do you promise what I entreat?"

"Yes," she replied, without hesitation, and looking firmly in his face; "I promise, Estevan, my brother – for you are in truth a brother to me – whatever may happen, I will have no secrets from you."

"I thank you, Hermosa," said the young man, rising, "I hope soon to prove myself worthy of the name of brother. Come tomorrow, in the afternoon, to my mother's rancho (farmhouse); I shall be there, and most likely able to clear up certain matters which are so obscure today."

"What do you mean?" cried she, in great agitation.

"Nothing at present, dear child; leave me to take my own measures."

"What are your projects? What do you intend to do? Oh, do not attach more importance to my words than I attach to them myself. Involuntarily I have been constrained to utter words from which you would be wrong to draw conclusions – "

"Be calm, Hermosa," said he, interrupting her, with a smile. "I have drawn no conclusion derogatory to you from our conversation. I understand that you have avowed an immense amount of gratitude to the man who saved your life. I see it would make you happy to know that this man is not unworthy of the feelings he has inspired. I draw no other conclusion."

"It is exactly what I feel, Estevan; and I think the wish natural, and one to which no blame can be attached."

"Certainly, my dear child. I do not blame the feeling in the least; only, as I am a man, and can do many things interdicted to a woman, I will try if I can lift the mysterious, veil which conceals the life of your liberator, so as to tell you positively whether he is or is not worthy of the interest you take in him."

"Do that, Estevan, and I will thank you from the bottom of my heart."

The young man only replied by a smile to this passionate outbreak: he saluted Hermosa, and retired.

As soon as he was gone, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Did she regret the confidence into which she had been led, or was she afraid of herself? Only women can decide the question, and only Spanish-American women, who are so impressionable, and through whose veins rushes the lava of their native volcanoes.

Don Fernando Carril, as we have already related, after his conversation with the vaqueros, had taken, at a gallop the route to the pueblo; but when he was within a hundred yards of the first houses, he slackened his pace to a walk, and cast glances right and left, as if in the expectation of meeting some person he wished to see. But if such were his thoughts, it seemed as if he were doomed to disappointment; for the road was completely deserted in all directions as far as his eye could reach.

CHAPTER X

EL AS DE COPAS (THE ACE OF HEARTS)

Don Fernando checked his steed, and remained motionless as an equestrian statue on a marble pedestal.

"He will not come," he muttered, after a while.

"Can he have deceived me? – It is impossible."

Casting, as a last hope, one more look around him, he dropped the reins, but seized them again an instant later with a suddenness which made his horse perform a curvette and wince with pain. Don Fernando had just seen two cavaliers advancing towards him – one approaching from the pueblo, the other riding down the road he had himself taken.

"Come, come, it is all right," he said to himself; "This one is Don Torribio Quiroga. But who is this other cavalier?" he added, turning to the man who had just left the pueblo.

He frowned, seemed to hesitate for an instant, but soon formed his decision, smiled ironically, and saying half-aloud, "It is better as it is," made his horse execute a traverse, and placed himself exactly across the middle of the road, so as to bar the passage completely.

The two arrivals, who greedily watched all his motions, took good note of the hostile appearance of Don Fernando's position: neither seemed to feel alarm, and both advanced at the same speed as before. The cavalier coming from the pueblo was much nearer Don Fernando than Don Torribio was, and was soon close to him.

Mexicans, of all ranks and however little education, have an instinctive knowledge of social decorum, which never deceives them, and a refined politeness which would astonish the inhabitants of the Old World.

As soon as Don Fernando found the stranger within reach of his voice, he slightly altered the position of his horse, doffed his hat, and said, with a low bow:

"Señor caballero, permit me to ask you a question."

"Caballero," replied the stranger, with no less politeness, "it will be an honour to me."

"My name is Don Fernando Carril."

"And mine, Don Estevan Diaz."

"Señor Don Estevan, I am happy to make your acquaintance. Would you throw away ten minutes in my company?"

"Señor Don Fernando, however pressed for time I might be, I would stop to enjoy your society."

"You are excessively kind; accept my thanks. I will explain in half a dozen words. The caballero who is approaching is Señor – "

"Don Torribio Quiroga," interposed Don Estevan; "I know him."

"So much the better; the matter is simplified. That honourable personage, as I found out by a strange chance is my bitter enemy."

"That is a pity."

"It is; but what shall I say? He is so thoroughly my enemy, that he has tried four times to have me assassinated; has made me serve as a target to banditti."

"It is grievous. He plays an evil game with you, Don Fernando."

"The very reflection I made myself; so, as I wish to have done with him, I have resolved to offer him the means of getting out of the scrape."

"It is the act of a true caballero."

"¡Caray! I can fancy how furious he will be. I am charmed at your consenting to be witness of the transaction."

"With pleasure, caballero."

"A thousand thanks; I will gladly return the compliment. But here is our man."

Don Torribio had continued to advance during this short conversation, and was now only a short distance from the speakers.

"¡Válgame Dios!" he cried gaily; "If I do not mistake, it is my admirable friend, Don Fernando Carril, whom I have the good fortune to meet."

"Himself, my dear friend; and as happy as you can be at the chance which has thrown us together."

"¡Vive Dios! Since I have got you, I will not let you go; we will ride together as far as the pueblo."

"I should like it, Don Torribio; but first of all, with your permission, I have a few words to say which may upset that plan."

"Speak then, señor; you can only utter words I shall be happy to hear in Don Estevan's presence."

"In fact, Don Fernando has requested me to be present at the conversation," said the latter.

"Nothing could be better! Let us hear, señor."

"Suppose we dismount," said Don Estevan; "the conversation may be a long one."

"Well observed, caballero," replied Don Fernando; "I know a grotto where we shall be quite at our ease. It is close at hand."

"Let us go there at once," said Don Torribio.

The three cavaliers left the beaten track, took a turn to the right, and directed their steps towards a little wood of plane trees and mahoganies, which stood at a short distance.

Anyone who had seen them thus, riding side by side, chatting and smiling to each other, would have incontestably believed them to be intimate friends, delighted at having met. However it was, nothing of the kind, as our readers will soon see.

Exactly as Don Fernando had predicted, they soon gained the wood, and found the natural grotto of which he had spoken.

The grotto was in the side of a hill of no great elevation, and its proportions were scanty enough. Carpeted with verdure inside and out, it was a charming place of repose for passing away the stifling heat of the sun at midday.

The cavaliers dismounted, took the bridle from their horses, leaving them to graze at will. They entered the grotto, and inhaled with ineffable delight the freshness caused by a slender stream of water which ran between its banks with a melancholy murmur, forming a pleasant contrast with the burning atmosphere to which they were recently exposed. They threw their zarapés on the ground, stretched themselves out comfortably, and lit their maize pajillos (cigarettes).

"I am greatly obliged to you, Don Fernando, for thinking of this delicious retreat," said Don Torribio; "now, if it is your pleasure to speak, it will be an honour to me to listen."