The Gold-Seekers: A Tale of California

"It is true."

"During that expedition, full of strange and terrible incidents, two men accompanied you?"6

"Yes; a Canadian hunter and a Comanche chief."

"Very good. The hunter's name was Belhumeur, the chief's Eagle-head, I think?"

"They were."

"Do you not remember revealing to Belhumeur (a worthy and honourable hunter, by the way) the reason of the gloomy sorrow that devours you, and for what motives, mere vague suspicions though they were, you had come to Mexico in order to look for your dearest friend, from whom you had been separated so many years?"

"Yes, I remember telling him all that."

"The rest is not difficult to comprehend. I have known Belhumeur many years, and Heaven brought us together during a hunt on the Rio Colorado. One night, while seated at the fire, where our supper was roasting, after talking about a thousand indifferent things, Belhumeur, whom you had left only a few days previously, began by degrees to talk about you. At first, absorbed in my own thoughts, I paid but slight attention to his recital; but when he described to me your meeting with Count de Lhorailles in the desert, your name, uttered by Belhumeur unintentionally, made me tremble. It was then my turn to cross-question him. When I had learned everything, by making him tell the story twenty times over, my resolution was immediately formed, and two days later I set out on your track. For three months I have been following you, and have at last come up with you – this time, I hope, never to part again," he added with a stifled sigh. "Still I do not know what has occurred to you during the last three months. Tell me what you have been about. I am listening."

"Yes, I will tell you all. My object, indeed, in seeking you was to demand the fulfilment of a solemn promise."

The hunter's brow grew dark, and he frowned.

"Speak," he said; "I am listening. As for the promise to which you allude, when the moment has arrived I shall know how to fulfil it."

"The sun is rising," Louis answered with a sad smile; "I must pay the proper attention to my herd."

"I will help you. You are right; those poor brutes must not be neglected."

At this moment the gloom was dispersed as if by enchantment; the sun appeared radiant on the horizon; and thousands of birds of every variety, hidden beneath the foliage, gaily celebrated its advent by singing their matin hymn to it.

Don Cornelio and Curumilla shook off the torpor of sleep, and opened their eyes. The Indian chief rose, and walked toward Valentine with that slow and majestic step peculiar to him.

"Brother," the latter said, taking the Araucanian's hand in his own, "I was not alone in my search for you. I had near me a friend whose heart and arm never failed me, and whom I have ever found ready to help me in weal and woe."

Don Louis gazed doubtfully at the man whom the hunter pointed out to him, and who stood motionless and stoical before him. Gradually his features were expanded, his memory returned, and he affectionately offered his hand to the Indian, saying with deep emotion, —

"Curumilla, my brother!"

At this proof of memory and friendship, after the lapse of so many years – this frank and true emotion on the part of a man to whom he had already given so many marks of devotion – the crust of ice that surrounded the Indian's heart suddenly melted, his face assumed an earthy hue, and a convulsive tremor agitated all his limbs.

"Oh, my brother Louis!" he exclaimed with an accent impossible to describe.

A sob resembling a roar burst from his chest; and, ashamed of having thus betrayed his weakness, the chief turned quickly away, and hid his face in the folds of his robe.

Like all primitive and energetic natures, this man, on whom adversity had no effect, was moved like a weak child by the immense joy he experienced at seeing once again Don Louis, the man whom Valentine loved more than a brother, and whose absence he had so long lamented.

"Then you will not leave me again, brother?" Louis asked anxiously.

"No, nothing shall separate us henceforth."

"Thanks," the count answered.

"Come, come," Valentine gaily remarked, "let us attend to the cattle."

All were soon on the move in the bivouac. Don Cornelio understood nothing of what he saw. These strangers, who had arrived but a few hours ago, already so attached to his friend, talking with him like old acquaintances, produced in him a series of notions each more extravagant than the other; but Don Cornelio was a philosopher, and more than that, remarkably curious. Certain that all would end sooner or, later in a satisfactory explanation, he gaily made up his mind, and had no idea of asking any information, especially as the two helps chance had sent him could not fail to be extremely useful to him in guiding the undisciplined animals which the count and himself had burdened themselves with, and had yet so far to drive.

A person must have himself been a vaquero in the great American savannahs, in order to form an idea of the numberless difficulties met with in guiding novillos and untamed bulls for hundreds of leagues across virgin forests and arid plains, defending them against wild beasts which follow their track, and snap them up under your very eyes if you do not take care, and, like the roaring lion of the Gospel, wander incessantly round the herd, seeking what they may devour. At other times the animals must be defended against the raving madness, or estampida, caused by the want of water and the refraction of the sun, during which they rush in every direction, and gore those who try to bring them back. A man must be desperate like Don Louis, or a careless philosopher like Don Cornelio, not to recoil before the perils and difficulties of so hazardous a trade; for, among the eventualities we have enumerated, we have not mentioned the temporales, or tempests, which in a few minutes overthrow the face of nature, hollow out lakes, and throw up mountains; nor the Indios bravos, or nomadic Indians, who watch the caravans, plunder the merchandise, and murder the drivers or traders.

Valentine in vain racked his brains in order to discover why his friend, whom he had known to be so effeminate and weak, could have resolved on adopting such a mode of life. But his astonishment almost became admiration when he saw him at work, and recognised the complete metamorphosis that had been effected in him, both morally and physically, and the cold, indomitable energy which had usurped the place of the careless weakness and original irresolution of his character.

He studied him thus carefully during the whole time he was employed in restoring order among the herd, and organising everything for the day's march.

"Oh!" he said to himself, "this chosen organisation has been purified by misfortune. There remain at the bottom of that half-broken heart a few noble chords, which I will manage to set in motion when the time comes."

And for the first time since many days a feeling of hearty joy caused the trail-seeker to quiver.

CHAPTER III

A SAD MISTAKE

Several days elapsed ere the two friends resumed their interrupted conversation.

They had continued their journey toward San Francisco without any incident worth noticing, owing to the skill of Valentine and Curumilla. Although this was the first time they had advanced so far from the regions they were accustomed to traverse, their sagacity made up so well for their want of knowledge that they avoided, with extreme good fortune, the dangers that menaced the success of their journey, and foresaw obstacles still remote, but which their knowledge of the desert caused them to guess, as it were, intuitively.

The two old friends observed, we may say studied, each other. After so long a separation they required to restore a community of ideas. That communion of thoughts and feelings which had existed so long between them might be eternally broken through the different media into which they had been thrown, and the circumstances that had modified their characters. Each of them rendered greater by events – having acquired the consciousness of his personal value and his intellectual power – had possibly the right no longer to admit, without previous discussion, certain theories which were formerly recognised without a contest.

Still the friendship between the two men was so lively, the confidence so entire, and the devotion so true, that, after a fortnight's travelling side by side – a fortnight during which they touched on the most varying subjects without once introducing the one they had so much interest in thoroughly discussing – they convinced themselves that they stood to each other precisely in the same position as before their separation.

Either through lassitude or deference, or perhaps the tacit recognition of his foster brother's superiority over him, during this fortnight, Don Louis, happy, perhaps, at having found once more the man who had been wont to think and act for him, had not once attempted to assume an independent position, but insensibly fell back under that moral guardianship which Valentine had so long exercised over him.

The two other persons lived on a perfectly good understanding – Don Cornelio through carelessness, perhaps, Curumilla through pride.

The Spaniard – a dear lover of liberty, happy at living in the open air without troubles or annoyances of any description – goaded his novillos, strummed his jarana, and sang the interminable Romancero del Rey Rodrigo, which he began again imperturbably so soon as he had finished, in spite of Valentine's repeated remarks about the silence that must be maintained in the desert, in order to avoid the ambuscades which the Indians constantly place like so many spiders' webs in the path of incautious travellers. The Spaniard listened docilely, and with a contrite air, to the hunter's remonstrances; but, so soon as they were ended, he twanged a tune, and recommenced his romancero – a philosophy which the trail-seeker, while blaming, could not refrain from admiring.

Curumilla was always the man we have seen him – prudent, foresighted, and silent – but with a double dose of each quality. With eyes ever opened and ears alert, the Araucanian chief rode from one end of the file to the other, watching so carefully over its safety that no accident occurred up to the day when we resume our narrative.

They thus descended the woody slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and entered the naked and sandy plains that stretch down to the sea, and on which, with the exception of San José and Monterey (two towns in the last throes of existence), the traveller only sees stunted trees and thorny shrubs scattered at a great distance apart.

Three days before reaching San José – a miserable pueblo, which serves as a gathering place for hunters and arrieros who frequent these parts; but where the population, decimated by fevers and misery, can do but little for the forasteros (strangers) – the caravan encamped on the banks of a stream, beneath the shelter of a few trees that had grown there by accident, and which the sea breeze shook incessantly, and covered with that fine sand which enters the eyes, nose, ears, and nothing can keep out.

The sun was plunging into the sea under the form of a huge fire-ball; there was a fresh breeze; in the distance appeared a few white sails, which, like light kingfishers fearing a tempest, were hastening to reach San Francisco; the coyotes were beginning to bark furiously on the plain; and the few birds nestled on the branches tucked their heads under their wings, and prepared to go to sleep.

The fires were lighted, the animals penned, and after supper each hastened to repair, by a few hours' sleep, the fatigue of a long day's journey beneath a burning sky.

"Sleep!" Louis said. "I will keep the first watch – the idler's watch," he added with a smile.

"I will take the second, then," Valentine said.

"No, I will take that," Curumilla objected. "An Indian's eyes see clearly in the night."

"Hum!" the hunter remarked; "and yet I fancy my eyes are not so bad either."

Curumilla, without further reply, placed his finger on his lips.

"Good!" the hunter said; "as you wish it, keep watch in my place, chief. When you are tired, however, be sure and wake me."

The Indian bowed. The three men wrapped themselves in their zarapés, and lay on the ground, Don Louis alone remaining awake.

It was a magnificent night: the sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinity of stars that sparkled like diamonds; the moon poured forth its tremulous and pallid beams; the atmosphere, wondrously pure and transparent, allowed the country to be surveyed for an enormous distance; the evening breeze had risen, and deliciously refreshed the air; the earth exhaled acrid and balmy perfumes; the waves died away amorously, and with mysterious murmurs, on the beach; and in the distance might be indistinctly traced the outlines of the coyotes which prowled about, howling mournfully, for they scented the novillos.

Louis, seduced by this splendid evening, and yielding to that prairie languor which conquers the strongest minds, was indulging in a gentle reverie. He had attained that stage of mental somnolency which is not waking, and yet not sleeping. He was enjoying the magic pictures his fancy conjured up, when he was suddenly roused from this charming sensation by a hand pressing heavily on his shoulder, while a voice muttered in his ear the single word, —

"Prudence."

Louis, suddenly recalled to a consciousness of the present, opened his half-closed eyes, and turned sharply round. Curumilla was leaning over him, and repeated his warning, with a sign of terrible meaning. The count seized his rifle, which rested near him.

"What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice.

"Come, but keep in the shade," Curumilla replied in the same tone.

Louis obeyed the hint, whose importance he recognised. Lying down on the ground, he glided gently in the direction indicated by the Indian.

He soon found himself sheltered behind a thicket, where he saw Don Cornelio and Valentine in ambush, with their bodies bent forward, and looking anxiously into the darkness.

"Good heavens, friends!" the count said, "what is the meaning of this? The profoundest silence prevails around us. All appears tranquil. Why this alarm?"

"Curumilla noticed this evening, before our halt, traces of Yaqui Indians. You know, brother, that these demons are the most daring robbers in the world. It is plain that they are after our beasts."

"But what makes you suppose that? These traces, whose existence I do not deny, may belong to travellers as well as to vagabonds. Nothing up to the present makes us suppose that these fellows intend attacking us, and we have not even seen them."

A sinister smile contracted the chief's thin lips, and, touching the count's arm with his finger, while at the same time lifting his own robe, he showed him a bleeding scalp hanging from his belt.

"Oh, oh!" Don Louis said, "have those demons ventured so near us, then?"

"Yes; and had it not been for Curumilla, whose eye is never closed, and mind ever on the watch, our animals would probably have been carried off more than an hour ago."

"Thanks for his vigilance, then," the count said with an expression of annoyance, which he could not entirely conceal; "but you know the Indians, comrades: so soon as they find they are detected, they are no longer to be feared. I believe that, after the lesson they have received, we are now in safety, and we need not trouble ourselves about them more."

"No, brother, you are mistaken. Look at your novillos; they are restless. At each instant they raise their heads, and do not eat their food in comfort. God has given animals an instinct of self-preservation which never deceives them. Believe me, they fear a danger, and scent enemies not far from them."

"It is possible, indeed. Let us watch, then."

The four men remained thus silent and attentive. An hour almost passed away, and nothing happened to confirm their suspicions. Still the bulls pressed more closely together. They had left off eating, and their restlessness increased instead of diminishing.

Suddenly Curumilla stretched out his arm in a north-eastern direction, and after laconically whispering, "Do not stir," he gave Valentine his rifle to hold, and before his friends had time to guess the direction he had taken, he disappeared in the gloom. The three hunters exchanged a silent glance, and cocked their rifles, so as to be ready for any event.

There cannot be a more painful position than that of the brave man who, in a strange country and on a dark night, is obliged to stand on guard against a danger whose extent he cannot calculate. Affected by the silent majesty of solitude, he creates phantasms a hundredfold more terrible than the actual danger, and feels his courage fly away piecemeal beneath the harsh pressure of waiting for something unseen.

Such was the situation in which our three friends now were; and yet they were three lion hearts, accustomed for many years to Indian warfare, and whom no peril, however great it might have been, would have been able to affect beneath the warm beams of the sun; but, during the darkness, imagination creates such horrible phantoms, that, if we may be allowed to employ a trivial comparison, we might say that people are not so much afraid of the danger itself as of the fear of that danger.

The three men had remained in this awkward situation for some time; when suddenly a fearful yell rose in the air, followed by the fall of a body to the ground, and the flight of several men, whose black outlines stood out on the horizon. The adventurers fired at random, and rushed rapidly in the direction where they heard the struggle, which seemed still going on.

At the moment they arrived, Curumilla, whom they recognised, had his right knee pressed into the chest of a man he held down under him, while his left hand compressed his throat, and reduced him to the most perfect state of powerlessness.

"Wah!" the Araucanian said, turning to his comrades with a look of inexpressible ferocity, "a chief!"

"Good prize," Valentine said. "Thrust your knife into the scoundrel's chest, and there's an end of him."

Curumilla raised his knife, whose blade sent forth a bluish flash.

"A moment," Don Louis exclaimed. "Let us see first who he is; we shall still be able to kill him if we think fit."

Valentine shrugged his shoulders.

"Let the chief settle that business," he said; "he understands it better than we do. When you have one of those vipers under your heel you must crush him, lest he may sting you presently."

"No," the count remarked resolutely, "I will never consent to see a man murdered before me. That poor wretch has acted in accordance with his nature; let us act in accordance with ours, then. Curumilla, I implore you, allow your prisoner to rise, but watch him, so that he cannot escape."

"You are wrong, brother," the implacable hunter replied; "you do not know these demons so well as I do. Still act as you please; but you will eventually see that you have committed a folly."

The count made no reply, but only gave Curumilla another sign to do as he ordered. The Araucanian obeyed with repugnance. Still he helped his half-strangled prisoner to rise, and while carefully watching him, led him to the fire, where the hunters had already preceded him.

The count took a rapid glance at the Indian. He was a man of Herculean stature, powerfully built, and still young, with haughty, gloomy, and cruel features; in a word, though he was a handsome rather than an ugly man in appearance, there was an expression of roguery, baseness, and ferocity about him, which in no way pleaded in his favour. He wore a species of hunting shirt, without sleeves, of striped calico, drawn in round the waist by a large girdle of untanned deer hide; breeches of the same stuff as the shirt hung down to his knees; and the lower part of his legs was protected from stings by leather gaiters fastened to the knee and ankle. He wore on his feet moccasins artistically worked, and adorned behind by several wolf tails – a mark of distinction only allowed to renowned warriors. His plaited hair was raised on either side his head, while behind it fell to his waist, and was decorated with plumes of every possible colour. Round his neck hung several medals, among which was one rather larger than the rest, representing General Jackson, ex-President of the American Union. His face was painted with four different colours – blue, black, white, and red.

So soon as he found himself in the presence of the hunters seated round the fire, he crossed his arms on his chest, raised his head haughtily, and waited stoically till they thought proper to address him.

"Who are you?" Don Louis asked him in Spanish.

"Mixcoatzin (the Serpent of the Cloud)."

"Hum!" Valentine muttered to himself, "the scoundrel is well named. I never saw such a hangdog face as his before."

"What did Mixcoatzin want in my camp?"

"Does not the Yori know?" the Indian said imperturbably. "Mixcoatzin is a chief among the Yaquis."

"You wished to steal my cattle, I suppose?"

"The Yaquis are not robbers; all that is on their land belongs to them. The palefaces need only return to their home on the other side of the great salt lake."

"If I condemn you to death what will you say?"

"Nothing; it is the law of war. The paleface will see how a Yaqui chief endures pain."

"You allow, then, that you deserve death?"

"No; the paleface is the stronger – he is the master."

"If I let you go what will you think?"

The Indian shrugged his shoulders.

"The paleface is not a fool," he said.

"But suppose I do act in that way?"

"I shall say that the paleface is afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of the vengeance of the warriors of my nation."

It was Don Louis' turn to shrug his shoulders.

"Then," he proceeded, "if I restored you your liberty you would feel no gratitude?"

"Why should I be grateful? A warrior should kill his enemy when he holds him. If he does not do so he is a coward."

The hunters could not refrain from a start of surprise at the enunciation of this singular theory. Don Louis rose.

"Listen," he said. "I do not fear you, and I will give you a proof of it."

And, with a movement quick as thought, he seized the long tail that hung down the chiefs back, and cut it off with his knife.

"Now," he added, buffeting him with the tress he had cut off, "be off, villain: you are free. I despise you too much to inflict on you any other punishment than that you have undergone. Return to your tribe, and tell your friends how the whites avenge themselves on enemies so contemptible as yourself, and those that resemble you."

At the deadly insult he received the Indian's face became hideous; he suffered a momentary stupor caused by shame and anger; but by a supernatural effort he suddenly overcame his feelings, seized Don Louis' arm, and thrusting his face into the Frenchman's, —

"Mixcoatzin is a powerful chief," he hissed. "Let the Yori remember his name, for he will meet him again."

And, bounding like a tiger, he dashed into the plain, where he at once disappeared.

"Stop!" Don Louis shouted to his friends, who were rushing in pursuit; "Let him escape. What do I care for such a wretch's hatred? He can do nothing to me."

The hunters reluctantly took their seats again by the fire.

"Hum!" Louis added, "I have perhaps committed a folly."

Valentine looked at him.

"Worse than a folly, brother," he said; "a sad mistake. Take care of that man: one day or other he will revenge himself on you."

"Possibly," the count said carelessly; "but when did you begin to fear the Indians so greatly, brother?"

"From the day I first learned to know them," the hunter said coldly. "You have offered that man an insult which demands blood; be assured that he will make you repent of it."

"I care little."

After these few words the hunters resumed their interrupted sleep, and the rest of the night passed without any fresh incident.

At sunrise the adventurers continued their journey; and by night, after a day of incredible fatigue through the burning sands of the savannah, they at length reached the pueblo or lugar of San José, where the inhabitants received them with shouts of joy, persuaded as they were that the strangers would not leave without supplying them with a few of those objects of primary necessity which they have themselves no means of procuring.