The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West

"What!" the missionary said in a deep voice, "Have I arrived just in time to prevent a double murder, gentlemen? In Heaven's name, hide those homicidal weapons; do not stand opposite each other like wild beasts preparing for a leap."

"Withdraw, father; you have nothing to do here. Let me treat this man as he deserves," the squatter answered, casting at the missionary a ferocious glance – "his life belongs to me."

"Young man," the priest replied, "the life of a fellow being belongs only to God, who has the right to deprive, him of it; lower your weapons" – and turning to Fray Ambrosio, he said to him in a cutting voice, "and you who dishonour the frock you wear, throw away those pistols which sully your hands – a minister of the altar should not employ other weapons than the Gospel."

The monk bowed, and caused his pistols to disappear, saying in a soft and cautious voice, "My father, I was compelled to defend my life which that maniac assailed. Heaven is my witness that I reprove these violent measures, too frequently employed in this unhappy country; but this man came into the house with threats on his lips; he insisted on our delivering a wretched girl whom this caballero," he said, pointing to the gambusino, "and myself did not think proper to surrender."

Andrés corroborated the monk's words by a nod of the head.

"I wish to save that young girl from your hands," Shaw said, "and restore her to her father."

"Of whom are you speaking, my friend?" the missionary asked with a secret beating of his heart.

"Of whom should I speak, save Doña Clara de Zarate, whom these villains retain here by force?"

"Can it be possible?" Father Seraphin exclaimed in amazement. "Doña Clara here?"

"Ask those men," Shaw answered, roughly, as he angrily struck the butt of his rifle against the ground.

"Is it true?" the priest inquired.

"It is," the gambusino answered.

Father Seraphin frowned, and his pale forehead was covered with febrile ruddiness.

"Sir," he said, in a voice choking with indignation. "I summon you, in the name of that God whom you serve, and whose minister you lay claim to being, to restore at once to liberty the hapless girl whom you have so unworthily imprisoned, in defiance of all laws, human and divine. I engage to deliver her into the hands of those who bewail her loss."

Fray Ambrosio bowed; he let his eyes fall, and said in a hypocritical voice —

"Father, you are mistaken as regards myself. I had nothing to do with the carrying off of that poor child, which on the contrary, I opposed to the utmost of my power; and that is so true, father," he added, "that at the moment when this young madman arrived, the worthy gambusino and myself had resolved, at all risks, on restoring Doña Clara to her family."

"I should wish to believe you, sir; if I am mistaken, as you say, you will forgive me, for appearances were against you; it only depends on yourself to produce a perfect justification by carrying out my wishes."

"You shall be satisfied, father," the monk replied. At a signal from him Garote left the room. During the few words interchanged between the two men, Shaw remained motionless, hesitating, not knowing what he ought to do; but he suddenly made up his mind, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turned to the missionary.

"Father," he said respectfully, "my presence is now needless here. Farewell; my departure will prove to you the purity of my intentions."

And turning suddenly on his heel, he hurried out of the rancho. A few moments after his departure the gambusino returned, Doña Clara following him.

Doña Clara no longer wore the dress of the whites, for Red Cedar, in order to render her unrecognizable, had compelled her to don the Indian garb, which the maiden wore with an innate grace which heightened its strange elegance. Like all Indian squaws, she was attired in two white chemises of striped calico – the one fastened around the neck, fell to the hips; while the other, drawn in at the waist, descended to her ankles. Her neck was adorned with collars of fine pearls, mingled with those small shells called wampum, and employed by the Indians as money. Her arms and ankles were surrounded by wide circles of gold, and a small diadem of the same metal relieved the pale tint of her forehead. Moccasins of deer hide, embroidered with wool and beads of every colour imprisoned her small and high-arched feet.

As she entered the room, a shadow of melancholy and sadness spread over her face, adding, were that possible, a further charm to her person. On seeing the missionary, Doña Clara uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him, fell into his arms, and murmured in a heart-rending voice: —

"Father! save me! save me!"

"Be calm, my daughter!" the priest said to her, gently. "You have nothing more to fear now that I am near you."

"Come!" she exclaimed, wildly, "Let us fly from this accursed house, in which I have suffered so greatly."

"Yes, my daughter, we will go; set your mind at rest."

"You see, father," Fray Ambrosio said, hypocritically, "that I did not deceive you."

The missionary cast at the monk a glance of undefinable meaning.

"I trust that you spoke truly," he replied; "the God who gauges hearts will judge you according to works. I will rescue this maiden at once."

"Do so, father; I am happy to know her under your protection."

And picking up the cloak which Don Pablo left after blinding Red Cedar, he placed it delicately on the shuddering shoulders of Doña Clara, in order to conceal her Indian garb. Father Seraphin drew her arm through his own, and led her from the rancho. Ere long they disappeared in the darkness. Fray Ambrosio looked after them as long as he could see them, and then re-entered the room, carefully bolting the door after him.

"Well," Andrés Garote asked him, "what do you think, señor Padre, of all that has happened?"

"Perhaps things are better as they are."

"And Red Cedar?"

"I undertake to render ourselves as white in his sight as the snows of the Caffre de Perote."

"Hum! it will be difficult."

"Perhaps so."

CHAPTER XIV

THE MYSTERY

On leaving the Rancho del Coyote, Red Cedar dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and galloped in a south-western direction. So soon as he was out of the town he turned to the left, took a narrow path that ran round the walls, pulled up his horse, and advanced with the utmost caution. Throwing suspicious glances on either side, he went on thus for about three-quarters of an hour, when he reached a house, in one of the windows of which burned three wax tapers.

The lights thus arranged were evidently a signal for the squatter, for so soon as he came to the house he stopped and dismounted, attached his horse to a larch-tree, and prudently concealing himself behind a thicket, imitated thrice at equal intervals the hu-hu of an owl. The lights burning in the window were extinguished, as if by enchantment.

The night was gloomy, only a few stars studded the vault of heaven; a leaden silence brooded over the plain, which appeared quite solitary. At this moment a voice could be heard from the house which Red Cedar was watching so carefully. The squatter listened; the speaker leaned for a second out of the window looked cautiously round, and disappeared muttering loud enough for the American to overhear —

"All is quiet in the neighbourhood."

"Still," the squatter said, without showing himself, "the coyotes prowl about the plain."

"Are you coming or going?" the man at the window continued.

"Both," the squatter answered, still hidden behind his bush.

"You can come on, for you are expected."

"I know it; hence here I am."

While making this answer, the squatter left his hiding place, and placed himself before the door with folded arms, like a man who has nothing to fear.

The door was cautiously opened; a man emerged, carefully wrapped up in, a wide cloak, which only allowed eyes to be seen, that flashed in the gloom like a jackal's. This person walked straight up to Red Cedar.

"Well," he asked, in a low voice, "have you reflected?"

"Yes."

"And what is the result of your reflections?"

"I refuse."

"Still?"

"More than ever."

"Take care."

"I do not care, Don Melchior, for I am not afraid of you."

"No names!" the stranger exclaimed, impatiently.

"We are alone."

"No one is ever alone in the desert."

"That is true," Red Cedar muttered. "Let us return to our business."

"It is simple – give and give."

"Hum! You get to work very fast; unfortunately it cannot be so."

"Why not?"

"Why, because I am growing tired of constantly taking in my nets game by which others profit, and which I ought to keep as a safeguard."

"You call that girl a guarantee?"

"By Heaven! what else do you mean to make of her?"

"Do not compare me with you, scoundrel!"

"Where is the difference between us? I am a scoundrel, I grant; but, by heaven, you are another, my master, however powerful you may be."

"Listen, caballero!" the stranger answered, in a cutting voice. "I will lose no more of my time in discoursing with you. I want that girl, and will have her, whatever you may do to prevent me."

"Good; in that case you declare war against me?" the squatter said, with a certain tinge of alarm, which he tried in vain to conceal.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders.

"We have known one another long enough to be perfectly well acquainted; we can only be friends or foes. Is not that your opinion?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, hand Doña Clara over to me, and I will give you the papers which – "

"Enough!" the squatter said, sharply. "Have you those papers about you?"

The stranger burst into a laugh.

"Do you take me for such a fool?" he said.

"I do not understand you."

"I will not insult you by believing you. No, I have not those papers about me. I am not such an ass as to risk assassination at your hands."

"What would your death profit me?"

"Hang it all! If it were only my scalp you would be sure to receive at least fifty dollars for it."

At this mournful jest the squatter began laughing.

"I did not think of that," he said,

"Listen to me, Red Cedar, and print the words on your memory."

"Speak."

"In a month from today, hour for hour, day for day, wherever you may be, I shall present myself to you."

"For what purpose?' the squatter asked impudently.

"To repeat my demand with reference to the prisoner."

"Then, as now, I shall reply No, my master."

"Perhaps so. Live and learn. Now good-bye, and may the devil, your patron saint, preserve you in good health until our next meeting. You know that I have you tight; so consider yourself warned."

"Good, good! Threats do not frighten me. Demonios, since I have been traversing the desert, I have found myself opposed to enemies quite as dangerous as you, and yet I managed to get quit of them."

"That is possible, Red Cedar; but believe me, meditate carefully on my words."

"I repeat that your threats do not frighten me."

"I do not threaten, I warn you."

"Hum! Well, then, listen in your turn. In the desert, every man armed with a good rifle has nothing to fear from whomsoever."

"What next?" the stranger interrupted him, in a sarcastic voice.

"Well, my rifle is excellent, I have a sure aim, and I say no more."

"Nonsense, you are mad! I defy you to kill me!"

"Hang it, though, what can be your motive for wishing to have this girl in your power?"

"That is no affair of yours. I have no explanations due to you. Enough for you to know that I want her."

"You shall not have her."

"We shall see. Good-bye, Red Cedar."

"Good-bye, Don Melchior, or whatever be the name you please to bear."

The stranger made no reply, but turned his head with a gesture of contempt, and whistled. A man emerged from the house, holding a horse by the bridle; at one bound the stranger reached the saddle, and ordered the servant to withdraw.

"Farewell, Compadre, remember our appointment."

And loosing his reins, the stranger started at a gallop, not condescending even to turn his head. Red Cedar looked after him with an indescribable expression of rage.

"Oh," he muttered in a low voice, "demon! Shall I never free myself from your clutches?"

And with a motion rapid as thought he shouldered his rifle, and aimed at the departing man. All at once the latter turned his horse, and stood right opposite Red Cedar.

"Mind not to miss me!" he cried, with a burst of laughter that caused a cold perspiration to bead on the bandit's forehead.

The latter let his rifle fall, saying in a hollow voice: "He is right, and I am mad! If I only had the papers!"

The stranger waited for a moment calm and motionless; then he started again and soon disappeared in the darkness. Red Cedar stood with his body bowed forward, and his ears on the watch, so long as the horse's hoofs could be heard; then he returned to his own steed, and bounded into the saddle.

"Now to go and warn the dragoons," he said, and pushed on.

The squatter had scarce departed ere several men appeared from either side; they were Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo on the right; Unicorn and Eagle-wing on the left. Valentine and his friends were astonished at meeting the Comanche chief, whom they believed gone back to his camp; but the sachem explained to them, in a few words, how, at the moment he was crossing the spot where they now were, he had heard Red Cedar's voice, and concealed himself in the shrubs in order to overhear the squatter's colloquy with his strange friend. Valentine had done the same; but, unfortunately, the party had been greatly disappointed, for the squatter's conversation remained to them an enigma, of which they sought the key in vain.

"'Tis strange," Valentine remarked, as he passed his hand several times across his forehead. "I do not know where I have seen the man just now talking here with Red Cedar, but I have a vague reminiscence of having met him before, where and under what circumstance I try, though in vain, to recall."

"What shall we do?" Don Pablo asked.

"Hang it, what we agreed on;" and turning to the chief, he said, "Good luck, brother, I believe we shall save our friend."

"I am sure of it," the Indian replied, laconically.

"May heaven hear you, brother," Valentine continued. "Act! While, on your side, you watch the town for fear of treason. We then will ambush ourselves on the road the gambusinos must take, in order to know positively the direction in which they are proceeding. Till tomorrow, chief!"

"Stop!" a panting voice exclaimed, and a man suddenly appeared in the midst of them.

"Father Seraphin!" Valentine said in a surprise. "What chance brings you this way?"

"I was looking for you."

"What do you want with me?"

"To give you some good news."

"Speak! Speak quickly, father! Has Don Miguel left his prison?"

"Alas! Not yet; but his daughter is free!"

"Doña Clara free!" Valentine shouted joyously. "Heaven be blessed! Where is she?"

"She is temporarily in safety, be assured of that; but let me give you a warning, which may perhaps prove useful to you."

"Speak! Speak!"

"By order of the governor, Red Cedar has gone to meet the regiment of dragoons, coming up to reinforce the Santa Fe garrison."

"Caramba," Valentine said, "are you sure of your statement, father?"

"I am: in my presence, the men who carried off Doña Clara spoke about it."

"All is lost if these soldiers arrive."

"Yes," the missionary said; "but, how to prevent it?"

Curumilla lightly touched the leader's arm.

"What do you want, chief!"

"The Comanches are warriors," Curumilla answered, curtly.

"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed, and tapping his forehead with delight, "that is true, chief; you save us."

Curumilla smiled with pleasure.

"While you go in pursuit of the soldiers," said Don Pablo, "as I can be of no service to you, I will accompany Father Seraphin to my poor sister, whom I have not seen so long, and am eager to embrace."

"Do so," Valentine answered. "At daybreak you will bring Doña Clara to the camp, that I may myself deliver her to her father."

"That is agreed."

Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn rushed out in the plain, while Father Seraphin and Don Pablo returned to the town. The two gentlemen, anxious to join the girl, did not perceive that they were closely watched by an individual, who followed their every movement, while careful not to be seen by them. It was Nathan, Red Cedar's eldest son.

How was that man there?

CHAPTER XV

THE AMBUSCADE

The nigh breeze had swept the clouds away; the sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinity of stars; the night was limpid, the atmosphere so transparent as to allow the slightest varieties of the landscape to be distinguished. About four leagues from Santa Fe, a numerous band of horsemen was following a path scarce traced in the tall grass, which approached the town with countless turns and windings. These horsemen, who marched in rather decent order, were nearly 600 in number, and formed the regiment of dragoons so anxiously expected by General Ventura.

About ten paces ahead rode four or five officers gaily chatting together, among whom was the colonel. The regiment continued its march slowly, advancing cautiously, through fear of losing its way in a perfectly strange country. The colonel and his officers who had always fought in the States bordering the Atlantic, found themselves now for the first time in these savage countries.

"Caballeros," the colonel suddenly remarked, "I confess to you that I am completely ignorant as to our whereabouts. Can any one of you throw a light on the subject? This road is fearful, it seems to lead nowhere, and I am afraid we have lost our way."

"We are all as ignorant as yourself on that head, colonel," an officer answered, "not one of us could say where we are."

"On my word!" the colonel went on, taking a glance of satisfaction around, "We are not in a hurry to reach Santa Fe. I suppose it makes little difference whether we get there today or tomorrow. I believe that the best thing for us to do is to bivouac here for the rest of the night; at sunrise we will start again."

"You are right, colonel," the officer said, whom he seemed to address most particularly, "a few hours' delay is of no consequence, and we run the risk of going out of our course."

"Give the order to halt."

The officer immediately obeyed; the soldiers, wearied with a long night's march, greeted with shouts of joy the order to stop. They dismounted. The horses were unsaddled and picketed, campfires were lighted, in less than an hour the bivouac was arranged.

The colonel, in desiring to camp for the night, had a more serious fear than that of losing his way; it was that of falling in with a party of Indios bravos.

The colonel was brave, and had proved it on many occasions; grown gray in harness, he was an old soldier who feared nothing in the world particularly; but accustomed to warfare in the interior of the Republic, had never seen opposed to him any but civilised foes, he professed for the Indians that instinctive fear which all the Mexicans entertain, and he would not risk a fight with an Apache or Comanche war party in the middle of the night, in a country whose resources he did not know, and run the risk of having his regiment cut to pieces by such Protean enemies. On the other hand, he was unaware that the governor of Santa Fe had such pressing need of his presence, and this authorised him in acting with the utmost precaution. Still, as soon as the bivouac was established, and the sentries posted, the colonel sent off a dozen resolute men under an Alferez, to trot up the country and try to procure a guide.

We will observe, in passing, that in Spanish America, so soon as you leave the capitals, such as Lima, or Mexico, roads, such as we understand them in Europe, no longer exist; you only find paths traced, in nine cases out of ten, by the footprints of wild beasts, and which are so entangled one with the other, that, unless you have been long accustomed to them, it is almost impossible to find your way. The Spaniards, we grant, laid out wide and firm roads, but since the War of Independence, they had been cut up, deteriorated and so abandoned by the neglect of the ephemeral governments that have followed each other in Mexico, that with the exception of the great highways of communication in the interior of the country, the rest had disappeared under the herbage.

The little squad of troopers sent out to beat up the country had started at a gallop, but it soon reduced its pace, and the soldiers and sergeant began laughing and talking, caring little for the important mission with which they were intrusted. The moon rose on the horizon, shedding her fantastic rays over the ground. As we have said, it was one of those lovely nights of the American desert full of strange odours. A majestic silence hovered over the plain, only disturbed at intervals by those sounds, without any known cause, which are heard on the savannahs, and which seem to be the respiration of the sleeping world. Suddenly the mockingbird sung twice, and its plaintive and soft song resounded melodiously through the air.

"Hallo," one of the dragoons said, addressing his comrade, "that's a bird that sings very late."

"An evil omen," the other said with a shake of his head.

"Canarios! What omen are you talking about, comrade?"

"I have always heard say," the second, speaker remarked sententiously, "that when you hear a bird sing on your left at night it predicts misfortune."

"The deuce confound you and your prognostics."

At this moment the song, which appeared previously some distance off, could be heard much more close, and seemed to come from some trees on the side of the path the dragoons were following. The Alferez raised his head and stopped, as if mechanically trying to explain the sound that smote his ears; but all became silent again, so he shook his head and continued his conversation. The detachment had been out more than an hour. During this long stroll, the soldiers had discovered nothing suspicious; as for the guide they sought, it is needless to say that they had not found him, for they had not met a living soul. The Alferez was about to give orders to return to camp, when one of the troopers pointed out to him some heavy, black forms, apparently prowling about unsuspiciously.

"What on earth can that be?" the officer asked, after carefully examining what was pointed out to him.

"Caspita," one of the dragoons exclaimed, "that is easy to see; they are browsing deer!"

"Deer!" said the Alferez, in whom the hunter's instinct was suddenly aroused, "there are at least thirty; suppose we try to catch some."

"It is difficult."

"Pshaw!" another soldier shouted, "It is light enough for each of us to send them a bullet."

"You must by no means use your carbines," the Alferez interposed sharply; "if our shots, re-echoed through the mountains, caught the ears of the Indians, who are probably ambushed in the thickets, we should be ruined."

"What is to be done, then?"

"Lasso them, caspita, as you wish to try and catch them."

"That is true; I did not think of that."

The dragoons, delighted at the opportunity of indulging in their favourite sport, dismounted, fastened their horses to the roadside trees and seized their lassos. They then advanced cautiously toward the deer, which continued grazing tranquilly, without appearing to suspect that enemies were so near them. On arriving at a short distance from the game, the dragoons separated in order to have room for whirling their lassos, and making a covering of each tree, they managed to approach within fifteen paces of the animals. Then they stopped, exchanged glances, carefully calculated the distance, and, at a signal from their leader, sent their lassos whizzing through the air.

A strange thing happened at this moment, however. All the deer hides fell simultaneously to the ground, displaying Valentine, Curumilla, and a dozen Comanche warriors, who, profiting by the stupor of the troopers at their extraordinary metamorphosis, hunted the hunters by throwing lassos over their shoulders and hurled them to the ground. The ten dragoons and their leader were prisoners.