The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West

"Oh! I will kill him if he prove a traitor!" the squatter shouted with an accent that made the blood run cold in the veins of his hearers.

Nathan fell back two steps, drew his knife from his boot, and showed it to his father.

"That is done," he said, harshly. "Shaw tried to stab me, so I killed him."

After these mournful words, there was a moment of silence in the rancho. All these men, though their hearts were steeled by crime, shuddered involuntarily. Without, the night was gloomy; the wind whistled sadly; the flickering light of the candle threw a weird light over the scene, which contained a certain degree of terrible poetry. The squatter passed his hard hand over his dank brow. A sigh, like a howl, painfully forced its way from his oppressed chest.

"He was my last born," he said, in a voice broken by an emotion he could not control. "He deserved death, but he ought not to have received it at his brother's hands."

"Father!" Nathan muttered.

"Silence!" Red Cedar shouted, in a hollow voice, as he stamped his foot passionately on the ground; "What is done cannot be undone; but woe to my enemies' family! Oh! I feel now that I can take such vengeance on them as will make all shudder who hear it spoken of!"

After uttering these words, which were listened to in silence, the squatter walked a few steps up the rancho. He approached a table, seized a bottle half full of mezcal that stood on it, and emptied it at a draught. When he had finished drinking, he threw down the bottle, which broke with a crash, and said to his mates in a hollow voice —

"Let us be off! We have wasted too much time here already!"

And he rushed out of the rancho, the others following close at his heels.

In the meanwhile, Don Pablo and Father Seraphin were in the house. The priest had taken the maiden to the house of an honest family which owed him great obligations, and was too happy to receive the poor sufferer. The missionary did not intend, however, to let her be long a burthen to these worthy people. At daybreak he intended to deliver her to certain relations of her father, who inhabited a hacienda a few leagues from Santa Fe.

Doña Clara had been placed in a comfortable room by her hosts. Their first care had been to make her doff the Indian robes for others more suitable to her birth and position. The maiden worn out by poignant emotions of the scene she had witnessed, was on the point of retiring to bed, when Father Seraphin and Don Pablo tapped at the door of her room. She hastily opened it, and the sight of her brother, whom she had not hoped to see so speedily, overwhelmed her with joy.

An hour soon slipped away in pleasant chat. Don Pablo was careful not to tell his sister of the misfortune that had befallen her father; for he did not wish to dull by that confession the joy the poor girl promised herself for the morrow. Then, as the night was advancing, the two men withdrew, so as to allow her to enjoy that rest so needed to strengthen her for the long journey to the hacienda, promising to come and fetch her in a few hours. Father Seraphin generously offered Don Pablo to pass the night with him by sharing the small lodging he had not far from the Plaza de la Merced, and the young man eagerly accepted. It was too late to seek a lodging at a locanda, and in this way he would be all the sooner with his sister next morning. After a lengthened leave-taking, they, therefore, left the house, and, so soon as they were gone, Doña Clara threw herself, ready dressed, into a hammock hanging at one end of the room, when she speedily fell asleep.

On reaching the street, Don Pablo saw a body lying motionless in front of the house.

"What's this?" he asked, in surprise.

"A poor wretch whom the ladrones killed in order to plunder him," the missionary answered.

"That is possible."

"Perhaps he is not quite dead," the missionary went on; "it is our duty to succour him."

"For what good?" Don Pablo said, with an air of indifference; "if a sereno were to pass he might accuse us of having killed the man."

"Nay, sir," the missionary observed, "the ways of the Lord are impenetrable. If He allowed us to come across this unhappy man, it was because He judged in His wisdom that we might prove of use to him."

"Be it so," the young man said; "let us look at him, as you wish it. But you know that in this country good actions of such a nature generally entail annoyance."

"That is true, my son. Well, we will run the risk," said the missionary, who had already bent over the wounded man.

"As you please," Don Pablo said, as he followed him.

Shaw, for it was he, gave no signs of life. The missionary examined him, then rose hastily, seized Don Pablo's arm, and drew him to him, as he whispered —

"Look!"

"Shaw!" the Mexican exclaimed, in surprise; "What could that man be doing here?"

"Help me, and we shall learn. The poor fellow has only fainted; and the loss of blood has produced this semblance to death."

Don Pablo, greatly perplexed by this singular meeting, obeyed the missionary without further remark. The two men raised the wounded lad, and carried him gently to Father Seraphin's lodging, where they proposed to give him all the help his condition required.

They had scarce turned the corner of the street, when several men appeared at the other extremity. They were Red Cedar and his confederates. On arriving in front of the house they stopped: all the windows were in the deepest obscurity.

"Which is the girl's room?" the squatter asked in a whisper.

"This one," Nathan said, as he pointed to it.

Red Cedar crawled up to the house, drove his dagger into the wall, raised himself to the window, and placed his face against a pane.

"All is well! She sleeps!" he said, when he came down. "You, Fray Ambrosio, to one corner of the street; you, Garote, to the other, and do not let me be surprised."

The monk and the gambusino went to their allotted posts. When Red Cedar was alone with his son he bent and whispered in his ear —

"What did you do with your brother after stabbing him?"

"I left him on the spot where he fell."

"Where was that?"

"Just where we now stand."

The squatter stooped down to the ground, and walked a few steps, carefully examining the bloody traces left on the pebbles.

"He has been carried off," he said, when he rose again. "Perhaps he is not dead."

"Perhaps so," the young man observed, with a shake of his head.

His father gave him a most significant look.

"To work," he said coldly.

And they prepared to escalade the window.

CHAPTER XIX

INDIAN DIPLOMACY

We will return, for the present, to Valentine and his comrades.

The sudden apparition of the sachem of the Coras had produced a certain degree of emotion among the hunters and the Comanches. Valentine, the first to recover from his surprise, addressed Eagle-wing.

"My brother is welcome," he said, as he held out his hand, which the Indian warmly pressed, "What news does the chief bring us?"

"Good," the Coras answered laconically.

"All the better," the hunter said gaily; "for some time past all we have received has been so bad that my brother's will create a diversion."

The Indian smiled at this sally, but made no remark.

"My brother can speak," Valentine continued; "he is surrounded by none but friends."

"I know it," the chief answered, as he bowed gracefully to the company. "Since I left my brother two months have passed away: I have worn out many moccasins amid the thorns and brambles of the desert; I have been beyond the Great Lakes to the villages of my nation."

"Good; my brother is a chief; he was doubtless well received by the sachems of the Coras of the Great Lakes."

"Mookapec is a renowned warrior among his people," the Indian answered proudly; "his place by the council fire of the nation is pointed out. The chiefs saw him with joy: on his road he had taken the scalps of seven gachupinos: they are now drying before the great medicine lodge."

"It was your right to do so, chief, and I cannot blame you. The Spaniards have done you harm enough for you to requite them."

"My brother speaks well; his skin is white, but his heart is red."

"Hum," observed Valentine; "I am a friend to justice; vengeance is permissible against treachery. Go on, chief."

The hunter's comrades had drawn nearer, and now formed a circle round the two speakers. Curumilla was occupied silently, as was his wont, in completely stripping each Spanish prisoner, whom he then bound in such a way that the slightest movement was impossible.

Valentine, although time pressed, knew too well the Redskin character to try and hurry Eagle-wing on. He felt certain that the chief had important news to communicate to him; but it would have been no use trying to draw it from him; hence he allowed him to act as he pleased. Unicorn, leaning on his rifle, listened attentively, without evincing the slightest impatience.

"Did my brother remain long with his tribe," Valentine continued.

"Two suns. Eagle-wing had left behind him friends to whom his heart drew him."

"Thanks, chief, for the pleasant recollections of us."

"The chiefs assembled in council to hear the words of Eagle-wing," the Coras continued. "They shuddered with fury on hearing of the massacre of their children; but Mookapec had formed his plan, and two hundred warriors are assembled beneath his totem."

"Good!" said Valentine, "the chief will avenge himself."

The Indian smiled.

"Yes," he said, "my young men have their orders, they know what I mean to do."

"Very good; in that case they are near here?"

"No," the chief replied, with a shake of his head. "Eagle-wing does not march with them; he has hidden himself under the skin of an Apache dog."

"What does my brother say?" Valentine asked with amazement.

"My white brother is quick," Unicorn said, sententiously; "he will let Mookapec speak. He is a great sachem, and wisdom dwells in him."

Valentine shook his head, however, and said —

"Hum! Answering one act of treachery by another, that is not the way in which the warriors of my nation behave."

"The nation of my brother is great, and strong as the grizzly bear," Unicorn said; "it does not need to march along hidden paths. The poor Indians are weak as the beaver, but like him they are very cunning."

"That is true," Valentine replied, "cunning must be allowed you in dealing with the implacable enemies who surround you. I was wrong; so go on, chief; tell us what deviltry you have invented, and if it is ingenious. Well, I will be the first to applaud it."

"Wah, my brother shall judge. Red Cedar is about to enter the desert, as my brother doubtless knows?"

"Yes."

"Does my brother know the Gringo has asked the Apaches for a guide?"

"No, I did not."

"Good. Stanapat, the great chief of the Apaches, sent a Navajo warrior to act as guide to Red Cedar."

"Well?"

"The Navajo was scalped by Eagle-wing."

"Ah, ah! Then Red Cedar cannot set out?"

"Yes, he can do so when he likes."

"How so?"

"Because Eagle-wing takes the place of the guide."

Unicorn smiled.

"My brother has a deal of wisdom," he said.

"Hum!" Valentine remarked, with some show of ill-humour. "It is possible, but you play for a heavy stake, chief. That old villain is as crafty as ten monkeys and ten opossums united. I warn you that he will recognise you."

"No."

"I wish it; for if he does, you are a lost man."

"Good, my brother can be easy. Eagle-wing is a warrior; he will see the white hunter again in the desert."

"I wish so, chief; but I doubt. However, act as you please. When will you join Red Cedar?"

"This night."

"You are going to leave us?"

"At once. Eagle-wing has nothing more to confide to his brother."

And, after bowing courteously to the company, the Coras chief glided into the thicket, in which he disappeared almost instantaneously. Valentine looked after him for some time.

"Yes," he said at last, with a thoughtful air, "his project is a daring one, such as might be expected from so great a warrior. May heaven protect him, and allow him to succeed! Well, we shall see; perhaps all is for the best so."

And he turned to Curumilla.

"The clothes?" he said.

"Here they are," the Aucas answered, laconically, as he pointed to an enormous heap of clothing.

"What does my brother mean to do with them?" Unicorn asked.

"My brother will see," Valentine said, with a smile, "each of us is going to put on one of those uniforms."

The Comanche drew himself up hastily.

"No," he said, "Unicorn does not put off the dress of his people. What need have we of this disguise?"

"In order to enter the camp of the Spaniards without being discovered."

"Wah! For what good? Unicorn will summon his young men to cut a passage through the corpses of the gachupinos."

But Valentine shook his head mournfully.

"It is true," he remarked, "we could do so. But why shed blood needlessly? No; let my brother put confidence in me."

"The hunter will act rightly. Unicorn knows it, and he leaves him free; but Unicorn is a chief, he cannot put on the clothes of the palefaces."

Valentine no longer insisted, as it would have been unavailing; so he agreed to modify his plan. He made each of his comrades put on a dragoon uniform, and himself donned the clothes stripped from the Alferez. When all this metamorphosis was as complete as possible, he turned to Unicorn.

"The chief will remain here," he said, "to guard the prisoners."

"Good," the Comanche answered. "Is Unicorn, then, a chattering old woman, that warriors place him on one side?"

"My brother does not understand me. I do not wish to insult him, but he cannot enter the camp with us."

The chief shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"The Comanche warriors can crawl as well as serpents. Unicorn will enter."

"Let my brother come, then, since he wishes it."

"Good; my brother is vexed; a cloud has passed over his face. He is wrong; his friend loves him."

"I know it, chief, I know it. I am not vexed, but my heart is sad to see a warrior thus run the risk of being killed without any necessity."

"Unicorn is a sachem; he must give an example to his young men on the warpath."

Valentine gave a nod of assent.

"Here are the horses of the palefaces," Curumilla said; "my brother will need them."

"That is true," the hunter answered, with a smile; "my brother is a great chief – he thinks of everything."

Everyone mounted, Unicorn alone remaining a-foot. Valentine placed the Alferez by his side.

"Caballero," he said to him, "you will act as our guide to the camp. We do not wish to take the lives of your countrymen; our intention is simply to prevent them following us at present. Pay attention to my words: if you attempt to deceive us, I blow out your brains. You are warned."

The Spaniard bowed, but made no reply. As for the prisoners, they had been so conscientiously tied by Curumilla that there was no chance of their escaping. The little band then set out, Unicorn disappearing among the trees. When they came a short distance from the bivouac, a sentry challenged, "Who goes there?"

"Answer," Valentine whispered the Alferez.

He did so. They passed, and the sentry, suddenly seized by Curumilla, was bound and gagged in the twinkling of an eye, all the other sentinels sharing the same fate. The Mexicans keep up a very bad watch in the field, even in the presence of an enemy; the greater reason, then, for them to neglect all precaution when they fancy themselves in safety. Everybody was asleep, and Valentine and his friends were masters of the camp. The regiment of dragoons had been surprised without striking a blow.

Valentine's comrades dismounted; they knew exactly how to act, and did not deviate from the instructions given by their leader. They proceeded from picket to picket, removing the horses, which were led out of camp. Within twenty minutes all had been carried off. Valentine had anxiously followed the movements of his men. When they had finished, he raised the curtain of the colonel's tent, and found himself face to face with Unicorn, from whose waist-belt hung a reeking scalp. Valentine could not repress a movement of horror.

"What have you done, chief?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Unicorn has killed his enemy," the Comanche replied, peremptorily. "When the leader of the antelopes is killed, his flock disperses; the gachupinos will do the same."

Valentine drew near the colonel. The unhappy man, fearfully mutilated, with his brain laid bare, and his heart pierced by the knife of the implacable Indian, lay stark dead, in a pool of blood, in the middle of the tent. The hunter vented a sigh at this sorry sight.

"Poor devil!" he said, with an air of compassion.

After this short funeral oration, he took away his sabre and epaulettes, left the tent, followed by the Indian chief, and rejoined his comrades. The horses were led to the Comanche camp, after which Valentine and his party wrapped themselves in their blankets, and slept calmly till daybreak. The dragoons were no longer to be feared.

CHAPTER XX

THE STRANGER

Father Seraphin and Don Pablo we left bearing the wounded man to the missionary's lodging. Although the house to which they were proceeding was but a short distance off, yet the two gentlemen, compelled to take every precaution, employed considerable time on the journey. Nearly every step they were compelled to halt, so as not to fatigue too greatly the wounded man, whose inert limbs swayed in every direction.

"The man is dead," Don Pablo remarked, during a halt they made on the Plaza de la Merced.

"I fear so," the missionary answered, sadly; "still, as we are not certain of it, our conscience bids us to bestow our care on him, until we acquire the painful conviction that it avails him nought."

"Father, the love of one's neighbour often carries you too far; better were it, perhaps, if this wretch did not come back to life."

"You are severe, my friend. This man is still young – almost a boy. Trained amid a family of bandits, never having aught but evil examples before him, he has hitherto only done evil, in a spirit of imitation. Who knows whether this fearful wound may not offer him the means to enter the society of honest people, which he has till now been ignorant of? I repeat to you, my friend, the ways of the Lord are inscrutable."

"I will do what you wish, father. You have entire power over me. Still, I fear that all our care will be thrown away."

"God, whose humble instruments we are, will prove you wrong, I hope. Come, a little courage, a few paces further, and we shall have arrived."

"Come on then," Don Pablo said with resignation.

Father Seraphin lodged at a house of modest appearance, built of adobes and reeds, in a small room he hired from a poor widow, for the small sum of nine reals a month. This room, very small, and which only received air from a window opening on an inner yard, was a perfect conventual cell, as far as furniture was concerned, for the latter consisted of a wooden frame, over which a bull hide was stretched, and served as the missionary's bed; a butaca and a prie-dieu, above which a copper crucifix was fastened to the whitewashed wall. But, like all cells, this room was marvellously clean. From a few nails hung the well-worn clothes of the poor priest, and a shelf supported vials and flasks which doubtless contained medicaments; for, like all the missionaries, Father Seraphin had a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, and took in charge both the souls and bodies of his neophytes.

The father lit a candle of yellow tallow standing in an iron candlestick, and, aided by Don Pablo, laid the wounded man on his own bed; after which the young man fell back into the butaca to regain his breath. Father Seraphin, on whom, spite of his fragile appearance, the fatigue had produced no apparent effect, then went downstairs to lock the street door, which he had left open. As he pushed it to, he felt an opposition outside, and a man soon entered the yard.

"Pardon, my reverend father," the stranger said; "but be kind enough not to leave me outside."

"Do you live in this house?"

"No," the stranger coolly replied, "I do not live in Santa Fe, where I am quite unknown."

"Do you ask hospitality of me, then?" Father Seraphin continued, much surprised at this answer.

"Not at all, reverend father."

"Then what do you want?" the missionary said, still more surprised.

"I wish to follow you to the room where you have laid the wounded man, to whose aid you came so generously a short time back."

"This request, sir – " the priest said, hesitating.

"Has nothing that need surprise you. I have the greatest interest in seeing with my own eyes in what state that man is, for certain reasons which in no way concern you."

"Do you know who he is?"

"I do."

"Are you a relation or friend of his?"'

"Neither one nor the other. Still, I repeat to you, very weighty reasons compel me to see him and speak with him, if that be possible."

Father Seraphin took a searching glance at the speaker.

He was a man of great height, apparently in the fullest vigour of life. His features, so far as it was possible to distinguish them by the pale and tremulous moonbeams, were handsome, though an expression of unbending will was the marked thing about them. He wore the dress of rich Mexican hacenderos, and had in his right hand a magnificently inlaid American rifle. Still the missionary hesitated.

"Well," the stranger continued, "have you made up your mind, father?"

"Sir," Father Seraphin answered with firmness, "do not take in ill part what I am going to say to you."

The stranger bowed.

"I do not know who you are; you present yourself to me in the depths of the night, under singular circumstances. You insist, with strange tenacity, on seeing the poor man whom Christian charity compelled me to pick up. Prudence demands that I should refuse to let you see him."

A certain annoyance was depicted on the stranger's features.

"You are right, father," he answered; "appearances are against me. Unfortunately, the explanation you demand from me justly would make us lose too much precious time, hence I cannot give them to you at this moment. All I can do is to swear, in the face of Heaven, on that crucifix you wear round your neck, and which is the symbol of our redemption, that I only wish well to the man you have housed, and that I am this moment seeking to punish a great criminal."

The stranger uttered these words with such frankness, and such an air of conviction, his face glistened with so much honesty, that the missionary felt convinced: he took up the crucifix and offered it to this extraordinary man.

"Swear," he said.

"I swear it," he replied in a firm voice.

"Good," the priest went on, "now you can enter, sir; you are one of ourselves; I will not even insult you by asking your name."

"My name would teach you nothing, father," the stranger said sadly.

"Follow me, sir."

The missionary locked the gate and led the stranger to his room, on entering which the newcomer took off his hat reverently, took up a post in a corner of the room, and did not stir.

"Do not trouble yourself about me, father," he said in a whisper, "and put implicit faith in the oath I took."

The missionary only replied by a nod, and as the wounded man gave no sign of life, but still lay much in the position he was first placed in, Father Seraphin walked up to him. For a long time, however, the attention he lavished on him proved sterile, and seemed to produce no effect on the squatter's son. Still, the father did not despair, although Don Pablo shook his head. An hour thus passed, and no ostensible change had taken place in the young man's condition; the missionary had exhausted all his stock of knowledge, and began to fear the worst. At this moment the stranger walked up to him.

"My father," he said, touching him gently on the arm, "you have done all that was humanly possible, but have not succeeded."

"Alas! No!" the missionary said sadly.

"Will you permit me to try in my turn?"

"Do you fancy you will prove, more successful than I?" the priest asked in surprise.