The Trapper's Daughter: A Story of the Rocky Mountains

The Comanches are excessively discreet; they never take the liberty of asking questions of their guests before the latter authorise them. So soon as Bloodson had taken his seat by the fire of the council lodge, and smoked the great calumet of peace, Unicorn bowed to him gravely, and took the word.

"My paleface brother is welcome among his red friends," he said; "has my brother had a good hunt?"

"The buffaloes are numerous near the mountains," Bloodson answered; "my young men have killed many."

"All the better; my brother will not suffer from famine."

The ranger bowed his thanks.

"Will my brother remain some days with his red friends?" the chief again asked; "they would be happy to have him among them for a season."

"My hours are counted," Bloodson answered. "I merely intended paying a visit to my brothers to ask after their fare, as I passed their village."

At this moment Valentine appeared in the doorway.

"Here is my brother, Koutonepi," Unicorn said.

"He is welcome," the ranger said; "I wished to see him."

"What accident has brought you here?" the hunter asked him.

"To tell you where Red Cedar is hidden at this moment," Bloodson answered, distinctly.

Valentine started; and bent on him a piercing glance.

"Oh, oh," he said, "that is great news you give me."

"I do not give it, but sell it to you."

"What? explain yourself, pray."

"I will be brief. There is not a man on the prairies who has not a terrible account to settle with that vile bandit?"

"That is true."

"The monster has burdened the earth too long – he must disappear."

Bloodson uttered these words with such an accent of hatred, that all present, although they were men endowed with nerves of steel, felt a shudder course through their veins. Valentine looked sternly at the ranger.

"You owe this man a heavy grudge?" he said.

"Greater than I can express."

"Good, go on."

At this moment Father Seraphin entered the lodge, but was not noticed, so greatly was the attention of the audience concentrated on Bloodson. The missionary stood motionless in the darkest corner, and listened.

"This is what I propose," Bloodson went on. "I will reveal to you where the villain is lurking; we will spread so as to envelope him in an impassable circle, and if you or the chiefs here present are luckier than I, and seize him, you will deliver him into my hands."

"What to do with him?"

"To take an exemplary vengeance on him."

"I cannot promise that," Valentine said slowly.

"For what reason?"

"You have just given it: there is not a man on the prairie but has a terrible account to settle with this villain."

"Well?"

"The man he has most outraged is, in my opinion, Don Miguel de Zarate, whose daughter he so basely murdered. Don Miguel alone has the right to deal with him as he thinks proper."

Bloodson gave a start of disappointment.

"Oh, were he here!" he exclaimed.

"Here I am, sir," the hacendero replied as he stepped forward; "I too have vengeance to take on Red Cedar; but I wish it to be great and noble, in the light of the sun, and the presence of all: I do not wish to assassinate, but to punish him."

"Good," Bloodson exclaimed, stifling a cry of joy; "our thoughts are the same, caballero; for what I desire is to deal with Red Cedar, according to Lynch Law, in its entire rigour, on the very spot where he committed his first crime, and in the sight of the population he has horrified. In the Far West, I am not only called the Son of Blood, but also the Avenger and the judge."

After these words, spoken with feverish energy, there was a gloomy silence which lasted some time.

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," a voice said, which made the hearers start.

All turned round; Father Seraphin, with his crucifix in his hand, and head erect, seemed to command them all by the grandeur of his evangelic mission.

"By what right do you make yourselves the instruments of divine justice?" he continued. "If this man was guilty, who tells that repentance has not come at this hour to wash the stains from his soul?"

"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth," Bloodson muttered in a hoarse voice.

These words broke the charm that enchained the audience.

"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth," they exclaimed wrathfully.

Father Seraphin saw he was conquered: he understood that all reasoning would fail with these blood-thirsty men, to whom the life of their fellow men is nothing, and who rank vengeance as a virtue.

"Farewell," he said in mournful voice; "farewell, poor misguided men. I dare not curse you, I can only pity you; but I warn you that I will do all in my power to save the victim you wish to immolate to your odious passions."

And he went out of the lodge.

When the emotion caused by the priest's words had calmed down, Don Miguel walked up to Bloodson, and laid his hand on the one the ranger offered to him.

"I accept Lynch Law," he said.

"Yes," all present shouted, "Lynch Law."

A few hours later, Bloodson regained his camp, and it was after this interview that Valentine had the conversation with Don Pablo, as he returned from Red Cedar's jacal, which we described at the beginning of the volume.

CHAPTER XX

RED CEDAR

Now that we have explained the incidents that took place during the six months that had elapsed between Doña Clara's death and the conversation in the cavern during the storm, we will resume our narrative where we left it at the end of chapter three.

Only a few minutes after the hacendero's son had left, the door of the jacal was roughly opened – four men entered. They were Red Cedar, Fray Ambrosio, Sutter, and Nathan. They appeared sad and gloomy, and the water poured down from their clothes as if they had come out of the river.

"Halloh," the monk said; "what! No fire or light, and nothing in the calli to greet us. You do not care much for us, I fancy."

Red Cedar kissed his daughter on the forehead, and turning to Fray Ambrosio, to whom he gave a passionate glance, he said roughly —

"You are in my house, my master: do not oblige me to remind you of that fact; so begin by being civil to my daughter, if you do not wish me to give you a lesson."

"Hum!" the monk remarked with a growl; "Is this young woman so sacred, that you should fire up at the slightest word addressed to her?"

"I do not fire up," the squatter replied, sharply, as he struck the table with his fist; "but your way of speaking does not please me, I tell you; so do not oblige me to repeat it."

Fray Ambrosio made no answer; he understood that Red Cedar was in a state of mind unfavourable for a discussion; he therefore prudently refrained from any remark that might lead to a quarrel, which he seemed as anxious to avoid as the squatter to pick it. During the exchange of these few sentences, Ellen, helped by her brothers, had lit a torch of candle wood, rekindled the fire, the absence of which was felt, and placed on the table a meal, sufficient, if not luxurious.

"Caballeros," she said in her gentle voice, "you are served."

The four men sat round the table with the eagerness of hungry persons who are desirous of breaking a long fast. Before raising the first morsel to his lips, the squatter, however, turned to his daughter.

"Ellen," he said to her kindly, "will you not sit down with us?"

"Thank you, father, but I am not hungry; it would be really impossible for me to swallow the least morsel."

The squatter sighed, but raising no objection, he began to serve his guests, while Ellen retired into the darkest corner of the shanty. The meal was sad; the four men seemed busy in thought, and ate quickly and silently. When their hunger was appeased, they lit their pipes.

"Father," Nathan suddenly said to Red Cedar, who was sorrowfully watching the smoke ascend in spirals to the roof; "I have found a trail."

"So have I," the monk remarked.

"And I, too," the squatter said; "what of that?"

"What of that?" Fray Ambrosio shouted. "Canarios, gossip, you take things very lightly. A trail in the desert always reveals an enemy."

"What do I care for that?" Red Cedar replied, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"What?" the monk shouted, as he sprang up; "That is very fine, on my word; to hear you, one might fancy you were an entire stranger to the question, and that your life is not at stake like ours."

"Who tells you that I wish to defend it?" the squatter replied, giving him a look which made his eyes fall.

"Hum!" the monk remarked, after a moment's silence; "I can understand that you do not cling to life; you have gone through so much, that you would not regret death; but there is one thing you forget, gossip, not referring to myself, though I have a right to reproach you."

The squatter carelessly shook the ashes out of his pipe, filled it again, and went on smoking as if not paying the slightest attention to the monk's remarks. The latter frowned and clenched his fists, but recovering his temper almost immediately, he continued, with feigned indifference, while playing with his knife —

"Yes, you forget one thing, gossip, which however, is worth remembering."

"What is it?"

"Your children, cospita!"

The squatter gave him an ironical glance.

"Oh, por Dios santo!" the monk went on; "I do not refer to your sons, for they are strong and resolute men, who can always get out of a scrape; I do not trouble myself about them at all."

"About whom, then?" the squatter asked, looking at him sharply.

"Why, for your daughter Ellen, canarios! What will become of her, if you die?" the monk said, with that boldness peculiar to timid persons, who wish to know at once if the mine they have fired will crush them. The squatter shook his head sadly.

"That is true," he said, with a glance at his daughter.

The monk smiled – the blow had told, so he went on.

"In destroying yourself, you destroy her," he said; "your obstinacy may cause her death, so take care."

"What is to be done?" the squatter asked.

"Take our precautions, voto de Dios! believe me, we are watched; remaining longer here would be the utmost imprudence."

The squatter's sons nodded their assent.

"It is evident," Sutter observed, "that our enemies have discovered our trail."

"And that they will soon be here," Nathan added.

"You hear?" the monk went on.

"Once again I ask, what is to be done?" Red Cedar asked.

"Caspita, be off as speedily as possible."

"Where can we go at this advanced season of the year? The snow will soon cover the ground, and interrupt all communication; if we leave the jacal, we run a risk of dying of hunger."

"Yes, if we remain in the desert," the monk observed, in an insinuating voice.

"Where do you propose going then?" the squatter asked.

"What do I know? There is no lack of towns, I suppose, on the Indian border; we might, if absolutely necessary, return to the Paso del Norte, where we have friends, and are certain of a kind reception."

Red Cedar looked him full in the face, and said ironically —

"Out with your whole thought, señor Padre; you have an object in wishing to return to the Paso, so let me know it."

"Caspita, you are as clever as I am," the monk exclaimed, blushing the while; "what need have we to humbug one another?"

The squatter rose, and kicked back his stool.

"You are right," he said passionately, "let us deal openly with one another. I wish nothing better, and to give you an example, listen to me. You have never lost out of sight the reason that made you enter the desert; you have only one object, one desire, to reach the rich placer, the situation of which you learned by assassinating a man. Neither the fatigue you have endured, nor the peril you have incurred, has made you renounce your scheme; the hope of a rich crop of gold blinds you, and makes you mad. Is it so or not?"

"It is true," the monk coolly replied, "what next?"

"When our band was destroyed, and completely dispersed, this was the reasoning you employed – a reasoning," he added, with a bitter smile, "which does honour to your sagacity and firmness of character; 'Red Cedar all but knows the site of the placer. I must induce him to return with me to the Paso, to form another band, because if I leave him alone in the desert, so soon as my back is turned, he will go in search of the treasures, and carelessly discover it.' Have I not guessed aright, gossip?"

"Nearly so," the monk answered, furious at seeing his plans so clearly read through.

"I thought so," Red Cedar continued; "but, like all bad men, gangrened to the heart, you went beyond your object, by attributing to me the same sordid instincts you possess; and you thought that because I am an assassin, I may be a thief: that is the error in which you fell, gossip. Understand me," he said, stamping his foot violently; "were the coveted treasure at this moment beneath my heel, I would not stoop down to pick up a nugget. Gold is nothing to me, I despise it. When I consented to guide you to the placer you naturally assumed that avarice led me to do so; but you are mistaken; I had a more powerful and nobler motive – revenge. Now, do not trouble me more about your accursed placer, for which I care as little as I do for a nut. And with that, good night, gossip; I am going to sleep, or try to do so, and recommend the same to you."

And, without awaiting the monk's reply, the squatter turned his back and stalked into an inner room. For some time past, Ellen had been asleep, and so the monk remained alone with the squatter's sons. For some minutes they remained in silence.

"Bah," the monk at length said cautiously, "however much he may struggle, it must happen."

Sutter shook his head dubiously.

"No," he said, "you do not know the old one; once he has said no, he sticks to it."

"Hum!" Nathan added, "He has greatly changed lately; of all his old character, he seems only to have kept his obstinacy; I am afraid you will fail, señor Padre."

"Live and learn," the latter said gaily; "tomorrow has to come; in the meanwhile, gentlemen, let us follow his advice, and go to sleep."

Ten minutes later all slept, or seemed to sleep, in the jacal: the storm lasted the night through, howling furiously. At daybreak, the squatter rose, and went out to see what sort of weather it was. The day promised well; the sky was pure, and the sun rose radiantly. Red Cedar, therefore, started for the corral to saddle his horse, and those of his comrades. Before leaving the household, however, he looked around, and suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise as he started back. He had noticed a horseman coming up at full speed.

"Father Seraphin!" he muttered in astonishment; "What serious reason can bring him here, at such an hour and in such haste?"

At this moment the other entered the keeping room, and the squatter heard the sound of the footsteps behind him. He turned quickly.

"Hide yourselves," he said hoarsely.

"What's the matter?" the monk asked furiously, as he stepped forward.

With one blow of his fist, the squatter hurled him to the middle of the room.

"Did you not hear me?" he said passionately. But, although Red Cedar's blow had been so powerful, he could not prevent the monk recognising Father Seraphin.

"Ah, ah," he said, with an ugly smile, "Father Seraphin! If our friend wished to confess, was not I enough? He need not only have told me, instead of sending for that European magpie."

Red Cedar here turned as if a viper had stung him, and gave the three men such a glance of ferocity, that they involuntarily recoiled.

"Villain," he said, in a hollow voice, and a terrible gesture, "I know not what prevents me killing you, like the dog you are. If one of you dare utter a syllable against this holy man, by Heaven, I will flay him alive. Hide yourselves, I insist."

Subjugated by the squatter's accent, the three men left the room without replying, and ten minutes later Father Seraphin checked his horse, and dismounted in front of the jacal. Red Cedar and his daughter hurried forward to meet the father, who walked into the hut, wiping the perspiration that stood on his forehead. Red Cedar offered him a butaca.

"Sit down, father," he said to him, "you are very hot; will you take some refreshment?"

"Thanks," the missionary answered, "but we have not a moment to lose, so listen to me."

"What has happened, father? Why have you come in such haste?"

"Alas!" he went on, "because you are menaced by a terrible misfortune."

The squatter turned pale. "It is but just," he muttered, with a frown; "the expiation is beginning."

"Courage, my children," the missionary said, affectionately, "your enemies have discovered your retreat, I know not how; they will be here tomorrow – perhaps today – you must fly – fly at once."

"For what good?" the squatter remarked; "the hand of God is in this – no man can escape his destiny; better to wait."

Father Seraphin assumed a serious air, and said in a stern voice —

"God wishes to try you; it would be cowardice, suicide, to surrender yourself to those who desire your death, and Heaven would not pardon you for doing so. Every living creature must defend life when attacked. Fly – I bid you – I order you."

The squatter made no reply.

"Besides," Father Seraphin continued, in a tone he strove to render gay, "the storm may blow over; your enemies, not finding you here, will doubtless abandon the pursuit; in a few days, you will be able to return."

"No," the squatter said disconsolately, "they desire my death. As you order me to fly, father, I will obey you, but, before all, grant me one favour."

"Speak, my son."

"I," the squatter went on, with ill-concealed emotion, "am a man; I can, without succumbing, support the most excessive fatigue, brave the greatest dangers; but – "

"I understand you," the missionary quickly interrupted him; "I intend to keep your daughter with me. Be at your ease, she shall want for nothing."

"Oh, thanks, thanks, father!" he exclaimed, with an accent such a man might have been thought incapable of.

Ellen had hitherto listened to the conversation in silence, but now she stepped forward, and placing herself between the two men, said with sublime dignity:

"I am most grateful to both of you for your intentions with regard to me, but I cannot abandon my father; I will follow him wherever he goes, to console him and aid him in suffering the retributions Heaven sends on him, as a Christian should do."

The two men prepared to interrupt her.

"Stay!" she said, warmly; "hitherto I have suffered through my father's conduct, for it was guilty; but now that repentance fills his soul, I pity and love him. My resolution is unchangeable."

Father Seraphin gazed at her in admiration.

"It is well, my child," he said; "Heaven will remember such pure and noble devotion."

The squatter pressed his daughter to his heart, but had not the strength to utter a word – he had never felt such sweet emotion before. The missionary rose.

"Farewell," he said, "and take courage; put your trust in God, who will not abandon you. I will watch over you at a distance. Farewell, my children, and bless you. Go, go, without delay."

Then, tearing himself by an effort from Red Cedar's arms, Father Seraphin remounted, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and started at full speed, after giving his protégés a parting wave of the hand.

"Oh!" Red Cedar muttered, "That could not last, for I was almost happy."

"Courage, father," Ellen said to him softly.

They re-entered the jacal, where the men were awaiting them.

"Go and saddle the horses," the squatter said, "we are going away."

"Ah!" the monk whispered Sutter, "did I not tell you the demon was on our side? Canarios! He would not forget us, as we have done so much for him."

The preparations for quitting the jacal were not long, and an hour later, the five persons started.

"In what direction do we go?" the monk asked.

"Let us go in the mountains," the squatter answered, laconically, as he took a melancholy glance at this wretched hut, in which he had perhaps hoped to end his days, and which fate compelled him to leave forever. The fugitives had scarce disappeared behind a clump of trees, when a cloud of dust rose on the horizon, and five horsemen soon appeared, coming up at full speed. They were Valentine and his friends.

The hunter must have obtained precise information from Bloodson as to the situation of the jacal, for he did not hesitate a moment, but rode straight in. Don Pablo's heart beat, as if to burst his chest, though he apparently remained unmoved.

"Hum!" Valentine said, when about a dozen yards from the jacal, "Everything is very silent here."

"The squatter is no doubt out hunting," Don Miguel observed, "we shall only find his daughter."

Valentine began laughing.

"Do you think so?" he said. "No, no, Don Miguel, remember Father Seraphin's words."

General Ibañez, who was the first to reach the jacal, dismounted and opened the door.

"Nobody!" he said, in surprise.

"By Jove!" Valentine said, "I suspected that the bird had flown; but this time he will be very cunning if he escapes us. Forward, forward! They cannot be far ahead."

They started again. Curumilla remained behind for a second, and threw a lighted torch into the shanty, which was soon burned down.

"The fox is unearthed," the Indian muttered to himself, while rejoining his comrades.

CHAPTER XXI

CURUMILLA

About a month after the events we have just described, in the early part of December, which the Comanches call, in their picturesque language, "the Moon of the roebuck that sheds its horns," and a few minutes after sunrise, a party, consisting of five or six men, whom, by their garb, it was easy to recognise as wood rangers from the Far West, climbed one of the highest peaks of the Sierra de los Comanches, the eastern chain of the Rocky Mountains, running down into Texas, where it terminates in the Guadaloupe mountains.

The weather was cold, and a dense layer of snow covered the sides of the mountains. The slope which these bold adventurers were following, was so scarped that, although accustomed to travel in these regions, they were often compelled to bend their backs and creep along on their hands and knees. But no difficulty baffled them, no obstacle was great enough to make them turn back.

At times, worn out with fatigue, and bathed in perspiration, they stopped to take breath, lay down on the snow, and picked up some handfuls to allay the ardent thirst that devoured them; then, after resting a little while, they courageously set out again, and clambered up the eternal ice, whose gigantic masses became with each moment more abrupt.

Were these men in search of a practicable road in this frightful labyrinth of mountains, whose peaks rose around them, at an immense height, in the icy regions of the sky? Perhaps, however, they wished, for reasons known to themselves alone, to gain a spot whence they could have an extensive prospect.

If such were their hope, it was not deceived. When, after incessant toil they all at last reached the summit of the peak they were scaling, they suddenly had before them a landscape, whose grand appearance amazed and startled them through its sublime immensity. In whatever direction they looked, they were confounded by the majesty of the panorama unfolded at their feet.

In truth, the Rocky Mountains are unique in the world, bearing no resemblance with the Pyrenees, Alps, and Apennines, and those magnificent chains of mountains which here and there stride across the old world, and seem with their barren crest to protest against the pride of creatures, in the name of the Creator.

The hunters were hanging, as it were, over a world. Beneath them was the Sierra de los Comanches, an immense mountain broken up into snowy peaks, displaying all their gloomy caverns, deep and awe-inspiring valleys, their brilliant lakes, their dark defiles and their foaming torrents, which bounded noisily downward; then, far beyond these savage limits, the eye was lost in an unbounded landscape, bathed in a hazy distance, like the surface of the sea in calm weather.

Owing to the purity and transparency of the atmosphere, the adventurers distinguished the smallest objects at a surprising distance. However, in all probability, these men had not undertaken so perilous an ascent through motives of curiosity. The mode in which they examined the country and analysed the immense panorama unrolled before them, proved, on the contrary, that very serious reasons had urged them to brave the almost insurmountable difficulties they had overcome, in order to reach the point where they were.