Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

As Tiburcio continued to direct his thoughts upon the past, certain vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory. They were only dim shadows, resembling the retrospect of a dream, and yet he was impressed with the belief that they had once been realities. He was the more confirmed in this idea, because such visions had occurred to him before – especially upon the night when he sat by the death-bed of his adopted mother – the widow of Arellanos. The revelations which she made to him before dying had revived in some mysterious way these shadowy souvenirs.

After a while the young man made known his thoughts to his companion by the camp-fire, whose interest appeared to be forcibly re-awakened, and who listened with eager attention to every word.

“I fancy I can remember,” said Tiburcio – “that is, if it be not a dream I have sometimes dreamt – a terrible scene. I was in the arms of a woman who held me closely to her breast – that I was rudely snatched from her embrace by a wicked man – that she screamed and cried, but then all at once became silent; but after that I remember no more.”

These words appeared to produce an effect upon the Canadian; and his interest visibly increased as he listened.

“You can remember no more?” he inquired, in an eager tone. “Can you not remember what sort of place it was in? Was it in a house? or do you not remember whether the sea was around you? That is a thing one is not likely to forget.”

“No,” answered Tiburcio, “I saw the great ocean for the first time at Guaymas – that was four years ago – and yet from what has been told me I should have also seen it when I was a child.”

“But, when you saw it four years ago, did it not recall anything to your memory?”

“No, nothing.”

“Nothing?” repeated the Canadian, interrogatively, and in a despairing tone.

“Nothing more than this same dream, which I have mistaken no doubt for reality.”

Bois-Rose again resumed his attitude of melancholy, and remained silent.

After a pause Tiburcio continued:

“One figure appears to me in these visions that is different from the rest.”

“What sort of figure?” inquired the Canadian, with renewed interest.

“That of a man of a hale rude countenance, but notwithstanding one of kindly expression. This man loved me, for I now have his face before me more clearly than I ever had; and I can trace that expression upon it.”

“And did you love him? can you remember that?” inquired the Canadian, while his heart beat with anxiety, as he awaited the answer.

“I am sure I did, he was so kind to me. I can remember he was kind to me.”

A tear stole over the bronzed cheek of the trapper as he listened to these words; and then turning his face once more so that it was hidden from the view of Tiburcio, he murmured to himself —

“Alas, poor Fabian! he too loved me – I know he did.”

Then once more facing round to the fire, he hazarded a last question:

“Do you not remember one circumstance above all? Do you not remember that this man was suddenly separated from you in the midst of a terrible affray – ?”

The emotion under which Bois-Rose was suffering hindered him from finishing his interrogatory. His head fell between his knees, and he awaited in trembling the response which Tiburcio might make.

The latter was silent for some seconds, as if endeavouring to arrange the confused thoughts that had suddenly sprung up in his mind.

“Hear me!” said he at length, “you who appear to be a beacon guiding my memories of the past – hear what I can remember at this moment. There was one day of terror and confusion; I saw much blood around me. The ground appeared to tremble – there was thunder or the noise of cannon. I was in great fear within a dark chamber where I had been shut up – a man came to me; it was the big man who loved me – ”

Tiburcio paused for an instant, as if to grapple freshly with the vague reminiscences that were endeavouring to escape from him, while the Canadian appeared like one suffering the agony of suspense.

“Yes,” resumed Tiburcio, “this man came to me – he lifted me up in his arms and carried me into the light – there he caused me to kneel down – oh! I now remember what he said – ‘kneel!’ said he, ‘kneel, my child! and pray for your mother!’ That is all I can remember.”

The Canadian, who was still seated, appeared to tremble convulsively, as he listened to these last words; but when Tiburcio had finished speaking, he rose suddenly to his feet; and rushing forward threw his arms wildly around the young man, while at the same time he cried out in a broken voice:

“Your mother whom I found dead beside you. Oh! my God! Once more in need of a father, hast thou sent him to me. Oh! Fabian! Fabian! Come to my heart! It was I who caused you to kneel – I am that man! who in the bay of Elanchovi – ”

At this moment the report of a carbine echoed in the woods; and a bullet whistling through the air, passed close to the head of Tiburcio, striking a tree that stood behind him.

This unexpected intruder at once put an end to the dialogue; suddenly changing the tableaux of figures around the fire. Pepé, who had heard the shot, sprang instantaneously to his feet, and all three stood grasping their weapons, ready to receive the enemy who had committed the dastardly attempt.

Chapter Thirty Two

Souvenirs of Elanchovi

While these incidents were passing by the trappers camp-fire, Don Estevan was actively pursuing the execution of his plans.

From what little he had heard and seen of Diaz he had conceived a high opinion of this person. He had observed in him a man of very different character from the crowd of adventurers who usually make up expeditions of the kind he was about to lead. Don Augustin had pronounced upon his courage; and the chief himself had noticed the reserve with which Diaz treated his new associates Cuchillo and Baraja. Moreover, some words with Diaz himself had confirmed Don Estevan’s favourable impression, and convinced him that the Indian fighter was a man of brave and loyal heart. He regarded Diaz, therefore, as a valuable member of the expedition, and resolved to attach him as much as possible to his service – not merely with a view to his assistance in the search and conquest of the Valley of Gold, but for that higher aim which he had proposed to himself – the establishment of a kingdom.

While proceeding to the rendezvous designated by Cuchillo, Don Estevan took the opportunity of sounding Diaz on this important question. His bravery and address as a soldier were already known; but these two qualities were not sufficient for the purposes of the Spaniard. Something more would be required of the man of whom it was his design to make both his lieutenant and confidant.

The reply of Diaz to his very first question, convinced Don Estevan that Diaz was the very man he stood in need of; but the time had not yet arrived for the leader to open himself fully. He contented himself by simply observing, that in the event of the expedition being crowned with success, it might lead to an important affair – the separation of Sonora from the Federal Republic.

At this moment the conversation between the chief and Pedro Diaz was interrupted by the report of a carbine. It was the shot fired by Cuchillo, which had caused the sudden alarm at the camp-fire of the trappers, but which as already known had failed in its aim.

If the outlaw had not yielded to his own cupidity, it is possible that Tiburcio would have fallen at that moment. The assassin would have taken with him his two associates Baraja and Oroche; and as three bullets instead of one would thus have been aimed at the intended victim, the chances are that some of them would have reached his life. But Cuchillo did not desire to have a partner in the deed who could claim a share in the promised reward, he was determined to have the twenty onzas to himself; and this it was that induced him to leave Baraja and Oroche behind him. His design was well conceived, and might have been executed to his satisfaction. No doubt his aim had been true enough; but it chanced to be taken at an inopportune moment – just as Tiburcio sprang forward under the impulse of the revelation which Bois-Rose had made to him.

Having delivered his fire the outlaw did not even stop to ascertain its effect; but turning suddenly away, he ran to recover his horse. The dread of being pursued and overtaken by the two trappers caused him to fly at full speed. He dreaded the vengeance of two men of whose singular courage and dexterity he had already been a witness. Fear, however, so confused his senses, that on facing round, he was unable to remember in what direction he had come, or where the horse had been left; and for some seconds he stood hesitating and doubtful.

Short as was the time, it might have proved fatal to him, but that his unexpected attack had somewhat disconcerted the camp. Both Bois-Rose and Tiburcio, interrupted while suffering the most vivid emotions, stood for some moments in a state of stupor, while Pepé was stretched out at full length, and supposed to be asleep.

This was only apparent, however, for at the report he sprang to his feet as if he had heard the “hish” of the bullet as it passed close to his ears.

“Carramba!” cried he, “I am curious to know which of us that bit of lead was intended for, you or myself, young man; for I have heard your conversation, and I am no stranger to this affair of Elanchovi.”

“Elanchovi!” exclaimed the Canadian. “What! do you know anything of Elanchovi?”

“Ah, well do I,” answered Pepé. “I have good reasons to know Elanchovi – but there’s no time to talk of it now; I will settle that business by-and-by, for it’s a secret you can’t comprehend without my help. So indeed it is the young count, and you have found him again! Well that’s enough at present. Now, Bois-Rose, forward! You take to the right of where the shot came from, while this young man and I go to the left. The cowardly rascal who fired will no doubt be trying to turn our camp, and by going both ways, one or other of us will be likely to chance upon him. Away, Bois-Rose, away!”

Hurriedly pronouncing these words, Pepé grasped his rifle and struck off to the left, followed by Tiburcio, who had no other weapon than his knife. The Canadian, suddenly stooping, till his huge body was almost horizontal, glided off to the right under the branches of the trees, and then moved on with a silence and rapidity that showed how accustomed he was to this mode of progression.

The camp-fire was abandoned to the guard of the half-wild horse, that, freshly affrighted by the report of the carbine, once more plunged and reared, until he had almost strangled himself in the noose of his lazo.

Meanwhile the day was beginning to break, and the red light of the fire was every moment growing paler under the first rays of the morning.

“Let us stop here,” said Pepé to Tiburcio, as soon as they had reached a thicket where they could have the advantage of seeing without being seen, and from which they commanded a view of the road leading to the Salto de Agua. “Stand closely behind this sumac bush,” continued he; “I have an idea that this picaron, who has such a crooked sight, will pass this way. If he do, I shall prove to him that the lessons Bois-Rose has given me have not been altogether lost upon me. I manage my piece somewhat better now than when I was in the service of her Catholic majesty. There now, stand close, and not a word above a whisper.”

Tiburcio – or, as we may now call him, Fabian de Mediana – obeyed with pleasure the injunctions of his companion. His spirit, troubled with a few strange words he had heard from Bois-Rose and Pepé, was full of hope that the latter would be able to complete the revelation just begun; and he waited with anxious silence to hear what the ex-carabinier might say.

But the latter was silent. The sight of the young man – whom he had himself assisted in making an orphan, and despoiling not only of his title and wealth, but even of his name – renewed within him the remorse which twenty years had not sufficed to blot out from his memory. Under the dawning light he looked sadly but silently on the face of that child whom he had often seen playing upon the beach of Elanchovi. In the proud glance of the youth, Pepé saw once more the eyes of his high-born mother; and in the elegant and manly form he recognised that of Don Juan de Mediana, his father; but twenty years of a rude and laborious life – twenty years of a struggle with the toils and dangers of the desert – had imparted to Fabian a physical strength far superior to that of him who had given him being.

Pepé at length resolved to break the silence. He could no longer restrain himself, suffering as he was from such bitter memories.

“Keep your eye fixed upon the road,” said he, “at yonder point, where it is lost among the trees. Watch that point whilst I talk to you. It is the way in which Bois-Rose and I do when there is any danger threatening us. At the same time listen attentively to what I say.”

“I listen,” answered Fabian, directing his glance as his companion, had instructed him.

“Do you remember nothing of your young days, more than you have just related to the Canadian?”

“Nothing – ever since I learnt that Arellanos was not my father, I have tried to remember something, but to no purpose. I do not even know who took care of me in my infancy.”

“No more know they of you, my poor young man. I am the only one who can tell you these things of which you are ignorant.”

“For heaven’s sake speak!” impatiently cried Fabian.

“Hush! not so loud!” cautioned the trapper. “These woods, remote and solitary as they seem, nevertheless contain your deadliest enemy – unless, indeed, it was at me that the bullet was aimed. That may make a difference in your favour. In fact, since I have not been able to recognise you, I do not see how he can?”

“Who – of whom do you speak?” brusquely demanded Fabian.

“Of your mother’s murderer – of the man who has robbed you of your titles, your honours, your wealth, and your name.”

“I should be noble and rich then?” cried Fabian, interrogatively. “Oh that I had but known it sooner – only yesterday!”

Fabian’s thoughts were upon Rosarita. If he could have told this to her, in that sad parting interview, perhaps the result might have been different!

“Noble! yes!” replied Pepé, “you should be and shall yet, if I mistake not – but rich – alas! you are no more rich.”

“What matters it?” responded Fabian, “to-day it would be too late.”

“Yes, but it does matter – ah! I knew two men – one at least – who shall restore to you what you have lost, or die in the attempt.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of one who, without knowing it, aided to some extent in the assassination of your mother – of one whom that sad souvenir has a thousand times troubled the conscience – who, in the silence of the night in the midst of the woods, has often fancied he could hear that cry of anguish, which at the time he mistook for the wailing of the breeze against the cliffs of Elanchovi. It was the death scream of your poor mother. Ah! Don Fabian de Mediana,” continued the speaker, in reply to the gesture of horror made by the young man, “Ah! that man’s conscience has reproached him in stronger terms than you could use; and at this hour he is ready to spill the last drop of his blood for you.”

The impetuous passions of Fabian, for a moment softened by thoughts of Rosarita, were again inflamed to their utmost. He had already sworn to avenge the death of Arellanos, and here was anew object of vengeance, the murderer of his own mother! The bland image of Rosarita at once disappeared, paling away as the firelight eclipsed by the brighter gleams of the rising sun.

“My mother’s assassin!” cried he, his eyes flashing with furious indignation. “And you know him?”

“You also – you have eaten with him at the same table – under the same roof – that which you have just now quitted!”

Pepé without further interrogation went on to recount what he knew of the events of Elanchovi. He told Fabian who he was – that Don Estevan was no other than his uncle, Antonio de Mediana – of the marriage of his mother with Don Juan his father – of the consequent chagrin of the younger brother – of his infamous design, and the manner it had been carried into execution. How Don Antonio, returning from the wars in Mexico, with his band of piratical adventurers, had landed in a boat upon the beach at Ensenada – how he had entered the chateau, and with the help of his two subordinate villains had abstracted the Countess and her infant – himself Fabian – how the assassination of the mother had been committed in the boat, and the child only spared in the belief that the murderer’s steel was not necessary – in the belief that the waves and the cold atmosphere of a November night would complete the deed of death.

Nor did Pepé conceal his own conduct connected with this affair. He disclosed all to his half-frantic listener – the after actions of Don Antonio with regard to himself – his imprisonment and subsequent banishment to the fisheries of Ceuta – his escape at a later period to the prairies of America, and his meeting with Bois-Rose – with whom, however, no recognition had ever been established about the events of Elanchovi – since neither had ever mentioned that name in hearing of the other.

All these things Pepé narrated in turn, but briefly as the circumstances required. The rest of his history Fabian already knew – at least, the greater part of it; Bois-Rose had partially made the revelation.

Chapter Thirty Three

The Man in the Yellow Jacket

Bois-Rose, as already stated, had gone alone in a direction opposite to that taken by his comrades. His mind full of the danger with which Fabian was surrounded – Fabian restored to him as if by a miracle – the Canadian continued to advance with rapid strides. He examined every opening and aisle of the forest with an eye keenly bent, and an ear straining to catch the slightest sound.

After making a distance of a hundred yards or so, he stopped in his tracks, and laying himself flat along the grass, placed his ear to the ground and listened attentively. In a few seconds’ time a dull sound reached him – the hoof-strokes of a horse that seemed to approach the spot where he lay.

“Pepé is right,” muttered he to himself, as he started to his feet; “the skunk is coming this way. Good! he has the advantage of me in being mounted; but I have a rifle that I dare say will make up for the difference —enfant de grâce! he is here!”

As this exclamation escaped him, the trapper was seen suddenly to raise his long rifle to his shoulder. At the same instant a leathern jacket of yellowish colour appeared at some distance off among the leaves, and at about the height of a man on horseback.

The sharp crack of a rifle was instantly followed by the disappearance of the leathern jacket: and, since for marksmen like Bois-Rose to take aim is to hit, the latter had no doubt that his enemy had fallen to the ground either dead or wounded. For a moment he thought of reloading; but the ardour of his vengeance urged him to rush forward and make sure of his victim. In the event that the assassin should have companions, the trapper trusted to his great strength to equalise the chances of a hand-to-hand conflict. Neglecting all further precautions, therefore, like the hunter rushing upon the wounded stag, he dashed forward through the trees toward the spot where his enemy had fallen.

As he drew near, he could perceive a horse rearing furiously in front of him, crushing the underwood as he plunged violently from side to side. The horse was saddled and bridled, but there was no one in the saddle. This led Bois-Rose to the belief that his bullet had dismounted the rider.

All at once a shrill whistle rang through the trees; and the horse uttered a loud neigh – as if in reply – galloping off in the direction from which the signal had come. After making several lengths through the bushes, the horse came to a stop. Bois-Rose ran after, and in a few bounds was beside the animal. It was still dark under the shadow of the trees, but the Canadian could make out the form of a man upon the ground, at that moment struggling in the act of raising himself. Just then the horse dropped upon his knees, the man grasping the pommel of the saddle succeeded in crawling into it; a signal started the animal to his feet again; and before the trapper could come up to the spot, both horse and man were fast disappearing behind the foliage of the trees.

Bois-Rose launched after them a furious malediction; and reloading his rifle as rapidly as he could, sent a bullet in the same direction; but the continued strokes of the horse’s feet falling upon his ear told him that his random shot had been delivered to no purpose.

Without following further, he turned in the opposite direction, and after imitating three times in succession, the howling of the prairie wolf – a signal for Pepé – he strode off to the spot where the yellow jacket had fallen from the saddle.

There he perceived the grass pressed down as if where a man’s body had fallen upon it; and at about the height of a man on horseback, the branches of the sumac tree were broken, as though the horseman had caught at them in falling. There were no traces of blood, however – not a drop could be seen; but a carbine lying upon the ground showed that the horseman, in his hurry to escape, had left his weapon behind him.

“My poor Fabian!” muttered he, “this will serve for him. In these woods a knife is not much worth; this will be a better weapon for him.”

Somewhat consoled by this reflection, the trapper now turned to go back in the direction of the camp-fire. He had not made a dozen steps, when the sharp report of a rifle fell upon his ear.

“It is Pepé’s!” he cried. “I know it. God grant he may have made a better shot than I have done!”

Just then a second report echoed through the woods. It sounded sadly on the ear of the Canadian – who did not recognise it – and being now the victim of a terrible uncertainty, he ran with all speed in the direction whence the sound had come.

Another report that now reached him added to the anguish of his suspense; for this time, like the last, it was not the well-known crack of his comrade’s rifle.

Almost at the same instant, however, he heard Pepé’s voice calling out:

“Come back, Fabian! come back! What is the use of – ”

A third detonation seemed to cut short the speech of the ex-coast-guard – as if he had fallen by the bullet – while no voice of Fabian was heard to make reply. A profound and frightful silence followed the last shot, which was broken only by the voice of the mock-bird, who appeared imperfectly to imitate the words that had been spoken, and then commenced chanting a plaintive song – as if mourning the death of those who had fallen by the shots.

The Canadian ran on for some moments, until – unable longer to restrain himself – he paused, and cried out, at the risk of exposing himself to some ambushed enemy:

“Hola! Pepé! – where are you?”

“Here!” answered the voice of the ex-carabinier. “We are here, straight before you – Don Fabian and myself. Come on!”

A cry of joy was all the response the Canadian could give; and the next moment another joyous shout, as he came upon the ground and perceived that both his companions were still in safety.

“The skunk ought to be wounded,” said he; “my shot caused him to tumble out of his saddle. You were perhaps more fortunate than I? I heard your piece speak – have you throwed him, Pepé?”

Pepé shook his head in the negative.

“If you mean the fellow in the yellow jacket,” said he, “I fancy the devil has him under his protection; for I had a fair sight on him – and yet he’s off! He’s not alone, however; there are four other horsemen along with him; and in one of these gentleman I have recognised him whom they here call Don Estevan de Arechiza, but who is no other than – ”

“I have seen only the fellow in the leather jacket,” interrupted the Canadian; “and here is his gun, Fabian, for you. But are you quite safe?” continued he, in an anxious tone. “You are sure you are not wounded?”

“No, no – my friend – my father!” cried Fabian, flinging himself into the trapper’s arms, as if they had just met after a long separation.