Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

He was right; and enchanted at the effect of his ruse, the outlaw lay down behind a mound of earth, ready to resume his course when his senses should warn him of the approach of danger. By regaining the camp only a few minutes before the attack, he hoped also to escape the questions of Don Estevan.

“We should have sixty to divide the treasure,” thought he, “had I not taken care to diminish that number. Then, while the whites and reds are fighting together, I – ”

A distant explosion, like that of a rifle, interrupted his meditations. This sound appeared to come from the north, and indeed proceeded from the river, where were Bois-Rose and his companions.

“It is strange that such a sound should proceed from that quarter,” said Cuchillo, “for the white camp is eastward and the red westward.”

A second shot was heard; then a third, followed by a short silence, to which succeeded a continual firing. Cuchillo trembled. He fancied that a second white party, distinct from his, were about to seize the coveted treasures. Then he feared that Don Estevan had despatched a detachment to take possession of the Golden Valley. But reason soon showed him the little probability of either of these surmises. A party of men must have left traces which he should have discovered during the two days he had been scouring the country; and then it was not probable that Don Estevan would have dared to weaken his force by dividing it. He therefore lay still, and concluded that the sounds proceeded from some party of American hunters surprised by the natives.

We must return to the camp of Don Antonio, where the firing had also been heard, and where it had given rise to a host of conjectures.

Evening had come on, and red clouds marked the fiery trace of the setting sun; the earth began to freshen up at the approach of night, and the crescent of the moon to grow more and more brilliant, under the light of which the camp appeared picturesque.

On the rising ground which overlooked the whole entrenchment, arose, as we have said, the chief’s tent with its floating banner. A feeble light from within indicated that he was still watching, and several fires, made in holes dug in the sand or surrounded by stones – lest their light should betray their position – threw a subdued red glare around; while, in case of attack, fagots were prepared to illumine the camp. Groups of men lying down, and others preparing the evening meal, were mingled with the horses and mules, who were eating their rations of maize.

The careless and satisfied look upon every face, showed that these men confided the care of their defence wholly to their chief. At the entrance to the tent lay a man, like a dog watching over his master; and from his long hair and the guitar by the side of his rifle, it was easy to recognise Oroche. His time seemed to be divided between the contemplation of a heaven glittering with stars, and the care of keeping up a fire of green wood, the smoke of which rose in a vertical column silvered by the moon. Beyond the entrenchments the moonlight whitened the plain, and even the fog which covered the summits of a chain of mountains which were visible in the horizon.

Behind the carts paced the sentinels, carbine in hand. Among the various groups of men scattered about were Benito, the servant of Don Estevan, and Baraja. They were engaged in conversation.

“Señor Benito,” said Baraja, speaking to the old herdsman, “you who are so well acquainted with all the affairs of these deserts, can you explain to me what is the cause of these shots, which we have been hearing ever since noon, and which can only be fired by our enemies, the Indians?”

“It is difficult to say,” answered Benito; “but certainly they must have some good reason for wasting so much powder – a scarce article among them. It appears probable enough that poor Cuchillo is captured; or may be the Señor Gayferos, who was sent after him.”

“But why should they keep firing from time to time? – one shot would be enough to put an end to either Cuchillo or Gayferos; whereas we have heard volleys.”

“Ah! it may be that the savages are practising one of their horrible modes of punishment – perhaps they are firing at their victims merely for the sport. There is one terrible torture they inflict – I remember to have been – ”

“Hold there, friend Benito!” cried Baraja, interrupting him, “no more of your horrible stories; I have not forgotten that frightful night by the well of La Poza.”

“Well,” rejoined the herdsman, “unless they are firing at either Cuchillo or Gayferos – or perhaps at both – I cannot divine the cause of their continued fusillade. These Indians are as curious as the very devil; and they can extract a secret almost as effectually as the Holy Inquisition itself. Perhaps they are frightening either the guide or Gayferos to betray the situation of our camp.”

“God forbid they should succeed!” exclaimed Baraja.

“I join you in the prayer,” said the ex-herdsman: “but I cannot help remarking, how imprudent in our chief to permit the fire. The smoke has been rising all day like a column. In an atmosphere like this it may be seen for leagues off!”

“I agree with you,” replied Baraja; “but then you know it was kindled at the express wish of the guide – so that he might find the way to where we should be encamped. Both humanity towards Cuchillo, as well as our own interest in his safety, required us to light the fire.”

“Ah! that is not so certain. Between ourselves, I haven’t much confidence in this Cuchillo. He appears to be one of those guides whose paths always end in quagmires.”

“But have you not heard the rumour of the camp?”

“What rumour? That Don Estevan is not going by mere hazard to search for a mine of gold; but that he already knows of the existence of a rich placer? Is it that you mean?”

“Yes – or rather that Don Estevan knows of the existence of the placer; but not where it is, or the road that leads to it. This is only known to Cuchillo, whose death would therefore be an irreparable loss to all of us.”

“Bah!” replied the ex-herdsman, with a shake of the head; “Cuchillo’s face is one that could never deceive an experienced eye. For my part I hope I am deceived in him, though I doubt it.”

“Oh, Señor Benito, you always look upon the dark side of things.”

“Well, perhaps so – and on this very night I may especially appear a bird of ill omen, for I cannot help feeling the presentiment that there is danger near us. See! look yonder! The animals have left off eating – both mules and horses. Observe how they stand listening, as if they heard something. Well, what is to come will come; and I have not much to lose – even my life is not worth much.”

And with this consolatory speech the old shepherd wrapped himself up in his cloak and lay down to sleep.

Not so Baraja. The words of his comrade had produced their effect, and he was unable to compose himself to rest. His imagination depicted to him a thousand phantoms, and every moment he fancied he could hear the yells of the savages, as they rushed forward to attack the camp. Not that the ex-haciendado was altogether a coward; but there was reason for his fears; and the darkness of the night, as well as the strange behaviour of the animals, was sufficient cause to render even a brave man apprehensive of danger.

After the long day’s march, all the adventurers were asleep – stretched here and there upon the ground. The sentinels alone were awake, and watching – now and then raising along the lines their monotonous cry of “Sentinela alerte!” It was the only sound that for a long time interrupted the silence of the night.

After remaining awake for a considerable time, Baraja began to feel confidence, and perhaps would have gone to sleep, like the others, when all at once he heard several shots, similar to those that had been heard during the day, and which appeared to proceed from the same direction.

“They are still firing over there,” said he, nudging the old herdsman so as to awake him.

“No matter,” grumbled Benito; “let them fire away. If it be not Cuchillo or Gayferos, we needn’t care. So, friend Baraja, I wish you good-night – go to sleep yourself. In the desert, time for sleep is precious, although at any minute you may be sent to sleep in eternity – Good-night!”

After this terrifying speech, the ex-herdsman drew his cloak over his eyes to keep out the rays of the moon, when a noise made by the mules caused him to raise his head again, “Ah!” said he, “the red devils are not far off.”

The neigh of a horse was now heard from a distance, accompanied by a cry of alarm, and the next moment a man was seen riding up at full gallop.

“It is Cuchillo,” cried the servant; then, in a low voice, to Baraja, “Let the travellers take care when the will-o’-the-wisp dances on the plain!”

Chapter Thirty Six

The Alarm

That evening, as usual, Don Estevan watched in his tent, while his people reposed. By the light of a smoky candle, the Spaniard, in spite of the modest appearance of his lodgings and of his dust-covered clothes, seemed to have lost nothing of the dignity of his appearance or of his grand air. His complexion, more sunburnt than usual, gave his countenance a still more energetic character. He appeared pensive, but his thoughts were no longer so uneasy as they had been; on the eve, after so many dangers, of realising his vast designs, Don Estevan had, for the time at least, shaken off gloomy thoughts, and fixed his mind on the hope of a success which he believed infallible.

He had raised the canvas, which served as a door, in order to glance upon the men who reposed around, and seemed to wish to compare his means of action with the aim he was pursuing.

“Nearly twenty years ago,” thought he, “I commanded a party of sailors, nearly equal in number, and as determined as these. I was then only an obscure younger son, and they aided me to recover my inheritance – yes, it was mine. But I was then in the flower of my age, and had an aim in the future to pursue. I have attained this aim – I have even surpassed it; and now that I have nothing more to desire, I find myself, in my mature age, scouring the desert as I formerly scoured the sea. Why?”

The conscience of Mediana cried to him, that it was in order to forget one day of his life, but at that moment he wished to remain deaf to its voice. The moon shone upon the firearms piled in the centre of the camp, and cast its light upon sixty men inured to peril and fatigue, and who laughed at heat and thirst. In the distance a luminous vapour rested upon the mountains beyond which lay the Golden Valley.

“Why?” repeated Don Estevan; “because there remains to me still an immense treasure and a vast kingdom to conquer.”

The eyes of Mediana sparkled with pride; then this expression passed away, and he fixed on the horizon a melancholy look.

“And yet,” continued he, “what of this treasure shall I keep for myself? Nothing. The crown will be placed on the head of another, and I shall not even have a son or any descendant bearing the name of Mediana, who one day might bow before my portrait and say, ‘This man could be tempted neither by gold nor by a throne.’ But they will say it of me now, and is not that enough?”

At this moment Pedro Diaz raised the door of the tent, and said, “You sent for me, Señor Don Estevan?”

“I wish to speak to you of important things, which I could not do yesterday, and ought to do to-day; I have some questions to ask; and although this is the hour for repose, they must not be adjourned. If I do not deceive myself, Diaz, you are one of those men who repose only when they have nothing better to do. The ambitious are such,” added Don Estevan, with a smile.

“I am not ambitious, Señor,” replied the adventurer quietly.

“You are so without knowing it, Diaz; and I will prove it to you, presently. But first tell me what you think of this distant firing?”

“Men meet on the sea whose surface is incomparably more extensive than that of this desert; it is not astonishing that they should meet here. Travellers and Indians have encountered one another, and are fighting.”

“That is what I think. One more question and then we will return to the first subject which I have at heart. Has Cuchillo returned?”

“No, Señor, and I much fear that we have lost the guide who has conducted us till now.”

“And to what do you attribute this strange absence?” asked Don Estevan, with an anxious look.

“Probably he has gone too far upon the track of the Apaches, and has been surprised by them. In that ease his absence may prove eternal, in spite of the fires which we have lighted for two days to show him our encampment.”

“Is that really your idea?” said the chief, looking fixedly at Diaz.

“It is; although, to say the truth, Cuchillo is one of those people whom one is rarely wrong in accusing of perfidy; but I do not see what object he could have in betraying us.”

Don Estevan pointed to the fog which hid the tops of the mountains in the horizon. “The neighbourhood of those mountains,” said he, “might explain the absence of Cuchillo.” Then, with a changed tone, “Are our men still of the same mind.”

“Yes, Señor, and have more confidence than ever, in the chief who watches while they sleep, and fights like the humblest of them.”

“I have battled in many parts of the world,” said Don Estevan, sensible to praise, the sincerity of which he believed in, “and I have rarely commanded men more determined than these. Would they were five hundred instead of sixty, for then on the return of this expedition my projects would be easy of accomplishment.”

“I am ignorant what these projects are, of which you now speak to me for the first time,” said Diaz in a reserved tone. “But perhaps Don Estevan thinks me ambitious, only because he does me the honour to judge me by himself.”

“It is possible, friend Diaz,” replied Don Estevan, smiling; “the first time that I saw you I thought that your mind was of the same stamp as my own. We are made to understand each other, I am sure.”

The Mexican had all the vivacious intelligence of his country; he had judged Don Estevan, but he waited for him to take the initiative. He therefore bowed and kept silence.

The Spaniard pushed open the curtains of the tent, and, pointing one more to the horizon, “Another day’s march,” said he; “and we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains.”

“Yes, we are scarcely six leagues distant.”

“And do you know what is below that mass of fog which crowns their top?”

“No,” replied the Mexican.

Don Estevan cast upon Diaz a look which seemed as if meant to penetrate his soul, at the moment of revealing a secret until then so carefully kept. The Spaniard wished to assure himself that the confidant he was about to choose was worthy of his confidence. The honest look of Diaz – on whose countenance could be traced none of that cupidity which spurred on his companions – reassured him, and he went on:

“Well, it is towards those mountains that we have been marching. I shall now tell you why I have directed the expedition to this place, as the pilot conducts the ship to some point in the ocean known only to himself; this evening you shall read my mind clearly. That mass of fog, which the sun itself will not wholly disperse, serves as a veil to treasures which have been amassing perhaps from the beginning of the world. For centuries the rains have been washing them into the plains: the whites only suspected, and the Indians spared them; to-morrow they shall be ours! This has been my aim. Well, Diaz! do you not fall on your knees to thank God for being one of those called to share in these treasures?”

“No,” replied Diaz, simply; “cupidity would not have made me brave the dangers that a wish for revenge has done. I would have sought from the work of my arms what others seek by easier, if by less sure, methods. But the Indians have ravaged my fields, pillaged my flocks, and murdered my father and brothers. Of my people I alone escaped. Since that time I have made fierce war upon the savages, have slain many, have sold their sons by dozens, and it is still the hope of vengeance which brings me here – neither ambition nor cupidity. But I love my country and all that I should care for riches would be to enable me to make a last effort against that distant congress which tyrannises over but cannot protect us.”

“Good! friend Diaz!” cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the adventurer, and then added with vehemence:

“Strong by the aid of this gold, I will confide my plans to those sixty men now buried in sleep. On our return our numbers will swell like the stream which widens as it flows, and we shall shake off the yoke of a capital – which is capable only of constantly changing its men and its principles.”

Don Estevan had already noticed, in former conversations with Diaz, his great hatred of the federal system, but wishing to be sure whether or not it was founded on personal motives, he continued —

“The congress is far from you, and the government of Mexico has neither troops nor money to protect provinces so distant as yours. Is that the only reproach you have to make of it!”

“The only reproach! No. Independence is for us but an empty name, and we have to bear only the burden of a distant government.”

Don Estevan now unveiled to Diaz the project which he had discussed with the Senator. Then passing from principles to persons, he named the King, Don Carlos, as him whom they were to introduce.

“A king! King Charles! so be it,” replied Diaz, “but we shall have many obstacles to overcome.”

“Less than you imagine, Diaz. Gold will level all obstacles, and to-morrow we shall gather it by handfuls. We will pave the way to the new kingdom with gold, and pay largely the founders and guardians of a throne which will want only its king.”

Thus, as he had promised his master, the bold partisan laid, even in the desert, the foundation of a future dynasty. What the influence of the Senator was to effect in the congress, that of a man renowned by his exploits was to obtain from his equals.

After this conversation Diaz retired to seek repose from his fatigues, and Don Estevan accompanied him out of the tent. The latter threw around him a glance of tranquil pride; all obstacles were surmounted, the incessant vigilance of the Indians had been eluded, thanks to Diaz, and an immense treasure, untouched since the commencement of the world, awaited only the hands which were about to be extended to seize it.

“See!” said he, “from those will rise the elements of a new kingdom, and our names will belong to history. Now I have but one fear – that is, treachery on the part of Cuchillo – and you will share this fear with me when you hear that it is he who sold me the secret of this golden deposit.”

Diaz was looking earnestly at the plain.

“There!” cried he, “I see a man approaching at full gallop: it is Gayferos or Cuchillo?”

“Pray God it be the latter,” said Don Estevan. “I prefer having him near rather than far from my sight.”

“I think I recognise his grey horse.”

In a minute, indeed, they recognised Cuchillo himself.

“To arms! to arms!” cried the guide, “here are the Indians,” and he rushed precipitately through the opening made for him by the sentinels.

“Cuchillo! the Indians! both names of bad augury,” said Don Estevan, as he turned towards his companion.

Chapter Thirty Seven

The Attack

At the cry of Cuchillo, which resounded throughout the camp, the Spaniard and Diaz exchanged looks of intelligence.

“It is strange that the Indians should have found our trail again?” said Don Estevan, interrogatively.

“Very strange,” replied Diaz, and without saying another word, both descended from the eminence, on which they stood.

The camp was already in motion, and confusion reigned everywhere; there was a general movement among these intrepid men, who were accustomed to such surprises, and who had already more than once measured their strength with their implacable enemies. Each armed hastily, but soon the tumult subsided, and all stationed themselves at the posts assigned to them in case of attack. The first who interrogated Cuchillo were the shepherd and Baraja.

“Unless you drew the Indians on to our track, how could they have discovered us?” said the former, with a suspicious look.

“Certainly it was I,” replied Cuchillo, impudently. “I should have liked to have seen you pursued by a hundred, of these demons, and whether you would not, like me, have galloped to the camp to seek an asylum!”

“In such a case,” replied Benito, severely, “a man to save his companions, does not fly, but gives up his life sooner than betray them. I should have done so.”

“Every one in his own way,” replied Cuchillo, “but I have an account to render only to the chief, and not to his servants.”

“Yes,” murmured the other, “a coward and a traitor can but commit baseness and perfidies.”

“Are the Indians numerous?” asked Baraja.

“I had not time to count them; all that I know is that they must be near.”

And crossing the camp he proceeded to where Don Estevan – after having attended to the most important precautions – stood at the door of his tent waiting for him. As Cuchillo went on without replying to any of the questions with which he was assailed, a man advanced with a lighted torch in his hand to set fire to the fagots piled in various places, but Don Estevan cried —

“Not yet; it is, perhaps, a false alarm, and until we have the certainty of attack we must not light up the camp to betray ourselves.”

At the words “false alarm,” a smile played over Cuchillo’s features.

“However,” added Don Estevan, “let every one saddle his horse and be prepared.” Then he returned to his tent, making a sign to Diaz to accompany him.

“That means, friend Baraja,” said Benito, “that if the orders are given to light the fires, we are sure to be attacked – at night too; it is terrible.”

“Who knows that better than I?” said Baraja, “have you ever been present at such a thing?”

“Never; that is why I dread it so much.”

“Well, if you had, you would dread it more.”

Cuchillo, as he drew near the tent, arranged his countenance and threw back his long hair – as though the wind had blown it about in his rapid flight – and then entered the tent like a man out of breath and pretending to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Oroche had glided in with Diaz.

Cuchillo’s story was brief: in reconnoitring the places towards which the expedition should advance, he had gone further than was prudent.

Diaz interrupted him.

“I had taken such precautions to deceive the Indians by false tracks,” said he, “I had so misled them, that you must have quitted the line of march and gone from right to left.”

“Yes,” replied the outlaw, “I lost my way, deceived by the monotony of these endless plains where each hillock resembles the other.”

“What!” cried Diaz, ironically. “Had a dweller in cities been so deceived it might be believed; but you – fear must have thrown a mist before your eyes!”

“Fear!” replied Cuchillo; “I know it no more than you do.”

“Then you must be growing shortsighted, Señor Cuchillo.”

“However it happened, I lost myself; and, but for the column of smoke, I should not have regained my way so quickly. I was, however, forced to make a circuit on perceiving a party of Indians, and only owe the start I have got upon them to the speed of my good horse.”

As he spoke, Don Estevan frowned more than once. Oroche left the tent, but immediately re-entering, said —

“The Indians are there! Look at those black shadows on the plain over which the moon throws a distant light; those are men sent to reconnoitre our encampment.”

Over the sand of the desert they could indeed see men on horseback advancing, and then disappearing in the shadows of the sand heaps.

Pedro Diaz consulted an instant with Don Estevan, and then cried loudly —

“Light the fires everywhere! we must count our enemies.”

A few minutes after, a red light, almost as bright as the sun, lit up the whole camp, and showed the adventurers at their post, rifles in hand; while the horses stood saddled and bridled, only waiting for their riders in case of a sortie being necessary. At the same time Don Estevan’s tent was struck, and a calm succeeded to the tumult.

The desert was silent also; the moon no longer shone on the Indians, who had all disappeared like a bad dream chased away by the return of morning. It was a dead silence – the precursor of the storm – and there seemed in this silence something fearful. It did not announce one of those surprises in which an enemy inferior in number disguises his weakness under the impetuosity of his attack, and ready to run if he is resisted: it was the respite before the combat, granted by pitiless enemies, preparing for a deadly struggle.