Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“God send,” said Pepé, crossing himself, “that in these mountains which abound in inexplicable noises, and where lightning shines under a calm sky, we have only men to fight against! But if the fog contained a legion of devils – if the valley really contains, as you say, several years’ income of the king of Spain, please, Señor Don Fabian, to recall your recollections, and tell us if we are still far off it.”

Fabian threw a glance around him; the landscape was just what had been so minutely described to him.

“We must be close to the spot,” said he, “for it should be at the foot of the tomb of the Indian chief – and these ornaments indicate that the rock is the tomb. We have no time to lose. You and Bois-Rose walk around the rock, while I go and examine those cotton-trees and willows.”

“I am suspicious of everything in this mysterious place,” said Bois-Rose; “that cry indicates the presence of a human being; and whether white or red, he is to be feared. Before we separate, let me examine the sign.”

All three bent on the ground eyes accustomed to read there as in an open book. The prints of a man’s feet were visible on the sand, and one of them had trodden down the plants, whose stems were still gently rising up again one after the other.

“What did I tell you?” cried Bois-Rose. “Here are the tracks of a white man’s feet, and I swear it is not ten minutes since he was here. These footmarks lead towards yonder cotton-trees.”

“In any case he is alone,” suggested Fabian.

All three were advancing towards the trees, when Bois-Rose halted.

“Let me go first,” said he; “this hedge may hide the enemy. But no, the man who has left these footprints has only pulled open the vines and glanced through – he has not gone further in that direction.”

So saying, Bois-Rose, in his turn, pulled aside the branches and the climbing network which was interwoven with them, and after a short examination, which had no particular result, he retired and left the branches to reclose of themselves. He then tried to follow the tracks but further on the ground became stony, and all traces disappeared.

“Let us go round this conical rock,” suggested Bois-Rose.

“Come, Pepé; Fabian will wait here for us.”

The two hunters strode off, and Fabian remained alone and pensive. This Golden Valley, of whose possession he had dreamt at that time when his heart nourished sweet hopes, was now near to him. What had been a dream was now a reality, and still he was more unhappy than at the time when hopeful love caused him to scoff at poverty. It is thus that happiness flies just as we are about to seize it. Sometimes in the silence of the forest, the traveller lends a greedy ear to the notes of the mocking-bird, and advances with precaution towards the place where, hidden under the foliage, the bird of the solitudes utters its sweet song. Vain hope! he advances, and the singer flies, his voice still as distant and himself as invisible as ever! Thus man often hears in the distance voices which sing to him of happiness; seduced by their charm he rushes toward them; but they fly at his approach; and his whole life is passed in pursuing, without ever reaching, the happiness promised by these delusive sounds.

For Fabian, happiness lay no longer in the Golden Valley. It existed nowhere. No voice now sang for him; he had no aim to pursue; no flying but charming image which he hoped to overtake. He was in one of those moods that God in His mercy makes rare in our lives – during which all is dark, as when at sea the light that guides the sailor becomes suddenly obscured.

He advanced mechanically towards the thick row of trees that formed an almost impenetrable hedge before him, but scarcely had he made a passage for himself when he stopped motionless with surprise. The sunlight shone on the stones thick as those on a beach, and discovered innumerable glancing objects. Any other than a gold-seeker might have been deceived by these stones, which looked like vitrifications at the foot of a volcano; but the practised eye of Fabian instantly recognised the virgin gold under its clayey envelope, as it is brought down by the torrents from the gold-producing mountains. Before his eyes lay the richest treasure that was ever displayed to the view of man.

If the breeze could have brought to the ears of the young Count of Mediana the accents of Rosarita’s voice, when she recalled him back to the hacienda, he would gladly have quitted all these treasures to run towards her. But the breeze was mute, and there is in gold so irresistible an attraction that Fabian, in spite of his sadness, was for the moment fascinated.

However, the soul of Fabian was not one to be intoxicated by success; and after a few minutes of this enthusiasm, he called his two companions. They came at his call.

“Have you found him?” said Pepé.

“The treasure, but not the man. See!” added he, pushing aside the trees.

“What! those shining stones!”

“Are pure gold – treasures which God has hidden during centuries.”

“My God!” exclaimed Pepé.

And with ardent eyes fixed upon the mass of riches before him, the ex-carabinier fell upon his knees. Passions long kept under seemed to rush back into his heart; a complete transformation took place in him, and the sinister expression of his face recalled to mind the hour of crime, when twenty years before he had bargained for the price of blood.

“Now,” said Fabian, looking sadly at the gold, as he thought that all these riches were not worth to him a smile or look from her who had disdained him, “I understand how these two rivers, in their annual rise, and by their torrents that descend from the Misty Mountains, covering this narrow valley, bring down gold with them; the position of this valley is perhaps unique in all the world.”

But the Spaniard heard him not. Riches – which the rough lesson he had received, and the life of independence and the savage happiness he had enjoyed, had taught him during the last ten years to disdain – suddenly resumed their terrible influence over his soul.

“You could not have imagined, could you, Pepé?” continued Fabian, “that so much gold could be collected in one place? I, who have been so long a gold-seeker, could not have imagined it, even after all I had heard.”

Pepé did not reply; his eye wandered eagerly over the blocks of gold, and cast a strange glance on Fabian and on Bois-Rose. The hitter, standing in his favourite attitude, his arm resting on his rifle, amidst all these treasures, looked only at what was dearest to him – the young man restored to him by heaven. Pepé had before him, on one side, his old companion in danger – in a hundred different battles they had uttered their war-cry together, like those brothers in arms in ancient chivalric times, who fought always under the same banner – who shared cold, hunger, and thirst together.

On the other side, the young man, partly orphaned by his crime – a crime which had occasioned him remorse through so many years – the love and sole thought of his only friend in the world; and the demon of cupidity at his heart effaced all these souvenirs, and he already began to think —

A shudder passed through his frame as strange thoughts crossed his mind. A struggle took place within him, a struggle of the feelings of youth with the more noble ones developed by the life of nature, where man seems brought near to God; but this struggle was short: the old outlaw disappeared, and there remained only the man purified by repentance and solitude. Still kneeling on the ground, Pepé had closed his eyes, and a furtive tear, unperceived by his companions, stole from his eyes, and rolled down his bronzed cheeks.

“Señor Don Fabian de Mediana!” cried he, starting up, “you are now a rich and powerful lord, for all this gold belongs to you alone.”

So saying, he advanced and bowed respectfully to Fabian, who appeared somewhat surprised by the manner of his salutation.

“God forbid,” cried Fabian, “that you, who have shared the peril, should not share the treasure. What do you say, Bois-Rose? do you not rejoice to become in your old age rich and powerful?”

But Bois-Rose, unmoved before all the riches, contented himself with shaking his head, while a smile of tenderness for Fabian testified to the only interest that he took in that marvellous spectacle!

“I think like Pepé,” said he, after a pause, “what could I do with this gold that the world covets? If it has for us an inestimable value, it is because it is to belong to you; the possession of the least of these stones would take away in our eyes from the value of the service we have rendered you. But the time for action has arrived; for certainly we are not alone in these solitudes.”

Pepé now began to pull aside the branches, but scarcely had he entered the valley when the sound of a gun was distinctly heard. In a moment his voice reassured his anxious comrades.

“It is the devil,” cried he, “forbidding us to encroach on his domains; but at all events it is a devil whose aim is not infallible.”

Before entering the valley Bois-Rose and Fabian raised their eyes to the top of the hill, whence the shot as well as the voice had proceeded. But the remains of the fog at that moment covered the top of the rock, and all three rushed simultaneously towards the isolated mass where they believed their enemy to be hidden. The sides, although steep, were covered with brushwood, which rendered them easier to climb; but it was a dangerous attempt, for the fog prevented them from seeing what enemies were above. Fabian wished to go first, but the vigorous arm of the Canadian held him back, and meanwhile Pepé was half-way towards the summit. Bois-Rose followed, begging Fabian to keep behind him.

Pepé mounted boldly, undismayed by the foes that might be concealed behind that mass of vapour, and soon disappeared under the mist. A cry of triumph soon warned his friends that he had arrived in safety. Both hastened to join him, but found no one on the rock except Pepé himself! Just as, disappointed at their want of success, they were preparing to descend again, a sudden gust of wind drove off the fog, and allowed them to see to a distance. To the right and left the plain presented the most complete picture of the desert in its dreary sadness. They beheld arid steppes over which whirled clouds of sand, a burnt and sterile ground, everywhere silence, everywhere solitude. At some distance off two men on horseback were seen advancing towards the rock, but at the distance at which they were, it was impossible to distinguish either their dress or the colour of their skin.

“Must we sustain a new siege here?” said Bois-Rose. “Are these white men or Indians?”

“White or red, they are enemies,” said Pepé.

While the three friends bent down, so as not to be observed, a man, until then invisible, cautiously entered the lake. He lifted with care the floating leaves of the water lilies, and forming of them a shelter over its head, remained motionless, and the surface of the lake soon after appeared as if undisturbed. This man was Cuchillo, the jackal, who, led by his evil destiny, had ventured to hunt on the ground of the lion.

Chapter Forty Seven

The Punishment of Tantalus

Cuchillo, after reaching the mountains, had halted. He had not forgotten the appearance of the place, and his heart trembled with fear and joy. After a few minutes he looked around him more calmly. It was then dark, and when he arrived at the rock, the damp vapours from the lake enveloped with a thick veil both the valley and the tomb. The sound of the waterfall put an end to his uncertainties; he remembered that it fell into a gulf close by the golden placer.

He had dismounted his horse, and sat down to wait for daylight; but scarcely had he done so when he bounded up as though bitten by a serpent. A fatal chance had led him to sit down on the very spot where he had struck Marcos Arellanos, and quick as lightning, every detail of the mortal struggle passed through his mind. However this feeling of terror was of short duration.

In that part of America, superstition has not established its empire as in the old countries of Europe, where the evening mists give to objects fantastic aspects, and tend naturally to reflections upon the supernatural. From this arises the sombre poesy of the north, which has peopled our land with ghosts and phantoms. In the American solitude people fear the living more than the dead, and Cuchillo had too much to fear from men to waste many thoughts upon the ghost of Arellanos, and he had soon quite banished the thought from his mind.

Although he felt nearly certain that no one had seen him leave the camp, or had followed him, he resolved to climb the rock and look out over the desert. The two pines, whose sombre verdure crowned the summit, appeared marvellously fit to shelter him from the eyes of the Indians should any be near. As he advanced, however, he could not resist taking a glance at the valley; for a sudden fear took possession of his mind: was it still untouched as he had left it?

One glance reassured him. Nothing was changed in the valley; there were still the heaps of the shining metal.

The traveller, devoured with thirst in the sandy desert, does not more gladly catch sight of the oasis at whose waters he desires to drink than did Cuchillo the sight of the gold gleaming through the leaves of the trees.

Any other man would have hastened to seize as much of it as he could carry, and make off with his booty. But with Cuchillo, cupidity was a passion carried to its utmost limits; and before seizing it, the outlaw wished to feast his eyes on the treasure of which he had dreamed for two years, and for which he would not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of all his companions. After some moments of ecstatic contemplation, Cuchillo led his horse forward by the bridle, and having tied him to a tree, in a defile where the animal would be hidden from all eyes, he himself mounted the rock.

Arrived there, he looked around to assure himself that he was alone. He was soon satisfied, for at that moment neither of the other two parties were visible. Assured by the silence that reigned around, he looked towards the cascade. The water, which seemed as it fell to form a curve of running silver, opened at one place, and displayed a block of gold, sparkling in the rays of the sun. The most enormous cocoanut that ever hung on a tree did not surpass this block in size. Continually washed by the spray of the cascade, this gold appeared in all its brilliance, as if ready to escape from the silica which held it, and thus perhaps for centuries this king’s ransom had hung menacingly over the abyss!

At the sight of this block, which looked as though it might be seized by stretching out his hands, a thrill of joy passed through Cuchillo’s heart; and hanging over the precipice with extended arms, he gave utterance to the cry which had been heard by the three hunters below.

Soon, however, a spectacle, that Cuchillo was far from expecting to witness, drew from him another cry, but this time of rage. He had seen a man, possessor like himself of the secret of the valley, treading with profane foot on the treasure that he had believed wholly his. Bois-Rose and Fabian were hidden behind the trees; and thinking that Pepé was alone, Cuchillo had fired at him, without taking time for a proper aim, and thus Pepé had escaped the ball that whistled past him.

It would be impossible to paint his rage and stupefaction, when hidden behind the pine trees, he saw two men join Pepé, especially when in one of them he recognised the terrible hunter whom he had seen engaged with the tigers at Poza, and in the other, Fabian, who had already twice escaped his vengeance. A mortal fear chilled his heart; he almost fell to the ground. Must he again fly from that Golden Valley, from which fate seemed always to drive him?

Lucky for Cuchillo, the fog had hidden him from his enemies, and by the time they had reached the top he had descended on the opposite side – after having just caught a glance of Don Estevan and his companion in the distance. Here was a fresh subject of fear and surprise for Cuchillo who, gliding like a serpent along the rocks, hid himself, as we have seen, amid the leaves of the water lilies, to await the dénouement of this strange adventure. Hidden from all eyes, he held himself in readiness to profit by the approaching conflict between Don Estevan and Fabian, and a shudder of diabolical joy mingled with that caused by the gold; he was like the rapacious bird which awaits the issue of the battle to seize upon its prey. If the three hunters were victorious he had little he thought to fear from Fabian, who was still in his eyes Tiburcio Arellanos. The lower class of Mexicans think little of a blow with the dagger, and he hoped that the one he had given might be pardoned, if he were to throw the blame upon Don Estevan. If this last remained master of the field, he trusted to find some plausible excuse for his desertion. He decided therefore upon letting them begin the struggle, and then, at the decisive moment, should come to the assistance of the strongest.

While Cuchillo was endeavouring to console himself by these reasonings, Bois-Rose was able to distinguish the complexion of the new-comers.

“They are from the Mexican camp,” said he.

“I foresaw,” said Fabian, “that we should have the whole troop on our hands, and be caught like wild horses in a stockade.”

“Hush!” said Bois-Rose, “and trust to me to protect you. Nothing yet shows that there are any others behind, and in any case we could not be better placed than on this rock; from here we might defy a whole tribe of savages. Besides, we do not yet know that they will stop here. Both of you crouch down. I shall watch them.”

So saying, he lay flat down, hiding his head behind the stones which surrounded the top like turrets, but without losing sight of the horsemen. They began now to hear the sound of the horses’ feet on the plain. The old hunter saw them stop and converse, but could not hear what they were saying.

“Why this halt, Diaz?” said Don Estevan, impatiently, “we have lost time enough already.”

“Prudence exacts that we should look about us before proceeding. The knave may be hidden about here, as we have tracked him up to the rock; he may not be alone, and we have everything to fear from him.”

Don Estevan made a gesture of disdain.

“Ah!” said Bois-Rose, in a low voice, “I recognise Don Estevan, or rather Don Antonio de Mediana, who is at last in our power.”

“Don Antonio de Mediana! Is it possible? Are you sure?” cried Fabian.

“It is he, I tell you.”

“Ah! now I see that it was the hand of God which brought me here. Shade of my mother, rejoice!” cried Fabian.

Pepé kept silence, but at the name of Don Antonio, hatred shone also in his glance. He raised his head, and his eye seemed to measure the distance between him and the object of his vengeance, but even the long rifle of Bois-Rose could scarcely reach them at such a range.

“Do not rise up, Pepé!” cautioned the Canadian; “you will be seen.”

“Do you observe any others behind?” inquired Fabian.

“No one; from the point where the river divides to this place I see no living being; if,” added he, after an instant’s pause, “that black mass that I see floating on the river be only the trunk of a tree – but at any rate it is floating away from us.”

“Never mind that,” said Fabian, “describe to me the man who accompanies Don Antonio; perhaps I shall recognise him.”

“He is tall and straight as a cane; and what a beautiful horse he rides!”

“A bay horse? and has he gold lace on his hat, and a fine face?”

“Precisely.”

“It is Pedro Diaz. Now it would be a cowardice not to show ourselves, when heaven sends us Don Antonio almost alone.”

“Patience,” said Pepé; “I am as interested as you are in not letting him escape, but haste may ruin all. When one has waited for twenty years, one may easily wait a few minutes longer. Are you sure they are alone, Bois-Rose?”

“The sand whirls down there, but it is only the wind that is stirring it. They are alone, and now they stop and look about them.”

So saying, Bois-Rose rose slowly, like the eagle who agitates before completely unfolding his wings – those powerful wings the rapid flight of which will soon bring him down to the plain.

“Señor Don Estevan,” said Pedro Diaz, “I think we should return to the camp.”

Don Antonio hesitated a moment. The counsel was good, but it was too late to follow it.

From the top of the rock the three hunters watched their every movement.

“It is time,” said Bois-Rose.

“I must take Don Antonio alive,” said Fabian. “Arrange that, and I care for nothing else.”

Bois-Rose now rose to his fall height, and uttered a cry which struck on the ears of the new-comers. They uttered an exclamation of surprise, which surprise was still further increased at sight of the gigantic Canadian upon the rock.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried a voice, which Fabian recognised as that of Don Antonio.

“I shall tell you,” replied the hunter; “it will recall to you a truth – never contested either in my country or in the desert – that the ground belongs to the first occupants; we were here before you, and are the sole masters of this place. We therefore wish one of you to retire with a good grace, and the other to surrender himself, that we may teach him a second law of the desert, ‘blood for blood.’”

“It is some anchorite whose brain is turned by solitude,” said Pedro Diaz; “I shall terminate the conference with a bullet from my rifle.”

“No!” cried Don Estevan, stopping him, “let us see first how far this folly will go. And which of us is it, friend,” continued he, with an ironical air, “to whom you wish to teach this law?”

“To you,” cried Fabian, rising.

“What! you here!” cried Don Estevan with mingled rage and surprise.

Fabian bowed.

“And here am I, who have been following you for the last fortnight,” said Pepé, “and who thanks God for the opportunity of paying off a debt of twenty years’ standing.”

“Who are you?” asked Don Estevan, trying to remember who it was, for years and difference of costume had altered the aspect of the old coast-guardsman.

“Pepé the Sleeper, who has not forgotten his residence at Ceuta.”

At this name, which explained Fabian’s words at the bridge of Salto de Agua, Don Estevan lost his air of contempt. A sudden presentiment seemed to warn him that his fortunes were waning, and he cast around him an anxious glance. The high rocks, which on one side shut in the valley, might protect him from the fire of his enemies; a short space only separated him from their foot, and prudence counselled him to fly there, but his pride forbade him.

“Well then!” cried he proudly after a pause, “revenge yourself on an enemy who disdains to fly.”

“Have we not said that we wish to take you alive?” replied Pepé, coldly.

Chapter Forty Eight

The King-Maker a Captive

In the whole course of his adventurous life, Don Estevan had never been in such danger. The plain offered him no protection against the rifles of his enemies – two at least of whom had an infallible eye and steady aim – and who had also the advantage of an impregnable position, and turrets of rock behind which to intrench themselves. Don Estevan did not conceal from himself the extent of his danger; but neither did his courage give way.

“Let us have done with this trifling,” cried the sonorous voice of Bois-Rose, whose generosity made him averse to profit by his advantages, and who scrupled always to shed blood if he could avoid it. “You have heard that we wish no harm to any but your chief, and you must make up your mind to let us take him. Retire then willingly, if you do not wish us to treat you as we intend to treat him.”

“Never!” cried Diaz, “shall I commit such a cowardice? You are the first comers; so be it; we will yield the ground to you, but Don Estevan must be allowed to go with me.”

“We refuse,” cried Pepé; “we particularly want the man you call Don Estevan.”

“Do not oppose the justice of God,” added Fabian; “your cause is only that of man. We give you five minutes to reflect, after which our rifles and our good cause shall decide between us.”

“You have but two minutes to decide,” said Bois-Rose; “listen to me and avoid needless bloodshed.”

Mediana kept silence and preserved his haughty air. Unshakable in his notions of chivalric honour, Pedro Diaz resolved to die with the chief, whose life he believed to be so precious to his country. He consulted Don Estevan by a look.