Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“Return to the camp,” said the latter; “abandon to his fate a man henceforth useless to your cause, and come back to avenge my death.”

Diaz was not to be moved, but gradually drew his horse close to Don Estevan, and when their knees touched, with his face still turned toward his enemies, he murmured, with scarcely a movement of his lips:

“Keep steady in your stirrups, have your horse ready, and let me act.”

Don Estevan made signs with his hand as though to demand a truce; but he had taken a desperate determination.

“Bend down, Fabian; he is going to fire,” cried Bois-Rose.

“Before my mother’s murderer? Never!” cried Fabian. Quick as thought, the hand of the Canadian giant on his shoulder, forced him down. Don Estevan vainly sought for an aim for his double-barrelled piece. He could see nothing but the formidable rifle of Bois-Rose directed towards him, although in obedience to Fabian’s wishes, Bois-Rose would not finish the combat by striking his foe to the ground.

With as much courage as agility, Diaz now jumped up behind Don Estevan on his horse, and throwing his arms around him to steady him after the shock, seized the bridle, turned the animal round, and galloped off, covering with his body, as with a buckler, the chief whose life he was willing to save at the expense of his own. While Fabian and Pepé rushed down the rock, at the risk of breaking their necks, Bois-Rose followed the movements of the horse glancing along the barrel of his rifle.

The two men appeared to make but one body: the back of the horse and the shoulders of Diaz were the only objects at which Bois-Rose could aim; only now and then the head of the animal was visible. To sacrifice Diaz would be a useless murder; and Don Estevan would still escape. A moment more and the fugitives would be out of range; but the Canadian was of that class of marksmen who lodge a ball in the eye of a beaver, that he may not injure its skin; and it was the horse he wished to aim at. For a single moment the head of the noble animal showed itself entirely – but that moment was sufficient; a shot was heard, and the two men and the death-stricken horse rolled over together on the ground.

Bruised by the violence of their fall, both men rose with difficulty; while, their poignards in their teeth, and their rifles in their hands, Fabian and Pepé advanced upon them. Bois-Rose followed with great gigantic strides, loading his rifle as he went. When he had finished, he again stopped.

Pedro Diaz, devoted to the last, rushed towards the gun which had fallen from Don Estevan’s hands, picked it up, and returned it to him.

“Let us defend ourselves to the last!” cried he, drawing his long knife.

Don Estevan steadied himself and raised his piece, undecided for a moment whether to aim at Fabian or at Pepé; but Bois-Rose was watching, and a bullet from his rifle broke the weapon of the chief in his hands, just where the barrel joins the stock, and Don Estevan himself, losing his balance, fell forward on the sand.

“At last, after twenty years!” cried Pepé, rushing towards him, and placing his knee upon his breast.

Don Estevan vainly tried to resist; his arm, benumbed by the violence of the blow which had broken his gun, refused its service. In an instant Pepé had untied the woollen scarf which was wound several times round his body, and bound with it the limbs of his enemy. Diaz could offer no assistance, for he had himself to defend against the attacks of Fabian.

Fabian scarcely knew the Indian fighter; he had seen him only for a few hours at the Hacienda del Venado; but the generosity of his conduct had awakened in the heart of the young man a warm sympathy, and he wished to spare his life.

“Surrender, Diaz!” cried he, parrying a dagger blow slimed at him; but Diaz resolved not to yield, and for the few minutes during which Pepé was engaged in binding Don Estevan, there was a contest of skill and ability between him and Fabian. Too generous to use his rifle against a man who had but a dagger to defend himself with, Fabian tried only to disarm his adversary; but Diaz, blinded by rage, did not perceive the generous efforts of the young man, who, holding his rifle by the barrel, and using it as a club, tried to strike the arm which menaced him. But Fabian had to deal with an antagonist not less active and vigorous than himself. Bounding from right to left, Diaz avoided his blows, and just as Fabian believed he was about to succeed, he found himself striking in the air, and the knife menacing him afresh. Bois-Rose without waiting to reload, ran up to put an end to the struggle – in which Fabian’s generosity placed him at a disadvantage – and Pepé, having fast bound his enemy, advanced also.

Thus menaced by three men, Diaz determined not to die without vengeance. He drew his arm back, and made a rapid thrust at Fabian; but the latter had been carefully watching the movement, and his rifle met the murdering weapon on its way. The dagger fell to the ground; and Pepé, seizing Diaz round the body just as Fabian struck him, cried, “Fool! must we kill you, then? If not, what shall we do with you?”

“What you have done to that noble gentleman,” replied Diaz, pointing to Don Estevan.

“Do not ask to share his fate,” said Pepé; “that man’s days are numbered.”

“Whatever his fate is to be, I wish to share it,” cried Diaz, vainly trying to free himself. “I accept from you neither quarter nor mercy.”

“Do not play with our anger!” said Pepé, whose passions were roused; “I am not in the habit of offering mercy twice.”

“I know how to make him accept it,” said Fabian, picking up the fallen knife. “Let him go, Pepé; with a man like Diaz, one can always come to terms.”

Fabian’s tone was so firm, that Pepé opened his arms and loosened the iron grasp in which the Mexican was bound.

“Here, Diaz,” said Fabian, “take your weapon, and listen to me.”

So saying, Fabian advanced and offered him his knife without any attempt at guarding himself. Diaz took the weapon, but his adversary had not presumed too far; at the heroic simplicity of Fabian his anger vanished on the instant.

“I listen,” said he, flinging his knife to the ground.

“I knew it would be so,” replied Fabian, with a smile. “You interposed unknowingly between crime and the just vengeance which pursued it. Do you know who is the man for whom you wish to expose your life? and who are those who have spared it? Do you know whether or not we have the right to demand from him, whom you doubtless know only as Don Estevan, a terrible account of the past? Reply honestly to the questions that I shall put to you, and then decide on which side justice lies.”

Astonished at these words, Diaz listened in silence, and Fabian went on:

“If you had been born in a privileged class, heir to a great fortune; if a man had taken from you your fortune and your name, and reduced you to the rank of those who have to work for their daily bread, should you be the friend of that man?”

“No, I should be his enemy.”

“If that man, to destroy the last souvenir of your birth, had murdered your mother, what would he deserve from you?”

“Blow for blow – blood for blood.”

“If, after a long and difficult pursuit, fate had at last delivered the spoiler into your hands, what would you do?”

“I should think myself guilty towards God and man if I spared him.”

“Well, then, Diaz,” cried Fabian, “there is a man who has taken from me my name, my fortune, and murdered my mother; I have pursued this murderer and spoiler – fate has delivered him into my hands, and there he lies!”

A cloud passed over the eyes of Diaz at the sight of the chief whose doom was thus pronounced, for the sentiment of inexorable justice that God has implanted in the heart of man told him that Don Estevan merited his fate, if Fabian spoke truly. He sighed, but offered no reply.

While these events were taking place in the midst of the plain, the actors of the scene might have observed Cuchillo raise with precaution the leaves which covered his head, cast an eager glance on the Golden Valley, and then glide out of the lake. Covered with mud, and his garments streaming with water, they might have mistaken him for one of the evil spirits whom the Indians believed to dwell in these solitudes. But their attention was completely absorbed by what was taking place among themselves.

Chapter Forty Nine

The Two Medianas Face to Face

Pedro Diaz speedily roused himself from the deep depression and astonishment which had for a moment overpowered him.

“According to the rules of war, I am your prisoner,” said he, raising his head, “and I am anxious to know your decision concerning me.”

“You are free, Diaz,” replied Fabian, “free without conditions.”

“Not so! not so!” said the Canadian, quickly interrupting him. “We must, on the contrary, impose a rigorous condition upon your liberty.”

“What is it?” asked the adventurer.

“You have now, in common with us,” replied Bois-Rose, “become possessed of a secret which we have long since known. I have my reasons for wishing that the knowledge of this secret should expire with those whose evil destiny makes them acquainted with it. You only,” added the Canadian, “will be an exception to the rule, because a brave man like yourself should be a slave to his word. I demand, then, before restoring you your liberty, a promise upon your honour, never to reveal to human being, the existence of the Golden Valley.”

“I never indulged any hope in acquiring this treasure,” replied the noble adventurer, in a melancholy tone, “beyond that of the freedom and aggrandisement of my country. The sad fate which threatens the man, to whom I looked for the realisation of my hopes, proves to me that in both cases I have entertained a delusive dream. Even should all the riches of the Golden Valley remain forever buried in these deserts, what would it avail me now? I swear then, and you may rely upon my honour, that I shall never reveal its existence to a living soul. I shall try to forget that I have ever, for an instant, beheld it.”

“It is well,” said Bois-Rose, “you are now free to go.”

“Not yet, with your permission,” replied the prisoner. “In all that has taken place, there is a mystery which I do not seek to penetrate – but – ”

“Carramba! it is very simple,” answered Pepé. “This young man,” said he, pointing to Fabian —

“Not yet, Pepé,” replied the latter solemnly, making a sign to the hunter to postpone his explanations. “In the court of justice which is about to be convened – in the presence of the Supreme Judge (Fabian pointed to heaven), by the accusation as well as the defence, all will become clear to Diaz, if he will remain a short while with us. In the desert, time is precious; and we must prepare ourselves, by meditation and silence, for the terrible deed which we are now compelled to accomplish.”

“I am most anxious to obtain permission to stay. I do not know if this man be innocent or guilty; but, I do know that he is the chief whom I have freely chosen; and I will remain with him to the last, ready to defend him against you at the cost of my own life, if he is innocent – ready to bow before the sentence which condemns him, if he is guilty.”

“Be it so,” rejoined Fabian. “You shall hear and judge for yourself.”

“This man is of noble birth,” continued Diaz, sadly, “and he lies yonder in the dust, bound like the meanest criminal.”

“Unloose him, Diaz!” replied Fabian, “but do not endeavour to shield him from the vengeance which a son must claim for his mother’s murderer. Require from him a promise that he will not attempt to escape; we shall rely upon you in this matter.”

“I pledge my honour that he will not do so,” said the adventurer, “nor would I assist him in the attempt.” And Diaz, as he said this, proceeded towards Don Estevan.

In the mean time Fabian, oppressed by sad and anxious thoughts, seated himself at some distance, and appeared to deplore his unfortunate victory.

Pepé turned away his head, and for a while stood as if attentively observing the mists as they floated above the crests of the mountains.

Bois-Rose reclined in his usual attitude of repose, while his eyes, expressive of deep anxiety, were centred upon the young man, and his noble physiognomy seemed to reflect the clouds which gathered upon the brow of his beloved protégé.

Meanwhile Diaz had rejoined the prostrate captive.

Who can guess how many conflicting thoughts crowded upon the mind of the Spanish nobleman, as he lay upon the ground? His expression retained as much pride as when in his more prosperous days he had imagined the possibility of conquering, and bestowing, a throne upon the deposed heir of the Spanish monarchy. At the sight of Diaz, who, he believed had abandoned his cause, an expression of deep melancholy came over his countenance.

“Do you come as an enemy, or a friend, Diaz?” said he. “Are you one of those who take a secret pleasure in contemplating the humiliation of the man whom, in the days of his prosperity, you, like others, would have flattered?”

“I am one of those who flatter only the fallen,” replied Diaz, “and who are not offended by the bitterness of speech which is dictated by great misfortune.”

As he uttered these words, which were confirmed by the dejection of his manner, Diaz hastened to remove the cords with which the captive’s arms were bound.

“I have given my word that you will not endeavour to escape the fate, whatever it may be, which awaits you at the hands of these men, into whose power we have fallen by an unlucky chance. I believe you have not even thought of flight.”

“And you are right, Diaz,” replied Don Estevan; “but can you guess what fate these fellows have reserved for me?”

“They talk of a murder to be avenged, of an accusation, and a judgment.”

“A judgment!” replied Don Antonio with a haughty and bitter smile, “they may assassinate, but they shall never judge me.”

“In the former case, I shall die with you,” said Diaz, simply, “in the latter – but of what use is it to speak of that which cannot be? you are innocent of the crime of which they accuse you?”

“I have a presentiment of the fate which awaits me,” replied Don Estevan without answering the adventurer’s interrogation. “A faithful subject will be lost to his king – Don Carlos the First. But you will carry on my work? you will restore the prosperity of Sonora. You will return to the Senator Tragaduros – he knows what he has to do, and you will support him?”

“Ah!” cried Diaz, sadly, “such a work cannot be attempted but by you. In your hands I might have proved a powerful instrument; without you I shall sink into insignificant obscurity. The hope of my country expires with you.”

During this interval, Fabian and Bois-Rose had quitted the spot where the preceding scenes had so rapidly taken place. They had reached the base of the pyramid. It was there that the solemn assizes were to be held, in which Fabian and the Duke de Armada were about to act the parts of judge and criminal.

Pepé made a sign to Diaz; Don Estevan saw and understood it.

“It is not enough to have remained a prisoner,” said Diaz, “you must meet your fate; the conquered must obey the conqueror – come!”

As Diaz ceased speaking, the Spanish nobleman, armed with the pride which never deserted him, approached the pyramid with a firm step. Pepé had rejoined his two companions.

Don Estevan’s looks, as he advanced, displayed a dauntless composure equally removed from bravado or weakness – which won a glance of admiration from his three enemies – all of them excellent judges of courage.

Fabian rose and stepped forward to meet his noble prisoner. A few paces behind, Diaz also advanced – his head bowed low, and his mind oppressed by gloomy thoughts. Everything in the manner of the conquerors convinced him that, on this occasion, right would be on the side of power.

“My Lord of Mediana,” said Fabian, as, with head uncovered, he paused a few steps in advance of the noble Spaniard who had approached him, “you perceive that I recognise you, and you also know who I am.”

The Duke de Armada remained upright and motionless without responding to his nephew’s courtesy.

“I am entitled to keep my head covered in the presence of the King of Spain; I shall use that privilege with you,” he replied; “also I claim the right of remaining silent when I think proper, and shall now exercise that right if it please you.”

Notwithstanding this haughty reply, the younger son of the Medianas could not but remember how he, a trembling and weeping child, had, twenty years before, in the castle of Elanchovi quailed beneath the glance of the man whom he now presumed to judge.

The timid eaglet had now become the eagle, which, in its turn, held the prey in its powerful talons.

The glances of the two Medianas crossed like two swords, and Diaz contemplated, with mingled astonishment and respect, the adopted son of the gambusino Arellanos, suddenly transformed and raised above the humble sphere in which he had for an instant known him.

The adventurer awaited the solution of this enigma. Fabian armed himself with a pride which equalled that of the Duke de Armada.

“As you will,” said he, “yet it might be prudent to remember, that here the right claimed by power is not an empty boast.”

“It is true,” replied Don Antonio, who, notwithstanding his apparent resignation, trembled with rage and despair at the total failure of his hopes. “I ought not to forget that you are doubtless inclined to profit by this right. I shall answer your question then when I tell you that I am aware of but one fact concerning you, which is that some demon has inspired you continually to cast some impediment in the way of the object I pursue – I know – ”

Here rage stifled his utterance.

The impetuous young man listened with a changing countenance to the words uttered by the assassin of his mother, and whom he even now suspected was the murderer of his adopted father.

Truly it is the heroism of moderation, at which those who do not know the slight value attached to human life in the deserts, cannot be sufficiently astonished – for here law cannot touch the offender – but the short space of time which had elapsed since Fabian joined Bois-Rose was sufficient, under the gentle influence of the old hunter, to calm his feelings immeasurably.

He was no longer the young man whose fiery passions were the instruments of a vengeance to which he yielded blindly. He had learnt that power should go hand in hand with justice, and may often be combined with mercy.

This was the secret of a moderation, hitherto so opposed to his temperament. It was not, however, difficult to trace, in the changing expression of his countenance, the efforts he had been compelled to make to impose a restraint upon his anger.

On his side, the Spanish noble concealed his passion under the mask of silence.

“So then,” resumed Fabian, “you know nothing more of me? You are not acquainted either with my name or rank? I am nothing more to you than what I seem?”

“An assassin, perhaps!” replied Mediana, turning his back to Fabian to show that he did not wish to reply to his question.

During the dialogue which had taken place between these two men of the same blood, and of equally unconquerable nature, the wood-rangers had remained at some distance.

“Approach,” said Fabian to the ex-carabinier, “and say,” added he, with forced calmness, “what you know of me to this man whose lips have dared to apply to me a name which he only deserves.”

If any doubt could still have remained upon Don Estevan’s mind with regard to the intentions of those into whose hands he had fallen, that doubt must have disappeared when he beheld the gloomy air with which Pepé came forward in obedience to Fabian’s command.

The visible exertion he made to repress the rancorous feelings which the sight of the Spanish noble aroused in him, filled the latter with a sad presentiment.

A shudder passed through the frame of Don Estevan, but he did not lower his eyes, and by the aid of his invincible pride, he waited with apparent calmness until Pepé began to speak.

“Carramba!” exclaimed the latter in a tone which he tried in vain to render agreeable. “It was certainly worth while to send me to catch sea-fish upon the borders of the Mediterranean, so that, at the end of my journey, I might, three thousand leagues from Spain, fall in with the nephew whose mother you murdered. I don’t know whether Don Fabian de Mediana is inclined to pardon you, but for my part,” added he, striking the ground with the butt end of his rifle, “I have sworn that I will not do so.”

Fabian directed a haughty glance towards Pepé, as though to command his submission; then addressing himself to the Spaniard:

“My Lord of Mediana, you are not now in the presence of assassins, but of judges, and Pepé will not forget it.”

“Before judges!” cried Don Antonio; “my peers only possess the right of judgment, and I do not recognise as such a malefactor escaped from jail and a beggarly usurper who has assumed a title to which he has no right. I do not acknowledge here any other Mediana than myself, and have therefore no reply to make.”

“Nevertheless I must constitute myself your judge,” said Fabian, “yet believe me I shall be an impartial one, since I take as a witness that God whose sun shines upon us, when I swear that I no longer entertain any feelings of animosity or hatred against you.”

There was so much truth in the manner with which Fabian pronounced these words, that, for an instant, Don Estevan’s countenance lost its expression of gloomy defiance, and was even lit up by a ray of hope, for the Duke de Armada recollected that he stood face to face with the heir for whom, in his pride, he had once mourned. It was therefore in a less severe tone that he asked —

“Of what crime am I then accused?”

“You are about to hear,” replied Fabian.

Chapter Fifty

Lynch Law

On the frontiers of the America there exists a terrible law, yet it is not this clause alone which renders it so – “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for blood.” The application of this law is evident in all the ways of Providence, to those who observe the course of events here below. “He who kills by the sword shall perish by the sword,” says the gospel.

But the law of the desert is terrible by reason of the majesty with which it is invested, or claims to be invested.

This law is terrible in common with all laws of blood, and the more so, since those who have recourse to it usurp a power which does not belong to them, inasmuch as the injured party constitutes himself judge of his own cause, and executes the sentence which he himself has pronounced.

Such is the so-called “Lynch law.”

In the central parts of America, white men as well as Indians execute this law with cruel severity against each other. Civilised communities adopt it in a mitigated form as applied to capital punishment, but the untutored inhabitants of the desert continue to practise it with the same rigour which belonged to the first ages of mankind.

And may we not here make the remark, that the similitude of feeling on this point, between the white man and the savages, casts a stain upon the former which for his own honour he should endeavour to wipe out?

Society has provided laws for the protection of all men. The man who amongst us should assume the right of judgment, and take the law into his own hands, would thus violate it, and fall under the jurisdiction of those whom society has appointed to try, and to condemn.

We are not without a hope that at some future time, as civilisation advances, men will allow that they who deprive a culprit of that life which none can recall, commit an act of sacrilege in defiance of those divine laws which govern the universe and take precedence of all human decrees.

A time will come, we would fain believe, when our laws may spare the life of a guilty man, and suffer him to atone for his errors or his crimes by repentance. Such a law would respect the life which can never be restored; and while another exists which casts an irretrievable stain upon our honour, there would be a law of restoration capable of raising the man sanctified by repentance to the dignity which punishment would have prevented his attaining.

“There is more joy in heaven,” says the gospel, “over a sinner who repents, than a righteous man made perfect.” Why then are not human laws a counterpart of these divine decrees?