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The Tiger-Slayer: A Tale of the Indian Desert

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Title: The Tiger-Slayer: A Tale of the Indian Desert

Author: Gustave Aimard

Translator: Sir Lascelles Wraxall


        
Release date: April 14, 2013 [eBook #42535]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42535

Credits: Produced by Camille Bernard & Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive, scans by Google)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIGER-SLAYER: A TALE OF THE INDIAN DESERT ***
THE TIGER-SLAYER.

A TALE OF THE INDIAN DESERT.

BY

GUSTAVE AIMARD,

AUTHOR OF "THE PRAIRIE FLOWER," ETC.

LONDON

WARD AND LOCK

MDCCCLX.




     CONTENTS

     PREFACE.

           I. LA FERIA DE PLATA
          II. DON SYLVA DE TORRÉS
         III. THE TWO HUNTERS
          IV. COUNT MAXIM GAËTAN DE LHORAILLES
           V. THE DAUPH'YEERS
          VI. BY THE WINDOW
         VII. A DUEL
        VIII. THE DEPARTURE
          IX. A MEETING IN THE DESERT
           X. BEFORE THE ATTACK
          XI. THE MEXICAN MOON
         XII. A WOMAN'S STRATAGEM
        XIII. A NIGHT JOURNEY
         XIV. AN INDIAN TRICK
          XV. SET A CHIEF TO CATCH A CHIEF
         XVI. THE CASA GRANDE OF MOCTECUHZOMA
        XVII. CUCHARÉS
       XVIII. IN WHICH THE STORY GOES BACK
         XIX. IN THE PRAIRIE
          XX. BOOT AND SADDLE
         XXI. THE CONFESSION
        XXII. THE MAN HUNT
       XXIII. THE APACHES
        XXIV. THE WOOD RANGERS
         XXV. EL AHUEHUELT




PREFACE.


It is hardly necessary to say anything on behalf of the new aspirant for
public favour whom I am now introducing to the reader. He has achieved a
continental reputation, and the French regard him proudly as their
Fenimore Cooper. It will be found, I trust, on perusal, that the
position he has so rapidly assumed in the literature of his country is
justified by the reality of his descriptions, and the truthfulness which
appears in every page. Gustave Aimard has the rare advantage of having
lived for many years as an Indian among the Indians. He is acquainted
with their language, and has gone through all the extraordinary phases
of a nomadic life in the prairie. Had he chosen to write his life, it
would have been one of the most marvellous romances of the age: but he
has preferred to weave into his stories the extraordinary events of
which he has been witness during his chequered life. Believing that his
works only require to be known in order to secure him as favourable a
reception in this country as he has elsewhere, it has afforded me much
satisfaction to have it in my power to place them in this garb. Some
slight modifications have been effected here and there; but in other
respects I have presented a faithful rendering.


                                                     LASCELLES WRAXALL.





CHAPTER I.

LA FERIA DE PLATA.


From the earliest days of the discovery of America, its distant shores
became the refuge and rendezvous of adventurers of every description,
whose daring genius, stifled by the trammels of the old European
civilisation, sought fresh scope for action.

Some asked from the New World liberty of conscience--the right of
praying to God in their own fashion; others, breaking their sword blades
to convert them into daggers, assassinated entire nations to rob their
gold, and enrich themselves with their spoils; others, lastly, men of
indomitable temperament, with lions' hearts contained in bodies of iron,
recognising no bridle, accepting no laws, and confounding liberty with
license, formed, almost unconsciously, that formidable association of
the "Brethren of the Coast," which for a season made Spain tremble for
her possessions, and with which Louis XIV., the Sun King, did not
disdain to treat.

The descendants of these extraordinary men still exist in America; and
whenever any revolutionary crisis heaves up, after a short struggle, the
dregs of the population, they instinctively range themselves round the
grandsons of the great adventurers, in the hope of achieving mighty
things in their turn under the leadership of heroes.

At the period when we were in America chance allowed us to witness one
of the boldest enterprises ever conceived and carried out by these
daring adventurers. This _coup de main_ created such excitement that for
some months it occupied the press, and aroused the curiosity and
sympathy of the whole world.

Reasons, which our readers will doubtless appreciate, have induced us to
alter the names of the persons who played the principal parts in this
strange drama, though we adhere to the utmost exactness as regards the
facts.

About ten years back the discovery of the rich Californian plains
awakened suddenly the adventurous instincts of thousands of young and
intelligent men, who, leaving country and family, rushed, full of
enthusiasm, towards the new Eldorado, where the majority only met with
misery and death, after sufferings and vexations innumerable.

The road from Europe to California is a long one. Many persons stopped
half way; some at Valparaiso; others, again, at Mazatlan or San Blas,
though the majority reached San Francisco.

It is not within the scope of our story to give the details, too well
known at present, of all the deceptions by which the luckless emigrants
were assailed with the first step they took on this land, where they
imagined they needed only to stoop and pick up handfuls of gold.

We must ask our readers to accompany us to Guaymas six months after the
discovery of the placers.

In a previous work we have spoken of Sonora; but as the history we
purpose to narrate passes entirely in that distant province of Mexico,
we must give a more detailed account of it here.

Mexico is indubitably the fairest country in the world, and every
variety, of climate is found there. But while its territory is immense,
the population unfortunately, instead of being in a fair ratio with it,
only amounts to seven million, of whom nearly five million belong to the
Indian or mixed races.

The Mexican Confederation comprises the federal district of Mexico,
twenty-one states, and three territories or provinces, possessing no
internal independent administration.

We will say nothing of the government, from the simple reason that up to
the present the normal condition of that magnificent and unhappy country
has ever been anarchy.

Still, Mexico appears to be a federative republic, at least nominally,
although the only recognised power is the sabre.

The first of the seven states, situated on the Atlantic, is Sonora. It
extends from north to south, between the Rio Gila and the Rio Mayo. It
is separated on the east from the State of Chihuahua by the Sierra
Verde, and on the west is bathed by the Vermilion Sea, or Sea of Cortez,
as most Spanish maps still insist on calling it.

The State of Sonora is one of the richest in Mexico, owing to the
numerous gold mines by which its soil is veined. Unfortunately, or
fortunately, according to the point of view from which we like to regard
it, Sonora is incessantly traversed by innumerable Indian tribes,
against which the inhabitants wage a constant war. Thus the continual
engagements with these savage hordes, the contempt of life, and the
habit of shedding human blood on the slightest pretext, have given the
Sonorians a haughty and decided bearing, and imprinted on them a stamp
of nobility and grandeur, which separates them entirely from the other
states, and causes them to be recognised at the first glance.

In spite of its great extent of territory and lengthened seaboard,
Mexico possesses in reality only two ports on the Pacific--Guaymas and
Acapulco. The rest are only roadsteads, in which vessels are afraid to
seek shelter, especially when the impetuous _cordonazo_ blows from the
south-west and upheaves the Gulf of California.

We shall only speak here of Guaymas. This town, founded but a few years
back on the mouth of the San José, seems destined to become, ere long,
one of the chief Pacific ports. Its military position is admirable. Like
all the Spanish American towns, the houses are low, whitewashed, and
flat-roofed. The fort, situated on the summit of a rock, in which some
cannon rust on carriages peeling away beneath the sun, is of a yellow
hue, harmonising with the ochre tinge of the beach. Behind the town rise
lofty, scarped mountains, their sides furrowed with ravines hollowed out
by the rainy season, and their brown peaks lost in the clouds.

Unhappily, we are compelled to avow that this port, despite of its
ambitious title of town, is still a miserable village, without church or
hotel. We do not say there are no drinking-shops; on the contrary, as
may be imagined in a port so near San Francisco, they swarm.

The aspect of Guaymas is sorrowful; you feel that, in spite of the
efforts of Europeans and adventurers to galvanise this population, the
Spanish tyranny which has weighed upon it for three centuries has
plunged it into a state of moral degradation and inferiority, from which
it will require years to raise it.

The day on which our story commences, at about two in the afternoon, in
spite of the red-hot sun which poured its beams on the town, Guaymas,
generally so quiet at that hour, when the inhabitants, overcome by the
heat, are asleep indoors, presented an animated appearance, which would
have surprised the stranger whom accident had taken there at that
moment, and would have caused him to suppose, most assuredly, that he
was about to witness one of those thousand _pronunciamientos_ which
annually break out in this wretched province. Still, it was nothing of
the sort. The military authority, represented by General San Benito,
Governor of Guaymas, was, or seemed to be, satisfied with the
government. The smugglers, leperos, and hiaquis continued in a tolerably
satisfactory state, without complaining too much of the powers that
were. Whence, then, the extraordinary agitation that prevailed in the
town? What reason was strong enough to keep this indolent population
awake, and make it forget its siesta?

For three days the town had been a prey to the gold fever. The governor,
yielding to the supplications of several considerable merchants, had
authorised for five days a _feria de plata_, or, literally, a silver
fair.

Gambling tables, held by persons of distinction, were publicly open in
the principal houses; but the fact which gave this festival a
strangeness impossible to find elsewhere was, that monte tables were
displayed in every street in the open air, on which gold tinkled, and
where everybody possessed of a real had the right to risk it, without
distinction of caste or colour.

In Mexico everything is done differently from other countries. The
inhabitants of this country, having no reminiscences of the past which
they wish to forget, no faith in the future in which they do not
believe, only live for the present, and exist with that feverish energy
peculiar to races which feel their end approaching.

The Mexicans have two marked tastes which govern them entirely, play and
love. We say tastes, and not passions, for the Mexicans are not capable
of those great emotions which conquer the will, and overthrow the human
economy by developing an energetic power of action.

The groups round the monte tables were numerous and animated. Still,
everything went on with an order and tranquility which nothing troubled,
although no agent of the government was walking about the streets to
maintain a good intelligence and watch the gamblers.

About halfway up the Calle de la Merced, one of the widest in Guaymas,
and opposite a house of goodly appearance, there stood a table covered
with a green baize and piled up with gold ounces, behind which a man of
about thirty, with a crafty face, was stationed, who, with a pack of
cards in his hand, and a smile on his lips, invited by the most
insinuating remarks the numerous spectators who surrounded him to tempt
fortune.

"Come, caballeros," he said in a honeyed tone, while turning a
provocative glance upon the wretched men, haughtily draped in their
rags, who regarded him with extreme indifference, "I cannot always win;
luck is going to turn, I am sure. Here are one hundred ounces: who will
cover them?"

No one answered.

The banker, not allowing himself to be defeated, let a tinkling cascade
of ounces glide through his fingers, whose tawny reflection was capable
of turning the most resolute head.

"It is a nice sum, caballeros, one hundred ounces: with them the ugliest
man is certain of gaining the smiles of beauty. Come, who will cover
them?"

"Bah," a lepero said, with a disdainful air, "what are one hundred
ounces? Had you not won my last _tlaco_, Tío Lucas, I would cover them,
that I would."

"I am in despair, Señor Cucharés," the banker replied with a bow, "that
luck was so much against you, and I should feel delighted if you would
allow me to lend you an ounce."

"You are jesting," the lepero said, drawing himself up haughtily. "Keep
your gold, Tío Lucas; I know the way to procure as much as I want,
whenever I think proper; but," he added, bowing with the most exquisite
politeness, "I am not the less grateful to you for your generous offer."

And he offered the banker, across the table, his hand, which the latter
pressed with great cordiality.

The lepero profited by the occasion to pick up with his free hand a pile
of twenty ounces that was in his reach.

Tío Lucas had great difficulty in restraining himself, but he feigned
not to have seen anything.

After this interchange of good offices there was a moment's silence. The
spectators had seen everything that occurred, and therefore awaited with
some curiosity the _dénouement_ of this scene. Señor Cucharés was the
first to renew the conversation.

"Oh!" he suddenly shouted, striking his forehead, "I believe, by Nuestra
Señora de la Merced, that I am losing my head."

"Why so, caballero?" Tío Lucas asked, visibly disturbed by this
exclamation.

"Caray! It's very simple," the other went on. "Did I not tell you just
now that you had won all my money?"

"You certainly said so, and these caballeros heard it with me: to your
last ochavo--those were your very words."

"I remember it perfectly, and it is that which makes me so mad."

"What!" the banker exclaimed with feigned astonishment, "You are mad
because I won from you?"

"Oh, no, it's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"Caramba! It is because I made a mistake, and I have some ounces still
left."

"Impossible!"

"Just see, then."

The lepero put his hand in his pocket, and, with unparalleled
effrontery, displayed to the banker the gold he had just stolen from
him. But the latter did not wince.

"It is incredible," said he.

"Eh?" the lepero interjected, fixing a flashing eye on the other.

"Yes, it is incredible that you, Señor Cucharés, should have made such a
slip of memory."

"Well, as I have remembered it, all can be set right now; we can
continue our game."

"Very good: one hundred ounces is the stake."

"Oh no! I haven't that amount."

"Nonsense! Feel in your pockets again."

"It is useless; I know I haven't got it."

"That is really most annoying."

"How so?"

"Because I have vowed not to play for less."

"Then you won't cover twenty ounces?"

"I cannot; I would not cover one short of a hundred."

"H'm!" the lepero went on, knitting his brows, "is that meant for an
insult, Tío Lucas?"

The banker had no time to reply; for a man of about thirty, mounted on a
magnificent black horse, had stopped for a few seconds before the table,
and, while carelessly smoking his cigar, listened to the discussion
between the banker and the lepero.

"Done for one hundred ounces," he said, as he cleared a way by means of
his horse's chest up to the table, on which he dropped a purse full of
gold.

The two speakers suddenly raised their heads.

"Here are the cards, caballero," the banker hastened to say, glad of an
incident which temporarily freed him from a dangerous opponent. Cucharés
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and looked at the newcomer.

"Oh!" he muttered to himself, "the Tigrero! Has he come for Anita? I
must know that."

And he gently drew nearer the stranger, and presently stood by his side.

He was a tall man, with an olive complexion, a piercing glance, and an
open and resolute face. His dress, of the greatest richness, glistened
with gold and diamonds. He wore, slightly inclined over his left ear, a
broad brimmed sombrero, surrounded by a golilla of fine gold: his
spencer of blue cloth, embroidered with silver, allowed a dazzling white
shirt to be seen, under the collar of which passed a cravat of China
crape, fastened with a diamond ring; his calzoneras, drawn up round the
hips by a red silk scarf with gold fringed ends and two rows of diamond
buttons, were open at the side, and allowed his _calzón_ to float
beneath; he wore _botas vaqueras_ (or herdsmen) boots of figured
leather, richly embroidered, attached below the knee by a garter of
silver tissue; while his _manga_, glistening with gold, hung tastefully
from his right shoulder.

His horse, with a small head and legs fine as spindles, was splendidly
accoutred: _las armas de agua_ and the _zarapé_ fastened to the croup,
and the magnificent _anquera_ adorned with steel chains, completed a
caparison of which we can form no idea in Europe.

Like all Mexicans of a certain class when travelling, the stranger was
armed from head to foot; that is to say, in addition to the lasso
fastened to the saddle, and the rifle laid across the saddle-bow, he had
also by his side a long sword, and a pair of pistols in his girdle,
without reckoning the knife whose silver inlaid hilt could be seen
peeping out of one of his boots.

Such as we have described him, this man was the perfect type of a
Mexican of Sonora--ever ready for peace or war, fearing the one no more
than he despised the other. After bowing politely to Tío Lucas he took
the cards the latter offered him, and shuffled them while looking around
him.

"Ah!" he said, casting a friendly glance to the lepero, "you're here,
gossip Cucharés?"

"At your service, Don Martial," the other replied, lifting his hand to
the ragged brim of his beaver.

The stranger smiled.

"Be good enough to cut for me while I light my pajillo."

"With pleasure," the lepero exclaimed.

El Tigrero, or Don Martial, whichever the reader may please to call him,
took a gold _mechero_ from his pocket, and carelessly struck a light
while the lepero cut the cards.

"Señor," the latter said in a piteous voice.

"Well?"

"You have lost."

"Good. Tío Lucas, take a hundred ounces from my purse."

"I have them, your excellency," the banker replied. "Would you please to
play again?"

"Certainly, but not for such trifles. I should like to feel interested
in the game."

"I will cover any stake your excellency may like to name," the banker
said, whose practised eye had discovered in the stranger's purse, amid a
decent number of ounces, some forty diamonds of the purest water.

"H'm! Are you really ready to cover any stake I name?"

"Yes."

The stranger looked at him sharply.

"Even if I played for a thousand gold ounces?"

"I would cover double that if your excellency dares to stake it," the
baker said imperturbably.

A contemptuous smile played for the second time on the horseman's
haughty lips.

"I do dare it," he said.

"Two thousand ounces, then?"

"Agreed."

"Shall I cut?" Cucharés asked timidly.

"Why not?" the other answered lightly.

The lepero seized the cards with a hand trembling from emotion. There
was a hum of expectation from the gamblers who surrounded the table. At
this moment a window opened in the house before which Tío Lucas had
established his monte table, and a charming girl leant carelessly over
the balcony, looking down into the street.

The stranger turned to the balcony, and rising in his stirrups,--

"I salute the lovely Anita," he said, as he doffed his hat and bowed
profoundly.

The girl blushed, bent on him an expressive glance from beneath her long
velvety eyelashes, but made no reply.

"You have lost, excellency," Tío Lucas said with a joyous accent, which
he could not completely conceal.

"Very good," the stranger replied, without even looking at him, so
fascinated was he by the charming apparition on the balcony.

"You play no more?"

"On the contrary, I double."

"What!" exclaimed the banker, falling back a step in spite of himself at
this proposition.

"No, I am wrong; I have something else to propose."

"What is it, excellency?"

"How; much have you there?" he said, pointing to the table with a
disdainful gesture.

"Why, at least seven thousand ounces."

"Not more? That's very little."

The spectators regarded with a stupor, mingled with terror, this
extraordinary man, who played for ounces and diamonds as others did for
ochavos. The girl became pale. She turned a supplicating glance to the
stranger.

"Play no more," she murmured in a trembling voice.

"Thanks," he exclaimed, "thanks, Señorita; your beautiful eyes will
bring me a fortune. I would give all the gold on the table for the
súchil flower you hold in your hand, and which your lips have touched."

"Do not play, Don Martial," the girl repeated, as she retired and closed
the window. But, through accident or some other reason, her hand let
loose the flower. The horseman made his steed bound forward, caught it
in its flight, and buried it in his bosom, after having kissed it
several times.

"Cucharés," he then said to the lepero, "turn up a card."

The latter obeyed. "Seis de copas!" he said.

"Voto a brios!" the stranger exclaimed, "the colour of the heart we
shall win. Tío Lucas, I will back this card against all the gold you
have on your table."

The banker turned pale and hesitated; the spectators had their eyes
fixed upon him.

"Bah!" he thought after a minute's reflection, "It is impossible for him
to win. I accept, excellency," he then added aloud.

"Count the sum you have."

"That is unnecessary, Señor; there are nine thousand four hundred and
fifty gold ounces."[1]

At the statement of this formidable amount the spectators gave vent to a
mingled shout of admiration and covetousness.

"I fancied you richer," the stranger said ironically. "Well, so be it
then."

"Will you cut this time, excellency?"

"No, I am thoroughly convinced you are going to lose, Tío Lucas, and I
wish you to be quite convinced that I have won fairly. In consequence,
do me the pleasure of cutting, yourself. You will then be the artisan of
your own ruin, and be unable to reproach anybody."

The spectators quivered with pleasure on seeing the chivalrous way in
which the stranger behaved. At this moment the street was thronged with
people whom the rumour of this remarkable stake had collected from every
part of the town. A deadly silence prevailed through the crowd, so great
was the interest that each felt in the _dénouement_ of this grand and
hitherto unexampled match. The banker wiped the perspiration that beaded
on his livid brow, and seized the first card with a trembling hand. He
balanced it for a few seconds between finger and thumb with manifest
hesitation.

"Make haste," Cucharés cried to him with a grin.

Tío Lucas mechanically let the card fall as he turned his head away.

"Seis de copas!" the lepero shouted in a hoarse voice.

The banker uttered a yell of pain.

"I have lost!" he muttered.

"I was sure of it," the horseman said, still impassible. "Cucharés," he
added, "carry that table and the gold upon it to Doña Anita. I shall
expect you tonight you know where."

The lepero bowed respectfully. Assisted by two sturdy fellows, he
executed the order he had just received, and entered the house, while
the stranger started off at a gallop; and Tío Lucas, slightly recovered
from the stunning blow he had received, philosophically twisted a cigar,
repeating to those who forced their consolations upon him,--

"I have lost, it is true, but against a very fair player, and for a good
stake. Bah! I shall have my revenge some day."

Then, so soon as the cigarette was made, the poor cleaned-out banker
lighted it and walked off very calmly. The crowd, having no further
excuse for remaining, also disappeared in its turn.


[1] About £31,500 Fact.




CHAPTER II.

DON SYLVA DE TORRÉS.


Guaymas is quite a new town, built somewhat from day to day according to
the fancy of the emigrants, and hence no regular lines of streets have
been maintained. However, we had better mention here that, with the
exception of a few houses to which that name may be fairly given, all
the rest are frightful dens, built of mud, and deplorably dirty.

In the Calle de la Merced, the principal, or to speak more truthfully,
the only street in the town (for the others are only alleys), stood a
one-storied house, ornamented with a balcony, and a peristyle supported
by four pillars. The front was covered by a coating of lime of dazzling
whiteness, and the roof was flat.

The proprietor of this house was one of the richest _mineros_ in Sonora,
and possessor of a dozen mines, all in work; he also devoted himself to
cattle breeding, and owned several haciendas scattered over the
province, the smallest of which was equal in size to an English county.

I am certain that, if Don Sylva de Torrés had wished to liquidate his
fortune, and discover what he was really worth, it would have realised
several millions.

Don Sylva had come to live in Guaymas some months back, where he
ordinarily only paid flying visits, and those at lengthened intervals.
This time, contrary to his usual custom, he had brought his daughter
Anita with him. Hence the entire population of Guaymas was a prey to the
greatest curiosity, and all eyes were fixed on Don Sylva's house, so
extraordinary did the conduct of the _hacendero_ appear.

Shut up in his house, the doors of which only opened to a few privileged
persons, Don Sylva did not seem to trouble himself the least in the
world about the gossips; for he was engaged in realising certain
projects, whose importance prevented him noticing what was said or
thought of him.

Though the Mexicans are excessively rich, and like to do honour to their
wealth, they have no idea of comfort. The utmost carelessness prevails
among them. Their luxury, if I may be allowed to employ the term, is
brutal, without any discernment or real value.

These men, principally accustomed to the rude life of the American
deserts, to struggle continually against the changes of a climate which
is frequently deadly, and the unceasing aggressions of the Indians, who
surround them on all sides, camp rather than live in the towns, fancying
they have done everything when they have squandered gold and diamonds.

The Mexican houses are in evidence to prove the correctness of our
opinion. With the exception of the inevitable European piano, which
swaggers in the corner of every drawing room, you only see a few clumsy
_butacas,_ rickety tables, bad engravings hanging on the whitewashed
walls, and that is all.

Don Sylva's house differed in no respect from the others; and the
master's horses on returning to the stable from the watering place, had
to cross the _salón_, all dripping as they were, and leaving manifest
traces of their passage.

At the moment when we introduce the reader into Don Sylva's house, two
persons, male and female, were sitting in the saloon talking, or at
least exchanging a few words at long intervals.

They were Don Sylva and his daughter Anita. The crossing of the Spanish
and Indian races has produced the most perfect plastic type to be found
anywhere. Don Sylva, although nearly fifty years of age, did not appear
to be forty. He was tall, upright, and his face, though stern, had great
gentleness imprinted upon it. He wore the Mexican dress in its most
rigorous exactness; but his clothes were so rich, that few of his
countrymen could have equalled it, much less surpassed it.

Anita who reclined on a sofa, half buried in masses of silk and gauze,
like a hummingbird concealed in the moss, was a charming girl of
eighteen at the most, whose black eyes, modestly shaded by long velvety
lashes, were full of voluptuous promise, which was not gainsaid by the
undulating and serpentine outlines of her exquisitely modelled body. Her
slightest gestures had grace and majesty completed by the ravishing
smile of her coral lips. Her complexion, slightly gilded by the American
sun, imparted to her face an expression impossible to render; and lastly
her whole person exhaled a delicious perfume of innocence and candour
which attracted sympathy and inspired love.

Like all Mexican women when at home, she merely wore a light robe of
embroidered muslin; her _rebozo_ was thrown negligently over her shoulders,
and a profusion of jasmine flowers was intertwined in her bluish-black
tresses. Anita seemed in deep thought. At one moment the arch of her
eyebrows was contracted by some thought that annoyed her, her bosom
heaved and her dainty foot, cased in a slipper lined with swan's down,
impatiently tapped on the ground.

Don Sylva also appeared to be dissatisfied. After directing a severe
glance at his daughter, he rose, and drawing near her, said,--

"You are mad, Anita: your behaviour is extravagant. A young, well-born
girl ought not, in any case to act as you have just done."

The young Mexican girl only answered by a significant pout, and an
almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.

Her father continued,--

"Especially," he said, laying a stress on each word, "in your position
as regards the Count de Lhorailles."

The girl started as if a serpent had stung her, and fixing an
interrogatory glance on the hacendero's immovable face, she replied,--

"I do not understand you, my father."

"You do not understand me, Anita? I cannot believe it. Have I not
formally promised your hand to the count?"

"What matter, if I do not love him? Do you wish to condemn me to
lifelong misery?"

"On the contrary, I regarded your happiness in this union. I have only
you, Anita, to console me for the mournful loss of your beloved mother.
Poor child! You are still, thank Heaven, at that happy age when the
heart does not know itself, and when the words 'happiness, unhappiness,'
have no meaning. You do not love the count, you say. All the better--
your heart is free. When, at a later date, you have had occasion to
appreciate the noble qualities of the man I give you as husband, you
will then thank me for having insisted on a marriage, which today causes
you so much vexation."

"Stay, father," the girl said with an air of vexation. "My heart is not
free, and you are well aware of the fact."

"I know, Doña Anita de Torrés," the hacendero answered severely, "that a
love unworthy yourself and me cannot enter your heart. Through my
ancestors I am a Christiano Viejo; and if a few drops of Indian blood be
mingled in my veins, what I owe to the memory of my ancestors is only
the more deeply engraved on my mind. The first of our family, Antonia de
Sylva, lieutenant to Hernando Cortez, married, it is true, a Mexican
princess of the family of Moctecuhzoma, but all the other branches are
Spanish."

"Are we not Mexicans then, my father?"

"Alas! My poor child, who can say who we are and what are we? Our
unhappy country, since it shook off the Spanish yoke, has been
struggling convulsively, and is exhausted by the incessant efforts of
those ambitious men, who in a few years will have robbed it even of that
nationality which we had so much difficulty in achieving. These
disgraceful contests render us the laughing stocks of other people, and
above all, cause the joy of our greedy neighbours, who with their eyes
invariably fixed upon us, are preparing to enrich themselves with our
spoils, of which they have pilfered some fragments already by robbing us
of several of our rich provinces."

"But, father, I am a woman, and therefore unaffected by politics. I have
nothing to do with the _gringos_."

"More than you can imagine, my child. I do not wish that at a given day
the immense property my ancestors and myself have acquired by our toil
should become the prey of these accursed heretics. In order to save it,
I have resolved on marrying you to the Count de Lhorailles. He is a
Frenchman, and belongs to one of the noblest families of that country.
Besides he is a handsome and brave gentleman, scarcely thirty years of
age, who combines the most precious moral qualifications with the
physical qualities. He is a member of a powerful and respected nation
which knows how to protect its subjects, in whatever corner of the world
they may be. By marrying him your fortune is sheltered from every
political reverse."

"But I do not love him, father."

"Nonsense, my dear babe. Do not talk longer of that. I am willing to
forget the folly of which you were guilty a few moments back, but on
condition that you forget that man, Martial."

"Never!" she exclaimed resolutely.

"Never! That is a long time, daughter. You will reflect, I am convinced.
Besides, who is this man? What is his family? Do you know? He is called
Martial el Tigrero. Voto a Dios, that is not a name! That man saved your
life by stopping your horse when it ran away. Well, is that a reason for
him to fall in love with you, and you with him? I offered him a
magnificent reward, which he refused with the most supreme disdain.
There is an end of it, then; let him leave me at peace. I have, and wish
for, nothing more to do with him."

"I love him, father," the young girl repeated.

"Listen, Anita. You would make me angry, if I did not put a restraint on
myself. Enough on that head. Prepare to receive the Count de Lhorailles
in a proper manner. I have sworn that you shall be his wife, and,
Cristo! It shall be so, if I have to drag you by force to the altar!"

The hacendero pronounced these words with such resolution in his voice,
and with such a fierce accent, that the girl saw it would be better for
her to appear to yield, and put a stop to a discussion which would only
grow more embittered, and perhaps have grave consequences. She let her
head fall, and was silent, while her father walked up and down the room
with a very dissatisfied air.

The door was partly opened, and a peon thrust his head discreetly
through the crevice.

"What do you want?" Don Sylva asked as he stopped.

"Excellency," the man replied, "a caballero, followed by four others
bearing a table covered with pieces of gold, requests an audience of the
señorita."

The hacendero shot a glance at his daughter full of expressiveness. Doña
Anita let her head sink in confusion. Don Sylva reflected for a moment,
and then his countenance cleared.

"Let him come in," he said.

The peon withdrew; but he returned in a few seconds, preceding an old
acquaintance, Cucharés, still enwrapped in his ragged zarapé, and
directing the four leperos who carried the table. On entering the
saloon, Cucharés uncovered respectfully, courteously saluted the
hacendero and his daughter, and with a sign ordered the porters to
deposit the table in the centre of the apartment.

"Señorita," he said in a honied voice, "the Señor Don Martial, faithful
to the pledge he had made you, humbly supplicates you to accept his
gains at monte, as a feeble testimony of his devotion and admiration."

"You rascal!" Don Sylva angrily exclaimed as he took a step toward him
"Do you know in whose presence you are?"

"In that of Doña Anita and her highly-respected parent," the scamp
replied imperturbably, as he wrapped himself majestically in his
tatters. "I have not, to my knowledge, failed in the respect I owe to
both."

"Withdraw at once, and take with you this gold, which does not concern
my daughter."

"Excuse me, excellency, I received orders to bring the gold here, and
with your permission I will leave it. Don Martial would not forgive me
if I acted otherwise."

"I do not know Don Martial, as it pleases you to style the man who sent
you. I wish to have nothing in common with him."

"That is possible, excellency; but it is no affair of mine. You can have
an explanation with him if you think proper. For my part, as my mission
is accomplished, I kiss your hands."

And, after bowing once more to the two, the lepero went off
majestically, followed by his four acolytes, with measured steps.

"See there," exclaimed Don Sylva violently, "see there, my daughter, to
what insults your folly exposes me!"

"An insult, father?" she replied timidly. "On the contrary, I think that
Don Martial has acted like a true caballero, and that he gives me a
great proof of his love. That sum is enormous."

"Ah!" Don Sylva said wrathfully, "that is the way you take it. Well, I
will act as a caballero also, _voto a brios_! As you shall see. Come
here, someone!"

Several peons came in.

"Open the windows!"

The servants obeyed. The crowd was not yet dispersed, and a large number
of persons was still collected round the house. The hacendero leant out
and by a wave of his hand requested silence. The crowd was instinctively
silent, and drew nearer, guessing that something in which it was
interested was about to happen.

"Señores caballeros y amigos," the hacendero said in a powerful voice,
"a man whom I do not know has dared to offer to my daughter the money he
has won at monte. Doña Anita spurns such presents, especially when they
come from a person with whom she does not wish to have any connection,
friendly or otherwise. She begs me to distribute this gold among you, as
she will not touch it in any way: she desires thus to prove, in the
presence of you all, the contempt she feels for a man who has dared to
offer her such an insult."

The speech improvised by the hacendero was drowned by the frenzied
applause of the leperos and other assembled beggars, whose eyes sparkled
with greed. Anita felt the burning tears swelling her eyelids. In spite
of all her efforts to remain undisturbed, her heart was almost broken.

Troubling himself not at all about his daughter, Don Sylva ordered his
servants to cast the ounces into the street. A shower of gold then
literally began falling on the wretches, who rushed with incredible
ardour on this new species of manna. The Calle de la Merced offered, at
that moment, the most singular sight imaginable. The gold poured and
poured on; it seemed to be inexhaustible. The beggars leaped like
coyotes on the precious metal, overthrowing and trampling underfoot the
weaker.

At the height of the shower a horseman came galloping up. Astonished,
confounded by what he saw, he stopped for a moment to look around him;
then he drove his spurs into his horse, and by dealing blows of his
chicote liberally all around, he succeeded in clearing the dense crowd,
and reached the hacendero's house, which he entered.

"Here is the count," Don Sylva said laconically to his daughter.

In fact, within a minute that gentleman entered the saloon.

"Halloh!" he said, stopping at the doorway, "What strange notion is this
of yours, Don Sylva? On my soul, you are amusing yourself by throwing
millions out of the window, to the still greater amusement of the
leperos and other rogues of the same genus!"

"Ah, 'tis you, señor Conde," the hacendero replied calmly; "you are
welcome. I shall be with you in an instant. Only these few handfuls, and
it will be finished."

"Don't hurry yourself," the count said with a laugh. "I confess that the
fancy is original;" and drawing near the young lady, whom he saluted
with exquisite politeness, he continued,--

"Would you deign, Señorita, to give me the word of this enigma, which, I
confess, interests me in the highest degree?"

"Ask my father, Señor," she answered with a certain dryness, which
rendered conversation impossible.

The count feigned not to notice this rebuff; he bowed with a smile, and
falling into a _butaca,_ said coolly,--

"I will wait; I am in no hurry."

The hacendero, in telling his daughter that the gentleman he intended
for her husband was a handsome man, had in no respect flattered him.
Count Maxime Gaëtan de Lhorailles was a man of thirty at the most, well
built and active, and slightly above the middle height. His light hair
allowed him to be recognised as a son of the north; his features were
fine, his glance expressive, and his hands and feet denoted race.
Everything about him indicated the gentleman of an old stock; and if Don
Sylva was not more deceived about the moral qualities than he had been
about the physical, Count de Lhorailles was really a perfect gentleman.

At length the hacendero exhausted all the gold Cucharés had brought: he
then hurled the table into the street, ordered the windows to be closed,
and came back to take a seat by the side of the count, rubbing his
hands.

"There," he said with a joyous air, "that's finished. Now I am quite at
your service."

"First one word."

"Say it."

"Excuse me. You are aware that I am a stranger, and such as thirsting
for instruction."

"I am listening to you."

"Since I have lived in Mexico I have seen many extraordinary customs. I
ought to be _blasé_ about novelties; still, I must confess that what I
have just seen surpasses anything I have hitherto witnessed. I should
like to be certain whether this is a custom of which I was hitherto
ignorant."

"What are you talking about?"

"Why, what you were doing when I arrived--that gold you were dropping
like a beneficent dew on the bandits of every description collected
before your house; ill weeds, between ourselves, to be thus bedewed."

Don Sylva burst into a laugh.

"No, that is not a custom of ours," he replied.

"Very good. Then, you were indulging in the regal pastime of throwing a
million to the scum. Plague! Don Sylva, a man must be as rich as
yourself to allow such a gratification."

"Things are not as you fancy."

"Still I saw it raining ounces."

"True, but they did not belong to me."

"Better and better still. That renders the affair more complicated; you
heighten my curiosity immensely."

"I will satisfy it."

"I am all attention, for the affair is growing as interesting to me as a
story in the 'Arabian Nights.'"

"H'm!" the hacendero said, tossing his head, "It interests you more than
you perhaps suspect."

"How so?"

"You shall judge."

Doña Anita was in torture; she knew not what to do. Seeing that her
father was about to divulge all to the count, she did not feel in
herself the courage to be present at such a revelation, and rose
tottering.

"Gentlemen," she said in a feeble voice, "I feel indisposed; be kind
enough to allow me to retire."

"Really," the count said, as he hurried towards her, and offered her his
arm to support her, "you are pale, Doña Anita. Allow me to accompany you
to your apartment."

"I thank you, caballero, but I am strong enough to proceed there alone,
and, while duly grateful for your offer, pray permit me to decline it."

"As you please, señorita," the count replied, inwardly piqued by this
refusal.

Don Sylva entertained for a moment the idea of ordering his daughter to
remain; but the poor girl turned towards him so despairing a glance that
he did not feel the courage to impose on her a longer torture.

"Go my child," he said to her.

Anita hastened to take advantage of the permission; she left the
_salón,_ and sought refuge in her bedroom, where she sank into a chair,
and burst into tears.

"What is the matter with Doña Anita?" the count asked with sympathy, so
soon as she had gone.

"Vapours--headache--what do I know?" the hacendero replied, shrugging
his shoulders. "All young girls are like that. In a few minutes she will
have forgotten it."

"All the better. I confess to you that I was alarmed."

"But now that we are alone, would you not like me to give you the
explanation of the enigma which appeared to interest you so much?"

"On the contrary, speak without further delay: for, on my part, I have
several important matters to impart to you."




CHAPTER III.

THE TWO HUNTERS.


About five miles from the town is the village of San José de Guaymas,
commonly known as the _Rancho_.

This miserable _pueblo_ is merely composed of a square of moderate size,
intersected at right angles by tumbledown cabins, which are inhabited by
Hiaqui Indians (a large number of whom hire themselves out annually at
Guaymas to work as porters, carpenters, masons, &c), and all those
nameless adventurers who have thronged to the shores of the Pacific
since the discovery of the Californian plains.

The road from Guaymas to San José runs through a parched and sandy
plain, on which only a few nopales and stunted cactuses grow, whose
withered branches are covered with dust, and produce the effect of white
phantoms at night.

The evening of the day on which our story commences, a horseman, folded
to the eyes in a zarapé, was following this road, and proceeding in a
gallop to the Rancho.

The sky, of a dark azure, was studded with glistening stars; the moon,
which had traversed one-third of her course, illumined the silent plain,
and indefinitely prolonged the tall shadows of the trees on the naked
earth.

The horseman, doubtlessly anxious to reach the end of a journey which
was not without peril at this advanced hour, incessantly urged on with
spur and voice his horse, which did not, however, appear to need this
constantly-renewed encouragement.

He had all but crossed the immense uncultivated plains, and was just
entering the woods which surround the Rancho, when his horse suddenly
leaped on one side, and pricked up its ears in alarm. A sharp sound
announced that the horseman had cocked his pistols; and, when this
precaution had been taken against all risk, he turned an inquiring
glance around.

"Fear nothing, caballero," a frank and sympathetic voice exclaimed; "but
have the kindness to go a little farther to the right, if it makes no
difference to you."

The stranger looked, and saw a man kneeling under his steed's feet, and
holding in his hands the head of a horse, which was lying nearly across
the road.

"What on earth are you doing there?" he asked.

"You can see," the other replied sorrowfully, "I am bidding good-by to
my poor companion. A man must have lived a long time in the desert to
appreciate the value of such a friend as he was."

"That is true," the stranger remarked, and immediately dismounting,
added, "Is he dead then?"

"No, not yet; but, unfortunately, he is as bad as if he were."

With these words he sighed.

The stranger bent over the animal, whose body was agitated by a nervous
quivering, opened its eyelids, and regarded it attentively.

"Your horse has had a stroke," he said a moment later. "Let me act."

"Oh!" the other exclaimed, "do you think you can save him?"

"I hope so," the first speaker laconically observed.

"_Caray!_ If you do that, we shall be friends for life. Poor Negro! My
old comrade!"

The horseman bathed the animal's temples and nostrils with rum and
water. At the end of a few moments, the horse appeared slightly
recovered, his faded eyes began to sparkle again, and he tried to rise.

"Hold him tight," the improvised surgeon said.

"Be quiet, then, my good beast. Come, Negro, my boy, _quieto, quieto;_
it is for your good," he said soothingly.

The intelligent animal seemed to understand. It turned its head towards
its master, and answered him with a plaintive neigh. The horseman,
during this period, had been feeling in his girdle; and bending again
over the horse,--

"Mind and hold him tightly," he again recommended.

"What are you going to do?"

"Bleed him."

"Yes, that is it. I knew it; but unfortunately I did not dare risk doing
it myself, through fear of killing the horse."

"All right?"

"Go on."

The horse made a hasty move, caused by the coldness of the wound; but
its master held it down and checked its struggles. The two men suffered
a moment of anxiety: the blood did not issue. At last a black drop
appeared in the wound, then a second, speedily followed by a long jet of
black and foaming blood.

"He is saved," the stranger said, as he wiped his lancet and returned it
to his fob.

"I will repay you this, on the word of Belhumeur!" the owner of the
horse said with much emotion. "You have rendered me one of those
services which are never forgotten."

And, by an irresistible impulse, he held out his hand to the man who had
so providentially crossed his path. The latter warmly returned the
vigorous pressure. Henceforth all was arranged between them. These two
men who a few moments previously were ignorant of each other's
existence, were friends, attached by one of those services which in
American countries possess an immense value.

The blood gradually lost its black tinge; it became vermillion, and
flowed abundantly. The breathing of the panting steed had grown easy and
regular. The first stranger made a copious bleeding, and when he
considered the horse in a fair way of recovery he stopped the effusion.

"And now," he said, "what do you propose doing?"

"My faith, I don't know. Your help has been so useful to me that I
should like to follow your advice."

"Where were you going when this accident occurred?"

"To the Rancho."

"I am going there too. We are only a few yards from it. You will get up
behind me. We will lead your horse, and start when you please."

"I ask nothing better. You believe that my horse cannot carry me?"

"Perhaps he could do so, for he is a noble animal; but it would be
imprudent, and you would run a risk of killing him. It would be better,
believe me, to act as I suggested."

"Yes; but I am afraid--"

"What of?" the other sharply interrupted him. "Are we not friends?"

"That is true. I accept."

The horse sprang up somewhat actively, and the two men who had met so
strangely started at once, mounted on one horse. Twenty minutes later
they reached the first buildings of the Rancho. At the entrance of the
village the owner of the horse stopped, and turning to his companion,
said,--

"Where will you get down?"

"That is all the same to me; let us go first where you are going."

"Ah!" the horseman said, scratching his head, "the fact is, I am going
nowhere in particular."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh! You will understand me in two words. I landed today at Guaymas;
the Rancho is only the first station of a journey I meditate in the
desert, and which will probably last a long time."

By the moonlight, a ray of which now played on the stranger's face, his
companion attentively regarded his noble and pensive countenance, on
which grief had already cut deep furrows.

"So that," he at length said, "any lodging will suit you?"

"A night is soon spent. I only ask a shelter for horse and self."

"Well, if you will permit me to act in my turn as guide, you shall have
that within ten minutes."

"Agreed."

"I do not promise you a palace, but I will take you to a _pulquería_,
where I am accustomed to put up when accident brings me to these parts.
You will find the society rather mixed, but what would you have? And, as
you said yourself, a night is soon spent."

"In Heaven's name, then, proceed."

Then, passing his arm through that of his comrade, the new guide seized
the horse's reins, and steered to a house standing about two-thirds of
the way down the street where they were, whose badly fitting windows
gleamed in the night like the stoke holes of a furnace, while cries,
laughter, songs, and the shrill sound of the _jarabes_, indicated that,
if the rest of the _pueblo_ were plunged in sleep, there, at least,
people were awake.

The two strangers stopped before the door of this pothouse.

"Have you quite made up your mind?" the first said.

"Perfectly," the other answered.

The guide then rapped furiously at the worm-eaten door. It was long ere
anyone answered. At length a hoarse voice shouted from inside, while the
greatest silence succeeded, as if by enchantment, the noise that had
hitherto prevailed.

"_¿Quíen vive?"_

"_Gente de paz_," the stranger replied.

"Hum!" the voice went on, "That is not a name. What sort of weather is
it?"

"One for all--all for one. The _cormuel_ is strong enough to blow the
horns off the oxen on the top of the Cerro del Huérfano."

The door was immediately opened, and the strangers entered. At first
they could distinguish nothing through the thick and smoky atmosphere of
the room, and walked hap-hazard. The companion of the first horseman was
well known in this den; for the master of the house and several other
persons eagerly collected round him.

"Caballeros," he said, pointing to the person who followed him, "this
señor is my friend, and I must request your kindness for him."

"He shall be treated like yourself, Belhumeur," the host replied. "Your
horses have been led to the corral, where a truss of alfalfa has been
put before them. As for yourselves, the house belongs to you, and you
can dispose of it as you please."

During this exchange of compliments the strangers had contrived to find
their way through the crowd. They crossed the room, and sat down in a
corner before a table on which the host himself placed pulque, mezcal,
chinguirito, Catalonian refino, and sherry.

"Caramba, Señor Huesped!" the man whom we had heard called frequently
Belhumeur, said with a laugh, "You are generous today."

"Do you not see that I have an angelito?" the other answered gravely.

"What, your son Pedrito--?"

"Is dead. I am trying to give my friends a cordial welcome, in order the
better to feast the entrance into heaven of my poor boy, who, having
never sinned, is an angel by the side of God."

"That's very proper," Belhumeur said, hobnobbing with the rather stoical
parent.

The latter emptied his glass of refino at a draught, and
withdrew. The strangers, by this time accustomed to the atmosphere in
which they found themselves, began to look around them. The room of the
pulquería offered them a most singular sight.

In the centre some ten individuals, with faces enough to hang them,
covered with rags, and armed to the teeth, were furiously playing at
monte. It was a strange fact, but one which did not appear to astonish
any of the honourable gamblers that a long dagger was stuck in the table
to the right of the banker, and two pistols lay on his left. A few steps
further on, men and women, more than half intoxicated, were dancing and
singing, with lubricious gestures and mad shouts, to the shrill sounds
of two or three _vihuelas_ and _jarabes_. In a corner of the room thirty
people were assembled round a table, on which a child, four years of age
at the most, was seated in a wicker chair. This child presided over the
meeting. He was dressed in his best clothes, had a crown of flowers on
his head, and a profusion of nosegays was piled up on the table all
round him.

But alas! The child's brow was pale, his eyes glassy, his complexion
leaden and marked with violet spots. His body had the peculiar stiffness
of a corpse. He was dead. He was the angelito, whose entrance into
heaven the worthy pulquero was celebrating.

Men, women and children were drinking and laughing, as they reminded the
poor mother, who made heroic efforts not to burst into tears, of the
precocious intelligence, goodness and prettiness of the little creature
she had just lost.

"All this is hideous," the first traveller muttered, with signs of
disgust.

"Is it not so?" the other assented. "Let us not notice it, but isolate
ourselves amid these scoundrels, who have already forgotten our
presence, and talk."

"Willingly, but unhappily we have nothing to say to each other."

"Perhaps we have. In the first place, we might let each other know who
we are."

"That is true."

"You agree with me? Then I will give you the example of confidence and
frankness."

"Good. After that my turn will come."

Belhumeur looked round at the company. The orgy had recommenced with
fresh fury; it was evident that no one troubled himself about them. He
rested his elbows on the table, leant over to his comrade, and began:--

"As you already know, my dear mate, my name is Belhumeur. I am a
Canadian; that is to say almost a Frenchman. Circumstances too long to
narrate at present, but which I tell you some day, brought me, when a
lad into this country. Twenty years of my life have passed in traversing
the desert in every direction: there is not a stream or a by-path which
I do not know. I could, if I would, live quietly and free from care with
a dear friend, an old companion, who has retired to a magnificent
hacienda which he possesses a few leagues from Hermosillo; but the
existence of a hunter has charms which only those who have lived it can
understand: it always compels them to renew it in spite of themselves. I
am still a young man, hardly five-and-forty years of age. An old friend
of mine, an Indian chief of the name of Eagle-head, proposed to me to
accompany him on an excursion he wished to make in Apacheria. I allowed
myself to be tempted; said good-by to those I love, and who tried in
vain to hold me back; and free from all ties, without regret for the
past, happy in the present, and careless of the future, I went gaily
ahead, bearing with me those inestimable treasures for the hunter, a
strong heart, a gay character, excellent arms, and a horse accustomed,
like his master, to good fortune and ill; and so here I am. And now,
mate, you know me as well as if we had been friends for the last ten
years."

The other had listened attentively to this story, fixing a thoughtful
glance on the bold adventurer, who sat smiling before him. He gazed with
interest on this man, with the loyal face and sharply-cut features,
whose countenance exhaled the rude and noble frankness of a man who is
really good and great.

When Belhumeur was silent he remained for some moments without replying,
doubtlessly plunged in profound and earnest reflections; then, offering
him across the table a white, elegant, and delicate hand, he replied
with great emotion, and in the best French ever spoken in these distant
regions,--

"I thank you, Belhumeur, for the confidence you have placed in me. My
history is not longer, but more mournful than yours. You shall have it
in a few words."

"Eh?" the Canadian exclaimed, vigorously pressing the hand offered him.
"Do you happen to be a Frenchman?"

"Yes, I have that honour."

"By Jove! I ought to have suspected it," he burst out joyously. "Only to
think that for an hour we have been stupidly talking bad Spanish,
instead of employing our own tongue; for I come from Canada, and the
Canadians are the French of America, are they not?"

"You are right."

"Well, then, it is agreed, no more Spanish between us."

"No, nothing but French."

"Bravo! Here's your health, my worthy fellow countryman! And now," he
added, returning his glass to the table after emptying it, "let us have
your story. I am listening."

"I told you that it is not long."

"No matter; go ahead. I am certain 'twill interest me enormously."

The Frenchman stifled a sigh.

"I, too, have lived the life of a wood ranger," he said; "I, too, have
experienced the intoxicating charms of that feverish existence, full of
moving incidents, no two of which are alike. Far from the country where
we now are, I have traversed vast deserts, immense virgin forests, in
which no man prior to myself had left the imprint of his footstep. Like
you, a friend accompanied me in my adventurous travels, sustaining my
courage, maintaining my gaiety by his inexhaustible humour and his
unbounded courage. Alas! That was the happiest period of my life.

"I fell in love with a woman and married her. So soon as my friend saw
me rich and surrounded by a family he left me. His departure was my
first grief--a grief from which I never recovered, which each day
rendered more poignant and which now tortures me like a remorse. Alas!
Where is now that strong heart, that devoted friend who ever interposed
between danger and myself, who loved me like a brother, and for whom I
felt a son's affection? He is probably dead!"

In uttering the last words the Frenchman let his head sink in his hands,
and yielded to a flood of bitter thoughts, which rose from his heart
with every reminiscence he recalled. Belhumeur looked at him in a
melancholy manner, and pressing his hand, said in a low and sympathising
voice, "Courage, my friend."

"Yes," the Frenchman continued, "that was what he always said to me
when, prostrated by grief, I felt hope failing me. 'Courage,' he would
say to me in his rough voice, laying his hand on my shoulders; and I
would feel galvanised by the touch, and draw myself up at the sound of
that cherished voice, ready to recommence the struggle, for I felt
myself stronger. Several years passed in the midst of a felicity which
nothing came to trouble. I had a wife I adored, charming children for
whom I formed dreams of the future; in short, I wanted for
nothing save my poor comrade, about whom I could discover nothing from
the moment he left me, in spite of my constant inquiries. Now, my
happiness has faded away never to return. My wife, my children are
dead--cruelly murdered in their sleep by Indians, who carried my
hacienda by storm. I alone remained alive amid the smoking ruins of that
abode where I had spent so many happy days. All I loved was eternally
buried beneath the ashes. My heart was broken, and I did not wish to
survive all that was dear to me; but a friend, the only one that
remained to me, saved me. He carried me off by main force to his tribe,
for he was an Indian. By his care and devotion he recalled me to life,
and restored to me, if not the hope of a happiness henceforth
impossible for me, at least the courage to struggle against that destiny
whose blows had been so rude. He died only a few months back. Before
closing his eyes for ever he made me swear to do all he asked of me. I
promised him. 'Brother,' he said, 'every man must proceed in life toward
a certain object. So soon as I am dead, go in search of that friend from
whom you have so long been separated. You will find him, I feel
convinced. He will trace your line of conduct.' Two hours later the
worthy chief died in my arms. So soon as his body was committed to the
earth I set out. This very day, as I told you, I reached Guaymas. My
intention is to bury myself immediately in the wilderness; for if my
poor friend be still alive, I can only find him there."

There was a lengthened silence, at length broken by Belhumeur.

"Hum! All that is very sad, mate, I must allow," he said, tossing his
head. "You are rushing upon a desperate enterprise, in which the chances
of success are almost null. A man is a grain of sand lost in the desert.
Who knows, even supposing he still lives, at what place he may be at
this moment; and if, while you are seeking him on one side, he may not
be on the other? Still, I have a proposition to make to you, which, I
believe, can only prove advantageous."

"I know it, my friend, before you tell it me. I thank you, and accept
it," the Frenchman replied quickly.

"It is agreed then. We start together. You will come with me into
Apacheria?"

"Yes."

"By Jove! I am in luck. I have hardly separated from Loyal Heart ere
Heaven brings me together with a friend as precious as he is."

"Who is that Loyal Heart you mention?"

"The friend with whom I lived so long, and whom you shall know some day.
But come, we will start at daybreak."

"Whenever you please."

"I have the meeting with Eagle-head two days' journey from here. I am
much mistaken, or he is waiting for me by this time."

"What are you going to do in Apacheria?"

"I do not know. Eagle-head asked me to accompany him, and I am going. It
is my rule never to ask my friends more of their secrets than they are
willing to tell me. In that way we are more free."

"Excellent reasoning, my dear Belhumeur; but, as we shall be together
for a long time, I hope, at least--"

"I, too."

"It is right," the Frenchman continued, "that you should know my name,
which I have hitherto forgotten to tell you."

"That need not trouble you; for I could easily give you one if you had
reasons for preserving your incognito."

"None at all: my name is Count Louis de Prébois Crancé."

Belhumeur rose as if moved by a spring, took off his fur cap, and bowing
before his new friend, said--

"Pardon me, sir count, for the free manner in which I have addressed
you. Had I known in whose company I had the honour of being, I should
certainly not have taken so great a liberty."

"Belhumeur, Belhumeur," the count said with a mournful smile, and
seizing his hand quickly, "is our friendship to commence in that way?
There are here only two men ready to share the same life, run the same
dangers, and confront the same foes. Let us leave to the foolish
inhabitants of cities those vain distinctions which possess no
significance for us; let us be frankly and loyally brothers. I only wish
to be to you Louis, your good comrade, your devoted friend, in the same
way as you are to me only Belhumeur, the rough wood ranger."

The Canadian's face shone with pleasure at these words.

"Well spoken," he said gaily, "well spoken, on my soul! I am but a poor
ignorant hunter; and, by my faith, why should I conceal it? What you
have just said to me has gone straight to my heart. I am yours, Louis,
for life and death; and I hope to prove to you soon, comrade, that I
have a certain value."

"I am convinced of it; but we understand each other now, do we not?"

"By Jove--!"

At this moment there was such a tremendous disturbance in the street,
that it drowned that in the room. As always happens under such
circumstances, the adventurers assembled in the pulquería were silent of
a common accord, in order to listen. Shouts, the clashing of sabres, the
stamping of horses, drowned at intervals by the discharge of fire arms,
could be clearly distinguished.

"Caray!" Belhumeur exclaimed, "there's fighting going on in the street."

"I am afraid so," the pulquero laconically answered, who was more than
half drunk, as he swallowed a glass of refino.

Suddenly from sabre hilts and pistol butts resounded vigorously on the
badly-joined plank of the door, and a powerful voice shouted angrily,--

"Open, in the devil's name, or I'll smash in your miserable door!"




CHAPTER IV.

COUNT MAXIME GAËTAN DE LHORAILLES.


Before explaining to the reader the cause of the infernal noise which
suddenly rose to disturb the tranquility of the people assembled in the
pulquería, we are obliged to go back a little distance.

About three years before the period in which our story opens, on a cold
and rainy December night, eight men, whose costumes and manners showed
them to belong to the highest Parisian society, were assembled in an
elegant private room of the Café Anglais.

The night was far advanced; the wax candles, two-thirds consumed, only
spread a mournful light; the rain lashed the windows, and the wind
howled lugubriously. The guests, seated round the table and the relics
of a splendid supper, seemed, in spite of themselves, to have been
infected by the gloomy melancholy that brooded over nature, and, lying
back on their chairs, some slept, while others, lost in thought, paid no
attention to what was going on around them.

The clock on the mantelpiece slowly struck three, and the last sound had
scarcely died away ere the repeated cracking of a postilion's whip could
be heard beneath the windows of the room.

The door opened and a waiter came in.

"The post-chaise the Count de Lhorailles ordered is waiting," he said.

"Thanks," one of the guests said, dismissing the waiter by a
sign.

The latter went out, and closed the door after him. The few words he had
uttered had broken the charm which enchained the guests; all sat up, as
if aroused from sleep suddenly; and turning to a young man of thirty,
they said,--

"It is really true that you are going?"

"I am," he answered, with a nod of affirmation.

"Where to, though? People do not usually part in this mysterious way,"
one of the guests continued.

The gentleman to whom the remark was addressed smiled sorrowfully.

The Count de Lhorailles was a handsome man, with expressive features,
energetic glance, and disdainful lip; he belonged to the most ancient
nobility, and his reputation was perfectly established among the "lions"
of the day. He rose, and looking round the circle, said,--

"Gentlemen, I can perfectly well understand that my conduct appears to
you strange. You have a right to an explanation from me, and I am most
desirous to give it to you. It was, indeed, for that purpose that I
invited you to the last supper we shall enjoy together. The hour for my
departure has struck--the chaise is waiting. Tomorrow I shall be far
from Paris, and within a week I shall have left France never to return.
Listen to me."

The guests made a marked movement as they gazed on the count.

"Do not be impatient, gentlemen," he said; "the story I have to tell you
is not long, for it is my own. In two words, here it is:--

"I am completely ruined. I have only a small sum of money left, on which
I should starve in Paris, and end in a month by blowing out my brains--a
gloomy perspective which possesses no attractions for me, I assure you.
On the other hand, I have such a fatal skill with arms, that, without
any fault of my own, I enjoy a reputation as a duellist, which weighs on
me fearfully, especially since my deplorable affair with that poor
Viscount de Morsens, whom I was obliged to kill against my will, in
order to close his mouth and put a stop to his calumnies. In short, for
the reasons I have had the honour of imparting to you, and an infinity
of others it is needless for you to know, and which I am convinced would
interest you very slightly, France has become odious to me to such a
degree that I am most anxious to quit it. So now a parting glass of
champagne, and good-by to all."

"A moment," remarked the guest who had already spoken. "You have not
told us, count, to what country you intend to proceed."

"Can't you guess? To America. I am allowed to possess a certain amount
of courage and intelligence, and therefore am going to a country where,
if I may believe all I hear, those two qualities are sufficient to make
the fortune of their possessor. Have you any more questions to ask me,
baron?" he added, turning to his questioner.

The latter, ere replying, remained for some moments plunged in serious
reflections; at length he raised his head, and fixed a cold and
searching glance on the count.

"You really mean to go, my friend?" he said quite seriously. "You swear
it on your honour?"

"Yes, on my honour."

"And you are really resolved to make for yourself, in America, a
position at the least equal to that you held here?"

"Yes," he said sharply, "by all means possible."

"That is good. In your turn listen to me, count, and if you will profit
by what I am about to reveal to you, you may perhaps, by the help of
Heaven, succeed in accomplishing the wild projects you have formed."

All the guests drew round curiously; the count himself felt interested
in spite of himself.

The Baron de Spurtzheim was a man of about five-and-forty. His bronzed
complexion, his marked features, and the strange expression of his eye
gave him a peculiar aspect, which escaped the notice of the vulgar herd,
and caused him to be regarded as a really remarkable man by all
intelligent persons.

The only thing known about the baron was his colossal fortune, which he
spent royally. As for his antecedents, everyone was ignorant of them,
although he was received in the first society. It was merely remarked
vaguely that he had been a great traveller, and had resided for several
years in America; but nothing was more uncertain than these rumours, and
they would not have been sufficient to open the _salons_ of the noble
suburb to him, had not the Austrian ambassador, without his knowledge,
served as his guarantee most warmly in several delicate circumstances.

The baron was more intimately connected with the count than with his
other companions. He seemed to feel a certain degree of interest in him;
and several times, guessing his friend's embarrassed circumstances, he
had delicately offered him his assistance. The Count de Lhorailles,
though too proud to accept these offers, felt equally grateful to the
baron, and had allowed him to assume a certain influence over him,
without suspecting it.

"Speak, but be brief, my dear baron," the count said. "You know that the
chaise is waiting for me."

Without replying, the baron rang the bell. The waiter came in.

"Dismiss the postilion, and tell him to return at five o'clock. You can
go."

The waiter bowed and went out.

The count, more and more amazed at his friend's strange conduct, did not
make the least observation. However, he poured out a glass of champagne,
which he emptied at a draught, crossed his arms, leant back in his
chair, and waited.

"And now, gentlemen," the baron said in his sarcastic and incisive
voice, "as our friend De Lhorailles has told us his history, and we are
becoming confidential, why should I not tell you mine? The weather is
fearful--it is raining torrents. Here we are, comfortably tiled in: we
have champagne and regalias--two excellent things when not abused. What
have we better to do? 'Nothing,' I hear you say. Listen to me, then, for
I believe what I have to tell you will interest you the more, because
some among you will not be vexed to know the whole truth about me."

The majority of the guests burst into a laugh at this remark. When their
hilarity was calmed the baron began:--

"As for the first part of my story, I shall imitate the count's brevity.
In the present age gentlemen find themselves so naturally beyond the
pale of the law through the prejudices of blood and education, that they
all are fated to pass through a rough apprenticeship to life, by
devouring in a few years, they know not how, the paternal fortune. This
happened to me, gentlemen, as to yourselves. My ancestors in the middle
ages were, to a certain extent, freebooters. True blood always shows
itself. When my last resources were nearly exhausted, my instincts were
aroused, and my eyes fixed on America. In less than ten years I amassed
there the colossal fortune which I now have the distinguished honour,
not of dissipating--the lesson was too rude, and I profited by it--but
of spending in your honourable company, while careful to keep my capital
intact."

"But," the count exclaimed impatiently, "how did you amass this colossal
fortune, as you yourself term it?"

"About a million and a half," the baron coolly remarked.

A shudder of covetousness ran through the whole party.

"A colossal fortune indeed," the count continued; "but, I repeat, how
did you acquire it?"

"If I had not intended to reveal it to you, my dear fellow, you may be
sure I would not have abused your patience by making you listen to the
trivialities you have just heard."

"We are listening," the guests shouted.

The baron coolly looked at them all.

"In the first place let us drink a glass of champagne to our friend's
success," he said in a sarcastic tone.

The glasses were filled and emptied again in a twinkling, so great was
the curiosity of the auditors. After putting down his glass before him
the baron lighted a regalia, and, turning to the count, said to him,--

"I am now addressing myself more particularly to you, my friend. You are
young, enterprising, gifted with an iron constitution and an energetic
will. I am convinced, that if death does not thwart your plans, you will
succeed, whatever may be the enterprise you undertake, or the objects
you propose to yourself. In the life you are about to begin, the
principal cause of success, I may say almost the only one, is a thorough
knowledge of the ground on which you are about to manoeuvre, and the
society you propose entering. If, on my entrance upon that adventurous
life, I had possessed the good fortune of meeting a friend willing to
initiate me into the mysteries of my new existence, my fortune would
have been made five years earlier. What no one did for me I am willing
to do for you. Perhaps, at a later date you will be grateful for the
information I have given you, and which will serve as your guide in the
inextricable maze you are about to enter. In the first place, lay down
this principle: the people among whom you are about going to live are
your natural enemies. Hence you will have to support a daily, hourly
struggle. All means must appear to you good to emerge from the battle a
victor. Lay on one side your notions of honour and delicacy. In America
they are vain words, useless even to make dupes, from the very simple
reason that no one believes in them. The sole deity of America is gold.
To acquire gold the American is capable of everything; but not, as in
old Europe, under the cloak of honesty, and by roundabout process, but
frankly, openly, without shame, and without remorse. This laid down,
your line of conduct is ready traced. There is no project, however
extravagant it may appear, which in that country does not offer chances
of success; for the means of execution are immense, and almost
impossible of control. The American is the man who has best comprehended
the strength of association: hence it is the lever by means of which his
schemes are carried out. On arriving there alone, without friends or
acquaintances, however intelligent and determined you may be, you will
be lost, because you find yourself alone in the face of all."

"That is true," the count muttered with conviction.

"Patience!" the baron replied with a smile. "Do you think I intend to
send you into action without a cuirass? No, no, I will give you one, and
magnificently tempered, too, I assure you."

All those present looked with amazement on this man, who had grown
enormously in their esteem in a few moments. The baron feigned not to
perceive the impression he produced, and in a minute or so he continued,
laying a stress on every word, as if wishful to engrave it more deeply
on the count's memory:--

"Remember what I am about to tell you; it is of the utmost importance
for you not to forget a word, my friend; from that positively depends
the success of your trip to the New World."

"Speak--I am not losing a syllable!" the count interrupted him with a
species of febrile impatience.

"When strangers began to flock to America, a company of bold fellows
was formed without faith or law, and without pity as without weakness,
who, denying all nationality, as they issued from every people, only
recognised one government, that which they themselves instituted on
Tortoise Island, a desolate rock, lost in the middle of the ocean--a
monstrous government; for violence was at its basis, and it only
admitted of right being might. These bold companions, attached to each
other by a Draconian charter, assumed the name of Brethren of the Coast,
and were divided into two classes--the Buccaneers and the Filibusters.

"The buccaneers, wandering, through the primeval forests, hunted oxen,
while the filibusters scoured the seas, attacking every flag, plundering
every vessel under the pretext of making war on the Spaniards, but in
reality stripping the rich for the benefit of the poor--the only means
they discovered to restore the balance between the two classes. The
Brethren of the Coast, continually recruited from all the rogues of the
new world, became powerful--so powerful, indeed, that the Spaniards
trembled for their possessions, and a glorious King of France did not
disdain to treat with them, and send an ambassador to them. At last,
through the very force of circumstances, like all powers which are the
offspring of anarchy, and consequently possess no inherent vitality,
when the maritime nations recognised their own strength, the Brethren of
the Coast grew gradually weaker, and finally disappeared entirely. By
forcing them into obscurity, it was supposed that they were not merely
conquered, but annihilated; but it was not so, as you shall now see. I
ask your pardon for this long and tedious prologue, but it was
indispensable, so that you should better comprehend the rest I have to
explain to you."

"It is nearly half past four," observed the count; "we have not more
than forty minutes left us."

"That period, though so short, will be sufficient," the baron answered.
"I resume my narrative. The Brethren of the Coast were not destroyed,
but transformed. They yielded with extraordinary cleverness to the
exigencies of that progress which threatened to outstrip them: they had
changed their skin--from tigers they had become foxes. The Brethren of
the Coast were converted into _Dauph'yeers_. Instead of boldly boarding
the enemies' ships, sword and hatchet in hand, as they formerly did,
they became insignificant, and dug mines. At the present day the
Dauph'yeers are the masters and kings of the New World; they are nowhere
and everywhere, but they reign; their influence is felt in all ranks of
society; they are found on every rung of the ladder, but are never seen.
They detached the United States from England; Peru, Chili and Mexico,
from Spain. Their power is immense, the more so because it is secret,
ignored and almost denied, which displays their strength. For a secret
society to be denied existence is a real power. There is not a
revolution in America in which the influence of the Dauph'yeers does not
step forward valorously, either to insure its triumph or to crush it.
They can do everything--they are everything: without their golden circle
nothing is possible. Such have the Brethren of the Coast become, in less
than two centuries, by the force of progress! They are the axis round
which the New World revolves though it little suspects it. It is a
wretched lot for that magnificent country to have been condemned, ever
since its discovery, to undergo the tyranny of bandits of every rank,
who seem to have undertaken the mission of exhausting her in every way,
while never giving her the chance of liberating herself."

There was a lengthened silence: each was reflecting on what he had just
heard. The baron himself had buried his face in his hands, and was lost
in that world of ideas which he had evoked, and which now assailed him
in a mass with sensations of mingled pain and bitterness.

The distant sound of a rapidly approaching vehicle recalled the count to
the gravity of the situation.

"Here is my chaise," he said. "I am about to set out, and I know
nothing."

"Patience!" the baron replied. "Take leave of your friends, and we will
start."

Yielding, in spite of himself, to the influence of this singular man,
the count obeyed, without dreaming of offering the slightest opposition.
He rose, embraced each of his old friends, exchanged with them hearty
hand-shakings, received their auguries of success, and left the room,
followed by the baron.

The post-chaise was waiting in front of the house. The young men had
opened the windows, and were waving fresh adieux to their friend. The
count turned a long look on the Boulevard. The night was gloomy, though
the rain no longer fell; the sky was black; and the gas-jets glinted
feebly in the distance like stars lost in a fog.

"Farewell," he said in a stifled voice, "farewell! Who knows whether I
shall ever return?"

"Courage!" a stern voice whispered in his ear.

The young man shuddered: the baron was at his side.

"Come, my friend," he said, as he helped him to enter the carriage, "I
will accompany you to the barrier."

The count got in and fell back on a cushion.

"The Normandy road," the baron shouted to the postilion, as he shut the
door.

The driver cracked his whip, and the chaise started at a gallop.

"Good-by, good-by!" the young men loudly shouted as they leant out of
the windows of the Café Anglais.

For a long time the two remained silent. At length the baron took the
word.

"Gaëtan!" he said.

"What would you?" the latter replied.

"I have not yet finished my narrative."

"It is true," he muttered distractedly.

"Do you not wish me to end it?"

"Speak, my friend."

"In what a tone you say that, my good fellow! Your mind is wandering in
imaginary space; you are doubtlessly dreaming of those you are leaving.

"Alas!" murmured the count with a sigh, "I am alone in the world. What
have I to regret? I possess neither friends nor relations."

"Ungrateful man!" The baron said in a reproachful tone.

"It is true: Pardon me, my dear fellow; I did not think of what I was
saying."

"I pardon you, but on condition that you listen to me."

"I promise it."

"My friend, it you desire success, the friendship and protection of
those Dauph'yeers I mentioned are indispensable for you."

"How can I obtain them--I, a wretched stranger? How I tremble on
thinking of the country in which I dreamed of creating such a glorious
future! The veil that covered my eyes is fallen. I see the extravagance
of my projects, and all hope abandons me."

"Already?" exclaimed the baron sternly. "Child without energy, to
abandon a contest even before having engaged in it! Man without strength
and courage! I will give you the means, if you like, of obtaining the
friendship and protection so necessary for you."

"You!" the count said, quivering with excitement.

"Yes, I! Do you fancy I have been amusing myself with torturing your
mind for the last two hours, like the jaguar plays with the lamb, for
the mere pleasure of deriding you? No, Gaëtan. If you had that thought,
you were wrong, for I am fond of you. When I learned your scheme I
applauded, from the bottom of my heart, that resolution which restored
you to your proper place in my mind. When you this night frankly avowed
to us your position, and explained your plans, I found myself again in
you; my heart beat; for a moment I was happy: and then I vowed to open
to you that path so wide, so great, and so noble, that if you do not
succeed, it will be because you do not desire to do so."

"Oh!" the count said energetically, "I may succumb in the contest which
begins this day between myself and humanity at large, but fear nothing,
my friend; I will fall nobly like a man of courage."

"I am persuaded of it, my friend. I have only a few more words to say to
you. I, too, was a Dauph'yeer, and am so still. Thanks to my brethren, I
gained the fortune I now possess. Take this portfolio: put round your
neck this chain, from which a medallion hangs; then, when you are alone,
read these instructions contained in the portfolio, and act as they
prescribe. If you follow them point for point, I guarantee your success.
That is the present I reserved for you, and which I would not give you
till we were alone."

"O heavens!" the count said with effusion.

"Here we are at the barrier," the baron remarked, as he stopped the
carriage. "It is time for us to separate. Farewell, my friend! Courage
and good will! Embrace me. Above all, remember the portfolio and the
medallion."

The two men remained for a long time in each other's arms. At length the
baron freed himself by a vigorous effort, opened the door, and leaped
out on the pavement.

"Farewell!" he cried for the last time; "Farewell, Gaëtan, remember me."

The post-chaise was bowling along the high road at full speed. Strange
to say, both men muttered the same word, shaking heads with
discouragement, when they found themselves alone--one walking at full
speed along the footpath, the other buried in the cushions.

That word was "Perhaps!"

The reason was that, despite all their efforts to deceive each other,
neither of them hoped.




CHAPTER V.

THE DAUPH'YEERS.


Now let us quit the old world, and, taking an immense stride, transport
ourselves to the new one at a single leap.

There is in America a city which possibly cannot be compared to any
other in the whole world. That city is Valparaiso!

Valparaiso! The word resounds in the enchanted ear like the gentle soft
notes of a love song.

A coquettish, smiling, and mad city, softly reclining like a careless
Creole, round a delicious bay, at the foot of three majestic mountains,
lazily bathing her rosy and dainty feet in the azure waves of the
Pacific, and veiling her dreamy brow in the storm-laden clouds which
escape from Cape Horn, and roll with a sinister sound round the peaks of
the Cordilleras, to form a splendid glory for them.

Although built on the Chilean coast, this strange city belongs, in fact,
to no country, and recognises no nationality: or to speak more
correctly, it admits all into its bosom.

At Valparaiso the adventurer of every clime have given each other the
meeting. All tongues are spoken there, every branch of trade is carried
on. The population is the quaintest amalgam of the most eccentric
personalities, who have rushed from the most remote parts of the four
quarters of the old world, to attack fortune in this city, the advanced
sentinel of Transatlantic civilisation, and whose occult influence
governs the Hispano-American republic.

Valparaiso, like nearly all the commercial centres of South America, is
a pile of shapeless dens and magnificent palaces jostling each other,
and hanging in abrupt clusters on the abrupt flanks of the three
mountains.

At the period the event occurred which we are about to describe, the
streets were narrow, dirty, deprived of air and sun. The paving, being
perfectly ignored, rendered them perfect morasses, in which the wayfarer
sank to the knee when the winter's rains had loosened the soil. This
rendered the use of a horse indispensable, even for the shortest
passage.

Deleterious exhalations incessantly escaped from these mud holes,
heightened by the filth of every description which the daily cleaning of
the inhabitants accumulated, while no one dreamed of draining these
permanent abodes of pernicious fevers.

At the present day, we are told, this state of things has been altered,
and Valparaiso no longer resembles itself. We should like to believe it;
but the carelessness of the South American, so well known to us, compels
us to be very circumspect in such a matter.

In one of the dirtiest and worst-famed streets of Valparaiso was a house
which we ask the reader's permission to describe in a few words.

We are compelled at the outset, to confess that if the architect
intrusted with its construction had shown himself more than sober in the
distribution of the ornaments, he had built it perfectly to suit the
trade of the various tenants destined in future to occupy it one after
the other.

It was a clay-built hovel. The _façade_ looked upon the Street de la
Merced; the opposite side had an outlook of the sea, above which it
projected for a certain distance upon posts.

This house was inhabited by an innkeeper. Contrary to the European
buildings, which grow smaller the higher they rise from the ground, this
house grew larger; so that the upper part was lofty and well lighted,
while the shop and other ground floor rooms were confined and gloomy.

The present occupier had skilfully profited by this architectural
arrangement to have a room made in the wall between the first and second
floors, which was reached by a turning staircase, concealed in the
masonry.

This room was so built that the slightest noise in the street distinctly
reached the ears of persons in it, while stifling any they might make,
however loud it might be.

The worthy landlord, occupier of this house, had naturally a rather
mixed custom of people of every description--smugglers, _rateros_,
rogues, and others, whose habits might bring them into unpleasant
difficulties with the Chilean police; consequently, a whaleboat
constantly fastened to a ring under a window opening on the sea,
offered a provisional but secure shelter to the customers of the
establishment whenever, by any accident, the agents of government
evinced a desire to pay a domiciliary visit to his den.

This house was known--and probably is still known, unless an earthquake
or a fire has caused this rookery to disappear from the face of the
earth of Valparaiso--by the name of the _Locanda del Sol._

On an iron plate suspended from a beam, and creaking with every breath
of wind, there had been painted by a native artist a huge red face,
surrounded by orange beams, possibly intended as an explanation of the
sign to which I have alluded above.

Señor Benito Sarzuela master of the Locanda del Sol, was a tall, dry
fellow with an angular face end crafty look; a mixture of the Araucano,
Negro and Spaniard, whose _morale_ responded perfectly to his
_physique;_ that is to say, he combined in himself the vices of the
three races to which he belonged--red, black, and white--without
possessing one single virtue of theirs, and that beneath the shadow of
an avowed and almost honest trade he carried on clandestinely some
twenty, the most innocent of which would have taken him to the
_presidios_ or galleys for life, had he been discovered.

Some two months after the events we described in a previous chapter,
about eleven of the clock on a cold and misty night, Señor Benito
Sarzuela was seated in melancholy mood within his bar, contemplating
with mournful eye the deserted room of his establishment.

The wind blowing violently, caused the sign of the _mesón_ to creak on
its hinges with gloomy complaints, and the heavy black clouds coming
from the south moved weightily athwart the sky, dropping at intervals
heavy masses of rain on the ground loosened by previous storms.

"Come," the unhappy host muttered to himself with a piteous air, "there
is another day which finishes as badly as the others. _Sangre de Dios!_
For the last week I have had no luck. If it continues only a fortnight
longer I shall be ruined a man."

In fact, through a singular accident, for about a month the Locanda del
Sol had been completely shorn of its old brilliancy, and the landlord
did not know any reason for its eclipse.

The sound of clanking glasses and cups was no longer heard in the room,
usually affected by thirsty souls. Strange change in human things!
Abundance had been too suddenly followed by the most perfect vacuum. It
might be said that the plague reigned in this deserted house. The
bottles remained methodically arranged on the shelves, and hardly two
passers-by had come in during the past day to drink a glass of _pisco_,
which they hastily paid for, so eager were they to quit this den, in
spite of the becks, and nods, and wreathed smiles of the host, who tried
in vain to keep them to talk of public affairs, and, above all, cheer
his solitude.

After a few words we have heard him utter, the worthy Don Benito rose
carelessly, and prepared, with many an oath, to close his establishment,
so at any rate to save in candles, when suddenly an individual entered,
then two, then ten, and at last such a number that the locandero gave up
all attempts at counting them.

These men were all wrapped up in cloaks; their heads were covered by
felt hats, whose broad brims, pulled down carefully over their eyes,
rendered them perfectly unrecognisable.

The room was soon crowded with customers drinking and smoking, but not
uttering a word.

The extraordinary thing was that, although all the tables were lined,
such a religious silence prevailed among these strange bibbers that the
noise of the rain pattering outside could be distinctly heard, as well
as the footfall of the horses ridden by the serenos, which resounded
hoarsely on the pebbles or in the muddy ponds that covered the ground.

The host, agreeably surprised by this sudden turn of fortune, had
joyfully set to work serving his unexpected customers; but all at once a
singular thing happened, which Señor Sarzuela was far from anticipating.
Although the proverb say that you can never have enough of a good
thing--and proverbs are the wisdom of nations--it happened that the
affluence of people, who appeared to have made an appointment at his
house, became so considerable, and assumed such gigantic proportions,
that the landlord himself began to be terrified; for his hostelry, empty
a moment previously, was now so crammed that he soon did not know where
to put the new arrivals who continued to flock in. In fact the crowd,
after filling the common room, had, like a rising tide, flowed over
into the adjoining room, then it escaladed the stairs, and spread over
the upper floors.

At the first stroke of eleven more than two hundred customers occupied
the Locanda del Sol.

The locandero, with that craft which was one of the most salient points
of his character, then comprehended that something extraordinary was
about to happen, and that his house would be the scene.

At the thought a convulsive tremor seized upon him, his hair began to
stand on end, and he sought in his brain for the means he must employ to
get rid of these sinister and silent guests.

In his despair he rose with an air which he sought to render most
resolute, and walked to the door as if for the purpose of closing his
establishment. The customers, still silent as fish, did not make a sign
of moving; on the contrary, they pretended they noticed nothing.

Don Benito felt his nervousness redoubled.

Suddenly the voice of a sereno singing in the distance furnished him
with the pretext he vainly sought, by shouting as he passed the
locanda,--

"_Ave Maria purísima. Las onze han dado y llueve._"[1]

Although accompanied by modulations capable of making a dog weep, the
sacramental cry of the sereno absolutely produced no impression on mine
host's customers. The force of terror at length restoring him a slight
degree of courage, Señor Sarzuela decided on directly addressing his
obstinate customers. For this purpose he deliberately posted himself in
the centre of the room, thrust his fist into his side, and raising his
head, said in a voice which he tried in vain to render firm, but whose
tremor he could not hide,--

"Señores caballeros, it is eleven o'clock. The police regulations forbid
me keeping open longer. Have the goodness, I beg you, to withdraw
without delay, so that I may close my establishment."

This harangue, from which he promised himself the greatest success,
produced an effect exactly contrary to what he expected. The strangers
vigorously smote the table with their glasses, shouting unanimously,--

"Drink!"

The landlord bounded back at this fearful disturbance.

"Still, caballeros," he ventured to remark, after a moment's hesitation,
"the police regulations are severe. It is eleven, and--"

He could say no more: the noise recommenced with even greater intensity,
and the customers shouted together, in a voice of thunder, "Drink!"

A reaction, easy to comprehend, then took place in the mind of mine
host. Fancying that a personal attack was made on himself, persuaded
that his interests were at stake, the coward disappeared to make room
for the miser, threatened in what is dearest to him--his property.

"Ah," he shouted in feverish exasperation, "that is the game! Well, we
will see if I am master in my own house. I will go and fetch the alcalde."

This threat of justice from the mouth of the worthy Sarzuela appeared so
droll, that the customers broke out, with a unanimity that did them all
credit, into a burst of Homeric laughter right under the poor fellow's
nose. This was the _coup de grâce_. The host's anger was converted into
raving madness, and he rushed headforemost at the door, under the
laughter and inextinguishable shouts of his persecutors. But he had
hardly crossed the threshold of his house ere a new arrival seized him
unceremoniously by the arm and hurled him back roughly into the room,
saying in a bantering voice,--

"What fly has stung you, my dear landlord? Are you mad to go out
bareheaded in such weather, at the risk of catching a pleurisy?"

And then, while the locandero, terrified and confounded by this rude
shock, tried to regain his balance and re-establish a little order in
his ideas, the unknown, as coolly as if he were at home, had, with the
help of some of the customers, to whom he made signs, shut the shutters
and bolted the door with as much care as Sarzuela himself usually
devoted to this delicate operation.

"There, now that is done," the stranger said, turning to the amazed host
"suppose we have a chat, _compadre_? Ah, I suppose you do not recognise
me?" he added, as he removed his hat and displayed a fine intelligent
face, over which a mocking smile was at this moment playing.

"Oh, el Señor Don Gaëtano!" said Sarzuela, whom this meeting was far
from pleasing, and who tried to conceal a horrible grimace.

"Silence!" the other said. "Come hither."

"With a gesture he drew the landlord into a corner of the room, and,
leaning down to his ear, said in a low voice,--

"Are there any strangers in your house?"

"Look!" he said with a piteous glance, as he pointed to the still
drinking customers, "that legion of demons invaded my house an hour
back. They drink well, it is true; but there is something suspicious
about them not at all encouraging to an honest man."

"The more reason that you should have nothing to fear. Besides, I am not
alluding to them. I ask you if you have any strange lodgers? As for
those men, you know them as well as I do, perhaps better."

"From top to bottom of my house I have no other persons than these
caballeros, whom you say I know. It is very possible; but as ever since
they have been here, thanks to the way in which they are muffled, it has
been impossible for me to see the tip of a nose, I was utterly unable to
recognise them."

"You are a donkey, my good friend. These men who bother you so greatly
are all Dauph'yeers."

"Really!" the amazed host exclaimed: "then why do they hide their
faces?"

"My faith, Master Sarzuela, I fancy it is probably because they do not
wish to have them seen."

And laughing at the landlord, who was sadly out of countenance, the
stranger made a sign. Two men rose, rushed on the poor fellow, and
before he could even guess what they intended, he found himself so
magnificently garroted that he could not even cross himself.

"Fear nothing, Master Sarzuela; no harm will befall you," the stranger
continued. "We only want to talk without witnesses, and as you are
naturally a chatterer, we take our precautions, that is all. So be calm;
in a few hours you will be free. Come, look sharp, you fellows," he
continued, addressing his men. "Gag him, lay him on his bed, and turn
the key in his door. Good-by, my worthy host, and pray keep calm."

The stranger's orders were punctually executed; the luckless Sarzuela,
tied and gagged, was carried from the room on the shoulders of two of
his assailants, borne upstairs, thrown on his bed, and locked in in
a twinkling, ere he had even time to think of the slightest resistance.

We will leave him to indulge in the gloomy reflections which probably
assailed him in a throng so soon as he was alone, face to face with his
despair, and return to the large room of the locanda, where persons far
more interesting to us than the poor landlord are awaiting us.

The Dauph'yeers, so soon as they found themselves masters of the
hostelry, ranged the tables one on the other against the walls, so as to
clear the centre of the room, and drew up the benches in a line, on
which they seated themselves.

The Locanda del Sol, owing to the changes it underwent, was in a few
moments completely metamorphosed into a club.

The last arrival, the man who had given the order to gag the host,
enjoyed, according to all appearances, a certain influence over the
honourable company collected at this moment on the ground floor room of
the hostelry. So soon as the master of the house had disappeared he took
off his cloak, made a sign commanding silence, and speaking in excellent
French, said in a clear and sonorous voice,--

"Brethren, thanks for your punctuality."

The Dauph'yeers politely returned his salute.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "our projects are advancing. Soon, I hope, we
shall attain the object to which we have so long been tending, and quit
that obscurity in which we are languishing, to conquer our place in the
sunshine. America is a marvellous land, in which every ambition can be
satisfied. I have taken all the necessary measures, as I pledged myself
to you to do a fortnight ago, when I had the honour of convening you for
the first time. We have succeeded. You were kind enough to appoint me
director of the Mexican movement, and I thank you for it, gentleman. A
concession of three thousand acres of land has been made me at
Guetzalli, in Upper Sonora. The first step has been taken. My
lieutenant, De Laville, started yesterday for Mexico, to take possession
of the granted territory. I have today another request to make of you.
You who listen to me here are all European or North Americans, and you
will understand me. For a very long time the Dauph'yeers, the successors
of the Brethren of the Coast have been calmly watching, as apparently
disinterested spectators of the endless drama of the American republics,
the sudden changes and shameless revolutions of the old Spanish
colonies. The hour has arrived to throw ourselves into the contest. I
need one hundred and fifty devoted men. Guetzalli will serve them as a
temporary refuge. I shall soon tell them what I expect from their
courage; but you must strive to carry out what I attempt. The enterprise
I meditate, and in which I shall possibly perish, is entirely in the
interest of the association. If I succeed, every man who took part in it
will have a large reward and splendid position insured him. You know the
man who introduced me to you, and he had gained your entire confidence.
The medal he gave me, and which I now show you, proves to you that he
entirely responds for me. Will you, in your turn, trust in me as he has
done? Without you I can do nothing. I await your reply."

He was silent. His auditors began a long discussion among themselves,
though in a low voice, which they carried on for some time. At length
silence was restored, and a man rose.

"Count Gaëtan de Lhorailles," he said, "my brethren have requested me to
answer you in their name. You presented yourself to us, supported by the
recommendation of a man in whom we have the most entire confidence. Your
conduct has appeared to confirm this recommendation. The one hundred and
fifty men you ask for are ready to follow you, no matter whither you may
lead them, persuaded as they are that they can only gain by seconding
your plans. I, Diégo Léon, inscribe myself at the head of the list."

"And I!"

"And I!"

"And I!"

The Dauph'yeers shouted, outcrying each other. The count gave a signal,
and silence was re-established.

"Brothers, I thank you," he said. "The nucleus of our association will
remain at Valparaiso, and if I need them I will draw from that city the
resolute men I may presently want. For the moment one hundred and fifty
men are sufficient for me. If my plans succeed, who knows what the
future may have in store for us? I have drawn up a charter-party, all
the stipulations of which will be rigorously kept by myself and by you,
I have no doubt. Read and sign. In two days I start for Talca: but in
six weeks I will meet here those among you who consent to follow me, and
then I will communicate to them my plans in their fullest details."

"Captain de Lhorailles," Diégo Léon replied, "you say that you have only
need of one hundred and fifty men. Draw them by lots, then; for all wish
to accompany you."

"Thank you once again, my brave comrades. Believe me, each shall have
his turn. The project I have formed is grand and worthy of you.
Selection would only arouse jealousy among men all equally worthy. Diégo
Léon, I intrust to you the duty of drawing lots for the names of those
who are to form part of the first expedition."

"It shall be done," said Léon, a methodical and steady Bearnese and
ex-corporal of the Spahis.

"And now, my friends, one last word. Remember that in three months I
shall expect you at Guetzalli; and, by the aid of Heaven, the star of
the Dauph'yeer shall not be dimmed. Drink, brothers, drink to the
success of our enterprise!"

"Let us drink!" all the Brethren of the Coast shouted quite electrified.

The wine and brandy then began flowing. The whole night was spent in an
orgie, whose proportions became, towards morning, gigantic. The Count de
Lhorailles--thanks to the talisman the baron gave him on parting--had
found himself, immediately on his arrival in America, at the head of
resolute and unscrupulous men, by whose help it was easy for an
intellect like his to accomplish great things.

Two months after the meeting to which we have introduced the reader, the
count and his one hundred and fifty Dauph'yeers were assembled at the
colony of Guetzalli--that magnificent concession which M. de Lhorailles
had obtained through his occult influences.

The count appeared to command good fortune, and everything he undertook
succeeded. The projects which appeared the wildest were carried out by
him. His colony prospered and assumed proportions which delighted the
Mexican government. The count, with the tact and knowledge of the world
he thoroughly possessed, had caused the jealous and the curious to be
silent. He had created a circle of devoted friends and useful
acquaintances, who on various occasions pleaded in his behalf and
supported him by their credit.

Our readers can judge of the progress he had made in so short a
time--scarce three years--when we say that, at the moment we introduce
him on the stage, he had almost attained the object of his constant
efforts. He was about to gain an honourable rank in society by marrying
the daughter of Don Sylva de Torrés, one of the richest hacenderos in
Sonora: and through the influence of his future father-in-law he had
just received a commission as captain of a free corps, intended to
repulse the incursions of the Comanches and Apaches on the Mexican
territory, and the right of forming this company exclusively of
Europeans if he thought proper.

We will now return to the house of Don Sylva de Torrés, which we left
almost at the moment the Count de Lhorailles entered it.


[1] I salute you, most pure Mary! Eleven has struck, and it rains.




CHAPTER VI.

BY THE WINDOW.


When the young lady left the sitting room to retire to her sleeping
apartment, the count followed her with a lingering look, apparently not
at all understanding the extraordinary conduct of his betrothed,
especially under the circumstances in which they stood to each other, as
they were so shortly to be married; but, after a few moments'
reflection, the count shook his head, as if to dispel the mournful
thoughts by which he was assailed, and, turning to Don Sylva, said:--

"Let us talk about business matters. Are you agreeable?"

"Have you anything new, then, to tell me?"

"Many things."

"Interesting?"

"You shall be the judge."

"Go on, then. I am all impatience to hear them."

"Let us proceed in rotation. You are aware, my friend, why I left
Guetzalli?"

"Perfectly. Well, have you succeeded?"

"As I expected. Thanks to certain letters of which I was the bearer,
and, above all, your kind recommendation, General Marcos received me in
the most charming manner. The reception he deigned to accord me was most
affectionate. In short, he gave me _carte blanche_, authorising me to
raise, not only one hundred and fifty men, but double the number if I
considered it necessary."

"Oh, that is magnificent."

"Is it not? He told me also that in a war like that I was about to
undertake--for my chase of the Apaches is a real war--he left me at
liberty to act as I pleased, ratifying beforehand all I might do, being
persuaded, as he added, that it would ever be for the interest and glory
of Mexico."

"Come, I am delighted with the result. And now, what are your
intentions?"

"I have resolved on quitting you to proceed, in the first place, to
Guetzalli, whence I have now been absent nearly three weeks. I want to
revisit my colony, in order to see if all goes on as I would wish, and if
my men are happy. On the other hand, I shall not be sorry, before
departing for possibly a long period with the greater part of my forces,
to protect my colonists from a _coup de main_, by throwing up round the
establishment earthworks strong enough to repulse an assault of the
savages. This is the more important, because Guetzalli must always
remain, to a certain extent, my headquarters."

"All right; and you start?"

"This very evening."

"So soon?"

"I must. You are aware how time presses at present."

"It is true. Have you nothing more to say to me?"

"Pardon me, I have one other point which I expressly reserved for the
last."

"You attach a great interest to it, then?"

"Immense."

"Oh, oh! I am listening to you, then, my friend. Speak quickly."

"On my arrival in this country, at a period when the enterprises I have
since successfully carried out were only in embryo, you were good
enough, Don Sylva, to place at my disposal not only your credit, which
is immense, but your riches, which are incalculable."

"It is true," the Mexican said with a smile.

"I availed myself largely of your offers, frequently assailing your
strong box, and employing your credit whenever the occasion presented
itself. Permit me now to settle with you the only part of the debt I can
discharge, for I am incapable of repaying the other. Here," he added,
taking a paper from his portfolio, "is a bill for 100,000 piastres,
payable at sight on Walter Blount and Co., bankers, of Mexico. I am
happy, believe me, Don Sylva, to be able to pay this debt so promptly,
not because--"

"Pardon me," the hacendero quickly interrupted him, and declining with a
gesture the paper the Count offered him, "we no longer understand each
other, it seems to me."

"How so?"

"I will explain. On your arrival at Guaymas, you presented yourself to
me, bearing a pressing letter of recommendation from a man to whom I
owed very great obligations a few years back. The Baron de Spurtzheim
described you to me rather as a beloved son than as a friend in whom he
took interest. My house was at once opened to you--it was my duty to do
so. Then, when I knew you, and could appreciate all that was noble and
grand in your character, our relations, at first rather cold, became
closer and more intimate. I offered you my daughter's hand, which you
accepted."

"And gladly so," the count explained.

"Very good," the hacendero continued with a smile. "The money I could
receive from a stranger--money which he honestly owes me--belongs to my
son-in-law. Tear up that paper, then, my dear count, and pray do not
think of such a trifle."

"Ah!" the count said, in a tone of vexation, "that was exactly what
troubled me. I am not your son-in-law yet, and may I confess it? I fear
I never shall be."

"What can make you fancy that? Have you not my promise? The word of Don
Sylva de Torrés, Sir Count de Lhorailles, is a pledge which no one has
ever yet dared to doubt."

"And for that reason I have no such idea. It is not you I am afraid of."

"Who, then?"

"Doña Anita."

"Oh, oh! My friend, you must explain yourself, for I confess I do not
understand you at all," Don Sylva said sharply, as he rose and began
walking up and down the room in considerable agitation.

"Good gracious, my friend, I am quite in despair at having produced this
discussion! I love Doña Anita. Love, as you know, easily takes umbrage.
Although my betrothed has ever been amiable, kind, and gracious to me,
still I confess that I fancy she does not love me."

"You are mad, Don Gaëtano. Young girls know not what they like or
dislike. Do not trouble yourself about such a childish thing. I promised
that she shall be your wife, and it shall be so."

"Still, if she loved another, I should not like--"

"What! Really what you say has not common sense. Anita loves no one but
you, I am sure; and stay, would you like to be reassured? You say that
you start for Guetzalli this evening?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Prepare apartments for my daughter and myself. In a few days
we will join you at your hacienda."

"Is it possible?" the count said joyfully.

"Tomorrow at daybreak we will start; so make haste."

"A thousand thanks."

"Come, you are now easier?"

"I am the happiest of mortals."

"All the better."

The two men exchanged a few words further, and separated with renewed
promises of meeting again soon.

Don Sylva, accustomed to command despotically in his establishment, and
to allow no one to discuss his will, told his daughter, through her
waiting maid, that she must prepare for a rather long journey the next
morning, and felt certain of her obedience.

The news was a thunderbolt for the young lady. She sank half fainting
into an easy chair, and melted into tears. It was evident to her that
this journey was only a pretext to separate her from the man she loved,
and place, her a defenceless victim, in the power of the man she
abhorred, and who was to be her husband. The poor child remained thus
for several hours, a prey to violent despair, and not dreaming of
seeking impossible repose; for, in the state in which she found herself,
she knew that sleep would not close her eyes, all swollen with tears,
and red with fever.

Gradually the sounds of the town died away one after the other. All
slept, or seemed to sleep. Don Sylva's house was plunged into complete
darkness; a weak light alone glistened like a star through the young
girl's windows, proving that there at least someone was watching.

At this moment two hesitating shadows were cast on the wall opposite the
hacendero's house. Two men, wrapped in long cloaks, stopped and examined
the dimly lighted window with that attention only found in thieves and
lovers. The two men to whom we allude incontestably belonged to the
latter category.

"Hum!" the first said in a sharp but suppressed voice, "You are certain
of what you assert, Cucharés?"

"As of my eternal salvation, Señor Don Martial," the scamp replied in
the same tone. "The accursed Englishman entered the house while I was
there. Don Sylva appeared on the best terms with the heretic. May his
soul be confounded!"

We may here remark that a few years ago, and possibly even now, in the
eyes of the Mexicans all foreigners were English, no matter the nation
to which they belonged, and consequently heretics. Hence they naturally
ranked, though little suspecting it, with the men whom it is no crime to
kill, but whose assassination is rather looked upon as a meritorious
action. We are bound to add, to the credit of the Mexicans, that
whenever the occasion offered, they killed the English with an ardour
which was a sufficient proof of their piety.

Don Martial continued:--

"On the faith of the Tigrero, this man has twice crossed my path, and I
have spared him; but let him be careful against the third meeting."

"Oh!" Cucharés said, "the reverend Fra Becchico says that a man gains
splendid indulgences by 'cutting' an Englishman. I have not yet had the
luck to come across one, although I owe about eight dead men. I am much
inclined to indulge myself with this one; it would be so much gained."

"On thy life, picaro, let him alone. That man belongs to me."

"Well, we'll not mention it again," he replied, stifling a sigh; "I will
leave him to you. For all that it annoys me, although the niña seems to
detest him cordially."

"Have you any proof of what you say?"

"What better proof than the repugnance she displays so soon as he
appears, and the pallor which then covers her face without any apparent
reason?"

"Ah, I would give a thousand ounces to know what to believe."

"What prevents you? Everybody is asleep--no one will see you. The story
is not high--fifteen feet at the most. I am certain that Doña Anita
would be delighted to have a chat with you."

"Oh, if I could but believe it!" he muttered with hesitation, casting a
side glance at the still lighted window.

"Who knows? Perhaps she is expecting you."

"Silence, you scoundrel!"

"By'r Lady only listen! If what is said be true, the poor child must be
in a perplexity, if not worse: she has probably great need of
assistance."

"What do they say? Come, speak, but be brief."

"A very simple thing--that Doña Anita de Torrés marries within a week
the Englishman, Don Gaëtano."

"You lie villain!" said the Tigrero with badly-restrained wrath. "I know
not what prevents me thrusting down your throat with my dagger the
odious words you have just uttered."

"You would do wrong," the other said, without being in the
least discovered. "I am only an echo that repeats what it hears, nothing
more. You alone in all Guaymas are ignorant of this news. After all,
there is nothing astonishing in that, as you have only returned to town
this day, after an absence of more than a month."

"That is true; but what is to be done?"

"Caray! Follow the advice I give you."

The Tigrero turned another long glance on the window, and let his head
sink with an irresolute air.

"What will she say on seeing me?" he muttered.

"Caramba!" the lepero said in a sarcastic tone, "She will cry, 'You are
welcome, _alma mia!_' It is clear, caray! Don Martial, have you become a
timid child, that a woman's glance can make you tremble? Opportunity has
only three hairs, in love as in war. You must seize her when she
presents herself: if you do not, you run a risk of not meeting her
again."

The Mexican approached the lepero near enough to touch him, and, fixing
his glance on his tiger-cat eyes, said in a low and concentrated voice,--

"Cucharés, I trust in you. You know me. I have often come to your
assistance. Were you to deceive my confidence I would kill you like a
coyote."

The Tigrero pronounced these words with such an accent of dull fury,
that the lepero, who knew the man before whom he was standing, turned
pale in spite of himself, and felt a shudder of terror pass through his
limbs.

"I am devoted to you, Don Martial," he replied in a voice, which he
tried in vain to render firm. "Whatever may happen, count on me. What
must I do?"

"Nothing; but wait, watch, at the least suspicious sound, the first
hostile shadow that appears in the darkness, warn me."

"Count on me. Go to work. I am deaf and dumb, and during your absence I
will watch over you like a son over his father."

"Good!" the Tigrero said.

He drew a few steps nearer, undid the reata fastened round his loins,
and held it in his right hand. Then he raised his eyes, measured the
distance and turning the reata forcibly round his head, hurled it into
Doña Anita's balcony. The running knot caught in an iron hook, and
remained firmly attached.

"Remember!" the Tigrero said, as he turned toward Cucharés.

"Go on," the latter said, as he leaned against the wall and crossed his
legs; "I answer for everything."

Don Martial was satisfied, or feigned to be satisfied, with this
assurance. He seized the reata, and taking a leap, like one of those
panthers he had so often tracked on the prairies, he raised himself by
the strength of his wrists, and speedily reached the balcony. He climbed
over and went up to the window.

Doña Anita was asleep, half reclining in an easy chair. The poor girl,
pale and exhausted, her eyes swollen with tears, had been conquered by
sleep, which never gives up its claim on young and vigorous
constitutions. On her marbled cheeks the tears had traced a long furrow,
which was still humid. Martial surveyed with a tender glance the woman
he loved, though not daring to approach her. Surprised thus during her
sleep, Anita appeared to him even more beautiful; a halo of purity and
candour seemed to surround her, watch over her repose, and render her
holy and unassailable.

After a long and voluptuous contemplation, the Tigrero at length decided
on advancing. The window, which was only leaned to (for the young girl
had not dreamed of falling to sleep, as she had done), opened at the
slightest push. Don Martial took one step, and found himself in the
room. At the sight of this virginal chamber a religious respect fell on
the Tigrero. He felt his heart beat rebelliously; and tottering, mad
with fear and love, he fell on his knees by the side of the being he
adored.

Anita opened her eyes.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, on seeing Don Martial, "Blessed be God, since He
sends you to my assistance!"

The Tigrero surveyed her with moistened eye and panting chest. But
suddenly the girl drew herself up; her memory returned, and with it that
timid modesty innate in all women.

"Begone," she said, recoiling to the extremity of the room, "begone,
caballero! How are you here? Who led you to my room? Answer I command
you."

The Tigrero humbly bowed his head.

"God," he said, in an inarticulate voice, "God alone has conducted me to
your side, señorita, as you yourself said. Oh, pardon me for having
dared to surprise you thus! I have committed a great fault, I am aware;
but a misfortune menaces you--I feel it, I guess it. You are alone,
without support, and I have come to say to you, 'Madam, I am very low,
very unworthy to serve you, but you have need of a firm and devoted
heart. Here I am! Take my blood, take my life. I would be so happy to
die for you!' In the name of Heaven, señora, in the name of what you
love most on earth, do not reject my prayer. My arm, my heart, are
yours: dispose of them."

These words were uttered by the young man in a choking voice, as he
knelt in the middle of the room, his hands clasped, and fixing on Doña
Anita his eyes, into which he had thrown his entire soul.

The hacendero's daughter turned her limpid glance on the young man, and,
without removing her eyes, approached him with short steps, hesitating
and trembling despite herself. When she arrived near him she remained
for a moment undecided. At length she laid her two small, dainty hands
on his shoulders, and placed her gentle face so near his, that the
Tigrero felt on his forehead the freshness of her embalmed breath, while
her long, black, and perfumed tresses gently caressed him.

"It is true, then," she said in a harmonious voice, "you love me then,
Don Martial?"

"Oh!" the young man murmured, almost mad with love at this delicious
contact.

The Mexican girl bent over him still more, and grazing with her rosy
lips the Tigrero's moist brow,--

"Now," she said to him, starting back with the ravishing movement of a
startled fawn, while her brow turned purple with the effort she had made
to overcome her modesty, "now defend me, Don Martial; for in the
presence of God, who sees us and judges us, I am your wife!"

The Tigrero leaped on his feet beneath the corrosive sting of this kiss.
With a radiant brow and sparkling eyes, he seized the girl's arm and
drawing her to the corner of the room, where was a statue of the
Virgin, before which perfumed oil was burning,--

"On your knees, señorita," he said in an inspired voice, and himself
bowed the knee.

The girl obeyed him.

"Holy Mother of Sorrow!" Don Martial went on, "_Nuestra Señora de la
Soledad_! Divine succour of the afflicted, who soundest all hearts! Thou
seest the purity of our souls, the holiness of our love. Before thee I
take for my wife Doña Anita de Torrés. I swear to defend and protect
her, before and against everybody, even if I lose my life in the contest
I commence this day for the happiness of her I love, and who from this
day forth is really my betrothed."

After pronouncing this oath in a firm voice the Tigrero turned to the
maiden.

"It is your turn now, señorita," he said to her.

The girl fervently clasped her hands, and raising her tear-laden eyes to
the holy image,--

"Nuestra Señora de la Soledad," she said in a voice broken with emotion,
"thou, my only protector since the day of my birth, knowest how truly I
am devoted to thee! I swear that all this man has said is the truth. I
take him for my husband in thy sight, and will never have another."

They rose, and Doña Anita led the Tigrero to the balcony.

"Go!" she said to him. "Don Martial's wife must not be suspected. Go, my
husband, my brother! The man to whom they want to deliver me is called
the Count de Lhorailles. Tomorrow at daybreak we leave this place,
probably to join him."

"And he?"

"Started this night."

"Where is he going?"

"I know not."

"I will kill him."

"Farewell, Don Martial, farewell!"

"Farewell, Doña Anita! Take courage: I am watching over you."

And after imprinting a last and chaste kiss on the young girl's pure
brow, he clambered over the balcony, and hanging by the reata, glided
down into the street. The hacendero's daughter unfastened the running
knot, leant out and gazed on the Tigrero as long as she could see him;
then she closed the window.

"Alas, alas!" murmured she, suppressing a sigh, "What have I done? Holy
Virgin, thou alone canst restore me the courage which is deserting me."

She let the curtain fall which veiled the window, and turned to go and
kneel before the Virgin; but suddenly she recoiled, uttering a cry of
terror. Two paces from her Don Sylva was standing with frowning brow and
stern face.

"Doña Anita, my daughter," said he, in a slow and stern voice, "I have
seen and heard everything; spare yourself, then, I beg you, all useless
denial."

"My father!" the poor child stammered in a broken voice.

"Silence!" he continued. "It is three o'clock; we set out at sunrise.
Prepare yourself to marry in a fortnight Don Gaëtano de Lhorailles."

And, without deigning to add a word, he walked out slowly, carefully
closing the door after him.

As soon as she was alone the young girl bent down as if listening,
tottered a few steps forward, raised her hands with a nervous gesture to
her contracted throat--then, pealing forth a piercing cry, fell back on
the floor.

She had fainted.




CHAPTER VII.

THE DUEL.


It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the
residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. The _feria de plata_ was then in all
its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and
motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The
piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and
intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that
shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of the
_vihuelas_ and _jarabes_ escaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the
drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was
possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but
the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a
temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he
endured at every moment.

At length, after numberless difficulties, and wasting at least thrice
the time he would have employed under other circumstances, he reached at
about ten in the evening, the house where he lodged. He had spent about
two hours in covering less than six hundred yards.

On arriving at the mesón, the count proceeded first to the corral to see
his horse, to which he gave, with his own hand, two trusses of alfalfa;
then, after ordering that he should be called at one o'clock, if by
accident (which was most improbable) he retired to his _cuarto_ to take
a few hours' rest.

The count intended to start at such an early hour in order to avoid the
heat of the day, and travel more quickly. Besides, after his lengthened
conversation with Don Sylva, the noble adventurer was not sorry to find
himself alone, in order to go over in his mind all the happy things that
had happened during the past evening.

From the moment he had landed in America the count had enjoyed--to
employ a familiar term--a shameful good luck: everything succeeded with
him. In a few months his fortune might be thus summed up:--A colony
founded under the most favourable auspices, and already on the road of
progress and improvement: while keeping his nationality intact--that is
to say, his liberty of action and an inviolable neutrality--he was in
the service of the Mexican Government, as captain of a free corps of one
hundred and fifty devoted men, with whom he could attempt, if not carry
out, the wildest enterprises. In the last place, he was on the point of
marrying the daughter of a man twenty times a millionaire, as far as he
had opportunity of judging; and what in no way spoiled the affair, his
betrothed was delightful.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, according the standpoint our readers may
think in judging of our hero, this man, worn out by the enervating
eccentricities of Parisian life, no longer felt his heart beat from any
emotion of joy, sorrow or fear: all was dead within him. He was exactly
the man wanted to succeed in the country to which accident had sent him.
In the great del of life he had begun in America he had an immense
advantage over his adversaries--that of never allowing himself to be
directed by passion; and consequently, owing to his unalterable coolness,
he was enabled to evade the pitfalls incessantly laid for him, over
which he triumphed without appearing to notice them.

After what we have said, we have hardly need to add that he did not love
the woman whose hand he sought. She was young and lovely--so much the
better. Had she been old and ugly he would have accepted her hand all
the same. What did he care? He only sought one thing in marriage--a
brilliant and envied position. In fine, the Count de Lhorailles was all
calculation. We have made a mistake, however, in affirming that he had
not a weak point. He was ambitious. This passion, one of the most
violent of those with which Heaven has afflicted the human race, was
possibly the only link by which the count was still attached to
humanity. Ambition in him had reached such a pitch, especially during
the last few months--it had taken such an immense development--that he
would have sacrificed all to it.

Now let us see what was the object of this man's ambition. What future
did he dream of? It is probable that we may explain this to the reader
in fuller detail presently.

The count went to bed; that is to say, after wrapping himself carefully
in his zarapé, he stretched himself on the leathern frame which
throughout Mexico is the substitute for beds, whose existence is
completely ignored. So soon as he lay down he fell asleep, with that
conscience peculiar to the adventurer whose every hour is claimed
beforehand, and who, having but a few moments to grant to rest, hastens
to profit by them, and sleeps as the Spaniards say, _a la pierna
suelta_, which we may translate nearly by sleeping with closed fists.

At one in the morning the count, as he had promised, awoke, lighted the
_cebo_ which served him as a candle, arranged his toilette to a certain
extent, carefully examined his pistols and rifle, and assured himself
that his sabre left the scabbard easily; then, when all these various
preparations, indispensable for every traveller careful for his safety,
were ended, he opened the door of the cuarto and proceeded to the
corral.

His horse was eating heartily, and gaily finishing its alfalfa. The
count himself gave it a measure of oats, which he saw it dispose of with
neighs of pleasure, and then put on the saddle. In Mexico, horsemen,
whatever the class of society to which they belong, never leave to
others the care of attending to their steeds: for in those semi-savage
countries the life of the rider depends nearly always upon the vigour
and speed of his animal.

The door of the mesón was only leaned to, so that the travellers might
start whenever they pleased without disturbing anybody. The count lit
his cigar, leaped into the saddle, and started on a trot along the road
leading to the Rancho. Nothing is so agreeable as night travelling in
Mexico. The earth, refreshed by the night breeze, and bedewed by the
copious dew, exhaled acrid and perfumed scents, whose beneficent
emanations restore the body all its vigour, and the mind its lucidity.
The moon, just on the point of disappearing, profusely scattered its
oblique rays, which lengthened immoderately the shadow of the trees
growing at intervals along the road, and made them in the obscurity
resemble a legion of fleshless spectres. The sky, of a deep azure, was
studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, in the midst of
which flashed the dazzling southern cross, to which the Indians have
given the name of _Poron Chayké_. The wind breathed gently through the
branches, in which the blue jay uttered at intervals the melodious notes
of its melancholy song, with which were mingled at times, in the
profundities of the desert, the howling of the cougar, the sharp miauw
of the panther or the ounce, and the hoarse bark of the coyotes in
search of prey.

The count, on leaving Guaymas, had hurried on his horse; but subjugated,
in spite of himself, by the irresistible attractions of this autumn
night he gradually checked the pace of his steed, and yielded to the
flood of thoughts which mounted incessantly to his brain, and plunged
him into a gentle reverie. The descendant of an ancient and haughty
Frank race, alone in this desert, he mentally surveyed the splendour of
his name so long eclipsed, and his heart expanded with joy and pride on
reflecting that the task was reserved for him perhaps to rehabilitate
those from whom he descended, and restore, this time eternally, the
fortunes of his family, of which he had hitherto proved such a bad
guardian.

This land, which he trampled underfoot, would restore him what he had
lost and madly squandered a hundred fold. The moment had at length
arrived when, free from all hobbles, he was about to realise those plans
for the future so long engraved on his brain. He went on thus,
travelling in the country of chimeras, and so absorbed in his thoughts,
that he no longer troubled himself with what went on around him.

The stars were beginning to turn pale in the heavens, and be
extinguished in turn. The dawn was tracing a white line, which gradually
assumed a reddish tint on the distant obscurity of the horizon. On the
approach of day the air became fresher; then the count, aroused--if we
may employ the term--by the icy impression produced on him by the
bountiful desert dew, pulled the folds of his zarapé over the shoulders
with a shudder, and started at a gallop, directing a glance to the sky,
and muttering,--

"I will succeed, no matter the odds."

A haughty defiance, to which the heavens seemed prepared to respond
immediately.

The day was on the brink of dawning, and, in consequence of that, the
night, owing to its struggle with the twilight, had become more gloomy,
as always happens during the few moments preceding the apparition of the
sun. The first houses of the Rancho were standing out from the fog, a
short distance before him, when the count heard, or fancied he heard,
the sound of several horses' hoofs re-echoing on the pebbles behind him.

In America, by night, and on a solitary road, the presence of man
announces always or nearly always, a peril.

The count stopped and listened. The sound was rapidly approaching. The
Frenchman was brave, and had proved it in many circumstances; still he
did not at all desire to be assassinated in the corner of the road, and
perish miserably through an ambuscade. He looked around, in order to
study the chances of safety offered him in the probable event that the
arrivals were enemies.

The plain was bare and flat: not a tree, not a ditch, nor any elevation
behind which he could intrench himself. Two hundred yards in front, as
we have said, were the first houses of the Rancho.

The count made up his mind on the instant. He dug his spurs into his
horse's flanks, and galloped at full speed in the direction of San José.
It seemed to him as if the strangers imitated him, and pressed on their
horses too.

A few minutes passed thus, during which the sound grew more distinct. It
was, therefore, evident to the Frenchman that the strangers were after
him. He threw a glance behind him, and perceived two shadows, still
distant, rushing at full speed towards him. By this time the count had
reached the Rancho. Reassured by the vicinity of houses, and not caring
to fly from a perhaps imaginary danger, he turned back, drew his horse
across the road, took a pistol in each hand, and waited. The strangers
were still pressing on without checking the speed of their horses, and
were soon within twenty yards of the count.

"Who goes there?" he shouted in a firm and loud voice.

The unknown made no reply, and appeared to redouble their speed.

"Who's there?" the count repeated. "Stop, or I fire!"

He uttered these words with such a determined accent, his countenance
was so intrepid, that, after a few moments' hesitation, the strangers
stopped.

There were two of them. The day, just feebly breaking, permitted the
count to distinguish them perfectly. They were dressed in Mexican
costume; but, strangely enough in this country, where, under similar
circumstances, the bandits care very little about showing their faces,
the strangers were masked.

"Hold, my masters!" shouted the count. "What means this obstinate
pursuit?"

"That we probably have an interest in catching you up," replied a
hoarse voice sarcastically.

"Then you really are after me?"

"Yes, if you are the stranger known as the Count de Lhorailles."

"I am he," said he without any hesitation.

"Very good; then we can come to an understanding."

"I ask nothing better, though, from your suspicious conduct, you appear
to me to be bandits, if you want my purse, take it and be off, for I am
in a hurry."

"Keep your purse, caballero; we want to take your life, and not your
money."

"Ah, ha! 'tis, then, a trap, followed by an assassination."

"You are mistaken. I offer you a fair fight."

"Hum!" the count said, "a fair fight: two against one--that is rather
disproportionate."

"You would be correct if matters were as you assume," the man haughtily
replied who had hitherto taken the word; "but my companion will content
himself with looking on and taking no part in the duel."

The count reflected.

"Pardieu!" he said at last, "It is an extraordinary affair! A duel in
Mexico and with a Mexican! Such a thing as that has never been heard of
before."

"It is true, caballero; but all things must have a beginning."

"Enough of jesting. I ask nothing better than to fight, and I hope to
prove to you that I am a resolute man; but before accepting your
proposition, I should not be sorry to know why you force me to fight
you."

"For what end?"

"Corbleu! Why, to know it. You must understand that I cannot waste my
time in fighting with every ruffler I meet on the road, and who has a
fancy to have his throat cut."

"It will be enough for you to know that I hate you."

"Caramba! I suspected as much; but as you seem determined not to show me
your face, I should like to be able to recognise you at another time."

"Enough chattering," the unknown said haughtily. "Time is flying. We
have had sufficient discussion."

"Well, my master, if that is the case, get ready. I warn you that I
intend to take you both. A Frenchman would never have any difficulty in
holding his own against two Mexican bandits."

"As you please."

"Forward!"

"Forward!"

The three horsemen spurred their horses and charged. When they met they
exchanged pistol shots, and then drew their sabres. The fight was brief,
but obstinate. One of the strangers, slightly wounded, was carried away
by his horse, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The count, grazed by a
ball, felt his anger changed to fury, and redoubled his efforts to
master his foe; but he had before him a sturdy opponent, a man of
surprising skill and of strength at least equal to his own.

This man whose eyes he saw gleaming like live coals through the holes in
his mask, whirled round him with extraordinary rapidity, making his
horse perform the boldest curvets, attacking him incessantly with the
point or edge of his sabre, while bounding out of reach of the
counterblows.

The count exhausted himself in vain against this indefatigable enemy.
His movements began to lose their elasticity--his sight grew
troubled--the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. His silent
adversary increased the rapidity of his attacks: the issue of the combat
was no longer doubtful, when the Frenchman suddenly felt a slipknot fall
on his shoulders. Before he could even dream of loosening it he was
roughly lifted from his saddle, and hurled to the ground so violently
that he almost fainted, and found it impossible to make an effort to
rise. The second stranger, after a mad course of a few moments, had at
length succeeded in mastering his horse; he returned in all haste to the
scene of action, the two men so furiously engaged not noticing it; then,
thinking it time to put an end to the duel, he raised his reata and
lassoed the count.

So soon as he saw his enemy on the ground, the unknown leaped from his
horse and ran up to him. His first care was to free the Frenchman from
the slipknot that strangled him, and then tried to restore him to his
senses, which was not a lengthy task.

"Ah!" the count said, with a bitter smile, as he rose and crossed his
arms on his chest, "that is what you call fair fighting."

"You are alone to blame for what has happened," the other said quietly,
"as you would not agree to my propositions."

The Frenchman disdained any discussion. He contented himself with
shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

"Your life belongs to me," his adversary continued.

"Yes, through a piece of treachery; but no matter--assassinate me, and
finish the affair."

"I do not wish to kill you."

"What do you want, then?"

"To give you a piece of advice."

The count laughed sarcastically.

"You must be mad, my good fellow."

"Not so much as you fancy. Listen attentively to what I have to say to
you."

"I will do so even for the hope of being promptly freed from your
presence."

"Good, Señor Conde de Lhorailles. Your arrival in this country has
caused the unhappiness of two persons."

"Nonsense! You are jesting with me."

"I speak seriously. Don Sylva de Torrés has promised you his daughter's
hand."

"How does it concern you?"

"Answer!"

"It is true. Why should I conceal it?"

"Doña Anita does not love you."

"How do you know that?" the count asked with a mocking smile.

"I know it; I know, too, that she loves another."

"Only think of that!"

"And that the other loves her."

"All the worse for him; for I swear that I will not surrender her."

"You are mistaken, señor conde. You will surrender her or die."

"Neither one or the other," the impetuous Frenchman shouted, now
perfectly recovered from his stunning fall. "I repeat that I will marry
Doña Anita. If she does not love me, well, that is unfortunate. I hope
that she will presently alter her opinion of me. The marriage suits me,
and no one will succeed in breaking it off."

The unknown listened, a prey to violent emotion. His eyes flashed
lightning, and he stamped his feet furiously; still he made an effort to
master the feeling which agitated him, and replied in a slow and firm
voice,--

"Take care of what you do, caballero. I have sworn to warn you, and have
done so honestly. Heaven grant that my words find an echo in your heart,
and that you follow the counsel I give you! The first time accident
brings us together again one of us will die."

"I will take my precautions, be assured; but you are wrong not to profit
by the present occasion to kill me, for it will not occur again."

The two strangers had by this time remounted.

"Count de Lhorailles," the unknown said again, as he bent over the
Frenchman, "for the last time, take care, for I have a great advantage
over you. I know you, and you do not know me. It will be an easy thing
for me to reach you whenever I please. We are the sons of Indians and
Spaniards. We feel a burning hatred: so take care."

After bowing ironically to the count he burst into a mocking laugh,
spurred his horse, and started at headlong speed, followed by his silent
companion. The count watched them disappear with a pensive air. When
they were lost in the obscurity he tossed his head several times, as if
to shake off the gloomy thoughts that oppressed him in spite of himself,
then picked up his sabre and pistols, took his horse by the bridle, and
walked slowly toward the pulquería, near which the fight had taken
place.

The light which filtered through the badly-joined planks of the door,
the songs and laughter that resounded from the interior, afforded a
reasonable prospect of obtaining a temporary shelter in this house.

"Hum!" he muttered to himself as he walked along, "That bandit is right.
He knows me, and I have no way of recognising him. By Jupiter, I have a
good sound hatred on my shoulders! But nonsense!" he added, "I was too
happy. I wanted an enemy. On my soul, let him do as he will! Even if
Hades combine against me, I swear that nothing will induce me to resign
the hand of Doña Anita."

At this moment he found himself in front of the pulquería, at the door
of which he rapped. Naturally impatient, angered, too, by the accident
which had happened to him, and the tremendous struggle he had been
engaged in, the count was about to carry out his threat of beating in
the door, when it was opened.

"_Válga me Dios!_" he exclaimed wrathfully, "Is this the way you allow
people to be assassinated before your doors, without proceeding to their
assistance?"

"Oh, oh!" the pulquero said sharply, "Is anyone dead?"

"No, thanks to Heaven!" the count replied; "But I had a narrow escape of
being killed."

"Oh!" the pulquero said with great nonchalance, "If we were to trouble
ourselves about all who shout for help at night, we should have enough
to do; and besides, it is very dangerous on account of the police."

The count shrugged his shoulders and walked in, leading his horse after
him. The door was closed again immediately.

The count was unaware that in Mexico the man who finds a corpse, or
brings the assassin to trial, is obliged to pay all the expenses of a
justice enormously expensive in itself, and which never affords any
satisfaction to the victim. In all the Mexican provinces people are so
thoroughly convinced of the truth of what we assert, that, so soon as a
murder is committed, everyone runs off, without dreaming of helping the
victim; for, in the case of death supervening, such an act of charity
would entail many annoyances on the individual who tried to imitate the
good Samaritan.

In Sonora people do better still: as soon as a quarrel begins, and a man
falls, they shut all the doors.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE DEPARTURE.


As Don Sylva had announced to his daughter, by daybreak all was ready
for the start. In Mexico, and specially in Sonora, where roads are
mainly remarkable for their absence, the mode of travelling differs
utterly from that adopted in Europe. There are no public vehicles, no
relays of post horses; the only means of transport known and practised
is on horseback.

A journey of only a few days entails interminable cares and vexations.
You must carry everything with you, because you are certain of finding
nothing on the road. Beds, tents, provisions and water before all, must
be carried on mule-back. Without these indispensable precautions you
would run a risk of dying from hunger or thirst, and sleeping in the
open air.

You must also be provided with a considerable and well-armed escort, in
order to repulse the attacks of wild beasts, Indians and especially
robbers with whom all the roads of Mexico swarm, owing to the anarchy in
which this unhappy country is plunged. Hence it is easy to comprehend
the earnest desire Don Sylva felt to quit Guaymas at as early an hour as
possible.

The court of the house resembled an hostelry. Fifteen mules laden with
bales were waiting while the palanquin in which Doña Anita was to travel
was being got ready. Some forty steeds, saddled, bridled, with
musquetoons attached at to the troussequins, and pistols in the
holsters, were fastened to rings in the wall while a peon held in hand a
splendid stallion, magnificently harnessed, which stamped and champed
its silver bit, which it covered with foam.

In the street a crowd of people, among whom were Don Martial and
Cucharés, already returned from their expedition to the Rancho, were
curiously regarding this departure, which they could not at all
comprehend at such an advanced period of the year, so unpropitious for a
country residence, and making all sorts of comments on the reason of the
journey.

Among all these people, collected by accident or through curiosity, was
a man, evidently an Indian, who, leaning carelessly against the wall,
never took his eyes off the door of Don Sylva's house, and followed with
evident interest all the movements of the hacendero's numerous servants.

This man, still young, appeared to be an Hiaqui Indian, although an
observer, after a close inspection, would have asserted the contrary;
for there was in the man's wide brow, in his eyes, whose glitter he
tried in vain to moderate, in the haughty mouth, and above all, in the
native elegance of his vigorous limbs, which seemed carved on the model
of the Greek Hercules, something proud, resolute and independent, which
rather denoted the proud Comanche or ferocious Apache than the stupid
Hiaqui; but in this crowd no one dreamed of troubling himself about the
Indian, who, for his part, was careful to attract as little attention as
possible.

The Hiaquis are accustomed to come to Guaymas, and let themselves out as
workmen or servants; hence the presence of an Indian there is not at all
extraordinary, and is not noticed.

At last, at about eight o'clock, Don Sylva, giving his hand to his
daughter, who was dressed in a charming travelling costume, appeared
beneath the portico of the house. Doña Anita was pale as a ghost. Her
haggard features, her swollen eyes, testified to the sufferings of the
night, and the restraint she was forced to place on herself, even at
this moment, to prevent her bursting into tears in the presence of all.
At the sight of the young lady, Don Martial and Cucharés exchanged a
rapid glance, while a smile of indefinable expression played round the
lips of the Indian to whom we have alluded.

On the hacendero's arrival silence was re-established as if by
enchantment; the _arrieros_ ran to the heads of their mules; the servants,
armed to the teeth, mounted; and Don Sylva, after assuring himself by a
glance that all was ready, and that his orders had been punctually
executed, placed his daughter in the palanquin, where she at once
nestled like a hummingbird among rose leaves.

At a sign from the hacendero, the mules, fastened to each other by the
tails, began to leave the house behind the _nana_, whose bells they
followed, and escorted by peons. Before mounting his horse Don Sylva
turned to an old servant, who, straw hat in hand, respectfully stood
near him.

"Adieu, Tío Pelucho!" he said to him. "I intrust the house to you. Keep
good watch, and take care of all in it. I leave you Pedrito and
Florentio to help you, and you will give them the necessary orders for
all to go on properly during my absence."

"You may be at ease, mi amo," the old man answered, saluting his master.
"Thanks to Heaven, this is not the first time you have left me alone
here, and I believe I have ever done my duty properly."

"You are a good servant, Tío Pelucho," Don Sylva said with a smile; "I
start in most perfect ease of mind."

"May God bless you, mi amo, as well as the niña!" the old man continued,
crossing himself.

"Good bye, Tío Pelucho," the young lady then said, leaning out of the
palanquin. "I know that you are careful of everything belonging to me."

The old man bowed with visible delight. Don Sylva gave the order for
departure, and the whole caravan started in the direction of the Rancho
de San José.

It was one of those magnificent mornings only known in these blessed
regions. The night storm had entirely swept the sky, which was of a pale
blue. The sun, already high in the horizon, shot forth its hot beams,
which were slightly tempered by the odoriferous vapours exhaling from
the ground. The atmosphere, impregnated by acrid and penetrating odours,
was of extraordinary transparency; a light breeze refreshed the air at
intervals; flocks of birds, glistening with a thousand colours, flew in
every direction, and the mules following the bell of the _nena
madrina_--the mother mule--were urged on by the songs of the arrieros.

The caravan moved along gaily through the sandy plain, raising round it
clouds of dust, and forming a long twining serpent in the endless
turnings of the road. A vanguard of ten servants explored the
neighbourhood, examining the bushes, and shifting sand heaps. Don Sylva
smoked a cigar while conversing with his daughter; and a rearguard,
formed of twenty resolute men, closed the march, and insured the
security of the convoy.

In this country, we repeat it, where the police are a nullity, and
consequently surveillance impossible, a journey of four leagues--and the
Rancho de San José is only that distance from Guaymas--is a very serious
affair, and demands as many precautions as a journey of a hundred
leagues with us, the enemies who may be met, and with whom you run a risk
of a contest at any moment--Indians, robbers, or wild beasts--being too
numerous, determined, and too greedy for plunder and murder to allow the
traveller to confide with gaiety of heart in the speed of his horse.

They were already far from Guaymas, the white houses of which town had
long ago disappeared in the numerous turnings of the road, when the
capataz, leaving the head of the caravan, where he had hitherto remained
galloped back to the palanquin, where Don Sylva was still riding.

"Well, Blas," the latter said, "what is there new? Have you noticed
anything alarming ahead of us?"

"Nothing, excellency," the capataz replied: "all is going well, and in
an hour at the latest we shall be at the Rancho."

"Whence, then, the haste you showed to join me again?"

"Oh! Excellency, it is not much; but an idea occurred to me--something I
wished you to see."

"Ah, ah!" Don Sylva said. "What is it, my lad?"

"Look, excellency," the capataz continued, pointing in a south-western
direction.

"Ah! What is that? A fire, if I am not mistaken."

"It is indeed a fire, excellency. Look here;" and he pointed
east-south-east.

"There's another. Who on earth has lighted the fires on those scarped
points? What can their object be?"

"Oh! It is easy enough to understand that, excellency."

"Do you think so, my boy? Well, then you will explain it to me."

"I am willing to do so. Stay," he said, pointing to the first fire:
"that hill is the Cerro del Gigante."

"It is."

"And that," the capataz continued, pointing to the second fire, "is the
Cerro de San Xavier."

"I think it is."

"I am certain of it."

"Well?"

"As we know that a fire cannot kindle itself, and as people do not amuse
themselves with a fire when the thermometer is up at a hundred--"

"You conclude from that--?"

"That those fires have been lighted by robbers or Indians, who have had
scent of our departure."

"Stay, stay! That is most logical, my friend. Continue your explanation,
for it interests me enormously."

Don Sylva's capataz, or steward, was a tall, herculean fellow of about
forty, devoted body and soul to his master, who placed the greatest
confidence in him. The worthy man bowed with a smile of satisfaction on
hearing the hacendero's kind remarks.

"Oh! Now," he went on, "I have not much more to say, except that the
ladrones who are watching us know, through that signal, that Don Sylva
de Torrés and his daughter have left Guaymas for the Rancho."

"My faith! You are right. I had forgotten all those details. I did not
think of all the birds of prey that are watching our passage. Well,
after all, though, what do we care if the bandits are at our heels? We
do not hide ourselves. Our start took place in the presence of plenty of
persons. We are numerous enough not to fear any insult; but if any of
those picaros dare to attack us, cascaras! They will find their work cut
out for them, I am convinced. Push on, then, without any fear, Blas, my
boy! Nothing unpleasant can happen to us."

The capataz saluted his master and galloped back to the head of the
column. An hour later they reached the Rancho without any accident.

Don Sylva rode at the right-hand door of the palanquin, talking to his
daughter, who only answered in monosyllables, in spite of the continued
efforts she made to hide her sorrow from her father's clear eyes, when
the hacendero heard his name called repeatedly. He turned his head
sharply, and uttered an exclamation of surprise on recognising in the
man who addressed him the Count de Lhorailles.

"What! Señor conde, you here? What singular hazard makes me meet you so
near the port, when you should have been so far ahead of us?"

On perceiving the count the Doña felt herself blush, and fell back,
letting the curtains of the palanquin slip from her hand.

"Oh?" replied the count, with a courteous bow, "Since last night certain
things have happened to me which I must impart to you, Don
Sylva--things which will surprise you, I am certain; but the present is
not the moment to commence such a story."

"Whatever you think proper, my friend. But say, do you set out again, or
remain here?"

"I go, I go! In stopping here my sole object was to await you. If you
consent we will travel together. Instead of preceding you at Guetzalli,
we shall arrive together--that is the only difference."

"Capital! Let us go," he added, making a sign to the capataz. The
latter, on seeing his master conversing with the count, had ordered a
halt, but now the caravan started again. The Rancho was speedily
traversed, and then the journey commenced in reality.

The desert lay expanded before the travellers in endless sandy plains.
On the yellow ground, a long, tortuous line, formed by the whitened
bones of mules and horses that had broken down, indicated the road which
must be followed so as not to go astray.

About two hundred yards ahead of the caravan a man was trotting along,
carelessly seated on the back of a skeleton donkey, swaying from side to
side, half lulled to sleep by the burning sunbeams which fell vertically
on his bare head.

"Eh?" Don Sylva said, on perceiving the man. "Blas," said Don Sylva on
perceiving this man, "call the Indian over yonder. These devils of
redskins know the desert thoroughly and he can serve as our guide. In
that way we shall run no risk of losing our road, for he will be sure to
put us right."

"Quite true," the count observed; "in these confounded sand hills no man
can be sure of his direction."

"Go to him," commanded Don Sylva.

The capataz put his horse at a gallop. On arriving within a short
distance of the solitary traveller, he formed a sort of speaking trumpet
with his hands.

"Halloh, José!" he shouted.

In Mexico all the _Mansos_, or civilised Indians, are called José, and
reply to this name, which has grown generic. The Indian thus hailed
turned round.

"What do you want?" he asked with a careless air.

It was the man whom we saw at Guaymas, watching so attentively the
preparations for the hacendero's departure. Was it chance that brought
him to this spot? That was a question which none but himself could have
answered.

Blas Vasquez was what is called in Mexico a _hombre de a caballo_,
versed for a long period in Indian tricks. He bent on the traveller an
enquiring glance, which the latter supported with perfect ease. With his
head timidly bowed, his hands laid on the donkey's neck, his naked legs
hanging down on either side, he offered a complete type of the Indian
manso, almost brutalised by the vicious contact with the whites. The
capataz shook his head with a dissatisfied air; his investigation was
far from satisfying him. Still, after a moment's hesitation, he resumed
his interrogatory.

"What are you doing all alone on this road, José?" he asked him.

"I have come from del Puerto, where I have been engaged as a carpenter.
I remained there a month, and as I saved the small sum I wanted, I
started yesterday to return to my village."

All this was perfectly probable; the majority of the Hiaqui Indians act
in this way; and then what interest could the man have in deceiving him?
He was alone and unarmed; the caravan on the other hand, was numerous
and composed of devoted men. No danger was, therefore, to be
apprehended.

"Well, did you earn much money?" the capataz continued,

"Yes," the Indian said triumphantly; "five piastres and these three
besides."

"Why, José, you are a rich man."

The Hiaqui smiled doubtfully.

"Yes," he said, "Tiburón has money."

"Is your name Tiburón (shark)?" the capataz said distrustfully. "That is
an ugly name."

"Why so? The palefaces gave that name to their red son, and he finds it
good, since it comes from them, and he keeps it."

"Is your village far from here?"

"If I had a good horse I should arrive in three days. The village of my
tribe is between the Gila and Guetzalli."

"Do you know Guetzalli?"

The Indian shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"The redskins know all the hunting grounds on the Gila," he said.

At this moment the caravan caught up the two speakers.

"Well, Blas," Don Sylva asked, "Who is the man?"

"A Hiaqui Indian. He is returning to his village, after earning a trifle
at the Puerto."

"Can he be of service to us?"

"I believe so. His tribe, he says, is encamped near the Gila."

"Ah!" said the count, drawing nearer, "Does he belong to the White Horse
tribe?"

"Yes," the Indian said.

"In that case I answer for the man," the count said quickly. "Those
Indians are very gentle; they are miserable beggars, often starving; and
I employ them at the hacienda."

"Listen!" Don Sylva said, tapping the redskin's shoulder amicably. "We
are going to Guetzalli."

"Good."

"We want a faithful and devoted guide."

"Tiburón is poor; he has only a poor donkey, which cannot march so
quickly as his pale brothers drive their horses."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," the hacendero added. "I will give
you such a horse as you never mounted, if you serve us honestly. On
arriving at the hacienda, I will add ten piastres to those you already
possess. Does that suit you?"

The Indian's eye sparkled with greed at this proposal.

"Where is the horse?" he asked.

"Here," the capataz replied, pointing to a superb stallion led by a
peon.

The redskin looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Well, do you accept?" the hacendero said.

"Yes."

"Then get off your donkey, and let us start."

"I cannot abandon my donkey; it is a famous brute, which has done me
good service."

"That need not trouble you; it can follow with the baggage mules."

The Indian gave a nod of assent, but made no further reply. In a few
minutes he was mounted, and the caravan continued its march. The capataz
alone did not appear to place any great confidence in the guide so
singularly met.

"I will watch him," he said in a low voice.

The march went on the whole day without any fresh incident, and the next
day they reached the Rio Gila. The banks of this river contrast by their
fertility with the desolate aridity of the plains that surround them.
Don Sylva's journey, though recommenced at the moment when the sun,
arrived at its zenith, pours down its burning beams perpendicularly, was
only an agreeable promenade of a few leagues, beneath the dense shade of
tufted woods which grow with an amount of sap unknown in our climates.

It was nearly three o'clock when the travellers saw before them the
colony of Guetzalli, founded by the Count de Lhorailles, and which,
although it only had a few months' existence, had already attained a
considerable size. This colony was composed of a hacienda, round which
were grouped the labourers' huts. We will devote a few words to it.

The hacienda was built on a peninsula nearly three leagues in
circumference, covered with wood and pasture, on which more than four
thousand head of cattle grazed peacefully, returning at night to the
parks adjoining the house, which was surrounded by the river, forming an
_enceinte_ of natural fortresses. The tongue of land, not more than
eight yards in width, attaching it to the mainland, was commanded by a
battery of six heavy guns, in its turn surrounded by a wide, wet ditch.

The house, surrounded by tall embattled walls, bastioned at the angles,
was a species of fortress capable of sustaining a regular siege with the
eight guns mounted on the bastions which guarded the approaches. It was
composed of a huge main building, one story high, with a terraced roof,
having ten windows in the frontage, and flanked on the right and left by
two buildings, running out at right angles, one of which served as a
magazine for grain and maize, while the other was occupied by the
capataz and the numerous _employés_ of the hacienda.

Wide steps, furnished with a double iron balustrade, curiously worked,
and surmounted by a veranda, formed the approach to the count's
apartments, which were furnished with that simple and picturesque taste
which distinguishes the Spanish farms of America.

Between the house and the outer wall was a vast garden, exquisitely laid
out, and so covered with bushes that at four paces' distance it was
impossible to see anything. The space left free behind the farm was
reserved for the parks or corrals in which the animals were shut up at
night, and a species of large court, in which the _matanza del ganado_,
or slaughter of the cattle, was performed once annually.

Nothing could be so picturesque as the appearance of this white house,
whose roof could be seen for a long distance, half concealed by the
branches which formed a curtain of foliage most refreshing to the eye.
From the windows of the first floor the eye surveyed the plain on one
side; on the other, the Rio Gila, which, like a wide silvery ribbon,
rolled along with the most capricious windings, and was lost an immense
distance off in the blue horizon.

Since the time when the Apaches all but surprised the hacienda, a
_mirador_ had been built on the roof of the main building, where a
sentinel had been stationed day and night to watch the neighbourhood,
and announce, by means of a bullock's horn, the approach of any stranger
to the colony. Besides, a post of six men guarded the isthmus battery,
whose guns were ready to thunder at the slightest alarm.

Thus the arrival of the caravan had been signalled when it was still a
long distance off; and the count's lieutenant, Martin Leroux, an old
African soldier, was standing behind the guns to interrogate the
arrivals so soon as they were within hail. Don Sylva was perfectly aware
of the regulations established in the hacienda, which were, indeed,
common to all the establishments held by white men; for at these
frontier posts, where people are exposed to the constant depredations of
the Indians, they are obliged to be incessantly on the watch. But the
thing the Mexican could not comprehend was that the count's lieutenant,
who must have recognised him, did not open the gates immediately, and he
made a remark to that effect.

"He would have done wrong," the count replied. "The colony of Guetzalli
is a fortress, and the regulations must be the same for all: the general
welfare depends on their strict and entire observation. Martin
recognised me long ago, I am convinced; but he may suppose that I am a
prisoner of the Indians, and that, in leaving me apparently free they
intend to surprise the colony. Be assured that my excellent lieutenant
will not let us pass till he is quite certain that our European clothes
do not cover red skins."

"Oh, yes!" Don Sylva muttered to himself; "That is true. The Europeans
foresee everything. They are our masters."

The caravan was now not more than twenty yards from the hacienda.

"I fancy," the count observed, "that if we do not wish to receive a
shower of bullets we had better halt."

"What!" said Don Sylva in amazement; "They would fire?"

"I am certain of it."

The two men checked their horses and waited to be challenged.

"Who goes there?" a powerful voice shouted in French from behind the
battery.

"Well, what do you think of it now?" the count said to the hacendero.

"It is perfectly wonderful," rejoined the latter.

"Friends," the count answered. "Lhorailles and freedom!"

"All right--open," the voice commanded. "They are friends. Would that we
often received such visitors!"

The peons lowered the drawbridge (the only passage by which the hacienda
could be entered), the caravan passed over and the drawbridge was
immediately raised after them.

"You will excuse me, captain," Martin Leroux said, respectfully
approaching the count, "but, although I recognised you, we live in a
country where, I think, too great prudence cannot be exercised."

"You have done your duty, lieutenant, and I can only thank you for it.
Have you any news?"

"Not much. A troop of horse I sent out into the plain discovered a
deserted fire. I fancy the Indians are prowling round us."

"We will be on our guard."

"Oh, I keep good watch, especially at present, for the month is drawing
nigh which the Comanches call so audaciously the Mexican moon. I should
not be sorry, if they dared to meddle with us, to give them a lesson
which would be profitable for the future."

"I share your views entirely. Redouble your vigilance, and all will be
well."

"Have you no other orders to give me?"

"No."

"Then I will withdraw. You know, captain, that you intrust the internal
details to me, and I must be everywhere in turn."

"Go, lieutenant; let me not keep you."

The old soldier saluted his chief, and retired with a friendly nod to
the capataz, who followed him with the peons and baggage mules.

The count led his guests to the apartments kept for visitors, and
installed them in comfortably-furnished rooms.

"Pray rest yourself, Don Sylva," he said; "you and Doña Anita must be
fatigued with your journey. Tomorrow, if you permit me, we will talk
about our business."

"Whenever you like, my friend."

The count bowed to his guests and withdrew. Since his meeting with his
betrothed he had not exchanged a word with her. In the courtyard he
found the Hiaqui Indian smoking and walking lazily around. He went up to
him.

"Here," he said, "are the ten piastres promised you."

"Thanks," said the Indian as he took them.

"Now, what are you going to do?"

"Rest myself till tomorrow; then join the men of my tribe."

"Are you in a great hurry to see them?"

"I? Not at all."

"Stay here, then."

"What to do?"

"I will tell you; perhaps I may need you within a few days."

"Shall I be paid?"

"Amply. Does that suit you?"

"Yes."

"Then you will remain?"

"I will."

The count went away, not noticing the strange expression in the glance
the Indian turned on him.




CHAPTER IX.

A MEETING IN THE DESERT.


About three musket shots' distance from the hacienda, in a thicket of
nopals, mastic trees, and mesquites, intermingled with a few mahogany
cedars, wild cottonwood trees, and pines, just an hour before sunset, a
horseman dismounted; hobbled his horse, a magnificent mustang, with
flashing eyes and fine chest; then, after turning an inquiring glance
around, probably satisfied with the profound silence and tranquility
pervading at the spot, he made his arrangements for camping.

The man had passed middle life: he was an Indian warrior of great height
dressed in the Comanche costume in its utmost purity. Although he
appeared to be sixty years of age, he seemed gifted with great vigour,
and no sign of decrepitude could be traced in his muscular limbs and
intelligent face: the eagle's feather fixed in the centre of his warlock
allowed him to be recognised as a chief. This man was Eagle-head, the
Comanche chief.

After laying his rifle by his side he collected dry wood, and lit a
fire; then he threw several yards of tasajo on the ashes, with several
maize tortillas; and all these preparations for a comfortable supper
made, he filled his calumet, crouched near the fire, and began smoking
with that placid calmness which never deserts the Indians under any
circumstances.

Two hours thus passed peacefully, and nothing disturbed the repose the
chief was enjoying. Night succeeded day; darkness had invaded the
desert, and with it the silence of solitude began to reign in the
mysterious depths of the prairie.

The Indian still remained motionless, contenting himself with turning
now and then to his horse, which was gaily devouring the climbing peas
and the young buds of the trees.

Suddenly Eagle-head looked up, bent forward, and, without otherwise
disturbing himself, stretched out his hand to his rifle, while the
mustang left off eating, laid back its ears, and neighed noisily. Still
the forest appeared as calm as ever. It needed all an Indian's sharp ear
to have heard a suspicious rustling through the silence.

At the end of a moment the chiefs frowning brows returned to their
proper position, he re-assumed his easy posture, and lifting his two
forefingers to his mouth, imitated with rare perfection, for two or
three minutes, the harmonious, modulations of the centzontle, or Mexican
nightingale: the horse had also begun eating again.

Only a few minutes passed ere the cry of the nighthawk was twice heard
in the direction of the river. Soon after the sound of horses became
audible, mingled with the cracking of branches and the rustling of
leaves, and two mounted men made their appearance. The chief did not
turn to see who they were; he had probably recognised them, and knew
that they alone, or at any rate one of them, were to come to him here.

These two horsemen were Don Louis and Belhumeur. They hobbled their
horses by the side of the chiefs, lay down by the fire, and, on the
Indian's silent invitation, vigorously attacked the supper prepared for
them. They had left the Rancho the previous evening, and ridden without
the loss of a moment to join the chief.

The Count de Lhorailles had invited them at the pulquería to join his
party, but Belhumeur had declined the offer. Not knowing for what
purpose the Indian chief had appointed to meet him, he did not care to
mix up a stranger in his friend's affairs. Still, the three men had
parted on excellent terms, and the count pressed Don Louis and the
Canadian to pay him a visit at Guetzalli, an offer to which they had
replied evasively.

Singular is the effect of sympathy. The impression the count produced on
the two adventurers was so unfavourable for him, that the latter, while
replying with the utmost politeness, had not thought it wise to give
their names, and had employed the greatest reserve, carrying their
prudence to such an extent as to leave him ignorant of their
nationality, by continuing to converse in Spanish, though at the first
word he uttered they recognised him to be a Frenchman.

When they had ended their meal Belhumeur filled his pipe, and put out
his hand to take up a coal.

"Wait," the chief said sharply.

This was the first word the Indian uttered; up to that moment the three
men had not interchanged a syllable. Belhumeur looked at him.

"H'm!" he said, "What is the matter now?"

"I do not know yet," the chief answered. "I have heard a suspicious
rustling in the bushes; and at a great distance off, to leeward of us,
several buffaloes peacefully grazing took to flight without any apparent
cause."

"Hum!" the Canadian went on, "That is growing serious. What do you
think, Louis?"

"In the desert," the latter replied slowly, "everything has a
cause--nothing happens by accident. I believe we had better be on our
guard. Stay!" he added, as he raised his head, and pointed out to his
friends several birds that passed rapidly away over them. "Have you
often seen at this hour a flight of condors soaring in the sky?"

The chief shook his head.

"There is something the matter," he muttered: "the dogs of Apaches are
hunting."

"'Tis possible," Belhumeur said.

"Before all," the Frenchman observed, "let us put out the fire; its
gleam, slight as it is, might betray us."

His companions followed his advice, and the fire was extinguished in a
second.

"My brother, the paleface, is prudent," the chief said courteously. "He
knows the desert. I am happy to see him by my side."

Don Louis thanked the chief courteously.

"And now," Belhumeur went on, "we are almost invisible--no visible
danger threatens us; so let us hold a council. The chief had the first
scent of peril: it is, therefore, his place to tell us what he
observed."

The Indian wrapped him up in his fresada; the three men drew closer, so
as to be able to speak in a whisper, and the council commenced.

"Since sunrise this morning," Eagle-head said, "I have been marching in
the desert. I was anxious to reach the place of meeting, and proceeded
in a straight line to arrive sooner. All along the road I found evident
signs of the passage of a numerous band; the tracks were wide and full,
like those made by a party of warriors so large they care not for
discovery. These trails continued for a long distance, then suddenly
disappeared: it was impossible for me to find them again."

"Deuce, deuce!" the Canadian muttered, "That is awkward."

"At first I did not pay much attention to trail, but presently I began
to feel restless, and that is the reason I have mentioned it to you."

"What reason rendered you restless?"

"I believe that the expedition whose passage I discovered is directed
against the great cabin of the palefaces at Guetzalli."

"What makes you suppose so?" Louis asked.

"This. At the hour the alligator leaves the mud of the bank to plunge
again into the Gila, the sound of horses a short distance off compelled
me, lest I should be discovered, to bury myself in a thicket of
mangroves and floripondios. When sheltered from a surprise I looked out.
A band of palefaces passed within bow-shot of me, in the direction of
Guetzalli."

"I know who they were," Belhumeur remarked. "What next?"

"I recognised, in spite of the care he had taken to render himself
unrecognisable, the man who served as guide to the party; then I guessed
the infernal scheme formed by the Apache dogs."

"Who was it?"

"A man my brother knows. It is Wah-sho-che-gorah, the Black Bear, the
principal chief of the White Crow tribe."

"If you are not mistaken, chief, horrible things will be done ere long.
The Black Bear is the implacable enemy of the whites."

"That was the reason I spoke to my brother. But, after all what does it
concern us? In the desert each man has enough to do in taking care of
himself, without troubling about others."

The Canadian shook his head.

"Yes, what you say is true," he replied. "We ought, perhaps, to abandon
the inhabitants of the hacienda to their fate, and not interfere in
matters which may cause us great misery."

"Do you intend to act thus?" the Frenchman asked sharply.

"I do not say so positively," the Canadian replied; "but the case is a
difficult one. We shall have to deal with numerous enemies."

"Yes, but the men about to be surprised are your fellow countrymen."

"It is true; and it is that which renders the affair so awkward. I do
not wish to see these unhappy beings scalped. On the other hand, we run
the risk, by hurrying rashly into danger, of ourselves being the victims
of our devotion."

"Why reflect thus?"

"By Jove! In order to weigh the for and against. There is nothing I
detest so much as rushing headlong into an enterprise of which I have
not calculated the consequences beforehand. When I have done so I care
for nothing."

Don Louis could not refrain from smiling at this singular reasoning.

"I have my plan," the Canadian went on a moment later. "The night will
not pass without our learning something new. Let us draw near the bank
of the river. I am greatly mistaken, or we shall soon obtain there the
there the information we require before we make up our minds. Our horses
run no risk here: we can leave them; besides, they would only prove an
embarrassment for us."

The three men lay down on the ground, and began crawling silently in the
direction indicated by Belhumeur.

The night was magnificent, the moon brilliant, and the atmosphere so
diaphanous, that objects might have been distinguished for a great
distance on an open plain. The three adventurers did not leave their
covert; but, on arriving at the skirt of the forest, they hid themselves
in an almost inextricable thicket, and waited with that patience so
characteristic of the wood rangers.

The silence which brooded over the desert was so intense that the
slightest sounds were perceptible. A leaf falling on the water, a pebble
detaching itself from the bank, the slow and continuous murmur of the
water running over its gravel bed, the rustling of the owl's wing as it
fluttered from branch to branch, were the only distinguishable sounds.

For several hours the three men remained motionless and watchful, eye
and ear strained, with the finger on the trigger of the rifle, through
fear of a surprise; but nothing had yet happened to corroborate the
suspicions of Eagle-head, or the previsions of Belhumeur. Suddenly Louis
felt the chief's arm resting gently on his shoulder, as he pointed to
the river. The Frenchman rose on his knees and looked.

An almost imperceptible movement agitated the surface of the river, as
if an alligator were floating along.

"Oh, oh!" Belhumeur muttered; "I fancy that is what we are expecting."

A black mass soon appeared, floating rather than swimming on the water,
and noiselessly advancing toward the spot where the hunters were in
ambush. At the end of a few moments, this body, whatever it might be,
stopped, and the cry of the prairie dog was heard several times
repeated.

At once the howl of the coyote broke forth forcibly so near the three
men, that, spite of themselves, they shuddered, and a man hanging by
the hands dropped down from an oak tree, scarcely three yards from the
spot where they were.

This man wore the Mexican costume.

"Come, chief," he said in a low voice, though not venturing down to the
river, "come, we are alone."

The man thus addressed emerged from the water, and clambered up the bank
to join the person awaiting him.

"My brother speaks too loudly," he said. "In the desert a man is never
alone; the leaves have eyes, the trees ears."

"Bah! What you say, has not common sense. Who on earth would play the
spy on us? With the exception of your warriors, who are probably
concealed in the neighbourhood, no one can see or hear us."

The Indian shook his head. Now that he was standing only a few spaces
from the adventurers, Belhumeur perceived that Eagle-head was not
mistaken, and that the man was really the Black Bear. The two men stood
for a moment silently gazing at each other. The Mexican was the first to
speak.

"You have manoeuvred well," he said in an insinuating voice. "I know not
how you managed it, but you have succeeded in entering the fort."

"Yes," the Indian replied.

"Now we have only our final arrangements to make. You are a great chief
in whom I place the utmost confidence. Here is what I promised you. I
ought not to pay you till afterwards, but I do not wish the slightest
cloud to rise between us."

The Indian silently rejected the purse the other held out to him.

"The Black Bear has reflected," he said coldly.

"On what, may I ask?"

"A warrior is not a woman to waste his words. What my brother offered
the Black Bear, the Apache chief refuses."

"Which means?"

"That all is broken off."

The Mexican repressed with difficulty a sign of disappointment.

"Then," he said, "You have not warned your warriors? When I give the
order you will not attack the hacienda?"

"The Black Bear has warned his warriors. He will attack the palefaces."

"What did you say this moment? I confess that I do not comprehend you,
chief."

"Because the paleface will not comprehend. The Black Bear will attack
the hacienda, but on his own account."

"That was agreed between us, I fancy."

"Yes; but the Black Bear has seen the singing bird. His hut is empty: he
wishes to place in it the young pale virgin."

"Scoundrel!" the Mexican shouted in his wrath; "You would betray me in
that way?"

"How have I betrayed the paleface?" the Indian replied, still perfectly
calm. "He offered me a bargain; I refused it. I see nothing dishonest in
that."

The Mexican bit his lip with rage; he was caught, and could make no
reply.

"I will revenge myself," he said, stamping his foot.

"The Black Bear is a powerful chief; he laughs at the croaking of the
ravens. The paleface can do nothing against him."

With a movement swift as thought, the Mexican rushed on the Indian,
seized him by the throat, and, drawing his dagger, raised it to strike
him. But the Apache carefully watched the actions of his opponent: by a
movement no less swift he freed himself from his grasp, and with one
bound was out of reach.

"The paleface has dared to touch a chief," he said in a hoarse voice;
"he shall die."

The Mexican shrugged his shoulders and seized the pistol in his girdle.

It is impossible to say how this scene would have ended, had not a new
incident happened to change its features completely. From the same tree
in which the Mexican had been hidden a few moments previously, another
individual suddenly fell, rushed on the chief, and hurled him to the
ground before he could make a gesture to defend himself, so thoroughly
was he off his guard.

"By Jove!" Belhumeur muttered with a stifled laugh, "there must be a
legion of devils in that tree."

The Mexican and the man who had come so luckily to his help had securely
tied the Indian with a reata.

"Now you are in my power, chief," the Mexican said, "and you will be
obliged to consent to my terms."

The Apache grinned, and uttered a shrill whistle.

At this signal fifty Indian warriors appeared, as if they had sprung from
the ground, and that so suddenly, that the two white men were
surrounded in an instant by an impassable circle.

"Deuce!" Belhumeur said in an aside, "that complicates matters. How will
they get out of that?"

"And we?" Louis whispered in his ear.

The Canadian replied by that shrug of the shoulders which signifies in
all languages, "We must trust in Heaven," and began looking again,
interested as he was in the highest degree by the unexpected changes of
scene.

"Cucharés!" the Mexican said to his companion, "Hold that scoundrel
tight and at the least suspicious movement kill him like a dog."

"Be calm, Don Martial," the lepero answered, pulling from his vaquera
boot a knife, whose sharp blade flashed with a bluish tinge in the
moon's rays.

"What decision does the Black Bear come to?" the Tigrero went on,
addressing the chief lying at his feet.

"The life of a chief belongs to thee, dog of the palefaces: take it if
thou darest!" the Apache replied with a smile of contempt.

"I will not kill you: not because I am afraid, for I know not such a
feeling," the Mexican said, "but because I disdain to shed the blood of
an enemy who is defenceless, even if he be, like you, an unclean
coyote."

"Kill me, I say, if thou canst, but insult me not. Hasten! For my
warriors may lose patience, sacrifice thee to their wrath, and thou
mightest die unavenged."

"You are jesting; you know perfectly well that your warriors will not
move an inch so long as I hold you thus. I propose to offer you peace."

"Peace!" the chief said, and his eyes flashed. "On what conditions?"

"Two only. Cucharés, unfasten the reata, but watch him closely."

The lepero obeyed.

"Thanks," the chief said as he rose to his knees. "Speak; I am
listening--my ears are open. What are these conditions?"

"First, my comrade and myself will be free to retire whither we please."

"Good, and next?"

"Next, you will pledge yourself to remain with your warriors, and not
return to the hacienda in the disguise you have assumed for the next
twenty-four hours."

"Is that all?"

"It is all."

"Listen to me in your turn, then, paleface. I accept your conditions,
but I must tell you mine."

"Speak."

"I will not re-enter the hacienda save with the eagle feather in my
war-tuft, at the head of my warriors, and that before the sun has thrice
set behind the lofty peaks of the mountains of the day."

"You are boasting, Apache; it is impossible for you to enter the
hacienda save by treachery."

"We shall see;" and smiling with a sinister air, he added, "the singing
bird will go into the hut of an Apache chief to cook his game."

The Mexican shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Try to take the hacienda and carry off the maiden," he said.

"I will try. Your hand."

"Here it is."

The chief turned to his warriors, holding the Tigrero's hand clasped in
his own.

"Brothers!" he said in a loud voice, and with an accent of supreme
majesty, "this paleface is the friend of the Black Bear--let no one
molest him."

The warriors bowed respectfully, and fell back to the right and left, to
leave a passage for the two white men.

"Farewell!" the Black Bear said, saluting his enemy. "In twenty-four
hours I shall be on your trail."

"You are mistaken, dog of an Apache," Don Martial replied disdainfully;
"I shall be on yours."

"Good! We are, then, certain of meeting," the Black Bear said.

And he retired with a slow and firm step, followed by his warriors,
whose footfalls soon died away in the depths of the forest.

"On my faith, Don Martial," the lepero said, "I believe that you were
wrong to let that Indian dog escape so easily."

The Tigrero shrugged his shoulders.

"Were we not obliged to get out of the wasp's nest into which we had
thrust our heads?" he said. "Bah! It is only put off for a time. Let us
go and find our horses."

"One moment if you will grant it me," Belhumeur said, leaving his hiding
place, and advancing politely with his two comrades.

"What's this?" Cucharés said, pulling out his knife again, while Don
Martial coolly cocked his pistols.

"This? Caballero," Belhumeur said quietly, "I fancy you can see plainly;
enough."

"I see three men."

"Indeed, you are not at all mistaken. Three men who have been unseen
witnesses of the scene you ended so bravely--three men who held
themselves ready to come to your aid had it been necessary, and who now
offer to make common cause with you, to prevent the plunder of the
hacienda by the Apaches. Does that suit you?"

"That depends," the Tigrero said. "I must know first what interest urges
you to act in this manner."

"That of being agreeable to you in the first place," Belhumeur replied
politely, "and next, the desire to save the scalps of the poor wretches
menaced by those infernal redskins."

"In that case I heartily accept your offer."

"Be good enough, then, to follow us to our camping ground, that we may
discuss the plan of the campaign."

So soon as Cucharés noticed that the men who presented themselves so
strangely were really friends, he returned his knife to his boot, and
went in search of the horses, which had been left a short distance off.
He arrived at this moment, leading the two horses, and the five men
proceeded together to the camping ground.

"Take care," Belhumeur said to Don Martial; "you have made yourself an
implacable enemy this night. If you do not make haste to kill him, one
day or another the Black Bear will kill you. The Apaches never pardon an
insult."

"I know it; so I shall take my precautions, you may be sure."

"That is your concern. Perhaps it would have been better to get rid of
him, at the risk of what might have happened afterwards."

"How could I imagine I had friends so near me? Oh, had I but known it!"

"Well, it is of no use crying over spilt milk."

"Do you believe that he will keep scrupulously the conditions he
accepted?"

"You do not know the Black Bear; he is a man of noble sentiments and has
a way of his own for understanding points of honour. You saw that during
your entire discussion he disdained to play any trickery: his words were
always frank."

"They were."

"Be certain, therefore, that he will keep his promise."

The conversation was interrupted. Don Martial had suddenly become
pensive. The Apache's menaces gave him a good deal to think about. The
camp was reached, and Eagle-head immediately set to work rekindling the
fire.

"What are you about?" Belhumeur observed to him. "You will reveal our
presence."

"No," the Indian said, shaking his head. "The Black Bear has retired
with his warriors: they are far away at present; so we need not take
useless precautions."

The fire soon cracked again. The five men crouched round it joyfully,
lit their pipes and began smoking.

"I don't care," the Canadian presently said. "Had it not been for the
extraordinary coolness you displayed I do not know how you would have
escaped."

"Let us now see how best to foil the plans of those red devils," said
the Mexican.

"It is very simple," Louis interposed. "One of us will proceed tomorrow
to the hacienda, to warn the owner of what has passed this night. He
will be on his guard and all will be right."

"Yes, I believe those are the best means, and we will employ them."

"Five men are as nothing against five hundred," observed Eagle-head;
"we must warn the palefaces."

"That is assuredly the plan we must follow," the Tigrero remarked; "but
which of us will consent to go to the hacienda? Neither my comrade nor
myself can do so."

"I fancy there is some love story hidden under all this," the Canadian
observed cunningly. "I can understand that you would find a difficulty
in--"

"What need of further discussion?" Louis interrupted. "With tomorrow's
dawn I will go to the hacienda; I undertake to explain to the owner all
the dangers that menace him in their fullest details."

"That is agreed on, then, and all is settled," Belhumeur said.

"Then, so soon as our horses have rested, my comrade and myself will
return to Guaymas."

"No, you will not, if you please," the Frenchman objected. "I fancy it
is proper that you should know the result of the mission I undertake,
for it concerns you even more than us. I suspect--"

The Mexican repressed a lively movement of annoyance.

"You are right," he replied; "I did not think of that. I will therefore
await your return."

The hunters interchanged a few more remarks, then wrapped themselves in
their blankets, lay down on the ground, and speedily fell asleep. The
profoundest silence fell on the clearing, which was but dimly lighted by
the reddish rays of the expiring fire. The adventurers had been asleep
about two hours, when the branches of a shrub were gently parted and a
man made his appearance.

He stopped for a moment, seemed to be listening, then crawled without
the slightest sound toward the spot where the Tigrero was reposing. It
would have been easy to recognise the Black Bear by the light of the
fire. The Apache chief plucked his scalping knife from his girdle, and
laid it gently on the Tigrero's chest; then casting a parting glance
around, to convince himself that the five men slept, he retired with the
same precautions, and soon disappeared in the shrub, which closed upon
him.




CHAPTER X.

BEFORE THE ATTACK.


At the first cry of the maukawis--that is to say, at sunrise--the
adventurers awoke.

The night had been calm. They had slept with nothing to disturb their
rest. Iced, however, by the abundant dew which had filtered through
their blankets during their sleep, they hurriedly rose to restore the
circulation of their blood and warm their stiffened limbs.

At the first movement Don Martial made a knife fell down on the ground.
The Mexican picked it up, and uttered a cry of amazement and almost of
terror as he showed it to his companion

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