It was about two p.m. on the day after the battle. Twenty men were encamped in a clearing some ten or twelve miles at the most from the Río Grande del Norte; with the exception of three or four of them, who were attired like Mexican campesinos, the rest appeared to be hunters or wood rangers. The majority were lying asleep on the grass at the foot of the trees, with their heads in the shade and their feet in the sun. Their horses, hobbled and ready to be mounted, were eating their ration of Indian corn spread on woollen blankets, laid on the ground in front of them. Several sentries, leaning on their rifles, watched over the common safety.

A little apart was a group composed of four or five persons, seated on buffalo skins. These persons, whom our readers are well acquainted with, were the Count de Melgosa, Don Aníbal de Saldibar, Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, and Moonshine. Don Aníbal, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, seemed suffering from profound sorrow. The count was looking at him sadly. The Canadian was philosophically smoking his Indian pipe, while at times taking a commiserating look at the hacendero. As for Don Aurelio, he was yawning as if going to put his jaw out, with his back carelessly resting against a tree, his arms folded, and his legs stretched out.

We will now explain to the reader why these persons were collected at this spot. To do so we will go back a little way, and return to the canyon in which the fate of Mexico was decided. The first moments following a victory are always devoted by the victors to joy and delirium, order and discipline no longer exist. Men congratulate each other and run backwards and forwards, singing, laughing, and forgetting all the perils and agony of the struggle. But when minds began to calm, and reason regains its sway, reflection comes, and the sanguinary details of the battle appear in all their horror.

General Don Pelagio Sandoval after giving quarter to the conquered immediately disarmed them, and employed them in removing the wounded and burying the dead. Of all the Spanish soldiers who entered the defile, not a single man had succeeded in escaping to bear to Coahuila the news of this awful defeat. The Mexicans had comparatively lost very few men, although their loss for all that was considerable. The Mexican general resolved to encamp on the battlefield, and his troops were encamped on the plain in front of the mouth of the canyon.

It was about nine in the evening. The bivouac fires formed a brilliant circle round the camp, the soldiers were singing and laughing while narrating to each other the exciting incidents of the battle. The general, who had retired to a jacal of branches built for him, which his troops had lined inside with the flags captured from the enemy, was conversing with Oliver Clary. The Canadian had just finished a story which must have powerfully affected his hearer, for his face was pale, and a burning tear trembled at the end of his lashes.

"Poor Don Aníbal," he said, passing his hand over his eyes, "what a frightful misfortune. This last blow is the most terrible of all. He will not get over it."

"Immediately after the battle," the hunter continued, "Count de Melgosa, who as you know took no part in the action, but constantly remained with the rearguard, came to join the hacendero at the barricade which you ordered him to defend, and at which he fought so bravely."

"I know it, he killed General Cárdenas with his own hand. It is better that it should be so. That man had excited such hatred against himself, that had he lived I should probably have been powerless to protect him in spite of my eager desire to do so."

"The moment was well selected for a confession of the nature which the count had to make to Don Aníbal. The latter, overexcited by the fighting, and intoxicated by the smell of powder, endured this new misfortune with more strength than we had ventured to expect. Still the blow was terrible, and fears were entertained for his life during a moment. He rolled on the ground like an oak uprooted by the hurricane, and for some minutes was a prey to frightful convulsions and a delirium which threatened to change into insanity. Fortunately, the very intensity of the crisis saved him. He recovered, thanked the count and myself for the sympathy we had shown him, sat down on a gun carriage, and after a few nervous spasms managed to weep. Now he is calmer, and you will see him soon, for he means at once to start in pursuit of the Indians."

"Alas, I fear that his search will be unsuccessful. The villain who betrayed him has escaped. Does he know it?"

"Not yet."

"What is to be done? Unluckily, I can only offer him sterile consolation. But I have it," he said, striking his forehead, "that is the very thing. ¡Viva Cristo! if Don Aníbal does not succeed in saving his hapless wife and daughter, he will at any rate be able to catch the scoundrels who carried them off, and sacrifice them to his righteous wrath."

"Ah," said the Canadian, "in what way? I do not know, General, especially as I fear lest the misfortune is greater than you imagine."

"How so; what do you mean, Don Oliver?"

The Canadian reflected for a moment. A strange emotion agitated this brave man, and an expression of vexation, repentance, and timidity appeared on his frank and manly face. The general examined him with surprise.

"Come," he said to him, "speak. I know not why, but I fancy I have still the most frightful part of this frightful story to hear."

"You may be right, General," the Canadian said in a low and almost unintelligible voice.

"Speak; in heaven's name tell me all."

"Nonsense," the adventurer said, "my repentance has been quite enough for me to open my heart to you. General, I have committed one bad action in my life."

"You, my friend?" Don Pelagio exclaimed quickly, "That is impossible."

"Thanks for that remark, General. The opinion you have of me, restores me the courage to complete my confession. Yes, I repeat, I have committed one bad action, the memory of which has incessantly pursued me and filled me with remorse. One day I was a coward."

"Go on," the general interrupted him, with a shake of his head.

"You know," the adventurer continued, with a certain degree of hesitation, and looking down to the ground, "that nearly my whole life has been spent, in traversing the woods, either alone, or in the company of the Indians."

"I know it; go on."

"You lived on this border for a long time; you will doubtless remember the frightful catastrophe in which the Count de Melgosa's brother was assassinated?"

"Wretch! Were you mixed up in that frightful affair?" the general exclaimed.

"No," the Canadian answered with a start of horror, "and yet I was guilty. The count's son was carried off: do you remember it?"

"Alas! The count has never recovered from the effects of that abduction."

"When the redskins returned from that sanguinary expedition, bringing the poor lad with them, there was a grand discussion among them to decide the fate of the weak creature. The majority wished him to be killed, while others asserted, on the other hand, that the child ought to be preserved, in order to be converted into a hostage at a later date. I was present at this discussion; the poor boy cried; I felt an involuntary interest in him, and implored the Indians to give him to me. I succeeded in convincing them by my intreaties, and they granted my request."

"Well?" the general asked anxiously.

"A few weeks later," the Canadian continued, "the Mexican hacenderos took a brilliant revenge. The redskins, surprised in their turn, were massacred without pity. Nothing would have been easier for me at the time than to restore to the heart-broken father the boy who had been so treacherously carried off; but I had sworn not to do so; it was on that condition he was intrusted to me. I did not dare break my promise; still, taking advantage of the confusion, I tried to evade it. I placed the boy in the hands of a servant of Don Aníbal, begging him to deliver him to his master, as I felt convinced that he would be taken care of, and that at a later date I might perhaps be able to restore him alive to the parent who bewailed his death. Years passed, and various events kept me away from these parts, to which I had only accidentally come. Still the memory of this boy incessantly pursued me; my conscience cried to me that I had acted badly. In a word, my remorse became so great that I resolved to return to this country in order to discover the fate of the poor boy I had abandoned, and repair, were it in my power, the evil I had done."

"Good, my friend – good," the general exclaimed, warmly, "now I recognize you. Still, has your search been successful, and have you found the count's son again?"

"Yes," he answered, in a hollow voice; "yes, General, I have a moral certainty that the boy is no other than Don Melchior Díaz."

"Melchior! Thank heaven! Who would not be proud and happy of such a son?"

"As the rapidity of events has not yet allowed me to confirm my suspicions, and convert them into a certainty, I have preserved the greatest silence to everybody, and the count before all."

"You acted prudently."

"Yes," he continued, sorrowfully; "but unhappily Diego López has told me that Don Melchior has left the Hacienda del Río, where he was, in order to start on the track of the redskins."

"Alone?" the general said, with a start of terror. "That is the very thing that terrifies me, General. The poor young man burns with a desire to save Doña Emilia and her daughter; he is ignorant of Indian habits, and I feel convinced that he will allow his ardour to carry him away, and become a victim to his devotion."

"That is only too probable."

"The more so, because the redskins are implacable, and will not hesitate to sacrifice him to their hatred of the Mexicans. Fortunately the count is still ignorant that this young man is his son, as the news would have infallibly killed him."

The general let his head fall on his chest, and sighed. At this moment the door of the jacal was opened, and the count and Don Aníbal entered. In a few hours the hacendero had aged ten years; his pale, worn features, his eyes hollowed by fever, and his wild looks were pitiable to behold.

"General," he said in a faint voice, "Sotavento has escaped; did you know it?"

"I did, my friend," the general said, taking his hand affectionately; "I know it, and am glad of it." His hearers gave a start of surprise.

"This man," the general continued gently, "is a villain of the worst species. The horrible crime of which he has been guilty he must have long been meditating; all his measures were taken so as to throw out your pursuit, the confidence you placed in him only favoured him too thoroughly in the execution of his odious plots."

The hacendero sighed.

"This man would have died sooner than reveal anything to you. You know the Indians. You are aware to what a point they carry their obstinacy; his living and his flight are of more use to you now than his presence or his death would be. Clary, my friend, has the provost marshal told you at what spot the villain escaped?"

"He has, Excellency."

"It is well. This man, however crafty he may be, cannot have disappeared without leaving a trail, and that trail must be lifted: Be assured that it will lead you to the den where this monster has concealed his victims."

"Yes," Don Aníbal observed; "but who will find this trail?"

"Here is the man," the general said, stretching out his arm to the Canadian. "Did you never hear tell of the skill of the Canadians in following a trail?"

"This time, General, my skill would be thrown out," the hunter replied. "Water does not retain a trail."

"Clary," the general said to him, sternly, "why this hesitation? Would you refuse to do what I ask of you?"

"I do not refuse, General," he said sharply, "I only call attention to an impossibility."

"Nothing is impossible when a man has a firm will. Moreover, any discussion is useless," he added, laying a marked stress on his words, "the hour has arrived, and the master awaits for you to answer distinctly."

The hunter started at these words, and said, with a respectful bow —

"Very good, I will obey, since you insist, Excellency. You know that you can do anything with me; but on one condition."

"I will have no conditions."

"Pray listen to one remark."

"Be brief, for time presses."

"I claim the right to choose my companions. We are going to undertake a campaign in which we shall leave our scalps, if not our carcases; and as I am greatly attached to mine, I must be sure of the men I take with me."

"What you ask is quite fair, my friend, and if you have no other condition to make – "

"No other, General."

"Then I grant it."

"Very good; with your leave, I will set to work at once. Two words, however, before I leave you."

"Speak, my friend."

"The desert has its laws, which no one cares to infringe. Personally I have no animosity against the Indians; on the contrary, I have always lived on good terms with them, and only a few days ago a Comanche chief welcomed me to his camp as a friend."

"What conclusion do you draw from that?"

"None at all; still, as I must break these pleasant relations, I request, once again, that the whole management of this affair may be left in my hands. Before mounting, I will come to an understanding with my friend, Moonshine."

"Very good."

"Don Aníbal, you will let yourself be guided by me; for I presume that you intend to accompany us?"

"Can you doubt it, señor?"

"Well, it would, perhaps, be better for you to remain with the general."

"No, no, I will go on this expedition; for no one is more interested than myself in its success."

"That is true. Well, as you please."

"I, too, will accompany you, Don Oliver," said the count.

"Very well, caballero."

"But there is another person who would not forgive you for leaving him behind. Don Melchior Díaz; you will not forget to warn him, I trust, señor, for you know that we promised it to him."

The general and the hunter exchanged a meaning glance.

"That is my business," the former remarked, "so do not trouble yourself, Señor Conde."

"Now, I will be off," the Canadian continued; "however long my absence may be, do not feel anxious about it. When I rejoin you, I shall be perfectly sure of the road we have to follow."

"Can you not tell us, at least, who the people are you mean to take with you?"

"Nothing is easier; they are men like myself, hunters and adventurers belonging to my cuadrilla, accustomed to a desert life and Indian tricks. Soldiers would do us more harm than good. In this expedition, courage takes the second place; skill and craftiness alone can ensure our success. Good-bye, good-bye, all is arranged; I shall be back soon."

"Go, my friend, and luck be with you," the general said, affectionately.

"All that it is possible to attempt, General, I will do. Good-bye."

The hunter went out.

"That is all the assistance I can offer you, Don Aníbal; I wish that I could do more. Place the most perfect confidence in this adventurer; he is a man of heart, thoroughly devoted and intelligent."

"I have been able to appreciate him under critical circumstances," the count said, "and I have the best opinion of him."

"Heaven grant that his help may prove effectual," Don Aníbal murmured, with a sigh.

"Hope, my friend, hope. God will not abandon you."

Don Aníbal only answered with a sigh more profound than the first, and, after taking leave of the general, he and the count proceeded to the spot where the cuadrilla of the adventurers was encamped.

"Poor man!" the general muttered, as he saw the hacendero retire. "Will he succeed in saving the two unhappy captives? Alas!"

He shook his head doubtfully, and fell back into his meditations.

"Are you ready to start?" Moonshine asked the two gentlemen on seeing them.

"At once?" the count asked.

"Well, that will be better for what we have to do."

"Have we the time to go and fetch our horses?"

"Your peon has brought them."

Fifteen adventurers, already mounted, were waiting, motionless and silent. They were men with bold features and a resolute air, whose bronzed faces testified to the fatigue they had endured in their rough profession. A few minutes later the little band quitted the camp at a gallop, and went out into the plain under the guidance of Moonshine. It was a cold night, as most American nights are. The men wrapped themselves carefully in their cloaks, to escape being saturated by the chilling dew, which fell upon them in an abundance unknown in our climate; and they rode sharply till sunrise without exchanging a word. At about four in the morning they halted to give their horses a rest.

"Are we going to stop?" Don Aníbal asked. These were the first words he had spoken since they started.

"Only for two hours," the hunter said.

"Very well."

And he fell back into his silence, from which the count did not deem it necessary to draw him. As Moonshine had said, within two hours the horses were resaddled, and they set out again, after eating a biscuit and a strip of tasajo, and drinking a draught of spirits. The count could only succeed in making his friend swallow a few mouthfuls, by representing to him that he must keep up his strength. His grief was intensely gloomy. This time they rode a long distance, and only halted at one o'clock p.m. in a clearing.

"We will wait for Oliver here," the hunter said, as he dismounted.

Don Aníbal raised his head.

"Will he come soon?" he asked, with considerable eagerness.

"I do not know. That will depend on the information he may have picked up."

"Nonsense," said Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, who had joined the party through his warm affection for the hacendero, "he will not be long."

"My hacienda is not very far from here, señor," the count said. "There would be time to send someone to fetch Don Melchior."

Moonshine made a sign to Diego López, gave him an order in a low voice, and the latter at once went off.

"Where are we?" Don Aurelio asked. "I do not know at all. What is that river running down there between the cottonwood trees?"

"We are on the Indian border, señor, and that river you can see from here is the Río Bravo del Norte, which serves as a limit between Mexico and the great Indian prairies."

"May I ask," the count then said, joining in the conversation, "why you have made us take this road sooner than another?"

"For a very simple reason, señor. The man who carried off the two ladies whom we wish to deliver is an Indian – not a civilized Indian, but one of those to whom you give the name of Bravos, or untameable, is he not?"

"You are quite correct."

"Very well. That being so, there are heavy odds that this man, after carrying off the ladies, tried to rejoin his tribe and shelter himself from pursuit by entering the desert. On the other hand, Oliver and you, count, were attacked a little time ago by a party of Comanche marauders. It was on the same night that Doña Emilia and her daughter, after saving you by their unforeseen presence, disappeared – in all probability captured by the same men who attacked you, or another detachment of the tribe. You see, then, everything leads to the belief that the ravishers must have retired into the desert, where they are certain of meeting friends, instead of remaining in a hostile country, where it would be impossible for them to remain any length of time without running a risk of discovery."

"Yes, you are right. We were attacked by Comanches, and most assuredly should have been massacred, had it not been for the providential intervention of Doña Emilia," he added, in a low voice, not to be heard by Don Aníbal.

Time slipped away; the hacendero now and then raised his head, looked anxiously around him, and then fell back into his gloomy reverie. At length, at about five in the evening, the noise of horses could be heard, and the sentries signalled two riders coming up at a gallop. They were Don Melchior Díaz and Diego López. Moonshine was greatly puzzled by the young gentleman's arrival, for, having been warned by Oliver of the occurrences at the Hacienda del Río, he had told Diego López to remain absent for a time, and then return, saying that General Sandoval had told Don Melchior to come to him alone, and that the latter had at once left the hacienda in obedience to this order.

Diego López, consequently, rode about haphazard, and resolved to employ the time granted him in making a reconnoissance of the banks of the Río del Norte. Great was his surprise on recognizing in a horseman fording the river, the man he was supposed to have gone to fetch. In two words, Don Melchior explained what he had attempted on behalf of the captives. On his side, the peon informed him of the expedition organized to proceed to their assistance. The young man's heart bounded with delight on hearing this, and, after agreeing with Diego that they should be silent, they proceeded to the encampment in all haste.

By extraordinary good fortune. Don Melchior had succeeded in foiling the ever active vigilance of the Indians, and, after his interview with the ladies, left the teocali undisturbed; he had found his clothes and horse again at the spot where he stopped to disguise himself, after killing the sentinel; and then, mad with despair and grief, he dashed across the prairie for the purpose of joining Oliver and persuading him to fly with him to the rescue of the prisoners. At this moment it was that he met the peon.

So soon as he entered the bivouac, the young gentleman leapt from his horse, pressed the counts hand, and then rushed toward Don Aníbal, while Diego López told Moonshine, in a low voice, all about this chance interview. The hacendero had risen on perceiving Don Melchior; they fell into each other's arms, and remained embraced for a long time, mingling their tears but not speaking, for great sorrows are dumb.

"Courage!" Don Melchior at length murmured, "Courage, we shall find them again."

"Do you think so?" Don Aníbal exclaimed eagerly. "Oh! could I but believe it. Oh, heaven! Have I not suffered enough?"

He let his head droop on his chest again, and burst into tears. There was something affecting in the sight of this strong man, who was so utterly crushed by grief and cried like a child. His friends regarded him with the most earnest compassion; they did not dare offer him consolations whose inutility they recognized; but the sadness displayed on their features sufficiently proved the sympathy they felt with him.

The sun had set a long time but the hunter did not appear, and the anxiety became general. No one spoke, but each mentally calculated the hours that had elapsed, and began to think that the Canadian's absence threatened to become indefinitely prolonged. Moonshine alone did not seem to feel any anxiety or surprise, because he alone of the persons who surrounded him knew what difficulties the hunter would have to surmount in procuring positive information, and discovering on the sand or in the grass the flying traces of a man who, with the diabolical prudence of his race, had doubtless tried to efface every mark of his passage.

At about ten o'clock, at the moment when the moon, disappearing between two clouds, plunged the clearing into complete darkness for a few minutes, Moonshine, who, as an attentive sentry, had undertaken to watch over the safety of all his comrades, suddenly heard the cry of the whippoorwill rise softly and plaintively in the silence. The Canadian listened; the same cry was repeated thrice at regular intervals.

"It is he," the Canadian muttered, as he returned the same signal.

Almost immediately a man entered the clearing, leading his horse by the bridle – it was Oliver Clary. He walked to the hacendero, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Up, Don Aníbal," he said to him, "within twenty-four hours we shall have recovered those whom you thought lost."

"At last!" the hacendero shouted wildly as he leapt to his feet.