The Red Track: A Story of Social Life in Mexico

"Oh!" the audience said involuntarily, as they instinctively recoiled in horror.

"If this man is the ex-governor of Sonora," the hunter who had already spoken said, in disgust "he is a wild beast, whom his ferocity has placed beyond the pale of society, and it is the duty of honest men to destroy him."

"He must die! he must die!" the newcomers exclaimed.

The general's peons were gloomy and downcast; they hung their heads sadly, for they did not dare attempt to defend their master, and yet did not like to accuse him.

The general was still cool and unmoved; he was apparently calm, but a fearful tempest was raging in his heart. His face was of an earthy and cadaverous pallor; his brows were contracted till they touched, and his violet lips were closed, as if he were making violent efforts not to utter a word, and to restrain his fury from breaking out in insults. His eyes flashed fire, and then his whole body was agitated by convulsive movements, but he managed, through his self-command, to conquer his emotion, and retain the expression of withering contempt, which he had assumed since the beginning of this scene.

Seeing that his accuser was silent, he took a step forward, and stretched out his arm, as if he claimed the right of answering. But his enemy gave him no time to utter a word.

"Wait!" he shouted, "I have not said all yet; now that I have revealed what you have done, I am bound to render the persons here present judges not only of what I have done, but also of what I intend to do in future against you."

CHAPTER VIII.
A DECLARATION OF WAR

The general shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous smile.

"Nonsense," he said, "you are mad, my fine fellow. I know now who you are; your hatred of me has unconsciously discovered you. Remove that veil which is no longer of any use; I know you, for, as you are aware, hatred is clear-sighted. You are the French hunter whom I have constantly met in my path to impede my projects, or overthrow my plans."

"Add," the hunter interrupted, "and whom you will ever meet."

"Be it so, unless I crush you beneath my heel like a noxious insect."

"Ever so proud and so indomitable, do you not fear lest, exasperated by your insults, I may forget the oath I have taken, and sacrifice you to my vengeance?"

"Nonsense," he replied, with a disdainful toss of his head, "you kill me? that is impossible, for you are too anxious to enjoy your revenge to stab me in a moment of passion."

"That is true, this time you are right, Don Sebastian. I will not kill you, because, however culpable you may be, I do not recognize the right to do so. Blood does not wash out blood, it only increases the stain; and I intend to take a more protracted vengeance on you than a stab or a shot will grant us. Besides this, vengeance has already commenced."

"Indeed!" the general said sarcastically.

"Still," the hunter continued with some emotion, "as the vengeance must be straightforward, I wish to give you, in the presence of all these gentlemen, the proof that I fear you no more today than I did when the struggle commenced between us. This veil which you reproach me for wearing I am going to remove, not because you have recognized me, but because I deem it unworthy of me to conceal my features from you any longer. Brothers," he added, turning to his silent assistants, "my mask alone must fall, retain yours, for it is important for my plans of vengeance that you should remain unknown."

The four men bowed their assent, and the hunter threw away the crape that covered his features.

"Valentine Guillois!" the general exclaimed; "I was sure of it."

On hearing this celebrated name, the hunters of the second caravan made a movement as if to rush forward, impelled either by curiosity or some other motive.

"Stay," the Frenchman shouted, stopping them by a quick wave of the hand, "let me finish with this man first."

They fell back with a bow.

"Now," he continued, "we are really face to face. Well, listen patiently to what still remains for me to tell you; and, perhaps, the assumed calmness spread over your features will melt away before my words, like the snow in the sunshine."

"I will listen to you, because it is impossible for me to do otherwise at this moment; but if you flatter yourself that you will affect me in any way, I am bound to warn you that you will not succeed. The hatred I feel for you is so thoroughly balanced by the contempt you inspire me with, that nothing which emanates from you can move me in the slightest degree."

"Listen then," the hunter coldly continued; "when my unhappy friend fell at Guaymas, in my paroxysm of grief I allow that I intended to kill you; but reflection soon came, and I saw that it would be better to let you live. Thanks to me, one week after the count's death, the Mexican Government, not satisfied with disavowing your conduct publicly, deprived you of your command, without inquiry, and refused, in spite of your remonstrances, to explain to you the motives of their conduct."

"Ah, ah," the general said, in a hissing but suppressed voice, "it was to you, then, that I owe my recall?"

"Yes, general, to me alone."

"I am delighted to hear it."

"You remained, then, in Sonora, without power or influence, hated and despised by all, and marked on your forehead with that indelible brand which God imprinted on Cain, the first murderer; but Mexico is a blessed country, where ambitious men can easily fish in troubled waters, when, like yourself, they are not restrained by any of those bonds of honour, which too often fetter the genius of honest men. You could not remain long bowed beneath the blow that had fallen on you, and you made up your mind in a few days. You resolved to leave Sonora and proceed to Mexico, where, thanks to your colossal fortune, and the influence it would necessarily give you, you could carry on your ambitious projects; by changing the scene, you hoped to cast the scandalous acts of which you had been guilty into oblivion. Your preparations were soon made – listen attentively, general, to this, for I assure you that I have reached the most interesting part of my narration."

"Go on, go on, señor," he replied carelessly, "I am listening to you attentively; do not fear that I shall forget one of your words."

"In spite of your affected indifference, señor, I will go on. As you fancied, for certain reasons which to is unnecessary to remind you of, that your enemies might try to lay some ambush for you, during the long journey you were obliged to perform from Hermosillo to Mexico, you thought it necessary to take the following precautions, the inutility of some of which I presume that you have recognized by this time. While, for the purpose of deceiving your enemies, you started in disguise, and only accompanied by a few men, for California, in order to return to Mexico across the Rocky Mountains; while you gave questioners the fullest details of the road, you pretended to follow, with your men – your real object was quite different. The man in whom you placed your confidence, Don Isidro Vargas, a veteran of your War of Independence, who had known you when a child, and whom you had converted into your tool, took the shortest, and, consequently, most direct route for the capital, having with him not only twelve mules loaded with gold and silver, the fruit of your plunder during the period of your command, but a more precious article still, the body of your unhappy daughter, which you had embalmed, and which the captain had orders to inter with your ancestors at your Hacienda del Palmar, which you left so long ago, and to which you will, in all probability, never return. Your object in acting thus was not only to divert attention from your ill-gotten riches, but also to attract your enemies after yourself. Unfortunately or fortunately, according as we regard the matter, I am an old hunter so difficult to deceive that my comrades gave me long ago the glorious title of the Trail-hunter, and hence, while everybody else was forming speculations about you, I alone was not deceived, and guessed your plan."

"Still, your presence here gives a striking denial to the assertion," the general interrupted him, ironically.

"You think so, señor, and that proves that you are not thoroughly acquainted with me yet; but patience, I hope that you will, ere long, appreciate me better. Moreover you have not reflected on the time that has elapsed since your departure from Hermosillo."

"What do you mean?" the general asked, with a sudden start of apprehension.

"I mean that before attacking you, I resolved to settle matters first with the captain."

"Ah!"

"Well, general, it is my painful duty to inform you that four days after he left Pitic, our brave friend Don Isidro, although an old and experienced soldier, well versed in war stratagems, fell into an ambuscade resembling the one into which you fell today, with this exception – ."

"What exception?" the general asked, with greater interest than he would have liked to display, for he was beginning to fear a catastrophe.

"My men were so imprudent," the hunter continued, ironically, "as to leave the captain the means of defending himself. The result was that he died, bravely fighting to save the gold you had intrusted to him, and, before all, the coffin containing your daughter's corpse."

"Well, and I presume you plundered the caravan, and carried off the gold and silver?" he asked, contemptuously.

"You would most probably have acted thus under similar circumstances, Don Sebastian," the hunter answered, giving him back insult for insult; "but I thought it my duty to act differently. What could you expect? I, a coarse, uneducated hunter, do not know how to plunder, for I did not learn it when I had the honour to serve my own country, and I never stood under your orders in Mexico. This is what I did: so soon as the captain and the peons he commanded were killed – for the poor devils, I must do them the justice of saying, offered a desperate resistance – I myself, you understand, friend, I myself conveyed the money to your Hacienda del Palmar, where it now remains in safety, as you can easily assure yourself if you ever return to Palmar."

The general breathed again, and smiled ironically. "Instead of blaming you, señor," he said, "I, on the contrary, owe you thanks for this chivalrous conduct, especially toward an enemy."

"Do not be in such an hurry to thank me, caballero," the hunter answered; "I have not told you all yet."

These words were uttered with such an accent of gratified hatred, that all the hearers, the general included, shuddered involuntarily, for they understood that the hunter was about to make a terrible revelation, and that the calmness he feigned concealed a tempest.

"Ah," Don Sebastian murmured, "speak, I implore you, señor, for I am anxious to know all the obligations I owe you."

"Captain Don Isidro Vargas not only escorted the money I had conveyed to Palmar," he said in a sharp, quick voice, "but there was also a coffin. Well, general, why do you not ask me what has become of that coffin?"

An electric shock ran through the audience on hearing the ironical question so coldly asked by the hunter, whose eye, implacably fixed on the general, seemed to flash fire.

"What!" Don Sebastian exclaimed, "I can hardly think that you have committed sacrilege?"

Valentine burst into a loud and sharp laugh. "Your suppositions ever go beyond the object. I commit sacrilege, oh, no! I loved the poor girl too dearly when alive to outrage her after death. No, no, the betrothed of my friend is sacred to me; but as, in my opinion, the assassin can have no claim to the body of his victim, and you are morally your daughter's murderer, I have robbed you of this body, which you are not worthy to have, and which must rest by the side of him for whom she died."

There was a moment's silence. The general's face, hitherto pale, assumed a greenish hue, and his eyes were suffused with blood. Now and then he made superhuman efforts to speak, which were unsuccessful, but at length he yelled in a hoarse and hissing voice —

"It is not true; you have not done this. You cannot have dared to rob a father of his child's body."

"I have done it, I tell you," the hunter said coldly. "I have taken possession of the body of your victim, and now you understand me; never shall you know where this poor body rests. But this is only the beginning of my vengeance. What I wish to kill in you is the soul and not the body; and now begone, go and forget at Mexico, amid your ambitious intrigues, the scene that has passed between us; but remember that you will find me in your path everywhere and ever. Farewell till we meet again."

"One last word," the general exclaimed, affected by the deepest despair, "restore me my daughter's body; she was the only human creature I ever loved."

The hunter regarded him for a moment with an undefinable expression, and then said in a harsh and coldly-mocking voice, "Never."

Then, turning away, he re-entered the grotto, followed by his assistants. The general tried to rush after him, but the Indians restrained him, and, in spite of his resistance, compelled him to stop.

Don Sebastian, who was the more overwhelmed by the last blow because it was unexpected, stood for a moment like a man struck by lightning, with pendant arms and seared eyes. At last a heartrending sob burst from his bosom, two burning tears sprung from his eyes, and he rolled like a corpse on the ground.

The very Indians, those rough warriors to whom pity is a thing unknown, felt moved by this frightful despair, and several of them turned away not to witness it.

In the meanwhile the Jester had ordered the peons to saddle the horses and load the mules. The general was placed by two servants on a horse, without appearing to notice what was done to him, and a few minutes later the caravan left the Fort of the Chichimèques, and passed unimpeded through the silent ranks of the Indians, who bowed as it passed.

"When the Mexicans had disappeared in the windings of the road, Valentine emerged from the grotto, and walked courteously up to the hunters of the second caravan.

"Forgive me," he said to them, "not the delay I have occasioned you, but the involuntary alarm I caused you; but I was compelled to act as I did. You are going to Mexico, where I shall soon be myself, and it is possible that I may require your testimony some day."

"A testimony which will not be refused, my dear countryman," the hunter who had hitherto spoken gracefully answered.

"What!" the hunter exclaimed in amazement, "are you French?"

"Yes, and all my companions are so, too. We have come from San Francisco, where, thanks to Providence, we have amassed a very considerable fortune, which we hope to double in the Mexican capital. My name is Antoine Rallier, and these are my brothers, Edward and Augustus; the two ladies who accompany us are my mother and sister, and if you know nobody in Mexico, come straight to me, sir, and you will be received, not only as a friend, but as a brother."

The hunter pressed the hand his countryman offered him.

"As this is the case," he said, "I will not let you go alone, for these mountains are infested by bandits of every description, whom you may not escape, but with my protection you can pass anywhere."

"I heartily accept the offer; but why do you not come with us to Mexico?"

"That is impossible for the present," the hunter answered pensively; "but be at your ease. I shall not fail to demand the fulfilment of your promise."

"You will be welcome, friend, for we have been acquainted for a long time, and we know that you have ever honourably represented France in America."

Two hours later the Fort of the Chichimèques had returned to its usual solitude; white men and Indians had abandoned it for ever.

CHAPTER IX.
MEXICO

We will now leap over about two months and, leaving the Rocky Mountains, invite the reader to accompany us to the heart of Mexico.

The Spanish Conquistadors selected with admirable tact the sites on which they founded the cities destined to insure their power, and become at a later date the centres of their immense trade, and the entrepôts of their incalculable wealth.

Even at the present day, although owing to the negligence of the Creoles and their continual fratricidal Wars, combined with the sudden earthquakes, these cities are half ruined, and the life which the powerful Spanish organization caused to circulate in them has died out, these cities are still a subject of surprise to the traveller accustomed to the morbid crowding of old European cities. He regards with awe these vast squares, surrounded by cloister-like arcades; these broad and regular streets through which refreshing waters continually flow; these shady gardens in which thousands of gaily-plumaged birds twitter; these bold bridges; these majestically simple buildings, whose interiors contain incalculable wealth. And yet, we repeat, the majority of these cities are only the shadow of themselves. They seem dead, and are only aroused by the furious yells of an insurrection, to lead for a few days a feverish existence under the excitement of political passions. But so soon as the corpses are removed, and water has washed away the blood stains, the streets revert to their solitude, the inhabitants hide themselves in their carefully-closed houses, and all becomes again gloomy, mournful, and silent, only to be galvanized afresh by the hoarse murmurs of an approaching revolt.

If we except Lima, the splendid "Ciudad de los Reyes," Mexico is probably the largest and handsomest of all the cities that cover the soil of ancient Spanish America.

From whatever point we regard it, Mexico affords a magnificent view; but if you wish to enjoy a really fairy-like sight, ascend at sunset one of the towers of the cathedral, whence you will see the strangest and most picturesque panorama imaginable unrolled at your feet.

Mexico certainly existed before the discovery of America, and our readers will probably pardon a digression showing how the foundation of the city is narrated by old chroniclers.

In the year of the death of Huetzin, King of Tezcuco, that is to say, the "spot where people stop," because it was at this very place that the migration of the Chichimèques terminated, the Mexicans made an eruption into the country, and reached the place where Mexico now stands, at the beginning of the year 1140 of our era. This place then formed part of the dominions of Aculhua, Lord of Azcapotzalco.

According to paintings and the old chronicles, these Indians came from the empires of the province of Xalisco. It appears that they were of the same race as the Toltecs, and of the family of the noble Huetzin, who with his children and servants escaped during the destruction of the Toltecs, and was residing at that period at Chapultepec, which was also destroyed at a later date.

It is recorded that he traversed with them the country of Michoacán, and took refuge in the province of Atzlán, where he died, and had for his successors Ozolopan, his son, and Aztlal, his grandson, whose heir was Ozolopan II. The latter, remembering the country of his ancestors, resolved to return thither with his entire nation, which was already called Mezetin. After many adventures and combats, they at length reached the banks of a great lake covered with an infinitude of islands, and as the recollection of their country had been traditionally kept up among them, they at once recognized it, though not one of them had even seen it before. Too weak to resist the people that surrounded them, or to establish themselves in the open country, they founded on several of the islands, which they connected together, a town, which they called after themselves, Mexico, and which at a later date was destined to be the capital of a powerful empire.

Although the Mexicans arrived on the banks of the lake in 1140, it was not till two years later that the American Venice began to emerge from the bosom of the waters.

We have dwelt on these details in order to correct an error made by a modern author, who attributes to the Aztecs the foundation of this city, to which he gives the name of Tenochtitlan, instead of Temixtetlan, which is the correct name.¹

Like Venice, its European sister, Mexico was only a collection of cabins, offering a precarious shelter to wretched fishermen, who were incessantly kept in a state of alarm by the attacks of their neighbours. The Mexicans, at first scattered over a great number of small islands, felt the necessity of collecting together in order to offer a better resistance. By their patience and courage they succeeded in building houses, raised on piles, and employing the mud of the lagoons, held together by branches of trees, they created the chinampas, or floating gardens, the most curious in the world, on which they sowed vegetables, pimento, and maize, and thus, with the aquatic birds they managed to catch on the lake, they contrived to be entirely independent of their neighbours.

Almost destroyed during the obstinate fights between the natives and the Spaniards, Mexico, four years after the conquest, was entirely rebuilt by Fernando Cortez. But the new city in no way resembled the old one. Most of the canals were filled up, and paved over; magnificent palaces and sumptuous monasteries rose as if by enchantment, and the city became entirely Spanish.

Mexico has been so frequently described by more practised pens than ours, and we, in previous works, have had such frequent occasions to allude to it, that we will not attempt any description here, but continue our story without further delay.

It was October 12th, 1854, two months, day for day, had elapsed since the unfortunate Count de Prébois Crancé, victim of an iniquitous sentence, had honourably fallen at Guaymas beneath the Mexican bullets.² A thick fog had hung over the city for the whole day, changing at times into a fine drizzle, which after sunset became sharper, although a heavy fog still prevailed. However, at about eight in the evening the rain ceased to fall, and the stagnant waters of the lake began to reflect a few particles of brighter sky. The snow-clad summit of Iztaczihuatl, or the White Woman, feebly glistened in the pale watery moonbeams, while Popocatepetl remained buried in the clouds.³

The streets and squares were deserted, although the night was not yet far advanced; for the loungers and promenaders, driven away by the weather, had returned to their homes. A deep silence brooded over the city, whose lights expired one after the other, and only at lengthened intervals could be heard on the greasy pavement the footsteps of the serenos, or watchmen, who performed their melancholy walk, with the indifferent air peculiar to that estimable corporation. At times a few discordant sounds, escaping from the velorios were borne along on the breeze; but that was all – the city seemed asleep.

Half past nine was striking by the cathedral clock at the moment when a dull sound resembling the rustling of reeds shaken by the wind was audible on the gigantic highway joining the city to the main land. This sound soon became more distinct, and changed into the trampling of horses, which was deadened by the damp air and the ground softened by a lengthened rain. A black mass emerged from the fog, and two horsemen wrapped in thick cloaks stood out distinctly in the moonlight.

These horsemen seemed to have made a long journey; their steeds, covered with mud, limped at each step, and only advanced with extreme difficulty. They at length reached a low house, through whose dirty panes a doubtful light issued, which showed that the inhabitants were still awake.

The horsemen stopped before this house, which was an inn, and without dismounting, one of them gave the door two or three kicks, and called the host in a loud sharp voice. The latter, doubtless disturbed by this unusual summons at so improper an hour, was in no hurry to answer, and would have probably left the strangers for some time in the cold, if the man who had kicked, probably tired of waiting, had not thought of an expeditious means of obtaining an answer.

"Voto a Brios!" he shouted, as he drew a pistol from his holster, and cocked it, "since this dog is resolved not to open, I will send a bullet through his window."

This menace had been scarce uttered ere the door opened as if by enchantment, and the landlord appeared on the threshold. This man resembled landlords in all countries; he had, like them, a sleek and crafty look, but at this moment his obsequiousness badly concealed a profound terror, evidenced by the earthy pallor of his face.

"Hola, caballero," he said, with a respectful bow, "have a little patience, if you please. Caramba! how quick you are; it is plain to see that you are forasteros, and not acquainted with the custom of our country."

"No matter who I am," the stranger answered sharply; "are you a landlord – yes or no?"

"I have that honour, caballero," the host remarked, with a deeper bow than the first.

"If you are so, scoundrel," the stranger exclaimed angrily, "by what right do you, whose duty it is to be at the orders of the public, dare to keep me waiting thus at your door?"

The landlord had a strong inclination to get into a passion, but the resolute tone of the man who addressed him, and, above all, the pistol he still held in his hand, urged him to prudence and moderation; hence he answered with profound humility —

"Believe me, señor, that if I had known what a distinguished caballero did me the honour of stopping before my humble dwelling, I should have hastened to open."

"A truce to such impertinent remarks, and open the door."

The landlord bowed without replying this time, and whistled a lad, who came to help him in holding the travellers' horses; the latter dismounted, and entered the inn, while their tired steeds were led to the corral by the boy.

The room into which the travellers were introduced was low, black, and furnished with tables and benches in a filthy state, and mostly broken, while the floor of stamped earth was greasy and uneven. Above the bar was a statuette of the Virgin de la Soledad, before which burned a greasy candle. In short, this inn had nothing attractive or comfortable about it, and seemed to be a velorio of the lowest class, apparently used by the most wretched and least honourable ranks of Mexican society.

A glance was sufficient for the travellers to understand the place to which accident had led them, still they did not display any of the disgust which the sight of this cut-throat den inspired them with. They seated themselves as comfortably as they could at a table, and the one who had hitherto addressed mine host went on, while his silent companion leaned against the wall, and drew the folds of his cloak still higher up his face.

"Look here," he said, "we are literally dying of hunger, patron; could you not serve us up a morsel of something? I don't care what it is in the shape of food."

"Hum!" said the host with an embarrassed air, "it is very late, caballero, and I don't believe I have even a maize tortilla left in the whole house."

"Nonsense," the traveller replied, "I know all about it, so let us deal frankly with each other; give me some supper, for I am hungry, and we will not squabble about the price."

"Even if you paid me a piastre for every tortilla, excellency, I really could not supply you with two," the landlord replied, with increased constraint.

The traveller looked at him fixedly for a moment or two, and then laid his hand firmly on his arm, and pulled him toward the table.

"Now, look here, Ño Lusacho," he said to him curtly, "I intend to pass two hours in your hovel, at all risks; I know that between this and eleven o'clock you expect a large party, and that all is prepared to receive them."

The landlord attempted to give a denial, but the traveller cut him short.

"Silence," he continued, "I wish to be present at the meeting of these persons; of course I do not mean them to see me; but I must not only see them, but hear all they say. Put me where you please, that is your concern; but as any trouble deserves payment, here are ten ounces for you, and I will give you as many more when your visitors have gone, and I assure you that what I ask of you will not in any way compromise you, and that no one will ever know the bargain made between us – you understand me, I suppose? Now, I will add, that if you obstinately refuse the arrangement I offer – "

"Well, suppose I do?"

"I will blow out your brains," the traveller said distinctly; "my friend here will put you on his shoulder, throw you into the water, and all will be over. What do you think of my proposal?"

"Hang it, excellency," the poor fellow answered, with a grimace which attempted to resemble a smile, and trembling in all his limbs, "I think that I have no choice, and am compelled to accept."

"Good! now you are learning reason; but take these ounces as a consolation."

The landlord pocketed the money, as he raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep sigh.

"Fear nothing, viva Dios!" the traveller continued; "all will pass off better than you suppose. At what hour do you expect your visitors?"

"At half past ten, excellency."

"Good! it is half past nine, we have time before us. Where do you propose to hide us?"

"In this room, excellency."

"Here, diablo; whereabouts?"

"Behind the bar; no one will dream of looking for you there, and, besides, I shall serve as a rampart to you."

"Then you will be present at the meeting?"

"Oh!" he said with a smile, "I am nobody; the more so, that if I spoke, my house would be ruined."

"That is true. Well, then, all is settled; when the hour arrives, you will place us behind the bar; but can my companion and I sit there with any degree of comfort?"

"Oh, you will have plenty of room."

"I fancy this is not the first time such a thing has occurred, eh?"

The landlord smiled, but made no answer: the traveller reflected for a moment.