Before entering the valley Bois-Rose and Fabian raised their eyes to the top of the hill, whence the shot as well as the voice had proceeded. But the remains of the fog at that moment covered the top of the rock, and all three rushed simultaneously towards the isolated mass where they believed their enemy to be hidden. The sides, although steep, were covered with brushwood, which rendered them easier to climb; but it was a dangerous attempt, for the fog prevented them from seeing what enemies were above. Fabian wished to go first, but the vigorous arm of the Canadian held him back, and meanwhile Pepé was half-way towards the summit. Bois-Rose followed, begging Fabian to keep behind him.
Pepé mounted boldly, undismayed by the foes that might be concealed behind that mass of vapour, and soon disappeared under the mist. A cry of triumph soon warned his friends that he had arrived in safety. Both hastened to join him, but found no one on the rock except Pepé himself! Just as, disappointed at their want of success, they were preparing to descend again, a sudden gust of wind drove off the fog, and allowed them to see to a distance. To the right and left the plain presented the most complete picture of the desert in its dreary sadness. They beheld arid steppes over which whirled clouds of sand, a burnt and sterile ground, everywhere silence, everywhere solitude. At some distance off two men on horseback were seen advancing towards the rock, but at the distance at which they were, it was impossible to distinguish either their dress or the colour of their skin.
“Must we sustain a new siege here?” said Bois-Rose. “Are these white men or Indians?”
“White or red, they are enemies,” said Pepé.
While the three friends bent down, so as not to be observed, a man, until then invisible, cautiously entered the lake. He lifted with care the floating leaves of the water lilies, and forming of them a shelter over its head, remained motionless, and the surface of the lake soon after appeared as if undisturbed. This man was Cuchillo, the jackal, who, led by his evil destiny, had ventured to hunt on the ground of the lion.
Chapter Forty Seven
The Punishment of Tantalus
Cuchillo, after reaching the mountains, had halted. He had not forgotten the appearance of the place, and his heart trembled with fear and joy. After a few minutes he looked around him more calmly. It was then dark, and when he arrived at the rock, the damp vapours from the lake enveloped with a thick veil both the valley and the tomb. The sound of the waterfall put an end to his uncertainties; he remembered that it fell into a gulf close by the golden placer.
He had dismounted his horse, and sat down to wait for daylight; but scarcely had he done so when he bounded up as though bitten by a serpent. A fatal chance had led him to sit down on the very spot where he had struck Marcos Arellanos, and quick as lightning, every detail of the mortal struggle passed through his mind. However this feeling of terror was of short duration.
In that part of America, superstition has not established its empire as in the old countries of Europe, where the evening mists give to objects fantastic aspects, and tend naturally to reflections upon the supernatural. From this arises the sombre poesy of the north, which has peopled our land with ghosts and phantoms. In the American solitude people fear the living more than the dead, and Cuchillo had too much to fear from men to waste many thoughts upon the ghost of Arellanos, and he had soon quite banished the thought from his mind.
Although he felt nearly certain that no one had seen him leave the camp, or had followed him, he resolved to climb the rock and look out over the desert. The two pines, whose sombre verdure crowned the summit, appeared marvellously fit to shelter him from the eyes of the Indians should any be near. As he advanced, however, he could not resist taking a glance at the valley; for a sudden fear took possession of his mind: was it still untouched as he had left it?
One glance reassured him. Nothing was changed in the valley; there were still the heaps of the shining metal.
The traveller, devoured with thirst in the sandy desert, does not more gladly catch sight of the oasis at whose waters he desires to drink than did Cuchillo the sight of the gold gleaming through the leaves of the trees.
Any other man would have hastened to seize as much of it as he could carry, and make off with his booty. But with Cuchillo, cupidity was a passion carried to its utmost limits; and before seizing it, the outlaw wished to feast his eyes on the treasure of which he had dreamed for two years, and for which he would not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of all his companions. After some moments of ecstatic contemplation, Cuchillo led his horse forward by the bridle, and having tied him to a tree, in a defile where the animal would be hidden from all eyes, he himself mounted the rock.
Arrived there, he looked around to assure himself that he was alone. He was soon satisfied, for at that moment neither of the other two parties were visible. Assured by the silence that reigned around, he looked towards the cascade. The water, which seemed as it fell to form a curve of running silver, opened at one place, and displayed a block of gold, sparkling in the rays of the sun. The most enormous cocoanut that ever hung on a tree did not surpass this block in size. Continually washed by the spray of the cascade, this gold appeared in all its brilliance, as if ready to escape from the silica which held it, and thus perhaps for centuries this king’s ransom had hung menacingly over the abyss!
At the sight of this block, which looked as though it might be seized by stretching out his hands, a thrill of joy passed through Cuchillo’s heart; and hanging over the precipice with extended arms, he gave utterance to the cry which had been heard by the three hunters below.
Soon, however, a spectacle, that Cuchillo was far from expecting to witness, drew from him another cry, but this time of rage. He had seen a man, possessor like himself of the secret of the valley, treading with profane foot on the treasure that he had believed wholly his. Bois-Rose and Fabian were hidden behind the trees; and thinking that Pepé was alone, Cuchillo had fired at him, without taking time for a proper aim, and thus Pepé had escaped the ball that whistled past him.
It would be impossible to paint his rage and stupefaction, when hidden behind the pine trees, he saw two men join Pepé, especially when in one of them he recognised the terrible hunter whom he had seen engaged with the tigers at Poza, and in the other, Fabian, who had already twice escaped his vengeance. A mortal fear chilled his heart; he almost fell to the ground. Must he again fly from that Golden Valley, from which fate seemed always to drive him?
Lucky for Cuchillo, the fog had hidden him from his enemies, and by the time they had reached the top he had descended on the opposite side – after having just caught a glance of Don Estevan and his companion in the distance. Here was a fresh subject of fear and surprise for Cuchillo who, gliding like a serpent along the rocks, hid himself, as we have seen, amid the leaves of the water lilies, to await the dénouement of this strange adventure. Hidden from all eyes, he held himself in readiness to profit by the approaching conflict between Don Estevan and Fabian, and a shudder of diabolical joy mingled with that caused by the gold; he was like the rapacious bird which awaits the issue of the battle to seize upon its prey. If the three hunters were victorious he had little he thought to fear from Fabian, who was still in his eyes Tiburcio Arellanos. The lower class of Mexicans think little of a blow with the dagger, and he hoped that the one he had given might be pardoned, if he were to throw the blame upon Don Estevan. If this last remained master of the field, he trusted to find some plausible excuse for his desertion. He decided therefore upon letting them begin the struggle, and then, at the decisive moment, should come to the assistance of the strongest.
While Cuchillo was endeavouring to console himself by these reasonings, Bois-Rose was able to distinguish the complexion of the new-comers.
“They are from the Mexican camp,” said he.
“I foresaw,” said Fabian, “that we should have the whole troop on our hands, and be caught like wild horses in a stockade.”
“Hush!” said Bois-Rose, “and trust to me to protect you. Nothing yet shows that there are any others behind, and in any case we could not be better placed than on this rock; from here we might defy a whole tribe of savages. Besides, we do not yet know that they will stop here. Both of you crouch down. I shall watch them.”
So saying, he lay flat down, hiding his head behind the stones which surrounded the top like turrets, but without losing sight of the horsemen. They began now to hear the sound of the horses’ feet on the plain. The old hunter saw them stop and converse, but could not hear what they were saying.
“Why this halt, Diaz?” said Don Estevan, impatiently, “we have lost time enough already.”
“Prudence exacts that we should look about us before proceeding. The knave may be hidden about here, as we have tracked him up to the rock; he may not be alone, and we have everything to fear from him.”
Don Estevan made a gesture of disdain.
“Ah!” said Bois-Rose, in a low voice, “I recognise Don Estevan, or rather Don Antonio de Mediana, who is at last in our power.”
“Don Antonio de Mediana! Is it possible? Are you sure?” cried Fabian.
“It is he, I tell you.”
“Ah! now I see that it was the hand of God which brought me here. Shade of my mother, rejoice!” cried Fabian.
Pepé kept silence, but at the name of Don Antonio, hatred shone also in his glance. He raised his head, and his eye seemed to measure the distance between him and the object of his vengeance, but even the long rifle of Bois-Rose could scarcely reach them at such a range.
“Do not rise up, Pepé!” cautioned the Canadian; “you will be seen.”
“Do you observe any others behind?” inquired Fabian.
“No one; from the point where the river divides to this place I see no living being; if,” added he, after an instant’s pause, “that black mass that I see floating on the river be only the trunk of a tree – but at any rate it is floating away from us.”
“Never mind that,” said Fabian, “describe to me the man who accompanies Don Antonio; perhaps I shall recognise him.”
“He is tall and straight as a cane; and what a beautiful horse he rides!”
“A bay horse? and has he gold lace on his hat, and a fine face?”
“Precisely.”
“It is Pedro Diaz. Now it would be a cowardice not to show ourselves, when heaven sends us Don Antonio almost alone.”
“Patience,” said Pepé; “I am as interested as you are in not letting him escape, but haste may ruin all. When one has waited for twenty years, one may easily wait a few minutes longer. Are you sure they are alone, Bois-Rose?”
“The sand whirls down there, but it is only the wind that is stirring it. They are alone, and now they stop and look about them.”
So saying, Bois-Rose rose slowly, like the eagle who agitates before completely unfolding his wings – those powerful wings the rapid flight of which will soon bring him down to the plain.
“Señor Don Estevan,” said Pedro Diaz, “I think we should return to the camp.”
Don Antonio hesitated a moment. The counsel was good, but it was too late to follow it.
From the top of the rock the three hunters watched their every movement.
“It is time,” said Bois-Rose.
“I must take Don Antonio alive,” said Fabian. “Arrange that, and I care for nothing else.”
Bois-Rose now rose to his fall height, and uttered a cry which struck on the ears of the new-comers. They uttered an exclamation of surprise, which surprise was still further increased at sight of the gigantic Canadian upon the rock.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried a voice, which Fabian recognised as that of Don Antonio.
“I shall tell you,” replied the hunter; “it will recall to you a truth – never contested either in my country or in the desert – that the ground belongs to the first occupants; we were here before you, and are the sole masters of this place. We therefore wish one of you to retire with a good grace, and the other to surrender himself, that we may teach him a second law of the desert, ‘blood for blood.’”
“It is some anchorite whose brain is turned by solitude,” said Pedro Diaz; “I shall terminate the conference with a bullet from my rifle.”
“No!” cried Don Estevan, stopping him, “let us see first how far this folly will go. And which of us is it, friend,” continued he, with an ironical air, “to whom you wish to teach this law?”
“To you,” cried Fabian, rising.
“What! you here!” cried Don Estevan with mingled rage and surprise.
Fabian bowed.
“And here am I, who have been following you for the last fortnight,” said Pepé, “and who thanks God for the opportunity of paying off a debt of twenty years’ standing.”
“Who are you?” asked Don Estevan, trying to remember who it was, for years and difference of costume had altered the aspect of the old coast-guardsman.
“Pepé the Sleeper, who has not forgotten his residence at Ceuta.”
At this name, which explained Fabian’s words at the bridge of Salto de Agua, Don Estevan lost his air of contempt. A sudden presentiment seemed to warn him that his fortunes were waning, and he cast around him an anxious glance. The high rocks, which on one side shut in the valley, might protect him from the fire of his enemies; a short space only separated him from their foot, and prudence counselled him to fly there, but his pride forbade him.
“Well then!” cried he proudly after a pause, “revenge yourself on an enemy who disdains to fly.”
“Have we not said that we wish to take you alive?” replied Pepé, coldly.
Chapter Forty Eight
The King-Maker a Captive
In the whole course of his adventurous life, Don Estevan had never been in such danger. The plain offered him no protection against the rifles of his enemies – two at least of whom had an infallible eye and steady aim – and who had also the advantage of an impregnable position, and turrets of rock behind which to intrench themselves. Don Estevan did not conceal from himself the extent of his danger; but neither did his courage give way.
“Let us have done with this trifling,” cried the sonorous voice of Bois-Rose, whose generosity made him averse to profit by his advantages, and who scrupled always to shed blood if he could avoid it. “You have heard that we wish no harm to any but your chief, and you must make up your mind to let us take him. Retire then willingly, if you do not wish us to treat you as we intend to treat him.”
“Never!” cried Diaz, “shall I commit such a cowardice? You are the first comers; so be it; we will yield the ground to you, but Don Estevan must be allowed to go with me.”
“We refuse,” cried Pepé; “we particularly want the man you call Don Estevan.”
“Do not oppose the justice of God,” added Fabian; “your cause is only that of man. We give you five minutes to reflect, after which our rifles and our good cause shall decide between us.”
“You have but two minutes to decide,” said Bois-Rose; “listen to me and avoid needless bloodshed.”
Mediana kept silence and preserved his haughty air. Unshakable in his notions of chivalric honour, Pedro Diaz resolved to die with the chief, whose life he believed to be so precious to his country. He consulted Don Estevan by a look.
“Return to the camp,” said the latter; “abandon to his fate a man henceforth useless to your cause, and come back to avenge my death.”
Diaz was not to be moved, but gradually drew his horse close to Don Estevan, and when their knees touched, with his face still turned toward his enemies, he murmured, with scarcely a movement of his lips:
“Keep steady in your stirrups, have your horse ready, and let me act.”
Don Estevan made signs with his hand as though to demand a truce; but he had taken a desperate determination.
“Bend down, Fabian; he is going to fire,” cried Bois-Rose.
“Before my mother’s murderer? Never!” cried Fabian. Quick as thought, the hand of the Canadian giant on his shoulder, forced him down. Don Estevan vainly sought for an aim for his double-barrelled piece. He could see nothing but the formidable rifle of Bois-Rose directed towards him, although in obedience to Fabian’s wishes, Bois-Rose would not finish the combat by striking his foe to the ground.
With as much courage as agility, Diaz now jumped up behind Don Estevan on his horse, and throwing his arms around him to steady him after the shock, seized the bridle, turned the animal round, and galloped off, covering with his body, as with a buckler, the chief whose life he was willing to save at the expense of his own. While Fabian and Pepé rushed down the rock, at the risk of breaking their necks, Bois-Rose followed the movements of the horse glancing along the barrel of his rifle.
The two men appeared to make but one body: the back of the horse and the shoulders of Diaz were the only objects at which Bois-Rose could aim; only now and then the head of the animal was visible. To sacrifice Diaz would be a useless murder; and Don Estevan would still escape. A moment more and the fugitives would be out of range; but the Canadian was of that class of marksmen who lodge a ball in the eye of a beaver, that he may not injure its skin; and it was the horse he wished to aim at. For a single moment the head of the noble animal showed itself entirely – but that moment was sufficient; a shot was heard, and the two men and the death-stricken horse rolled over together on the ground.
Bruised by the violence of their fall, both men rose with difficulty; while, their poignards in their teeth, and their rifles in their hands, Fabian and Pepé advanced upon them. Bois-Rose followed with great gigantic strides, loading his rifle as he went. When he had finished, he again stopped.
Pedro Diaz, devoted to the last, rushed towards the gun which had fallen from Don Estevan’s hands, picked it up, and returned it to him.
“Let us defend ourselves to the last!” cried he, drawing his long knife.
Don Estevan steadied himself and raised his piece, undecided for a moment whether to aim at Fabian or at Pepé; but Bois-Rose was watching, and a bullet from his rifle broke the weapon of the chief in his hands, just where the barrel joins the stock, and Don Estevan himself, losing his balance, fell forward on the sand.
“At last, after twenty years!” cried Pepé, rushing towards him, and placing his knee upon his breast.
Don Estevan vainly tried to resist; his arm, benumbed by the violence of the blow which had broken his gun, refused its service. In an instant Pepé had untied the woollen scarf which was wound several times round his body, and bound with it the limbs of his enemy. Diaz could offer no assistance, for he had himself to defend against the attacks of Fabian.
Fabian scarcely knew the Indian fighter; he had seen him only for a few hours at the Hacienda del Venado; but the generosity of his conduct had awakened in the heart of the young man a warm sympathy, and he wished to spare his life.
“Surrender, Diaz!” cried he, parrying a dagger blow slimed at him; but Diaz resolved not to yield, and for the few minutes during which Pepé was engaged in binding Don Estevan, there was a contest of skill and ability between him and Fabian. Too generous to use his rifle against a man who had but a dagger to defend himself with, Fabian tried only to disarm his adversary; but Diaz, blinded by rage, did not perceive the generous efforts of the young man, who, holding his rifle by the barrel, and using it as a club, tried to strike the arm which menaced him. But Fabian had to deal with an antagonist not less active and vigorous than himself. Bounding from right to left, Diaz avoided his blows, and just as Fabian believed he was about to succeed, he found himself striking in the air, and the knife menacing him afresh. Bois-Rose without waiting to reload, ran up to put an end to the struggle – in which Fabian’s generosity placed him at a disadvantage – and Pepé, having fast bound his enemy, advanced also.
Thus menaced by three men, Diaz determined not to die without vengeance. He drew his arm back, and made a rapid thrust at Fabian; but the latter had been carefully watching the movement, and his rifle met the murdering weapon on its way. The dagger fell to the ground; and Pepé, seizing Diaz round the body just as Fabian struck him, cried, “Fool! must we kill you, then? If not, what shall we do with you?”
“What you have done to that noble gentleman,” replied Diaz, pointing to Don Estevan.
“Do not ask to share his fate,” said Pepé; “that man’s days are numbered.”
“Whatever his fate is to be, I wish to share it,” cried Diaz, vainly trying to free himself. “I accept from you neither quarter nor mercy.”
“Do not play with our anger!” said Pepé, whose passions were roused; “I am not in the habit of offering mercy twice.”
“I know how to make him accept it,” said Fabian, picking up the fallen knife. “Let him go, Pepé; with a man like Diaz, one can always come to terms.”
Fabian’s tone was so firm, that Pepé opened his arms and loosened the iron grasp in which the Mexican was bound.
“Here, Diaz,” said Fabian, “take your weapon, and listen to me.”
So saying, Fabian advanced and offered him his knife without any attempt at guarding himself. Diaz took the weapon, but his adversary had not presumed too far; at the heroic simplicity of Fabian his anger vanished on the instant.
“I listen,” said he, flinging his knife to the ground.
“I knew it would be so,” replied Fabian, with a smile. “You interposed unknowingly between crime and the just vengeance which pursued it. Do you know who is the man for whom you wish to expose your life? and who are those who have spared it? Do you know whether or not we have the right to demand from him, whom you doubtless know only as Don Estevan, a terrible account of the past? Reply honestly to the questions that I shall put to you, and then decide on which side justice lies.”
Astonished at these words, Diaz listened in silence, and Fabian went on:
“If you had been born in a privileged class, heir to a great fortune; if a man had taken from you your fortune and your name, and reduced you to the rank of those who have to work for their daily bread, should you be the friend of that man?”
“No, I should be his enemy.”
“If that man, to destroy the last souvenir of your birth, had murdered your mother, what would he deserve from you?”
“Blow for blow – blood for blood.”
“If, after a long and difficult pursuit, fate had at last delivered the spoiler into your hands, what would you do?”
“I should think myself guilty towards God and man if I spared him.”
“Well, then, Diaz,” cried Fabian, “there is a man who has taken from me my name, my fortune, and murdered my mother; I have pursued this murderer and spoiler – fate has delivered him into my hands, and there he lies!”
A cloud passed over the eyes of Diaz at the sight of the chief whose doom was thus pronounced, for the sentiment of inexorable justice that God has implanted in the heart of man told him that Don Estevan merited his fate, if Fabian spoke truly. He sighed, but offered no reply.
While these events were taking place in the midst of the plain, the actors of the scene might have observed Cuchillo raise with precaution the leaves which covered his head, cast an eager glance on the Golden Valley, and then glide out of the lake. Covered with mud, and his garments streaming with water, they might have mistaken him for one of the evil spirits whom the Indians believed to dwell in these solitudes. But their attention was completely absorbed by what was taking place among themselves.