At this expression, which he was so far from expecting, Valentine gave a start of surprise, and examining his friend with the utmost attention, so monstrous did what he had just heard appear to him from the mouth of such a man, answered —

"You must be joking."

"No," he said, sadly, "I am afraid. Yes, I understand," he added a moment later with a sigh, "it seems strange to you, does it not, that I should say so; I, whom you have seen brave the greatest dangers with a laugh, and whom, up to the present, nothing has surprised. What would you have? My friend, it is so, I am afraid. I know not why, but the idea of crossing that barranca, holding on by my hands to that cord, which may break, causes me a ridiculous, invincible terror for which I cannot account, and which makes me shudder with terror. That death seems to me hideous, and I could not run the risk of it."

While the general spoke, the hunter examined him with the closest attention. He was no longer the same man; his forehead was livid, a cold perspiration inundated his face, a convulsive tremor agitated all his limbs, and his voice was hollow.

"Nonsense!" Valentine said, attempting to smile, "it is nothing; a little resolution, and you will overcome this terror, which is nothing but dizziness."

"I know not what it is, I cannot say; I can only assure you that I have done all it is morally possible to do, in order to conquer this feeling which overpowers me."

"Well."

"All has been useless: even now, I believe that my terror increases with my efforts to overcome it."

"What! You who are so brave!"

"My friend," the general answered with a sad smile, "courage is an affair of the nerves; it is no more possible for a man to be constantly brave than to be continually a coward; there are days when the matter overcomes the intellect, and physical feelings gain the upper hand over the moral. On those days the most intrepid man is afraid; and this is one of those days with me, that is all."

"Come, my friend," Valentine answered, "reflect a little; hang it all; you cannot remain here – returning is impossible; make a virtue of necessity."

"All you say to me," the general interrupted him, "I have said to myself; and I repeat to you, that, sooner than venture by that cord, I would blow out my brains."

"Why, that is madness," the hunter shouted; "there is no common sense in it."

"Call it what you like; I understand as well as you do how ridiculous I am, but it is stronger than I am."

Valentine stamped his foot angrily as he looked across at his comrades, who, collected on the other side of the barranca, knew not to what to attribute this incomprehensible delay.

"Listen, general," he said, after a moment's delay. "I will not desert you thus, whatever may happen; too many reasons connect us for me to leave you to perish of hunger on this rock; you do not live nearly a year with a man in the desert, sharing with him dangers, cold and heat, hunger and thirst, to separate in this way. If it be really impossible for you to cross the canyon as your comrades have done, and will leave me to act, I will find other means."

"Thanks, my friend," the general sadly replied, as he pressed his hand; "but believe me, do not trouble yourself about me, but leave me here: your comrades are growing impatient, so pray be off at once."

"I will not go," the hunter said resolutely; "I swear that you shall come with me."

"No, I tell you, I cannot."

"Try."

"It is useless; I feel that my heart fails me. Good-bye, my friend."

Valentine made no answer – he was thinking. After an instant he raised his head, and his face was radiant.

"By Jove!" he said, gaily, "I was certain I should discover a way before long. Leave me alone, I answer for everything. You shall cross as if in a carriage."

The general smiled.

"Brave heart!" he muttered.

"Wait for me," Valentine went on; "in a few minutes I will return, only grant me the time to prepare what I want."

The hunter seized the rope and passed, but as soon as the general saw him on the other side, he unfastened the lasso and threw it across.

"What are you doing? – Stop!" the hunters shouted in stupor, mingled with horror.

The general bent over the barranca, holding on to a rock with his left hand.

"Red Cedar must not discover your trail," he said; "that is why I unfastened the lasso. Good-bye, brother, and may the Almighty aid you."

An explosion was heard, echoed in the distance by the mountains, and the general's corpse rolled into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock with a dull sound. General Ibañez had blown out his brains.²

At this unexpected dénouement the hunters were petrified. They could not understand how, through the fear of killing himself in crossing the canyon, the general had preferred blowing out his brains. Still, the action was logical in itself; it was not death, but only the mode of death that terrified him; and as he fancied it an impossibility to follow his comrades, he had preferred sudden death. Still, in dying, the brave general had rendered them a final and immense service. Thanks to him, their trail had so entirely disappeared, that it would be impossible for Red Cedar to find it again.

The hunters, although they had succeeded in escaping from the fatal circle in which the pirate had thrust them, owing to Valentine's daring resolve, still found themselves in a most critical situation: they must get down into the plain as speedily as possible, in order to find some road, and, as always, happens in the desert under such circumstances, every sympathy must promptly yield to the necessity that held them in its iron arms; the common danger suddenly aroused in them that feeling of self-preservation which never does more than sleep.

Valentine was the first to overcome his grief and regain his self-mastery. Since he had been crossing the desert, the hunter had witnessed so many strange scenes, had been an actor in so many mournful tragedies, that, his tender feelings were considerably blunted, and the most terrible events affected him but slightly.

Still, Valentine felt a deep friendship for the general; in many circumstances he had appreciated all that was really grand and noble in his character, hence the fearful catastrophe which had, without any preparation, broken the ties between them, produced a great impression on him.

"Come, come," he said, shaking his head as if to get rid of painful thoughts, "what can't be cured must be endured. Our friend has left us for a better world, – perhaps it is for the best so. God does everything well; our grief will not restore our dear friend's life, so let us think of ourselves, my friends, for we are not lying on roses, and if we do not make haste, we may run a risk of speedily joining him. Come, let us be men."

Don Miguel Zarate looked at him sadly.

"That is true," he said; "he is happy now; let us attend to ourselves. Speak then, Valentine: what is to be done? We are ready."

"Good," said Valentine; "it is time for our courage to return, for the hardest part of our task is not yet done; it is nothing to have crossed that barranca if our trail can be found here, and that I wish to avoid."

"Hum!" Don Pablo remarked; "that is very difficult, not to say impossible."

"Nothing is impossible with strength, courage, and skill. Listen attentively to what I am about to say to you."

"We will."

"The barranca, on this side of the mountain, is not peaked as it is on the side we have just left."

"That is true," said Don Miguel.

"About twenty yards below us you perceive a platform, close to which begins an inextricable forest, descending to the end of the precipice."

"Yes."

"That is our road."

"What, our road, my friend!" Don Miguel objected; "but how shall we reach the platform to which you allude?"

"In the easiest way: I will let you down with my lasso."

"That is true; it is easy for us, but how will you join us?"

"That need not trouble you."

"Very good," Don Miguel remarked; "but now permit me to make a remark."

"Do so."

"Before us," the hacendero said, stretching out his hand, "is a readily traced road, most convenient to follow, I fancy."

"In truth," Valentine coldly answered, "what you say is most correct; but two reasons prohibit my taking that road, as you call it."

"And those two reasons are?"

"First, that ready traced road is so easy to follow that I am certain Red Cedar's suspicions will be directed to it at once, if the demon allows him to come here."

"And the second?" Don Miguel interrupted.

"Is this," Valentine went on: "in addition to the incontestable advantages the road I propose offers, I do not wish, and I feel sure you are of the same opinion, that the body of my poor comrade, who has rolled to the foot of the precipice, should remain unburied and become the prey of wild beasts. That is my second reason, Don Miguel; what do you think of it?"

The hacendero felt his heart dilate at these noble words; the tears sprung from his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. He seized the hunter's hand, and pressed it forcibly.

"Valentine," he said, in a broken, voice, "you are better, than all of us; your noble heart is filled with every great and generous feeling; thanks for your good idea, my friend."

"It is agreed, then," the hunter simply said in response; "we will go."

"Whenever you please."

"Good; but as the night is dark, and the road rather dangerous, Curumilla, who has long been used to the desert, will go first to show you the way. Come, chief, are you ready?"

The Ulmen nodded his assent. Valentine leant his whole weight against a rock, twisted the lasso twice round his body, and let the end fall into the chasm; then, he made the chief, a sign to go down. The latter did not let the invitation be repeated; he seized the rope in both hands; and placing his feet in crevices in the rocks, he gradually descended till he reached the platform.

The hacendero and his son attentively followed the Indian's movements. When they saw him safe on the rock, they gave a sigh of relief, and prepared to follow him, which they did without accident.

Valentine remained alone; consequently, no one could hold the lasso and render him the service he had done his comrades; but he was not embarrassed by so trivial a circumstance. He passed the rope round a rock, so that both ends were even, then slowly descended in his turn, and safely rejoined his comrades, who were startled and frightened at such a daring descent. Then he let go the end of the lasso, drew it to him, rolled it up, and fastened it to his girdle.

"I believe," he said with a smile, "that if we go on thus, Red Cedar will have some difficulty in finding our trail, while we, on the contrary, may find his. Come let us now take a look at our domain, and see a little where we are."

And he at once began walking round the platform. It was much larger than the one they had just left, and at its extremity began the virgin, forest, which descended with a gentle incline to the bottom of the barranca. When Valentine had examined the place, he returned to his comrades, shaking his head.

"What is the matter?" Don Pablo asked; "Have you seen anything suspicious?"

"Hum!" Valentine answered; "I am greatly mistaken, or the lair of a wild beast is somewhere close by."

"A wild beast!" Don Miguel exclaimed; "What, at this elevation?"

"Yes, and it is that very fact which makes me anxious; the traces are wide and deep. Look for yourself, Curumilla," he added, turning to the Indian, and pointing at the spot where he should proceed. Without replying, the Ulmen stooped down, and attentively examined the footprints.

"What animal do you think we have to deal with?" Don Miguel asked.

"A grizzly," Valentine answered.

The grizzly bear is the most terrible and justly feared animal in America. The Mexicans could not repress a start of terror on hearing the name of this terrible adversary pronounced.

"But here's the chief returning," Valentine added. "All our doubts will be cleared up. Well, chief, to what does that sign belong?"

"Grizzly," Curumilla laconically answered.

"I was sure of it," said Valentine; "and what is t more, the animal is large."

"Very large; the footmarks are eight inches wide."

"Oh, oh," Don Miguel said, "we have a rough companion in that case. But in what state is the sign, chief?"

"Quite fresh; the animal passed scarce an hour ago."

"By Jove!" Valentine suddenly shouted, "here is its lair."

And he pointed to a large yawning hole in the mountain side. The hunters gave a start.

"Gentlemen," Valentine went on, "you are no more anxious than myself to measure your strength with a grizzly, I suppose."

"Certainly not," the Mexican exclaimed.

"If you will follow my advice we will not remain any longer here; the animal, I suspect, has gone down to drink, and will speedily return; let us not wait for it, but profit by its absence to be off."

The three men enthusiastically applauded the hunter's proposal; for, although of tried bravery, the contest appeared to them so disproportionate with this redoubtable adversary, that they did not at all desire to come face to face with it.

"Let us be off," they eagerly shouted.

Suddenly the sound of breaking branches was audible in the forest, and a formidable growling troubled the silence of night.

"It is too late," Valentine said; "here is the enemy, the fight will be a tough one."

The hunters leaned against the wall of rock, side by side, and in a few moments the hideous head of the grizzly appeared among the trees on a level with the platform.

"We are lost," Don Miguel muttered as he cocked his rifle; "for any flight from this rock is impossible."

"Who knows?" Valentine answered. "Heaven has done so much for us up to the present, that we should be ungrateful to suppose that we shall be abandoned in this new peril."

CHAPTER XXIV
THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS

On leaving the jacal, Red Cedar proceeded towards the mountains. The squatter was one of those old hands to whom all the tracks of the desert are known. From the few words uttered by Father Seraphin, and the haste he had shown in coming to warn him, Red Cedar understood that this time the final contest was about to begin, without truce or pity, in which his enemies would employ all their knowledge and skill to finish with him once for all.

He had been fortunate enough to reach the Sierra de los Comanches soon enough to be able, to efface his trail. During a month he and Valentine had carried on one of those incredible campaigns of skill and boldness in which each employed every scheme his fertile mind suggested to deceive his adversary.

As frequently happens under such circumstances, Red Cedar, who at the outset only accepted unwillingly the struggle into which he was forced, had gradually felt his old wood ranger instincts aroused. His pride had been excited, for he knew he had to deal with Valentine, that is to say, the cleverest hunter on the prairie, and he had consequently displayed a degree of skill that surprised himself, in order to prove to his terrible adversary that he was not unworthy of him.

For a whole month the two had been unsuccessfully manoeuvring within a circle of less than ten leagues, constantly turning round one another, and often only separated by a screen of foliage, or a ravine. But this contest must have an end sooner or later, Red Cedar felt, and being no longer sustained by the same passions which formerly served as the motive of all his actions, despondency was beginning to seize upon him, the more so, because physical pain had been recently joined to his moral sufferings, and threatened to deal him the final blow. Let us see in what condition Red Cedar was at the moment when the exigencies of our story compel us to return to him.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening; three men and a girl, assembled round a scanty fire of bois de vache, were warming themselves, and, at times, casting a dull glance at the gloomy gorges of the surrounding mountains. These four persons were Nathan, Sutter, Fray Ambrosio, and Ellen.

The spot where they found themselves was one of those narrow ravines, the bed of dried torrents, so many of which are met with in the Sierra de los Comanches. On the flanks of the ravine was a thick chaparral, the commencement of a gloomy virgin forest, from the mysterious depths of which could be heard at intervals the lengthened howling and roar of wild beasts.

The situation of the fugitives was most critical, and even desperate. Shut up for a month amid these arid mountains, tracked on all sides, they had hitherto only escaped their persecutors through the immense sacrifices and the prodigious craft displayed by Red Cedar. The pursuit had been so active, that, being constantly on the point of being surprised by their enemies, they did not dare kill the few head of game they came across. A shot, by revealing the direction in which they were, would have been sufficient to betray them.

In the meanwhile, the scanty stock of food they had brought with them from the jacal, in spite of their saving, had been consumed, and hunger, but before all, thirst, was beginning to be felt. Of all the scourges that afflict hapless travellers, thirst is indubitably the most terrible. Hunger may be endured during a certain length of time, without excessive suffering, especially at the end of a few days; but thirst occasions atrocious pain, which, after a while, produces a species of furious madness; the palate is parched, the throat is on fire, the eyes are suffused with blood, and the wretched man, a prey to a horrible delirium, which makes him see the desired water everywhere, at length dies in atrocious agony, which nothing can calm.

When their provisions were exhausted, they were compelled to procure others; but in the mountains that was almost impossible, as the fugitives were deprived of their freedom of action. For a few days they continued to support life on roots, and small birds caught in a snare; but unfortunately, the cold became daily sharper, and the birds withdrew to warmer regions; hence they were deprived of this resource.

The little water remaining was by common agreement reserved for Ellen. The maiden declined to accept this sacrifice, but thirst grew upon her with every moment, and, overcome by the entreaties of her companions, she eventually accepted it. The others found no other way of quenching the thirst that devoured them, than slitting the ears of their horses and drinking the blood as it ran. Next, they killed a horse, for the poor brutes found no more food than did their masters. The roasted flesh of this horse enabled them to pass a few days: in short, all four horses were eaten one after the other.

Now, nothing was left the adventurers, and for two days they had nothing to eat. Hence they maintained a mournful silence, exchanging stern glances, and plunging deeper and deeper into sinister reflections.

They felt their senses gradually leaving them and madness seizing on them; they felt the moment approaching when they would be no longer masters of their reason, and become the prey of the fearful calenture, which already pressed their temples as in a vice, and made the most startling images glitter before their fever-dried eyes.

It was a heart-breaking sight to see these three men, round the expiring fire, in this stern desert, lying without strength and almost without courage by the side of the maiden, who, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, prayed in a low voice.

Time passed; the wind howled mournfully in the quebradas; the moon, half veiled by a mass of vapour, only emitted at intervals its pallid rays, which fantastically illumined the scene of desolation, whose sinister silence was only disturbed by a suppressed oath or a groan drawn forth by pain. Ellen raised her head, and looked compassionately at her companions.

"Courage," she murmured in her gentle voice, "courage, brothers! God cannot abandon us thus."

A nervous groan was the only reply she obtained.

"Alas!" she continued, "Instead of, then yielding to despair, why not pray, brothers? It gives strength and restores hope."

"Will it quench the thirst that parches my throat?" the monk asked, brutally, as he rose with an effort on his elbow and gave her a furious glance.

"Silence! You foolish child, if you have no other help than your silly words to give us."

"Silence, villain!" Sutter interrupted him with a groan, "Do not insult my sister; she alone may perchance save us; for if God have pity on us, it will be for her sake."

"Ah!" the monk said, with a hideous grin, "Now you believe in God, my master. You must fancy yourself very near death to be so frightened? God! You poor fool, rejoice that there is none, instead of calling on Him for help; for if He really existed, He would have crushed you long ago."

"Well said, monk," Nathan remarked. "Come, let us have peace. If we are to die here like the dogs we are, let us die, at any rate, pleasantly. That is not asking too much I suppose?"

"Oh, how I suffer!" Sutter muttered, as he rolled wildly on the ground.

Ellen got up, gently approached her; brother, and putting to his lips the mouth of the skin, in which a little water yet remained, she bade him drink. The young man made a movement as if to seize the skin; but at the same instant he repulsed it, shaking his head in refusal.

"No," he replied, mournfully, "keep that, sister; you would give me your life."

"Drink, I insist," she said, authoritatively.

"No," he answered firmly, "that would be cowardly. I am a man, sister; I can suffer."

Ellen understood that her entreaties would be useless, for she knew the superstitious affection her brothers bore her; hence she returned to the fire. She sat down, took three buffalo-horn cups, which she filled with water, and placed before her; then she took a sharp pointed knife, and turning to the three men, who were anxiously watching her, she said —

"Here is water, drink. I swear that if you do not instantly obey me, I will slit the skin in which the little stock of water is left; all will then be lost, and I shall suffer the same pains as you do."

The men made no answer, but looked at each other.

"For the last time, will you drink or not?" she cried, as she placed the point of the knife on the skin.

"Stay," the monk shouted, as he rose and rushed towards her. "Demonios! She would do as she said."

And seizing a cup, he emptied it at a draught, his companions following his example. This mouthful of water – for the cups were very small – sufficed, however to calm their irritation – the fire that burned them was extinguished, they breathed more easily, and gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction, as they fell back on the ground. An angelic smile lit up the maiden's radiant face.

"You see," she said, "all is not lost yet."

"Come, come, Niña," the monk remarked, tranquilly, "why lull us with foolish hopes? The drop of water you have given us can only check our sufferings for a little while; within an hour our thirst will be more ardent and terrible than ever."

"Do you know what Heaven may reserve for you between this and then?" she asked, softly. "A respite, however short it may be, is in your position everything; all depends for you, not on the present moment, but on the coming one."

"Good, good! We'll not dispute after the service you have rendered us, Niña; still, everything seems to prove you wrong."

"How so?"

"Why, Caspita, what I say is very easy to understand; without going further, your father, who pledged his word never to desert us – "

"Well?"

"Where is he? Since daybreak he has left us to go – the deuce alone knows where? Night has long set in, and, and as you see, he has not returned."

"What does that prove?"

"Canarios! That he has gone away, that is all."

"Do you believe it, señor?"

"I am sure of it, Niña."

Ellen gave a contemptuous look.

"Señor," she haughtily answered, "you do not know my father if you consider him capable of such cowardice."

"Hum! In our position he would almost have an excuse for doing so."

"He might have done so, perhaps," she went on, quickly, "if he had no other comrade but yourself, caballero; but he would leave his children here, and he is not the man to abandon them when in danger."

"That is true," the monk said, with humility; "I did not think of that, so forgive me. Still, you will permit me to remark that it is an extraordinary thing your father has not yet returned?"

"Well, señor," the maiden said, warmly, "although you are so ready to accuse a friend, who has constantly offered you the most unequivocal proofs of his unknown devotion, how do you know that he is not delayed by his desire to save us?"

"Well spoken, by Heaven!" a rough voice said; "Thank you, my daughter."

The adventurers turned with an involuntary start; at this moment the bushes were parted by a firm hand, a heavy step sounded on the pebbles, and Red Cedar appeared, bearing a doe on his shoulder. On reaching the light of the fire he stopped, threw his burden the ground, and looked sarcastically around him.

"Oh, oh," he said, with a grin, "it seems that I have arrived just in time, señor Padre. Viva Dios! you were giving me a fine character in my absence; is that the way in which you understand Christian charity, gossip? Cristo! I do not compliment you on it, if that be the case."

The monk, startled by the sudden appearance and rough address, found no answer, so Red Cedar went on:

"By Jove! I am a better fellow than yourself, for I bring you food, and it was not without difficulty that I succeeded in killing that confounded animal, I can tell you. But now look sharp and roast a joint."

Sutter and Nathan had not waited for their father's orders, but had already begun skinning the doe.

"Hilloh!" Nathan remarked, "to roast this meat, we must enlarge our fire; and how about our pursuers?"

"It is a risk to run," Red Cedar replied; "settle among ourselves if you will incur it."

"What is your opinion?" the monk asked.

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me; but I wish you to understand one thing, once for all, as I am intimately convinced that we shall fall into the hands of our pursuers, I care very little whether it happen today or in a week's time."

"Confusion! You are not at all encouraging, gossip," Fray Ambrosio exclaimed. "Have you lost your courage too, or discovered any suspicious trail?"

"My courage never fails me; I know very well the fate reserved for me, and hence my mind is made up. As for suspicious signs, as you say, a man must be blind not to see them."

"Then there is no hope," the three men said, with ill-disguised terror.

"On my honour I do not think there is; but," he added, with a mocking accent, "why do you not roast the meat? You must be almost dead of hunger."

"That is true; but what you tell us has taken away our appetite," Fray Ambrosio remarked, sadly.

Ellen rose, approached the squatter, and laying her hand softly on his shoulder, placed her charming face close to his. Red Cedar smiled.

"What do you want, my girl?" he asked her.

"I wish, father," she said, in a coaxing voice, "that you should save us."

"Save you, poor child," he said, as he shook his head gravely, "I am afraid that is impossible."

"Then," she continued, "you will let us fall into the hands of our enemies?"

The squatter shuddered.

"Oh! Do not say that, Ellen," he replied, hoarsely.

"Still, my father, as you cannot help us to escape – "

Red Cedar passed the back of his hard hand over his dark forehead.

"Listen," he said presently, "there is perhaps one way – "

"What is it?" the three men said, eagerly, as they collected round him.

"It is very precarious, dangerous, and probably will not succeed."

"Tell it us for all that," the monk pressed him.

"Yes, yes – speak father," Ellen urged him.

"You desire it?"

"Yes, yes."

"Very well, then, listen to me attentively, for the means I am about to propose, strange as they may at first appear to you, offer a chance of success, which, in our desperate situation, must not be despised."

"Speak, pray speak!" the monk said impatiently.

Red Cedar looked at him with a grin.

"You are in a precious hurry," he said; "perhaps you will not be so presently."

2. This episode, incredible as it may appear, is rigorously true. – G.A.