Chapter Thirty Two
Souvenirs of Elanchovi
While these incidents were passing by the trappers camp-fire, Don Estevan was actively pursuing the execution of his plans.
From what little he had heard and seen of Diaz he had conceived a high opinion of this person. He had observed in him a man of very different character from the crowd of adventurers who usually make up expeditions of the kind he was about to lead. Don Augustin had pronounced upon his courage; and the chief himself had noticed the reserve with which Diaz treated his new associates Cuchillo and Baraja. Moreover, some words with Diaz himself had confirmed Don Estevan’s favourable impression, and convinced him that the Indian fighter was a man of brave and loyal heart. He regarded Diaz, therefore, as a valuable member of the expedition, and resolved to attach him as much as possible to his service – not merely with a view to his assistance in the search and conquest of the Valley of Gold, but for that higher aim which he had proposed to himself – the establishment of a kingdom.
While proceeding to the rendezvous designated by Cuchillo, Don Estevan took the opportunity of sounding Diaz on this important question. His bravery and address as a soldier were already known; but these two qualities were not sufficient for the purposes of the Spaniard. Something more would be required of the man of whom it was his design to make both his lieutenant and confidant.
The reply of Diaz to his very first question, convinced Don Estevan that Diaz was the very man he stood in need of; but the time had not yet arrived for the leader to open himself fully. He contented himself by simply observing, that in the event of the expedition being crowned with success, it might lead to an important affair – the separation of Sonora from the Federal Republic.
At this moment the conversation between the chief and Pedro Diaz was interrupted by the report of a carbine. It was the shot fired by Cuchillo, which had caused the sudden alarm at the camp-fire of the trappers, but which as already known had failed in its aim.
If the outlaw had not yielded to his own cupidity, it is possible that Tiburcio would have fallen at that moment. The assassin would have taken with him his two associates Baraja and Oroche; and as three bullets instead of one would thus have been aimed at the intended victim, the chances are that some of them would have reached his life. But Cuchillo did not desire to have a partner in the deed who could claim a share in the promised reward, he was determined to have the twenty onzas to himself; and this it was that induced him to leave Baraja and Oroche behind him. His design was well conceived, and might have been executed to his satisfaction. No doubt his aim had been true enough; but it chanced to be taken at an inopportune moment – just as Tiburcio sprang forward under the impulse of the revelation which Bois-Rose had made to him.
Having delivered his fire the outlaw did not even stop to ascertain its effect; but turning suddenly away, he ran to recover his horse. The dread of being pursued and overtaken by the two trappers caused him to fly at full speed. He dreaded the vengeance of two men of whose singular courage and dexterity he had already been a witness. Fear, however, so confused his senses, that on facing round, he was unable to remember in what direction he had come, or where the horse had been left; and for some seconds he stood hesitating and doubtful.
Short as was the time, it might have proved fatal to him, but that his unexpected attack had somewhat disconcerted the camp. Both Bois-Rose and Tiburcio, interrupted while suffering the most vivid emotions, stood for some moments in a state of stupor, while Pepé was stretched out at full length, and supposed to be asleep.
This was only apparent, however, for at the report he sprang to his feet as if he had heard the “hish” of the bullet as it passed close to his ears.
“Carramba!” cried he, “I am curious to know which of us that bit of lead was intended for, you or myself, young man; for I have heard your conversation, and I am no stranger to this affair of Elanchovi.”
“Elanchovi!” exclaimed the Canadian. “What! do you know anything of Elanchovi?”
“Ah, well do I,” answered Pepé. “I have good reasons to know Elanchovi – but there’s no time to talk of it now; I will settle that business by-and-by, for it’s a secret you can’t comprehend without my help. So indeed it is the young count, and you have found him again! Well that’s enough at present. Now, Bois-Rose, forward! You take to the right of where the shot came from, while this young man and I go to the left. The cowardly rascal who fired will no doubt be trying to turn our camp, and by going both ways, one or other of us will be likely to chance upon him. Away, Bois-Rose, away!”
Hurriedly pronouncing these words, Pepé grasped his rifle and struck off to the left, followed by Tiburcio, who had no other weapon than his knife. The Canadian, suddenly stooping, till his huge body was almost horizontal, glided off to the right under the branches of the trees, and then moved on with a silence and rapidity that showed how accustomed he was to this mode of progression.
The camp-fire was abandoned to the guard of the half-wild horse, that, freshly affrighted by the report of the carbine, once more plunged and reared, until he had almost strangled himself in the noose of his lazo.
Meanwhile the day was beginning to break, and the red light of the fire was every moment growing paler under the first rays of the morning.
“Let us stop here,” said Pepé to Tiburcio, as soon as they had reached a thicket where they could have the advantage of seeing without being seen, and from which they commanded a view of the road leading to the Salto de Agua. “Stand closely behind this sumac bush,” continued he; “I have an idea that this picaron, who has such a crooked sight, will pass this way. If he do, I shall prove to him that the lessons Bois-Rose has given me have not been altogether lost upon me. I manage my piece somewhat better now than when I was in the service of her Catholic majesty. There now, stand close, and not a word above a whisper.”
Tiburcio – or, as we may now call him, Fabian de Mediana – obeyed with pleasure the injunctions of his companion. His spirit, troubled with a few strange words he had heard from Bois-Rose and Pepé, was full of hope that the latter would be able to complete the revelation just begun; and he waited with anxious silence to hear what the ex-carabinier might say.
But the latter was silent. The sight of the young man – whom he had himself assisted in making an orphan, and despoiling not only of his title and wealth, but even of his name – renewed within him the remorse which twenty years had not sufficed to blot out from his memory. Under the dawning light he looked sadly but silently on the face of that child whom he had often seen playing upon the beach of Elanchovi. In the proud glance of the youth, Pepé saw once more the eyes of his high-born mother; and in the elegant and manly form he recognised that of Don Juan de Mediana, his father; but twenty years of a rude and laborious life – twenty years of a struggle with the toils and dangers of the desert – had imparted to Fabian a physical strength far superior to that of him who had given him being.
Pepé at length resolved to break the silence. He could no longer restrain himself, suffering as he was from such bitter memories.
“Keep your eye fixed upon the road,” said he, “at yonder point, where it is lost among the trees. Watch that point whilst I talk to you. It is the way in which Bois-Rose and I do when there is any danger threatening us. At the same time listen attentively to what I say.”
“I listen,” answered Fabian, directing his glance as his companion, had instructed him.
“Do you remember nothing of your young days, more than you have just related to the Canadian?”
“Nothing – ever since I learnt that Arellanos was not my father, I have tried to remember something, but to no purpose. I do not even know who took care of me in my infancy.”
“No more know they of you, my poor young man. I am the only one who can tell you these things of which you are ignorant.”
“For heaven’s sake speak!” impatiently cried Fabian.
“Hush! not so loud!” cautioned the trapper. “These woods, remote and solitary as they seem, nevertheless contain your deadliest enemy – unless, indeed, it was at me that the bullet was aimed. That may make a difference in your favour. In fact, since I have not been able to recognise you, I do not see how he can?”
“Who – of whom do you speak?” brusquely demanded Fabian.
“Of your mother’s murderer – of the man who has robbed you of your titles, your honours, your wealth, and your name.”
“I should be noble and rich then?” cried Fabian, interrogatively. “Oh that I had but known it sooner – only yesterday!”
Fabian’s thoughts were upon Rosarita. If he could have told this to her, in that sad parting interview, perhaps the result might have been different!
“Noble! yes!” replied Pepé, “you should be and shall yet, if I mistake not – but rich – alas! you are no more rich.”
“What matters it?” responded Fabian, “to-day it would be too late.”
“Yes, but it does matter – ah! I knew two men – one at least – who shall restore to you what you have lost, or die in the attempt.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Of one who, without knowing it, aided to some extent in the assassination of your mother – of one whom that sad souvenir has a thousand times troubled the conscience – who, in the silence of the night in the midst of the woods, has often fancied he could hear that cry of anguish, which at the time he mistook for the wailing of the breeze against the cliffs of Elanchovi. It was the death scream of your poor mother. Ah! Don Fabian de Mediana,” continued the speaker, in reply to the gesture of horror made by the young man, “Ah! that man’s conscience has reproached him in stronger terms than you could use; and at this hour he is ready to spill the last drop of his blood for you.”
The impetuous passions of Fabian, for a moment softened by thoughts of Rosarita, were again inflamed to their utmost. He had already sworn to avenge the death of Arellanos, and here was anew object of vengeance, the murderer of his own mother! The bland image of Rosarita at once disappeared, paling away as the firelight eclipsed by the brighter gleams of the rising sun.
“My mother’s assassin!” cried he, his eyes flashing with furious indignation. “And you know him?”
“You also – you have eaten with him at the same table – under the same roof – that which you have just now quitted!”
Pepé without further interrogation went on to recount what he knew of the events of Elanchovi. He told Fabian who he was – that Don Estevan was no other than his uncle, Antonio de Mediana – of the marriage of his mother with Don Juan his father – of the consequent chagrin of the younger brother – of his infamous design, and the manner it had been carried into execution. How Don Antonio, returning from the wars in Mexico, with his band of piratical adventurers, had landed in a boat upon the beach at Ensenada – how he had entered the chateau, and with the help of his two subordinate villains had abstracted the Countess and her infant – himself Fabian – how the assassination of the mother had been committed in the boat, and the child only spared in the belief that the murderer’s steel was not necessary – in the belief that the waves and the cold atmosphere of a November night would complete the deed of death.
Nor did Pepé conceal his own conduct connected with this affair. He disclosed all to his half-frantic listener – the after actions of Don Antonio with regard to himself – his imprisonment and subsequent banishment to the fisheries of Ceuta – his escape at a later period to the prairies of America, and his meeting with Bois-Rose – with whom, however, no recognition had ever been established about the events of Elanchovi – since neither had ever mentioned that name in hearing of the other.
All these things Pepé narrated in turn, but briefly as the circumstances required. The rest of his history Fabian already knew – at least, the greater part of it; Bois-Rose had partially made the revelation.
Chapter Thirty Three
The Man in the Yellow Jacket
Bois-Rose, as already stated, had gone alone in a direction opposite to that taken by his comrades. His mind full of the danger with which Fabian was surrounded – Fabian restored to him as if by a miracle – the Canadian continued to advance with rapid strides. He examined every opening and aisle of the forest with an eye keenly bent, and an ear straining to catch the slightest sound.
After making a distance of a hundred yards or so, he stopped in his tracks, and laying himself flat along the grass, placed his ear to the ground and listened attentively. In a few seconds’ time a dull sound reached him – the hoof-strokes of a horse that seemed to approach the spot where he lay.
“Pepé is right,” muttered he to himself, as he started to his feet; “the skunk is coming this way. Good! he has the advantage of me in being mounted; but I have a rifle that I dare say will make up for the difference —enfant de grâce! he is here!”
As this exclamation escaped him, the trapper was seen suddenly to raise his long rifle to his shoulder. At the same instant a leathern jacket of yellowish colour appeared at some distance off among the leaves, and at about the height of a man on horseback.
The sharp crack of a rifle was instantly followed by the disappearance of the leathern jacket: and, since for marksmen like Bois-Rose to take aim is to hit, the latter had no doubt that his enemy had fallen to the ground either dead or wounded. For a moment he thought of reloading; but the ardour of his vengeance urged him to rush forward and make sure of his victim. In the event that the assassin should have companions, the trapper trusted to his great strength to equalise the chances of a hand-to-hand conflict. Neglecting all further precautions, therefore, like the hunter rushing upon the wounded stag, he dashed forward through the trees toward the spot where his enemy had fallen.
As he drew near, he could perceive a horse rearing furiously in front of him, crushing the underwood as he plunged violently from side to side. The horse was saddled and bridled, but there was no one in the saddle. This led Bois-Rose to the belief that his bullet had dismounted the rider.
All at once a shrill whistle rang through the trees; and the horse uttered a loud neigh – as if in reply – galloping off in the direction from which the signal had come. After making several lengths through the bushes, the horse came to a stop. Bois-Rose ran after, and in a few bounds was beside the animal. It was still dark under the shadow of the trees, but the Canadian could make out the form of a man upon the ground, at that moment struggling in the act of raising himself. Just then the horse dropped upon his knees, the man grasping the pommel of the saddle succeeded in crawling into it; a signal started the animal to his feet again; and before the trapper could come up to the spot, both horse and man were fast disappearing behind the foliage of the trees.
Bois-Rose launched after them a furious malediction; and reloading his rifle as rapidly as he could, sent a bullet in the same direction; but the continued strokes of the horse’s feet falling upon his ear told him that his random shot had been delivered to no purpose.
Without following further, he turned in the opposite direction, and after imitating three times in succession, the howling of the prairie wolf – a signal for Pepé – he strode off to the spot where the yellow jacket had fallen from the saddle.
There he perceived the grass pressed down as if where a man’s body had fallen upon it; and at about the height of a man on horseback, the branches of the sumac tree were broken, as though the horseman had caught at them in falling. There were no traces of blood, however – not a drop could be seen; but a carbine lying upon the ground showed that the horseman, in his hurry to escape, had left his weapon behind him.
“My poor Fabian!” muttered he, “this will serve for him. In these woods a knife is not much worth; this will be a better weapon for him.”
Somewhat consoled by this reflection, the trapper now turned to go back in the direction of the camp-fire. He had not made a dozen steps, when the sharp report of a rifle fell upon his ear.
“It is Pepé’s!” he cried. “I know it. God grant he may have made a better shot than I have done!”
Just then a second report echoed through the woods. It sounded sadly on the ear of the Canadian – who did not recognise it – and being now the victim of a terrible uncertainty, he ran with all speed in the direction whence the sound had come.
Another report that now reached him added to the anguish of his suspense; for this time, like the last, it was not the well-known crack of his comrade’s rifle.
Almost at the same instant, however, he heard Pepé’s voice calling out:
“Come back, Fabian! come back! What is the use of – ”
A third detonation seemed to cut short the speech of the ex-coast-guard – as if he had fallen by the bullet – while no voice of Fabian was heard to make reply. A profound and frightful silence followed the last shot, which was broken only by the voice of the mock-bird, who appeared imperfectly to imitate the words that had been spoken, and then commenced chanting a plaintive song – as if mourning the death of those who had fallen by the shots.
The Canadian ran on for some moments, until – unable longer to restrain himself – he paused, and cried out, at the risk of exposing himself to some ambushed enemy:
“Hola! Pepé! – where are you?”
“Here!” answered the voice of the ex-carabinier. “We are here, straight before you – Don Fabian and myself. Come on!”
A cry of joy was all the response the Canadian could give; and the next moment another joyous shout, as he came upon the ground and perceived that both his companions were still in safety.
“The skunk ought to be wounded,” said he; “my shot caused him to tumble out of his saddle. You were perhaps more fortunate than I? I heard your piece speak – have you throwed him, Pepé?”
Pepé shook his head in the negative.
“If you mean the fellow in the yellow jacket,” said he, “I fancy the devil has him under his protection; for I had a fair sight on him – and yet he’s off! He’s not alone, however; there are four other horsemen along with him; and in one of these gentleman I have recognised him whom they here call Don Estevan de Arechiza, but who is no other than – ”
“I have seen only the fellow in the leather jacket,” interrupted the Canadian; “and here is his gun, Fabian, for you. But are you quite safe?” continued he, in an anxious tone. “You are sure you are not wounded?”
“No, no – my friend – my father!” cried Fabian, flinging himself into the trapper’s arms, as if they had just met after a long separation.
“Oh, Pepé!” cried the Canadian, his eyes filling with tears, as he pressed Fabian convulsively against his great bosom, and then held him at a distance as if to get a better view of him. “Is he not grand? Is he not beautiful? He – once my little Fabian – oh!”
“Pepé has told me all,” said Fabian. “Among these men is the murderer of my mother.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Pepé; “and by the Virgin of Atocha let us not delay here. There is no time for sentiment – the villain must not escape us. Justice, so long evaded, must now have its due.”
“As God wills!” rejoined Fabian.
The three friends now held a rapid council as to what course was best to be taken. It was concluded by their resolving to follow the horsemen as rapidly as possible along the road which these had taken – the road to Tubac.
Chapter Thirty Four
The Blood of the Medianas
After having uselessly discharged their carbines several times, from too great a distance for the balls to be dangerous, Oroche and Baraja had rejoined Cuchillo.
The outlaw was as pale as death; the ball fired at him by the Canadian had creased his head, and it was this had caused him to fall from his horse. Doubtless Bois-Rose would then have crushed him, like a venomous reptile, but for the horse. The noble animal, seeing that his master could not raise himself unaided, bent down that he might seize his mane, and so reach the saddle, and when he felt his master once more firmly seated on his back, he had set off at full gallop, and carried him away beyond the reach of Bois-Rose.
This was not the only danger run by the outlaw. When his accomplices had rejoined him and all three had come up with Don Estevan and Diaz, another danger was in store for him. The Spaniard had no need to interrogate Cuchillo in order to learn that Fabian had once more escaped. From the disappointed air of the two followers, and the paleness of the outlaw, who was still tottering in his saddle, Don Estevan guessed all.
Deceived in his expectation, the rage of the Spaniard burst out. He rode up to Cuchillo, crying, in a voice of thunder, “Cowardly and clumsy knave!” and in his blind fury, without reflecting that Cuchillo alone knew the secret of the Golden Valley, he drew his pistol. Luckily for the outlaw, Pedro Diaz threw himself quickly between him and Don Estevan, whose fury gradually subsided.
“And those men who are with him – who are they?” cried he.
“The two tiger-killers,” replied Baraja.
A short deliberation took place in a low voice between Don Estevan and Pedro Diaz, which ended by these words, pronounced aloud:
“We must destroy the bridge of the Salto de Agua, and the devil is in it if they overtake us before we reach Tubac;” and at this they all set off at full gallop.
Fabian had heard Don Estevan say to Cuchillo, the night before, that he should only pass two hours at the hacienda before his departure; and as the last events which had taken place at Don Augustin’s must have tended to shorten his stay, there was no time to hesitate. The horse of Pepé became a precious auxiliary in following the fugitives, and, if necessary, for cutting off their retreat. It remained to be decided who should mount him, and undertake an enterprise so perilous as opposing singly the flight of five armed horsemen.
“I shall follow them,” said Fabian.
So saying, he rushed towards the animal, who recoiled in terror; but seizing the cord by which he was tethered, the young man threw a handkerchief over his eyes. Trembling in every limb, the horse remained quiet, while Fabian brought Pepé’s saddle, which he placed on his back, and then arranged the lazo so as to form at once a bridle and a snaffle. He was about to mount without removing the handkerchief, when Pepé, at a sign from Bois-Rose, interposed.
“Gently,” said he, “if any one here has a right to mount this animal, it is I – I who captured him, and to whom he belongs.”
“Do you not see,” cried Fabian, impatiently, “that he is not branded, which shows that he has never yet been mounted? if you care for the safety of your limbs, I advise you not to try him.”
“That is my business,” said Pepé, advancing; but scarcely had the animal felt his hand on the pommel, and his foot on the stirrup, than with a furious bound he threw him ten feet off. Pepé uttered an angry oath, but Fabian vaulted into the saddle without touching the stirrups.
“Stop! Fabian, stop!” cried Bois-Rose, in a tone of anguish, “you must not go alone and risk falling into their hands.”
But already Fabian had removed the handkerchief; and the noble animal, his eyes restored to the light, made furious efforts to free himself from a weight which he felt for the first time, but at last stood motionless and trembling. Bois-Rose profited by this moment to seize the bridle, but was shaken off by another furious bound, and the terrified animal rushed away with such impetuosity that it was no longer in human power to restrain him. For a few moments the Canadian watched the intrepid rider struggling with the fury of the horse, and then both disappeared from his sight.
“They will kill him,” cried he; “they are five to one. Let us follow as closely as we can, Pepé, to protect once more my lately recovered child.”
Bois-Rose threw his rifle over his shoulder, and was already taking gigantic strides after Fabian.
“The horse is difficult to manage,” cried he; “I am certain that he will not go straight! we shall perhaps arrive as soon as he. Ah! Don Estevan, your evil star has guided you to these outlaws.”
Fabian, like those legendary cavaliers whom nothing appals, passed with fearful rapidity over hillocks, ravines, and fallen trunks of trees. Pepé was not wrong; in spite of the start that the pursued had of him, Fabian would soon have overtaken them, could he have guided his horse; but luckily, or unluckily for him, the intractable animal deviated constantly from the track; and it was only after prodigious efforts that he could bring him back to the road, which wound through the wood, and on which the traces of the five fugitives were visible, and thus the pursuer constantly lost ground.
However, after an hour of this struggle, the horse began to find that he had met with his master, and that his strength was becoming exhausted; the curb, held by a vigorous hand, compressed his jaws, his speed gradually relaxed, his bounds became less violent, and he ended by obeying the hand which guided him. As if by common consent, man and horse stopped to take breath. Fabian profited by this rest to look around him; his heart began to beat less rapidly and he could both hear and see. Trampled leaves, newly broken branches and the prints of horses’ feet, were clear indications of the passage of those who fled before him.
Suddenly the sound of falling water struck upon his ear. In another moment the fugitives would have gained the rustic bridge which crossed the wide and deep bed of the torrent; their united efforts might destroy it, and then all pursuit would be useless. While he was seeking for a ford Don Estevan would escape through the vast plains which extended to Tubac. This thought aroused anew the young man’s passion; and, pressing his horse’s side he galloped along the path, the windings of which still hid his enemies from view. This time his horse had grown docile and flew along the road.
The noise of the torrent soon drowned that of the horse’s feet, but before long human voices mingled with it. This sound produced upon Fabian as powerful an effect as his repeated blows did upon his horse; a few minutes more and he would confront the enemies whom he was burning to reach. The impetuous pace of a horse excites a man to the greatest degree; horse and rider react upon each other, and Fabian in his excitement forgot the inequality of numbers, therefore the spectacle which met his eyes was one that caused him a bitter disappointment.
As already stated, a bridge composed of trunks of trees roughly cut, joined the two steep banks, between which roared the Salto de Agua. This bridge, broad enough for a horse to pass over, rested at each end on the bare rock without anything to secure it, and the strength of a few men might overturn the trees and render the crossing impossible.
Just as Fabian reached the bridge, four horses, urged on by their riders, were pulling vigorously, with ropes attached to the trees, which at that moment yielding, fell with a crash into the torrent.
Fabian uttered a cry of rage. A man turned round – it was Don Estevan, but Don Estevan separated from him by an impassable barrier, and looking triumphantly at him.
Fabian, his clothes torn to pieces by the brambles, and his face so transformed by fury as to be scarcely recognisable, rushed forward in his blind rage to cross the river. But his horse reared violently and refused to proceed.
“Fire on him!” cried Don Estevan, “or the madman will derange all our plans. Fire, I tell you!”
Three carbines were already pointed at Fabian, when at some distance behind him loud voices were heard, and Pepé and the Canadian appeared. At the sight of these formidable rifles, the outlaws hesitated; Fabian made a new effort, but the frightened horse plunged and reared as before.
“Fire!” again cried Don Estevan.
“Woe to him who does!” shouted the Canadian, “and you, Fabian, in heaven’s name, retire!”
“Yes, it is I, Fabian!” cried the Count, in a voice which drowned the thunder of the torrent and the cries of the hunters, “Fabian, who comes to avenge his mother’s blood upon the infamous Don Antonio de Mediana!”
Then, while his voice still sounded in the ears of Don Estevan, who for the first time in his life stood motionless with terror, the impetuous young man drew his knife and pricked his horse with it.
This time the animal gave a furious leap across the gulf and reached the opposite bank; but one of his feet slipped, and after a short struggle he fell backwards, both horse and rider disappearing in the flood. A cry of anguish burst from the Canadian and one of triumph from the opposite bank; but both were quickly drowned by the roar of the torrent as it closed over its double prey.