“Strange enough,” answered Bois-Rose (for the great Canadian trapper was no other than Bois-Rose himself). “After all, one is more likely to meet an enemy he is in search of than a friend. It may be the same.”
As he finished this speech, the Canadian, leaning upon his long rifle, stood looking after the cavalcade, which was just disappearing into the forest road that led to the hacienda.
After remaining a few minutes in this position, the two trappers turned back again into the forest, and soon disappeared under the shadows of the trees.
Chapter Eighteen
The Hacienda del Venado
The Hacienda del Venado – like all buildings of this kind situated upon the Indian frontier, and of course exposed to the attacks of the savages – was a species of citadel, as well as a country dwelling-house. Built with sun-dried bricks and hewn stone, crowned by a crenelled parapet, and defended by huge, massive doors, it could have sustained a siege from an enemy more expert in strategy than the tribe of Apaches who were its neighbours.
At one corner stood a tower of moderate height, which crowned the chapel belonging to the hacienda, serving for the great clock as well as for a belfry. In case the principal part of the building should be forced, this tower would answer for an asylum almost impregnable.
Finally, a strong stockade composed of trunks of the palmetto, completely encircled the building; within which enclosure were the quarters destined for the domestics of the hacienda – as also for the herdsmen, and such ordinary guests as from time to time came to seek a passing hospitality. Outside this privileged enclosure was a group of from twenty to thirty huts, composing a species of little village. These were inhabited by the day-labourers (peons) and their families attached to the hacienda – who, in case of danger, would escape within the enclosure for safety and protection.
Such was the Hacienda del Venado. The proprietor, Don Augustin Peña, was a man of great opulence. In addition to a rich gold mine which he worked, at no great distance off, he was the owner of countless herds of horses, mules, and cattle, that in a half-wild state roamed over the vast savannahs and forests that constituted the twenty leagues of land belonging to the hacienda. Such a vast tract of territory belonging to one man is by no means a rare thing in northern Mexico.
At this time Don Augustin was a widower, and his family consisted of only one daughter – the young girl already introduced to the reader. Considering the immense heritage that the Doña Rosario – or, as she was more gracefully called, Rosarita – was likely to bring to whoever should become her husband, it was natural that an alliance with Don Augustin should be the object of many an ambition; in fact her beauty without the grand fortune – which, at her father’s death, she was to become mistress of – would of itself have been enough to have challenged a crowd of pretenders to her hand.
The Andalusian type has lost nothing in the northern provinces of Mexico. Its purity of outline is there associated with freshness of colour, and this happy mixture of graces was exhibited in the beautiful countenance of Rosarita. We have described her with black eyes and hair of raven hue; but hers was a beauty that words can but faintly portray, and about which all description would be superfluous.
And this lovely creature bloomed in the very midst of the desert, like the flower of the cactus which blossoms and fades under the eye of God alone.
The immense plain in the midst of which stood the Hacienda del Venado presented a double aspect. In front of the house only did the ground show any traces of cultivation. On that side fields of Indian corn and vast olive plantations denoted the presence and skilful labour of man.
Behind the hacienda – at some hundred paces distance from the stockade – the clearing ended, and thence extended the virgin forest in all its sombre and primitive majesty.
The cultivated ground was intersected by a considerable stream of water. During the dry season it ran gently and silently along, but in the season of rain it would suddenly change into an impetuous torrent that inundated the whole plain, bearing huge rocks along in its current, and every year widening its channel.
Perhaps the most powerful of Arab chiefs, the richest patriarch of ancient times, never counted such superb and numerous herds as roamed over the pasturage of the Hacienda del Venado.
About an hour before sunset – on that same day on which the travellers departed from La Poza – two men, one on horseback, the other mounted on a mule, were seen traversing the plain in the direction of the hacienda. Both horse and mule were each a splendid specimen of his kind – the horse with fiery eye, broad chest, and curving, swan-like neck, was scarce more to be admired than the mule, that with fine, delicate limbs, rounded flanks, and shining coat, walked side by side with him.
This horseman was the master of the hacienda, Don Augustin Peña. His costume consisted of a hat of Guayaquil grass, a shirt of the finest cambric, an embroidered vest, and silk velvet pantaloons fastened down the sides with large buttons of gold.
His companion, the rider of the mule, was the chaplain of the hacienda, a reverend Franciscan monk in a sort of half convent costume. This consisted of an ample blue frock confined around the waist with a thick cord of silk, the tassels of which hung down below his knees. Beneath this appeared a pair of large riding-boots heavily spurred. Upon his head a grey beaver, somewhat jauntily set, gave to the Franciscan an appearance rather soldier-like than monastic.
The haciendado appeared to be regarding with a look of pride his rich possessions – extending beyond view on every side of him – as if he was reflecting how much this kind of wealth was superior to golden ingots shut idly in a chest; while the monk seemed to be absorbed in some profound reverie.
“By Saint Julian! the patron saint of travellers!” said Don Augustin, breaking silence, “you have been more than twenty-four hours absent! I was afraid, reverend father, that some jaguar had swallowed both you and your mule.”
“Man proposes, and God disposes,” replied the monk. “When I took my departure from the hacienda, I did not except to be gone more than a few hours – giving Christian burial to poor Joaquin, that had been killed by one of the bulls – but just as I had blessed the earth where they had buried him, a young man came galloping up like a thunderbolt, both himself and horse all of a sweat, to beg that I would go along with him and confess his mother who was upon her death-bed. Only ten leagues he said it was, and I should have been glad for a pretext to get off from such a difficult turn of duty; but at the earnest entreaty of the young fellow, and knowing who he was, I could not refuse him. Who do you think he was?”
“How should I know?” replied the haciendado.
“Tiburcio, the adopted son of the famous gambusino, Marcos Arellanos.”
“How! his mother dead! I am sorry. He is a brave youth, and I have not forgotten the service he once did me. But for him we should all have been dead of thirst, my daughter, my people, and myself. If he is left without resources, I hope you have said to him that he will find a welcome at the Hacienda del Venado.”
“No – I have not,” replied the monk.
“And why?”
“Because this young fellow is desperately in love with your daughter; it is my duty to tell you so.”
“What signifies that, so long as my daughter does not love him?” replied Don Augustin. “And if she did, where would she find a man possessing higher physical or moral qualities than this same Tiburcio? I never dreamt of having for my son-in-law any other than an intelligent man, brave enough to defend the frontier against these hordes of savage Indians, and just such a man is young Arellanos. But in truth I forget myself; I have this day designed for Rosarita a husband of a more exalted station.”
“And it may be that you have done wrong,” rejoined the monk, in a serious tone; “from what I suspect – in fact, what I may say I know – this Tiburcio might make a more valuable son-in-law than you imagine.”
“It’s too late then,” said Don Augustin. “I have given my word, and I cannot retract it.”
“It is just about this matter I wish to speak to you, if you have time to hear me.”
At this moment the two horsemen, having passed the stockade, had arrived at the foot of the stone stairway – which led up to the portico, and thence into the grand sala of the hacienda – and while dismounting, their dialogue was interrupted.
This sala was a large room, which, according to the practice in hot countries, was so arranged as to be continually kept cool by a current of air passing lengthwise through its whole extent. Fine Chinese mats covered the floor, while richly painted window-blinds prevented the rays of the sun from entering the apartment. The walls, whitened with stucco, were adorned with rare illuminated paintings set in gold frames, some leathern chairs called butacas, several side tables – upon one of which stood a silver brazero filled with red cinders of charcoal – these, with a fauteuil or two, and a mahogany couch of Anglo-American manufacture, completed the furniture of the apartment.
Upon a table of polished balsam-wood stood several porous jars containing water; beside them, on a large silver waiter, were confections of several kinds; while heaped upon other dishes, also of solid silver, were fruits both of the tropic and temperate climes – oranges, granadillas, limes, and pitayas, here brought together to tempt the appetite or assuage the thirst.
The appearance of these preparations denoted that Don Augustin expected company. As soon as they had entered within the sala, the monk, observing the well garnished tables, inquired if such was the case.
“Yes,” answered the haciendado, “Don Estevan de Arechiza has sent me word that he will arrive this evening with a somewhat numerous train, and I have taken measures to entertain a guest of such importance. But you say you wish to speak to me about some business – what is it, Friar José Maria?”
The two now sat down, each choosing an easy-chair, and while Don Augustin was lighting a cigar the monk commenced speaking as follows:
“I found the old woman seated upon a bank outside the door of her hut, whither she had dragged herself to look out for my arrival. ‘Bless you, good father!’ said she, ‘you have arrived in time to receive my last confession. But while you rest a little, I wish you to listen to what I am going to say to him whom I have always treated as my own child, and to whom I intend to leave a legacy of vengeance.’”
“What! holy father!” interrupted Don Augustin, “surely you did not permit this infraction of God’s law, who says, vengeance belongs only to Him?”
“Why not?” replied the monk. “In these deserts, where neither laws nor tribunals exist, every man must be his own avenger.”
With this strange apology for his conduct, the monk continued:
“I sat down and listened to what she had to say to this adopted son. It was this: – ‘Your father was not killed by the Indians, as we were led to believe. It was his companion who murdered him – for the purpose of being the sole possessor of a secret, which I shall presently disclose – but to you only, Marcos.’
“‘God alone knows who this man was,’ said Tiburcio, ‘he alone knows him.’
“‘He only!’ cried the dying woman, with an air of disdain. ‘Is this the language of a man? When the Indians come to steal his cattle from the vaquero, does he sit still and say: God only can prevent them? No! – with his eye bent, and his hand ready, he follows upon their traces, till he has recovered his herds, or perished in the attempt. Go you and do as the vaquero! Track out the assassin of your father. That is the last wish of her who nourished you, and has never failed in her affection.’
“‘I shall obey you, my mother,’ answered the young man, in a firm voice.
“‘Listen, then, to what I have got to say!’ continued the widow. ‘The murder of Arellanos is no longer a supposition, but a reality. I have it from a herdsman who came from the country beyond Tubac. Some days before, he had met two travellers. One was your father Marcos; the other was a stranger to him. The herdsman was travelling on the same route, and followed them at some distance behind. At a place where certain signs showed that the two travellers had made their bivouac, the herdsman had found the traces of a terrible struggle. The grass was bent down, and saturated with blood. There were tracks of blood leading to a precipice that hung over a stream of water; and most likely over this the victim was precipitated. This victim must have been Marcos; for the herdsman was able to follow the trail of the murderer by the tracks of his horse; and a little further on he noticed where the horse had stumbled on the left fore-leg. The assassin himself must have been wounded in the struggle, for the herdsman could tell by his tracks leading to the precipice that he had limped on one leg.’”
Don Augustin listened with attention to this account – proving the wonderful sagacity of his countrymen, of which he had almost every day some new proof. The monk went on with his narration.
“‘Swear then, Tiburcio, to avenge your father!’ continued the dying woman. ‘Swear it, and I promise to make you as rich as the proudest in the land; rich enough to bend to your wishes the most powerful – even the daughter of Augustin Peña, for whom your passion has not escaped me. This day you may aspire to her hand without being deemed foolish; for I tell you, you are as rich as her own father. Swear, then, to pursue to the death the murderer of Arellanos?’
“‘I swear it,’ rejoined Tiburcio, with a solemn gesture.
“Upon this, the dying woman placed in the hands of the young man a piece of paper, upon which Arellanos, before leaving his home for the last time, had traced the route of his intended journey.
“‘With the treasure which that paper will enable you to find,’ continued the dying woman, ‘you will have gold enough to corrupt the daughter of a viceroy, if you wish it. Meanwhile, my child, leave me for a while to confess to this holy man: a son should not always hear the confession of his mother.’”
The monk, in a few more words, related the closing scene of the widow’s death, and then finished by saying: —
“Now, Don Augustin, you perceive my reason for saying that this young fellow, whatever may be his family, is not the less likely to make a good match for the Doña Rosarita.”
“I agree with you,” responded the haciendado; “but, as I have said to you, my word is given to Don Estevan de Arechiza.”
“What!” exclaimed the monk, “this Spaniard to be your son-in-law!”
Don Augustin smiled mysteriously as he replied: —
“He! no, good Fray José, not he, but another. Don Estevan does not wish this alliance.”
“Caspita!” exclaimed the monk. “Does he think it beneath him?”
“It may be he has the right to think so,” added Don Augustin, again smiling mysteriously.
“But who is this man?” inquired the monk, with an air of surprise.
Just as Don Augustin was about to reply, a servant entered the sala.
“Señor Don Augustin,” said the servant, “there are two travellers at the gate, who beg of you to give them a night’s lodging. One of them says that he is known to you.”
“Bid them welcome!” replied the haciendado, “and let them enter. Whether they are known to me or not, two guests more or less will be nothing here.”
A few seconds after, the two travellers had advanced to the foot of the stone stairway, where they stood awaiting the presence of the master of the house.
One of them was a man of about thirty years of age – whose open countenance and high forehead denoted courage, combined with intelligence. His figure presented an appearance of strength and vigorous activity, and he was somewhat elegantly dressed – though without any signs of foppery.
“Ah! is it you, Pedro Diaz?” cried Don Augustin, recognising him. “Are there any Indians to be exterminated, since I find you coming into these solitudes of ours?”
Pedro Diaz was, in truth, known as the most celebrated hater and hunter of Indians in the whole province – hence the strange salutation with which Don Augustin received him.
“Before answering you, Señor Don Augustin, permit me to introduce to you the king of gambusinos and prince of musicians, the Señor Don Diego Oroche, who scents a placer of gold as a hound would a deer, and who plays upon the mandolin as only he can play.”
The individual presented under the name of Oroche, solemnly saluted the haciendado.
It must have been a long time since the prince of gambusinos had found an opportunity to exercise the subtle talent of which his companion spoke – or else the cards had been of late unlucky – for his outward man presented an appearance that was scarcely more than comfortable.
In reaching his hand to his hat, it was not necessary for him to disarrange the folds of his cloak. It only required that he should choose one of the numerous rents that appeared in this garment, to pass through it his long-clawed fingers – whose length and thinness denoted him a player on the mandolin. In reality, he carried one of these instruments slung over his shoulders.
Don Augustin invited both Diaz and his singular companion to enter. When they were seated in the saloon Diaz began the conversation.
“We have heard,” said he, “of an expedition being got up at Arispe to proceed to Apacheria; and this gentleman and I are on our way to take part in it. Your hacienda, Señor Don Augustin, chanced to lie in our way, and we have entered to ask your permission to lodge here for the night. By daybreak we shall continue our route for Arispe.”
“You will not have to go so far,” replied Don Augustin, with a smile. “The expedition is already on foot, and I expect the leader of it here this very night. He will be glad of your services, I guarantee you, and it will save you several days’ journey.”
“A miracle in our favour!” exclaimed Diaz; “and I thank God for the lucky coincidence.”
“The thirst of gold has caught you also, Pedro Diaz?” asked Don Augustin, smiling significantly.
“No, thank God!” replied Diaz, “nothing of the sort. Heave the searching for gold to experienced gambusinos, such as the Señor Oroche here. No – you know well that I have no other passion than hatred for the ferocious savages who have done so much ill towards me and mine. It is only because I hope through this expedition once more to carry steel and fire into their midst, that I take any part in it.”
“It is right,” said the haciendado, who like all dwellers upon the frontiers exposed to Indian incursions, nourished in his heart a hatred for the savages almost equal to that of Diaz himself. “I approve of your sentiments, Don Pedro Diaz; and if you will permit me to offer you a gage of mine, I beg you will accept from me the present of a horse I have – one that will carry you to your satisfaction. I promise you that the Indian you pursue, while on his back, will require to go as fast as the wind itself, if you do not overtake him.”
“He shall be my war-horse,” exclaimed Diaz, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at the gift. “I shall ornament his crest with Indian scalps, in honour of him who gave him to me.”
“I cannot divine what has delayed Don Estevan,” said the haciendado, changing the subject of conversation. “He should have been here three hours before this, that is, if he passed the night at La Poza.”
Don Augustin had scarce finished his speech when a sudden and graceful apparition glided into the saloon. It was his daughter, the beautiful Rosarita.
As if the expected cavalcade only awaited her presence, the clattering of hoofs at the same instant was heard outside; and by the light of the torches which the domestics had carried out, Don Estevan and his suite could be seen riding up to the entrance of the hacienda.
Chapter Nineteen
Rosarita
On the route from La Poza it had fallen to the lot of Cuchillo and Tiburcio to ride side by side, but for all this few words had passed between them. Although Cuchillo had not the slightest idea of renouncing his dire design, he continued to hide his thoughts under an air of good-humour – which when need be he knew how to assume. He had made several attempts to read the thoughts of the young gambusino, but the latter was on his guard, seeking in his turn to identify Cuchillo with the assassin of his father. No opportunity offered, however; and in this game of mutual espionage, neither had the advantage. Nevertheless, an instinctive and mutual hatred became established between the two, and before the day’s journey was over, each regarded the other as a mortal foe. Cuchillo was more than ever determined to execute his hellish purpose – since a crime less or more would be nothing to him – while Tiburcio, keenly remembering the oath which he had made to his adopted mother, was resolved on keeping it, and only awaited the time when he should be sure of the assassin. We need scarcely add that Tiburcio in the accomplishment of his vow, had no thought of playing the assassin. No. Whenever and wherever the murderer should be found, he was to die by Tiburcio’s hand; but only in fair and open fight.
But there were other painful reflections that occupied Tiburcio’s mind during the journey. The nearer he approached the object of his love the greater seemed to be the distance between them. Though a man may hope to obtain what he only wishes for in a moderate way, yet when anything is ardently yearned after, the obstacles appear insurmountable. Hence the secret of many a heroic resolution. When Tiburcio was reclining by the well of La Poza, his sweet dream hindered him from thinking of these obstacles; but now that the journey was nearly ended, and he drew near to the grand hacienda, his spirits fell, and a feeling of hopelessness took possession of his soul. Hence it was that he formed the resolution to put an end to the painful suspense which he had now a long time endured; and that very night, if possible, he intended to ascertain his position in the eyes of Doña Rosarita. Come what might, he resolved to ask that question, whose answer might render him at once the happiest or the most miserable of men.
When Tiburcio had first met Doña Rosarita, with her father and his servants, in the depth of the forest, he knew nothing of the rank of the party thus wandering astray. Even during the two happy days in which he acted as their guide, he was ignorant of the name of the beautiful young girl, to whom his eyes and his heart rendered a continual homage. He therefore permitted himself to indulge in those pleasant dreams which have their origin in a hopeful love. It was only after he had learned the quality of his fellow-travellers – that the young lady was the daughter of the opulent proprietor, Don Augustin Peña – it was only on ascertaining this that Tiburcio perceived the folly of his aspirations, and the distance that lay between him and the object of his love. If then the secret, so unexpectedly revealed to him, had given him a desire for the possession of riches, it was not for the sake of being rich. No; a nobler object inspired him – one more in keeping with his poetic character. He desired riches only that with them he might bridge over the chasm that separated him from Rosarita.
Unhappily he could not hide from himself the too evident fact that he was not the sole possessor of the secret.
All at once it occurred to him that the expedition to which he found himself thus accidentally attached could have no other object than this very placer of the Golden Valley. Most likely the very man who shared the secret with him – the murderer of Marcos Arellanos – was among the men enrolled under the orders of the chief Don Estevan. The ambiguous questioning of Cuchillo, his comprehension of events, the stumbling of his horse, with other slighter indications, appeared to throw some light upon the obscurity of Tiburcio’s conjectures; but not enough. How was he (Tiburcio) to arrive at a complete understanding?
A still more painful uncertainty pressed upon his spirit, as they approached the dwelling of Don Augustin. What reception would he meet with from Doña Rosarita? he, a poor gambusino – without resources, without family – poorly dressed even – a mere follower, confounded with the common mob of adventurers who composed the expedition? Sad presentiments were passing in his mind, as the cavalcade of which he formed so humble an appendage arrived at the palisade enclosure of the hacienda.
The gates were soon open to receive them; and the moment after Don Augustin himself welcomed the travellers at the front entrance of the mansion. With that ease and elegance, almost peculiar to Spanish manners, he received Don Estevan and the Senator, while the cordiality with which he welcomed Tiburcio appeared to the young man a happy omen.
The travellers all dismounted. Cuchillo remained outside – partly out of respect to his chief and partly to look after his horse. As to Tiburcio, he had not the same motives for acting thus, and therefore entered along with Don Estevan and Tragaduros, his face pale and his heart beating audibly.
The room into which they had been shown was the grand sala already described, and in which certain preparations had been made for a magnificent banquet. But Tiburcio saw nothing of all this. His eyes beheld only one object – for there stood a beautiful girl whose lips rendered paler the carnation red of the granadillas, and the hue of whose cheeks eclipsed the rosy tint of the sandias, scattered profusely over the tables. It was Rosarita herself. A silken scarf covered her head, permitting the thick plaits of her dark hair to shine through its translucent texture, and just encircling the outline of her oval face. This scarf, hanging down below the waist, but half concealed her white rounded arms, and only partially hindered the view of a figure of the most elegantly voluptuous tournure. Around her waist another scarf of bright scarlet formed a sort of cincture or belt, leaving its long fringed ends to hang over the skirt of her silken robe, and blending its colours with those of the light veil that fell down from her shoulders. It was a costume that seemed well-suited to her striking beauty, and the effect of the coup d’oeil upon the heart of poor Tiburcio was at once pleasant and embarrassing.
Notwithstanding the gracious smile with which she acknowledged his presence, there was a certain hauteur about the proffered welcome – as if it was a mere expression of gratitude for the service he had formerly rendered.
Tiburcio observed this with a feeling of chagrin, and sighed as he contrasted her cold formality of speech with the abandon and freedom of their former relations. But he could not help noticing a still greater contrast when he looked at his own poor garments and compared them with the elegant costumes of his two travelling companions.
While Don Estevan was entertaining his host with some account of what had happened on their journey, the Senator appeared to have eyes only for the beautiful Rosarita – upon whom he was not slow in lavishing a string of empty compliments.
The young girl appeared to Tiburcio to receive these compliments with a smile very different from that she had accorded to himself; he also observed, with a feeling of bitterness, the superior easiness of manner in which those whom he regarded as his rivals addressed themselves to her. With anguish he noticed the colour become more vivid upon her cheeks; while the heaving of her bosom, as the scarf rose and fell in regular vibrations, did not escape the keen glance of jealousy. In fact the young girl appeared to receive pleasure from these gallantries, like a village belle who listens to the flatteries of some grand lord, at the same time that a voice from within whispers her that the sweet compliments she is receiving are also merited.
Don Estevan was not unobservant of this by-play that was passing around him. He easily read in the expressive looks of Tiburcio the secret of his heart, and involuntarily contrasted the manly beauty of the young man with the ordinary face and figure of the Senator. As if from this he apprehended some obstacles to his secret projects, more than once his dark eyebrows became contracted, and his eyes shone with a sombre fire.
By little and little he ceased to take part in the conversation, and at length appeared wrapped in a profound meditation. Insensibly also an air of melancholy stole over the features of Rosarita. As for Don Augustin and the Senator they appeared at once to be on good terms with each other, and carried on the conversation without permitting it to flag for a moment.
Just then Cuchillo, accompanied by Baraja, entered to pay their respects to the master of the hacienda. Their entrance within the sala of course created some slight disarrangement in the tableaux of the dramatis personal already there. This confusion gave Tiburcio an opportunity to carry out a desperate resolution he had formed, and profiting by it, he advanced nearer to Rosarita.
“I will give my life,” said he to her, in a side whisper, “for one moment alone with you. I wish to speak of an affair of the highest importance.”
The young girl regarded him for a moment with an air of astonishment, further expressed by a disdainful movement of the lip; although, considering their former relations, and also the free familiarity of Mexican manners, she might have been expected to have excused his freedom. Tiburcio stood waiting her reply in a supplicating attitude, and as everything seemed spontaneous with her, he had not long to wait. She answered in a few words:
“To-night then – at ten o’clock I shall be at my window.”
Scarcely had the thrilling tones of her voice ceased to vibrate on the ear of Tiburcio, when supper was announced, and the guests were shown into another room. Here a table, splendidly set out, occupied the middle of the apartment, above which hung a great chandelier fitted with numerous waxen candles: these gave out a brilliant and cheerful light, that was reflected from hundreds of shining vessels of massive silver of antique forms, arranged upon the table below.