Chapter 17 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
Unexpected Recognitions
It was not long before the spectators, who awaited this terrible conflict, perceived the jaguars advancing toward the crest of the ridge. All at once, however, the two made an abrupt pause, uttering a loud roar that seemed to express disappointment. They had just scented the presence of the two men within the cistern—from which the animals were now only a few paces distant.
For a moment both male and female stood together, stretching their bodies out to their full length, and lashing their flanks with their long sinewy tails. Then, uttering another prolonged roar, they bounded simultaneously forward, passing, at a single leap, over a space of full twenty feet. A second spring brought them upon the crest of the ridge, upon which they had scarce rested an instant, before the quick sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a yell of agony, told that one of them had fallen to the hunter’s bullet.
The second jaguar appeared for the moment to have escaped, but not to have retreated. He was seen to launch himself into the bottom of the little valley; and then was heard a confusion of noises—human voices mingling with the howls of the fierce brute, and the sound of a struggle, as if jaguar and hunters were rolling over one another. A second report now struck upon the ear, followed as before by the expiring yell of the tiger, and then succeeded a profound silence, which told that the wild scene was at an end.
The great trapper was now perceived scrambling up to the ridge—towards which the whole of the travellers had advanced to meet him.
“See!” he said, addressing himself to his admiring auditory, “see what a brace of Kentucky rifles and a good knife can do in the hands of those who know how to manage them!”
The darkness, however, hindered the spectators from making out the tableau which was exhibited at the bottom of the little valley.
A few minutes afterwards the moon lighted up the scene, and then could be observed the dead bodies of the two tigers, stretched along the ground by the water’s edge, while the other trapper upon his knees was engaged in bathing with cold water a long scar, which he had received from the claws of the last killed jaguar, and which extended from behind his ear nearly down to his waist. Fortunately this ugly-looking wound was no more than skin-deep, and therefore not very dangerous.
“What signify the sharpest claws compared with the scratch of a knife!” cried he, pointing to the nearest of the jaguars, whose upturned belly exhibited a huge cut of more than a foot in length, and through which the entrails of the animal protruded.
“Can any of you tell us,” continued he, without thinking further about his wound, “if there is a hacienda in this neighbourhood where one might sell these two beautiful jaguar skins, as well as the hide of a panther we’ve got?”
“Certainly,” replied Benito, “there is the Hacienda del Venado, where we are going. There you may get not only five dollars apiece for the skins, but also the bounty of ten dollars more.”
“What say you, Canadian?” inquired the trapper, addressing his great comrade. “Will that do?”
“Certainly,” replied the Canadian, “forty-five dollars is not to be sneezed at; and when we have had a short nap we shall make tracks for the hacienda. We shall be likely to get there before these gentlemen, whose horses have taken a fancy to have a bit of a gallop, and I guess it will be some time before they lay hands on them again.”
“Don’t be uneasy about us!” rejoined the ex-herdsman. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a horse drove stampedoed, nor the first time I’ve collected them again. I’ve not quite forgotten my old business, and as soon as it is daylight, with the permission of the Señor Don Estevan, I shall go in search of them.”
No one made any opposition to the rekindling of the fire, for the night had grown cooler, and it was not yet midnight. The domestics, no longer afraid of going out into the woods, collected fresh fagots—enough to last till morning—and the preparations for supper, which had been interrupted by the approach of the jaguars, were now continued with renewed zeal.
The blaze soon flared up bright and joyous as ever—the broiling mutton sent forth its delicious odour, sharpening to a keen edge the appetites of the travellers as they stood around the fire.
Don Estevan and the Senator now called before them the two intrepid hunters, who had rendered them a service that fully deserved their thanks.
“Come hither, brave hunters!” said the Senator, “you, whose daring behaviour has been of such service to us. A slice of roast mutton and a cup of Catalonian wine will not be out of place, after the rude struggle you have sustained.”
“Ugh!” said the eldest of the trappers, in presenting his athletic form in front of the fire, “throwing a couple of poor tigers is no great feat. If it had been an affair of a dozen Comanches, or Pawnees, that would have been different. Howsomever, a chunk of roast mutton is welcome after a fight, as well as before one, and we’re ready for it with your permission. Come along, comrade! Here’s some chawing for you!”
“And you, young man,” continued Don Estevan, addressing himself to Tiburcio, who stood at some distance apart, “you will also partake of our hospitality?”
Tiburcio by a sign accepted the invitation, and approached the fire. For the first time his countenance came fairly under the light; and as it did so, the eyes of the Spaniard seemed to devour him with their regard. In truth the physiognomy of Tiburcio Arellanos was of no ordinary character, and would have merited observation from one less interested in examining it than was Don Estevan Arechiza.
An aquiline nose, black eyes with thick dark eyebrows and long lashes, and olive complexion—that appeared almost white in contrast with the jetty blackness of his beard—but above all, the extreme contraction of a thin upper lip, indicated the countenance of a man of quick resolves and fiery passions. A shade of tranquil melancholy over these features to some extent tempered their half-fierce expression.
The hair was of a chestnut brown colour, and hung in luxuriant curls over a forehead large and of noble outline. Broad shoulders and well-developed limbs denoted a man of European vigour, whose personal strength would be equal, if occasion required it, to the execution of those passionate designs nourished under the tropical skies of Spanish America.
Tiburcio Arellanos was in truth the type of a noble and ancient race, transplanted into a country still less than half civilised.
“The very form and bearing of Don Juan de Mediana!” muttered Don Estevan to himself, more than half convinced that the young man before his eyes was the son of him whose name he had pronounced. No one could have read his suspicions, hidden under the mask of perfect calmness.
There was one other man in that group who was struck by the aspect of Tiburcio. This was the big trapper, who on first sight of the young man’s face under the light of the fire started and closed his eyes, as if lightning had flashed before them. He was about to rush forward, when a second look seemed to convince him he had made a mistake; and smiling at his having done so, he kept his place. His eyes then wandered around the group of faces that encircled the fire, with that scrutinising glance, that showed a capacity for reading the characters of men in their looks.
Having finished this scrutiny, he called out to his companion, who had not yet got forward:—
“Come along, partner; or people will say you are ashamed to show yourself. Prove to these gentlemen that you know how to enjoy life like other folk.”
“O certainly—I am coming—all right, comrade.”
And the next moment the younger trapper made his appearance within the circle of light.
An odd-looking object he appeared, with his huge fur cap upon his head, drawn down in front, so as to cover his eyes, and an old striped cotton handkerchief fastened over his face and throat, in such a manner as to conceal the scar made by the claws of the tiger. With the cap and kerchief, the greater portion of his countenance was masked, leaving visible only his mouth, with a double row of grand teeth, that promised to perform their part upon the roast mutton.
Having reached the fire, he sat down with his back to it—so that his half-masked face was still further concealed in shadow—and being supplied, as well as his comrade, with a large cut from the joint, he at once set about satisfying the appetite of hunger.
“Are there many men of your size and strength where you come from?” inquired the Senator, addressing himself to the largest of the two hunters.
“In Canada,” answered the latter, “I should not be remarked among others; ask my comrade there!”
“He speaks true,” grumbled the other.
“But you are not both from the same country?” said Tragaduros.
“No—my comrade is a native of—”
“Of New York State,” hastily interposed the younger of the two trappers—a reply which astonished the Canadian, but which he refrained from contradicting.
“And what is your calling?” continued the Senator, interrogatively.
“Coureurs des bois, wood-rangers,” answered the Canadian. “That is to say, we pass our time in ranging the woods, with no other object than to avoid being shut up in towns. Alas! it is a profession likely soon to come to an end; and when we two are gone, the race of wood-rangers will run out in America, since neither of us has any sons to carry on the business of their father.”
There was a tone of melancholy in the last words of the trapper’s speech that contrasted strangely with his rude manner: something that seemed to evince a certain degree of regret. Don Estevan, noticing this, now entered into the conversation.
“I fear it is a poor business you follow, my brave fellows! But if you feel inclined to leave it off for a while, and take a part in an expedition that we are about to set on foot, I can promise to fill your caps with gold dust. What say you?”
“No!” brusquely responded the younger of the trappers.
“Each to his own business,” added the Canadian. “We are not gold-seekers. We love to range freely where we please, without leader, and without being controlled by any one—in a word, free as the sun or the prairie breeze.”
These answers were given in a tone so firm and peremptory that the Spaniard saw it would be of no use combating a resolution which was evidently not to be shaken, and therefore he declined to make any further offers.
Supper was soon over, and each of the travellers set about making himself as comfortable as possible for the remainder of the night.
In a short time all, with the exception of Tiburcio, were asleep. But Tiburcio was yet a mere youth, an orphan, who had lately lost a mother for whom he had a profound affection; and above all, Tiburcio was in love—three reasons why he could not sleep. A deep sadness had possession of his spirits. He felt himself in an exceptional situation—his past was equally mysterious with his future.
“Oh, my mother! my mother!” murmured he, despairingly, to himself, “why did you not tell me who I am!”
And as he said this he appeared to listen—as if the breeze, sighing through the leaves, would give a response to his interrogation. Little thought he at the moment that one of those men, lying near him under the light of the moon, could have given the desired answer—could have told him the name which he ought to hear.
Nevertheless, on her death-bed, the widow of Marcos Arellanos had revealed to him a secret—perhaps almost as interesting as that of his birth and parentage.
The secret of the Golden Valley, which had been made known to Tiburcio, had opened his eyes to a world of pleasant dreams. A prospect which hitherto had appeared to him only as a chimerical vision was now viewed by him in the light of a reality. A gulf that before seemed impassable was now bridged over as if by the hand of some powerful fairy.
Gold can work such miracles. Had he not in prospect the possession of a rich placer? Would not that enable him to overcome all obstacles both of the past and the future? Might he not, by the puissance of gold, discover who were his real parents? and by the same means, might he not realise that sweeter dream that had now for two years held possession of his heart?
As he lay upon the ground, kept awake by these hopeful reflections, a vision was passing before his mind’s eye. It was a scene in which were many figures. A gentleman of rich apparel—a young girl his daughter—a train of servants all affrighted and in confusion. They have lost their way in the middle of the forest, and are unable to extricate themselves from the labyrinth of llianas and thickets that surround them. A guide appears in the presence of a young hunter, who engages to conduct them to the place whither they wish to go. That guide is Tiburcio himself, who in his reverie—as in the real scene that occurred just two years before—scarce observes either the gentleman in rich apparel nor the attendants that surround him, but only remembers the beautiful dark eyes and raven hair of the young girl. Tiburcio reassures them of safety, guides them, during a journey of two days—two days that appeared to him to pass only too rapidly.
In his waking dream one scene is forcibly recalled. He remembers a night halt in the woods. All were asleep around him—the attendants upon the grass—the rich gentleman upon his cloak, and the young girl upon the skin of a jaguar which the guide himself had supplied. He alone remained awake. The moon was shining upon all; and a delicious perfume from the blossoms of the sweet sassafras trees that grew near was wafted toward them upon the gentle breeze. The blue heaven above appeared in perfect harmony with the tranquil scene below. The guide, with admiring eyes, looked upon that lovely virgin form and listened to the soft breathing of that innocent bosom. To him it was a moment of delicious anguish...
Then the vision changed—the young girl at length reached her home, and entered the grand dwelling of her father. There the guide remained a whole week a welcome guest—drunk with love yet not daring to raise his eyes to the object of his passion.
Afterwards, too, at the festivals of the neighbouring villages, a hundred times had he gazed upon her; but what of that? he was only a poor gambusino, and she the daughter of the richest proprietor in the province!
But now—with the secret of the Golden Valley—Tiburcio suddenly saw himself powerful and rich; hope had sprung up within his bosom; and amidst the reverie occasioned by these delightful thoughts, he at last fell asleep.
It is scarce necessary to add that the young girl who recalled these sweet souvenirs, and who was now mingling in his dreams, was the daughter of Don Augustin Peña, the proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado.
At daybreak the sleepers were awakened by the ringing of a bell and the clatter of hoofs. It was the cavallada returning to camp, under the charge of Benito, who had thus kept his promise. The travellers were soon upon their feet, but it was soon perceived that the two trappers were not amongst them. These had gone away without any one having observed their departure!
The horses being saddled and bridled and the mules packed, the cavalcade continued its journey towards the hacienda—Don Estevan and the Senator, as before, riding in front.
It was after sunset before the walls of the hacienda were descried in the distance, already assuming a sombre hue under the fast increasing obscurity of the twilight. But through the wide forest tract which surrounded the hacienda a well-defined road led in the direction of the dwelling, which the travellers could follow even in the darkest night, and upon this road the cavalcade was now seen to enter.
A few minutes before they had passed into the forest from the open plain two men were seen standing near the edge of a thicket, by which they were hidden from the view of the travellers. These men might have been easily recognised by their long rifles as strangers to that part of the country; they were, in fact, the two trappers, the Canadian and his comrade, who had that morning so abruptly taken leave of the camp.
“You must have been deceived by some accidental resemblance,” said the Canadian to his companion.
“No,” replied the latter; “I am sure it is he. Twenty years have not made much change either in his face or figure. His voice is just the same as it was when I was the coast-guard, Pepé the Sleeper. My eyes and ears are as good as they were then, and I assure you, Bois-Rose, that he’s the very man.”
“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.