Chapter 36 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The Alarm
That evening, as usual, Don Estevan watched in his tent, while his people reposed. By the light of a smoky candle, the Spaniard, in spite of the modest appearance of his lodgings and of his dust-covered clothes, seemed to have lost nothing of the dignity of his appearance or of his grand air. His complexion, more sunburnt than usual, gave his countenance a still more energetic character. He appeared pensive, but his thoughts were no longer so uneasy as they had been; on the eve, after so many dangers, of realising his vast designs, Don Estevan had, for the time at least, shaken off gloomy thoughts, and fixed his mind on the hope of a success which he believed infallible.
He had raised the canvas, which served as a door, in order to glance upon the men who reposed around, and seemed to wish to compare his means of action with the aim he was pursuing.
“Nearly twenty years ago,” thought he, “I commanded a party of sailors, nearly equal in number, and as determined as these. I was then only an obscure younger son, and they aided me to recover my inheritance—yes, it was mine. But I was then in the flower of my age, and had an aim in the future to pursue. I have attained this aim—I have even surpassed it; and now that I have nothing more to desire, I find myself, in my mature age, scouring the desert as I formerly scoured the sea. Why?”
The conscience of Mediana cried to him, that it was in order to forget one day of his life, but at that moment he wished to remain deaf to its voice. The moon shone upon the firearms piled in the centre of the camp, and cast its light upon sixty men inured to peril and fatigue, and who laughed at heat and thirst. In the distance a luminous vapour rested upon the mountains beyond which lay the Golden Valley.
“Why?” repeated Don Estevan; “because there remains to me still an immense treasure and a vast kingdom to conquer.”
The eyes of Mediana sparkled with pride; then this expression passed away, and he fixed on the horizon a melancholy look.
“And yet,” continued he, “what of this treasure shall I keep for myself? Nothing. The crown will be placed on the head of another, and I shall not even have a son or any descendant bearing the name of Mediana, who one day might bow before my portrait and say, ‘This man could be tempted neither by gold nor by a throne.’ But they will say it of me now, and is not that enough?”
At this moment Pedro Diaz raised the door of the tent, and said, “You sent for me, Señor Don Estevan?”
“I wish to speak to you of important things, which I could not do yesterday, and ought to do to-day; I have some questions to ask; and although this is the hour for repose, they must not be adjourned. If I do not deceive myself, Diaz, you are one of those men who repose only when they have nothing better to do. The ambitious are such,” added Don Estevan, with a smile.
“I am not ambitious, Señor,” replied the adventurer quietly.
“You are so without knowing it, Diaz; and I will prove it to you, presently. But first tell me what you think of this distant firing?”
“Men meet on the sea whose surface is incomparably more extensive than that of this desert; it is not astonishing that they should meet here. Travellers and Indians have encountered one another, and are fighting.”
“That is what I think. One more question and then we will return to the first subject which I have at heart. Has Cuchillo returned?”
“No, Señor, and I much fear that we have lost the guide who has conducted us till now.”
“And to what do you attribute this strange absence?” asked Don Estevan, with an anxious look.
“Probably he has gone too far upon the track of the Apaches, and has been surprised by them. In that ease his absence may prove eternal, in spite of the fires which we have lighted for two days to show him our encampment.”
“Is that really your idea?” said the chief, looking fixedly at Diaz.
“It is; although, to say the truth, Cuchillo is one of those people whom one is rarely wrong in accusing of perfidy; but I do not see what object he could have in betraying us.”
Don Estevan pointed to the fog which hid the tops of the mountains in the horizon. “The neighbourhood of those mountains,” said he, “might explain the absence of Cuchillo.” Then, with a changed tone, “Are our men still of the same mind.”
“Yes, Señor, and have more confidence than ever, in the chief who watches while they sleep, and fights like the humblest of them.”
“I have battled in many parts of the world,” said Don Estevan, sensible to praise, the sincerity of which he believed in, “and I have rarely commanded men more determined than these. Would they were five hundred instead of sixty, for then on the return of this expedition my projects would be easy of accomplishment.”
“I am ignorant what these projects are, of which you now speak to me for the first time,” said Diaz in a reserved tone. “But perhaps Don Estevan thinks me ambitious, only because he does me the honour to judge me by himself.”
“It is possible, friend Diaz,” replied Don Estevan, smiling; “the first time that I saw you I thought that your mind was of the same stamp as my own. We are made to understand each other, I am sure.”
The Mexican had all the vivacious intelligence of his country; he had judged Don Estevan, but he waited for him to take the initiative. He therefore bowed and kept silence.
The Spaniard pushed open the curtains of the tent, and, pointing one more to the horizon, “Another day’s march,” said he; “and we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains.”
“Yes, we are scarcely six leagues distant.”
“And do you know what is below that mass of fog which crowns their top?”
“No,” replied the Mexican.
Don Estevan cast upon Diaz a look which seemed as if meant to penetrate his soul, at the moment of revealing a secret until then so carefully kept. The Spaniard wished to assure himself that the confidant he was about to choose was worthy of his confidence. The honest look of Diaz—on whose countenance could be traced none of that cupidity which spurred on his companions—reassured him, and he went on:
“Well, it is towards those mountains that we have been marching. I shall now tell you why I have directed the expedition to this place, as the pilot conducts the ship to some point in the ocean known only to himself; this evening you shall read my mind clearly. That mass of fog, which the sun itself will not wholly disperse, serves as a veil to treasures which have been amassing perhaps from the beginning of the world. For centuries the rains have been washing them into the plains: the whites only suspected, and the Indians spared them; to-morrow they shall be ours! This has been my aim. Well, Diaz! do you not fall on your knees to thank God for being one of those called to share in these treasures?”
“No,” replied Diaz, simply; “cupidity would not have made me brave the dangers that a wish for revenge has done. I would have sought from the work of my arms what others seek by easier, if by less sure, methods. But the Indians have ravaged my fields, pillaged my flocks, and murdered my father and brothers. Of my people I alone escaped. Since that time I have made fierce war upon the savages, have slain many, have sold their sons by dozens, and it is still the hope of vengeance which brings me here—neither ambition nor cupidity. But I love my country and all that I should care for riches would be to enable me to make a last effort against that distant congress which tyrannises over but cannot protect us.”
“Good! friend Diaz!” cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the adventurer, and then added with vehemence:
“Strong by the aid of this gold, I will confide my plans to those sixty men now buried in sleep. On our return our numbers will swell like the stream which widens as it flows, and we shall shake off the yoke of a capital—which is capable only of constantly changing its men and its principles.”
Don Estevan had already noticed, in former conversations with Diaz, his great hatred of the federal system, but wishing to be sure whether or not it was founded on personal motives, he continued—
“The congress is far from you, and the government of Mexico has neither troops nor money to protect provinces so distant as yours. Is that the only reproach you have to make of it!”
“The only reproach! No. Independence is for us but an empty name, and we have to bear only the burden of a distant government.”
Don Estevan now unveiled to Diaz the project which he had discussed with the Senator. Then passing from principles to persons, he named the King, Don Carlos, as him whom they were to introduce.
“A king! King Charles! so be it,” replied Diaz, “but we shall have many obstacles to overcome.”
“Less than you imagine, Diaz. Gold will level all obstacles, and to-morrow we shall gather it by handfuls. We will pave the way to the new kingdom with gold, and pay largely the founders and guardians of a throne which will want only its king.”
Thus, as he had promised his master, the bold partisan laid, even in the desert, the foundation of a future dynasty. What the influence of the Senator was to effect in the congress, that of a man renowned by his exploits was to obtain from his equals.
After this conversation Diaz retired to seek repose from his fatigues, and Don Estevan accompanied him out of the tent. The latter threw around him a glance of tranquil pride; all obstacles were surmounted, the incessant vigilance of the Indians had been eluded, thanks to Diaz, and an immense treasure, untouched since the commencement of the world, awaited only the hands which were about to be extended to seize it.
“See!” said he, “from those will rise the elements of a new kingdom, and our names will belong to history. Now I have but one fear—that is, treachery on the part of Cuchillo—and you will share this fear with me when you hear that it is he who sold me the secret of this golden deposit.”
Diaz was looking earnestly at the plain.
“There!” cried he, “I see a man approaching at full gallop: it is Gayferos or Cuchillo?”
“Pray God it be the latter,” said Don Estevan. “I prefer having him near rather than far from my sight.”
“I think I recognise his grey horse.”
In a minute, indeed, they recognised Cuchillo himself.
“To arms! to arms!” cried the guide, “here are the Indians,” and he rushed precipitately through the opening made for him by the sentinels.
“Cuchillo! the Indians! both names of bad augury,” said Don Estevan, as he turned towards his companion.