Chapter 38 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
After the Fight
In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or bloody faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought.
All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention, and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded. The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying man—in whom he immediately recognised Benito.
“Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?” said he, with a look of profound pity.
“Yes,” replied the old shepherd, “it is old Benito, dying in the desert where he has nearly always lived. As for me—I know not who you are; my eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?”
“I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I hope, to bid you a last adieu.”
“I doubt it,” replied Benito; “I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?”
“Not a word.”
“Ah! I must do without it,” said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, “I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion—an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did.”
“A brother doubtless.”
“Better than that; my horse.”
“I shall remind him—do not fear.”
“Thank you,” said the old man. “As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth—now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner. That—” he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.
“He was a brave man—peace be with him!” said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.
Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses’ feet indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they entered the camp.
The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his forehead.
“Señor Don Estevan,” said he, “we have not been lucky in our pursuit. We have but wounded one or two of the Indians, and have lost one of our own men. However I bring you a prisoner; do you wish to interrogate him?”
So saying, Diaz detached his lasso from the saddle-bow, and pointed to a mass held in its noose. It was an Indian, who, pitilessly dragged along over the sand and stones, had left behind at every step pieces of flesh, and now scarcely retained any vestige of humanity.
“He was alive when I took him, however,” cried Diaz, “but it is just like these dogs of Indians, he must have died in order not to tell anything.”
Without replying to this ferocious jest, Don Estevan signed to Diaz to accompany him to a place where they might converse without being overheard. When the new-comers had lain down and silence reigned anew, Don Estevan began:
“Diaz,” said he, “we are close on the end of our expedition: to-morrow, as I told you, we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains; but in order that success may crown our efforts, treason must not throw obstacles in our way. It is on this subject that I wish to consult you to-night. You have known Cuchillo long, but not so long as I have; and certainly, not as thoroughly. From his earliest youth he has always betrayed those to whom he appeared most devoted. I know not which of all the vices with which he is endowed has the ascendant; but in a word, the sinister look of his face is but a feeble reflection of the blackness of his soul. It was he who sold to me the secret of the rich and mysterious placer to which I am leading you—and of this secret he had made himself the sole master by murdering the friend who had freely confided it to him, and who thought to find him a faithful companion in his dangers.
“I have ever, therefore, kept a watchful eye over him. His disappearance for the last two days alarmed me, but it might have been the result of an accident common in these deserts. The attack, however, from which we have so narrowly escaped has confirmed my suspicions. He has advanced under our protection, until we have reached the place where he would, be able to seize a part of these immense treasures. He had need of auxiliaries in order to murder our sixty men, and the Indians who have attacked us were but his instruments.”
“Indeed,” replied Diaz, “his report seemed to me suspicious. But the simplest method will be to hold a court-martial, interrogate him, and if he be convicted of treason, let us shoot him at once.”
“At the commencement of the attack, I assigned him a post near me, in order to watch him more easily. I saw him totter and then fall apparently mortally wounded, and I was glad to be rid of a traitor and a coward. But I have just turned over and examined all the dead, and Cuchillo is not amongst them. It is therefore urgent that without loss of time we should follow him; he cannot be far off. You are accustomed to this sort of expedition; we must, without delay, set off in pursuit of him, and execute prompt justice on a villain whose life must pay for his treachery.”
Diaz appeared to reflect for a moment, and then said, “To trace him can neither be tedious nor difficult. Cuchillo must have gone towards the Golden Valley—therefore in that direction we must seek him.”
“Go rest for an hour, for you must be worn out,” said the chief. “Ah! Diaz, if all these men were like you, how easy our path would be—gold in one hand, and the sword in the other.”
“I have only done my duty,” said Diaz, simply.
“Say to our men that it is necessary for us to reconnoitre the environs of the camp, and tell the sentinels to keep strict watch until our return, and then we shall proceed towards the valley.”
“Cuchillo must certainly be there, and we shall catch him either going or returning.”
“We shall find him in the valley,” said Don Estevan. “When you have seen it, you will find it a place that a man like Cuchillo could not make up his mind to leave.”
Diaz departed to execute his orders, and Don Estevan caused his tent to be pitched again, that even in his absence his starry banner might float over the camp as a sign of his protective authority. This done, he threw himself on his couch, and slept the sleep of a soldier after a day of fighting and fatigue.
Little more than an hour after, Diaz stood before him, “Señor Don Estevan,” said he, “all is prepared for starting.”
The chief rose and found his horse awaiting him ready saddled.
“Diaz,” said he, “ask the sentinels if Gayferos has returned.”
Diaz questioned one of the men, who replied, “The poor fellow will probably never return. The Indians must have surprised and killed him before attacking us, and that probably was the cause of the firing that we heard in the afternoon.”
“I fear it is but too certain that he has been murdered,” replied Diaz; “but as for the firing that we heard, I believe that had a different origin.”
Don Estevan now mounted his horse, and the two set off in, the direction of the mountains.