Chapter 48 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The King-Maker a Captive
In the whole course of his adventurous life, Don Estevan had never been in such danger. The plain offered him no protection against the rifles of his enemies—two at least of whom had an infallible eye and steady aim—and who had also the advantage of an impregnable position, and turrets of rock behind which to intrench themselves. Don Estevan did not conceal from himself the extent of his danger; but neither did his courage give way.
“Let us have done with this trifling,” cried the sonorous voice of Bois-Rose, whose generosity made him averse to profit by his advantages, and who scrupled always to shed blood if he could avoid it. “You have heard that we wish no harm to any but your chief, and you must make up your mind to let us take him. Retire then willingly, if you do not wish us to treat you as we intend to treat him.”
“Never!” cried Diaz, “shall I commit such a cowardice? You are the first comers; so be it; we will yield the ground to you, but Don Estevan must be allowed to go with me.”
“We refuse,” cried Pepé; “we particularly want the man you call Don Estevan.”
“Do not oppose the justice of God,” added Fabian; “your cause is only that of man. We give you five minutes to reflect, after which our rifles and our good cause shall decide between us.”
“You have but two minutes to decide,” said Bois-Rose; “listen to me and avoid needless bloodshed.”
Mediana kept silence and preserved his haughty air. Unshakable in his notions of chivalric honour, Pedro Diaz resolved to die with the chief, whose life he believed to be so precious to his country. He consulted Don Estevan by a look.
“Return to the camp,” said the latter; “abandon to his fate a man henceforth useless to your cause, and come back to avenge my death.”
Diaz was not to be moved, but gradually drew his horse close to Don Estevan, and when their knees touched, with his face still turned toward his enemies, he murmured, with scarcely a movement of his lips:
“Keep steady in your stirrups, have your horse ready, and let me act.”
Don Estevan made signs with his hand as though to demand a truce; but he had taken a desperate determination.
“Bend down, Fabian; he is going to fire,” cried Bois-Rose.
“Before my mother’s murderer? Never!” cried Fabian. Quick as thought, the hand of the Canadian giant on his shoulder, forced him down. Don Estevan vainly sought for an aim for his double-barrelled piece. He could see nothing but the formidable rifle of Bois-Rose directed towards him, although in obedience to Fabian’s wishes, Bois-Rose would not finish the combat by striking his foe to the ground.
With as much courage as agility, Diaz now jumped up behind Don Estevan on his horse, and throwing his arms around him to steady him after the shock, seized the bridle, turned the animal round, and galloped off, covering with his body, as with a buckler, the chief whose life he was willing to save at the expense of his own. While Fabian and Pepé rushed down the rock, at the risk of breaking their necks, Bois-Rose followed the movements of the horse glancing along the barrel of his rifle.
The two men appeared to make but one body: the back of the horse and the shoulders of Diaz were the only objects at which Bois-Rose could aim; only now and then the head of the animal was visible. To sacrifice Diaz would be a useless murder; and Don Estevan would still escape. A moment more and the fugitives would be out of range; but the Canadian was of that class of marksmen who lodge a ball in the eye of a beaver, that he may not injure its skin; and it was the horse he wished to aim at. For a single moment the head of the noble animal showed itself entirely—but that moment was sufficient; a shot was heard, and the two men and the death-stricken horse rolled over together on the ground.
Bruised by the violence of their fall, both men rose with difficulty; while, their poignards in their teeth, and their rifles in their hands, Fabian and Pepé advanced upon them. Bois-Rose followed with great gigantic strides, loading his rifle as he went. When he had finished, he again stopped.
Pedro Diaz, devoted to the last, rushed towards the gun which had fallen from Don Estevan’s hands, picked it up, and returned it to him.
“Let us defend ourselves to the last!” cried he, drawing his long knife.
Don Estevan steadied himself and raised his piece, undecided for a moment whether to aim at Fabian or at Pepé; but Bois-Rose was watching, and a bullet from his rifle broke the weapon of the chief in his hands, just where the barrel joins the stock, and Don Estevan himself, losing his balance, fell forward on the sand.
“At last, after twenty years!” cried Pepé, rushing towards him, and placing his knee upon his breast.
Don Estevan vainly tried to resist; his arm, benumbed by the violence of the blow which had broken his gun, refused its service. In an instant Pepé had untied the woollen scarf which was wound several times round his body, and bound with it the limbs of his enemy. Diaz could offer no assistance, for he had himself to defend against the attacks of Fabian.
Fabian scarcely knew the Indian fighter; he had seen him only for a few hours at the Hacienda del Venado; but the generosity of his conduct had awakened in the heart of the young man a warm sympathy, and he wished to spare his life.
“Surrender, Diaz!” cried he, parrying a dagger blow slimed at him; but Diaz resolved not to yield, and for the few minutes during which Pepé was engaged in binding Don Estevan, there was a contest of skill and ability between him and Fabian. Too generous to use his rifle against a man who had but a dagger to defend himself with, Fabian tried only to disarm his adversary; but Diaz, blinded by rage, did not perceive the generous efforts of the young man, who, holding his rifle by the barrel, and using it as a club, tried to strike the arm which menaced him. But Fabian had to deal with an antagonist not less active and vigorous than himself. Bounding from right to left, Diaz avoided his blows, and just as Fabian believed he was about to succeed, he found himself striking in the air, and the knife menacing him afresh. Bois-Rose without waiting to reload, ran up to put an end to the struggle—in which Fabian’s generosity placed him at a disadvantage—and Pepé, having fast bound his enemy, advanced also.
Thus menaced by three men, Diaz determined not to die without vengeance. He drew his arm back, and made a rapid thrust at Fabian; but the latter had been carefully watching the movement, and his rifle met the murdering weapon on its way. The dagger fell to the ground; and Pepé, seizing Diaz round the body just as Fabian struck him, cried, “Fool! must we kill you, then? If not, what shall we do with you?”
“What you have done to that noble gentleman,” replied Diaz, pointing to Don Estevan.
“Do not ask to share his fate,” said Pepé; “that man’s days are numbered.”
“Whatever his fate is to be, I wish to share it,” cried Diaz, vainly trying to free himself. “I accept from you neither quarter nor mercy.”
“Do not play with our anger!” said Pepé, whose passions were roused; “I am not in the habit of offering mercy twice.”
“I know how to make him accept it,” said Fabian, picking up the fallen knife. “Let him go, Pepé; with a man like Diaz, one can always come to terms.”
Fabian’s tone was so firm, that Pepé opened his arms and loosened the iron grasp in which the Mexican was bound.
“Here, Diaz,” said Fabian, “take your weapon, and listen to me.”
So saying, Fabian advanced and offered him his knife without any attempt at guarding himself. Diaz took the weapon, but his adversary had not presumed too far; at the heroic simplicity of Fabian his anger vanished on the instant.
“I listen,” said he, flinging his knife to the ground.
“I knew it would be so,” replied Fabian, with a smile. “You interposed unknowingly between crime and the just vengeance which pursued it. Do you know who is the man for whom you wish to expose your life? and who are those who have spared it? Do you know whether or not we have the right to demand from him, whom you doubtless know only as Don Estevan, a terrible account of the past? Reply honestly to the questions that I shall put to you, and then decide on which side justice lies.”
Astonished at these words, Diaz listened in silence, and Fabian went on:
“If you had been born in a privileged class, heir to a great fortune; if a man had taken from you your fortune and your name, and reduced you to the rank of those who have to work for their daily bread, should you be the friend of that man?”
“No, I should be his enemy.”
“If that man, to destroy the last souvenir of your birth, had murdered your mother, what would he deserve from you?”
“Blow for blow—blood for blood.”
“If, after a long and difficult pursuit, fate had at last delivered the spoiler into your hands, what would you do?”
“I should think myself guilty towards God and man if I spared him.”
“Well, then, Diaz,” cried Fabian, “there is a man who has taken from me my name, my fortune, and murdered my mother; I have pursued this murderer and spoiler—fate has delivered him into my hands, and there he lies!”
A cloud passed over the eyes of Diaz at the sight of the chief whose doom was thus pronounced, for the sentiment of inexorable justice that God has implanted in the heart of man told him that Don Estevan merited his fate, if Fabian spoke truly. He sighed, but offered no reply.
While these events were taking place in the midst of the plain, the actors of the scene might have observed Cuchillo raise with precaution the leaves which covered his head, cast an eager glance on the Golden Valley, and then glide out of the lake. Covered with mud, and his garments streaming with water, they might have mistaken him for one of the evil spirits whom the Indians believed to dwell in these solitudes. But their attention was completely absorbed by what was taking place among themselves.