Chapter 51 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The Judgment of God
An instant of stupor succeeded to the murder so suddenly accomplished. Don Antonio did not stir; Fabian seemed to forget that the bandit had only hastened the execution of the sentence which he himself had pronounced.
“Wretch!” cried he, rushing towards Cuchillo, with the barrel of his carbine in his hand, as though he did not deign to raise its butt against the executioner.
“There, there!” said Cuchillo, drawing back, whilst Pepé, more ready to acquit Don Antonio’s murderer, interposed between them; “you are as quick and passionate as a fighting-cock, and ready every instant to sport your horns, like a young bull. The Indians are too busy elsewhere to trouble themselves about us. It was a stratagem of war, to enable me more speedily to render you the signal service required of me. Do not therefore be ungrateful; for, why not admit it? you were just now a nephew, most unsufferably encumbered with an uncle; you are noble, you are generous; you would have regretted all your life that you had not pardoned that uncle? By cutting the matter short for you, I have taken the remorse upon myself; and so the affair is ended.”
“The rascal knows what he is about, undoubtedly,” remarked the ex-carabinier.
“Yes,” replied Cuchillo, evidently flattered, “I pride myself upon being no fool, and upon having some notion of the scruples of conscience. I have taken your doubts upon mine. When I take a fancy to people, I sacrifice myself for them. It is a fault of mine. When I saw, Don Tiburcio, that you had so generously pardoned me the blow—the scratch I inflicted upon you—I did my best to deserve it: the rest must be settled between me and my conscience.”
“Ah!” sighed Fabian, “I hoped yet to have been able to pardon him.”
“Why trouble yourself about it?” said the ex-carabinier. “Pardon your mother’s murderer, Don Fabian! it would have been cowardice! To kill a man who cannot defend himself, is, I grant, almost a crime, even after five years’ imprisonment. Our friend Cuchillo has saved us the embarrassment of choosing: that is his affair. What do you say, Bois-Rose?”
“With proofs such as those we possess, the tribunal of a city would have condemned the assassin to atone for his crime; and Indian justice could not have done less. It was God’s will that you should be spared the necessity of shedding the blood of a white man. I say as you do, Pepé, it is Cuchillo’s affair.”
Fabian inclined his head, without speaking, in acquiescence to the old hunter’s verdict—as though in his own heart he could not determine, amidst such conflicting thoughts, whether he ought to rejoice, or to grieve over this unexpected catastrophe.
Nevertheless, a shade of bitter regret overspread his countenance; but accustomed, as well as his two companions, to scenes of blood, he assented, though with a sigh, to their inexorable logic.
In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were turning out well for him.
He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could never more speak, and muttered in a low voice:
“Why trouble one’s self about human destiny?—for twenty years past, my life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree.”
Then addressing himself to Fabian:
“It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah! Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid—for the first time, let me tell you—to come to an open rupture with his conscience.”
Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made—to satisfy his cupidity by the possession of the gold,—knew that to make a promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply with anxiety.
“It is true; the price of blood is yours,” said Fabian to the bandit.
Cuchillo assumed an indignant air.
“Well, you will be magnificently recompensed,” continued the young man, contemptuously; “but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:—the gold of this place is yours.”
“All?” cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears.
“Have I not said so?”
“You are mad!” exclaimed Pepé and Bois-Rose, simultaneously, “the fellow would have killed him for nothing!”
“You are a god!” cried Cuchillo; “and you estimate my scruples at their real value. What! all this gold?”
“All, including the smallest particle,” answered Fabian, solemnly: “I shall have nothing in common with you—not even this gold.”
And he made a sign to Cuchillo to leave the ground.
The bandit, instead of passing through the hedge of cotton-trees, took the road to the Misty Mountains, towards the spot where his horse was fastened.
A few minutes afterwards he returned with his serapé in his hand. He drew aside the interlacing branches which shut in the valley, and soon disappeared from Fabian’s sight. The sun, in the midst of his course, poured down a flood of light, causing the gold spread over the surface of the valley to shoot forth innumerable rays.
A shudder passed though Cuchillo’s veins, as he once more beheld it.
His heart beat quick at the sight of this mass of wealth. He resembled the tiger which falling upon a sheepfold cannot determine which victim to choose. He encompassed with a haggard glance the treasures spread at his feet; and little was wanting to induce him, in his transports of joy, to roll himself in these floods of gold.
Soon, however, restored to calmer thoughts, he spread his mantle on the sand; and as he saw the impossibility of carrying away all the riches exposed to his view, he cast around him a glance of observation.
In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene.
He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit’s cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.
Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed.
Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them.
He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become.
His arm was passed through his horse’s bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards.
The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride.
“I do not blame you,” said he; “in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!”
“It is holy bread,” interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. “Pepé and I can say that, for our part—”
“I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him.”
“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”
A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.
“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot—”
“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.
“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”
This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.
“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice—not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”
“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”
“The traitor who twice attempted your life—the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest—is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”
“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it—but are you also certain?”
“As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it.
“And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it.”
As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse’s girths, and prepared to depart.
“One word more!” cried Fabian, “has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?”
“More than two years, from what I have heard.”
This last scene had escaped the bandit’s observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.
Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serapé all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation.
“Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day,” said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. “What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepé—Bois-Rose—advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day.”
“Does the vile wretch, who cut your father’s throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?” answered the Canadian, resolutely.
“Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death,” added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, “and I abandon him to your justice.”
“It is with regret that I see you depart,” said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, “a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated.”
“My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan’s unhappy star,” replied the adventurer, “but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley.”
As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death.
The three friends speedily lost sight of him.
The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him.
Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose’s advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier.
“You have taken,” said the latter, in his turn, “a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband’s murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it.”
Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian’s countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; “But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo’s expect to be hung every day.”
As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepé approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw.
The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him—dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun’s light over the surface of the valley—had heard and seen nothing.
With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse.
“Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please,” cried Pepé, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; “Master Cuchillo!”
But Cuchillo did not hear.
It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier—after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected.
“Master Cuchillo,” resumed Pepé, “I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character.”
“Come!” said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely.”
Then aloud:
“A philosophical maxim?” said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. “What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point.”
Pepé, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbable sangfroid, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together.
No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile.
“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”
“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”
“Indeed!”
“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”
“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”
“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”
“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba—enough to build a church to your patron saint.”
Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.
“It is certainly my intention not to employ this gold to any other purpose than a godly one,” said he, concealing his anguish as well as he could. “As to the knowledge of this wonderful valley, it is to—it is to chance that I owe it.”
“Chance always comes to the assistance of virtue,” replied Pepé, coldly. “Well, in your place, I should not, nevertheless, be without anxiety touching the vicinity of those two pine trees.”
“What do you mean?” cried Cuchillo, turning pale.
“Nothing—unless this may prove to you one of those trifling inconveniences, about which you just now said a man should not trouble himself. Por Dios! you have enough booty to render a king jealous.”
“But I acquired this gold legitimately—I committed no murder to obtain it. What I did was not worthless. The devil! I am not in the habit of killing for nothing,” cried Cuchillo, exasperated, and who, mistaking the carabinier’s intentions, saw only in his alarming innuendoes regret at his defrauded cupidity.
Like the sailor, who, overtaken by a storm, throws a part of his cargo overboard to save the rest, Cuchillo resolved with a sigh, to shun, by means of a sacrifice, the danger with which he was threatened.
“I again repeat to you,” said he, in a low voice, “chance alone gave me a knowledge of this treasure; but I don’t wish to be selfish. It is my intention to give you a share. Listen,” he continued, “there is in a certain place, a block of gold of inestimable value; honest fellows should understand one another, and this block shall be yours. Ah! your share will be better than mine.”
“I hope so,” said Pepé; “and in what place have you reserved me my portion?”
“Up yonder!” said Cuchillo, indicating the summit of the pyramid.
“Up yonder, near the pine trees? Ah, master Cuchillo, how glad I am to find that you have not taken my foolish little joke amiss, and that these trees do not affect you any more than if they were cactus plants! Between ourselves, Don Tiburcio, whom you perceive to be deeply absorbed, is only regretting in reality the enormous sum he has given you, for a service which he could equally well have performed himself.”
“An enormous sum! it was but a very fair price, and at any rate I should have lost it,” cried Cuchillo, recovering all his habitual impudence of manner, on seeing the change that had taken place in the conduct and tone of the ex-carabinier.
“Agreed,” continued the latter; “but in truth, he may have repented of the bargain; and I must avow that if he commanded me to blow your brains out, in order to get rid of you, I should be compelled to obey him. Allow me, then, to call him here so as to restore his confidence; or, better still, come and show me the portion, which your munificence destines for me. Afterwards we each go our own way; and notwithstanding all you have said about it, the share assigned to you will surpass all your expectations.”
“Let us set off then,” resumed Cuchillo, happy to see a negotiation—the probable result of which began to cause him serious uneasiness—terminate so satisfactorily for him and, casting a glance of passionate tenderness upon a heap of gold which he had piled up upon his wrapper, he set off towards the summit of the pyramid. He had scarcely reached it, when, upon Pepé’s invitation, Fabian and Bois-Rose began to ascend the steep on the other side.
“No one can escape his fate,” said Pepé to Fabian, “and I had already proved to you that the rascal would testify no astonishment. Be that as it may remember that you have sworn to avenge the death of your adopted father, and that in these deserts you ought to shame the justice of cities, where such crimes go unpunished. To show mercy towards such a knave is an outrage to society! Bois-Rose! I shall need the assistance of your arm.”
The Canadian hunter, by a glance, interrogated him, for whom his blind devotion knew no bounds.
“Marcos Arellanos craved pardon and did not obtain it,” said Fabian, no longer undecided, “and as this man did to others, so let it be done to him.”
And these three inexorable men seated themselves solemnly upon the summit of the pyramid, where Cuchillo already awaited them. At sight of the severe aspect of those whom he had inwardly so many reasons to dread, Cuchillo felt all his apprehensions renewed. He endeavoured, however, to recover his assurance.
“Do you see,” said he, pointing out behind the sheet of water, whose majestic torrent foamed beside them, “the spot where the block of gold sheds forth its dazzling rays?”
But the eyes of his judges did not turn in the direction he indicated. Fabian rose slowly; his look caused the blood to curdle in the veins of the outlaw.
“Cuchillo!” said he, “you saved me from dying of thirst, and you have not done this for one who is ungrateful. I have forgiven you the stab with which you wounded me at the Hacienda del Venado. I have pardoned another attempt you made near El Salto de Agua; also the shot which you only could have fired upon us from the summit of this pyramid. I might, in short, have forgiven every attempt you have made to take away a life you once saved; and with having pardoned you, I have even recompensed you, as a king does not recompense the executioner of his justice.”
“I do not deny it; but this worthy hunter, who has informed me with a great deal of circumspection upon the delicate subject you wish to touch upon, ought also to inform you how reasonable he found me in the matter.”
“I have forgiven you,” continued Fabian, “but there is one crime, amongst others, from which your own conscience ought not to absolve you.”
“There is a perfect understanding between my conscience and myself,” resumed Cuchillo, with a graciously sinister smile, “but it seems to me that we are getting away from our subject.”
“That friend whom you assassinated in such a cowardly manner—”
“Disputed with me the profits of a booty, and faith, the consumption of brandy was very considerable,” interrupted Cuchillo. “But permit me—”
“Do not pretend to misunderstand me!” cried Fabian, irritated by the knave’s impudence.
Cuchillo collected his thoughts.
“If you allude to Tio Tomas, it is an affair which was never very well understood, but—”
Fabian opened his lips to form a distinct accusation with reference to the assassination of Arellanos, when Pepé broke in—
“I should be curious,” he said, “to learn the real facts concerning Tio Tomas: perhaps Master Cuchillo has not sufficient leisure to recollect himself, which would be a pity.”
“I hold it necessary,” continued Cuchillo, flattered at the compliment, “to prove that men own such a susceptible conscience as mine; here then are the facts—My friend Tio Tomas had a nephew impatient to inherit his uncle’s fortune; I received a hundred dollars from the nephew to hasten the moment of his inheritance. It was very little for such a capital will.
“It was so little that I gave Tio Tomas warning, and received two hundred dollars to prevent his nephew becoming his heir. I committed a fault in—despatching the nephew without giving him warning, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It was then I felt how inconvenient a quarrelsome conscience like mine may become. I seized upon the only means of composition which was left me. The nephew’s money was a continual remorse to me, and I resolved to get rid of it.”
“Of the money?”
“Not so.”
“And you despatched the uncle as well?” cried Pepé.
Cuchillo assented.
“From that time my conscience had but little to reproach me with. I had gained three hundred dollars by the most ingenious integrity.”
Cuchillo was yet smiling, when Fabian exclaimed—
“Were you paid for assassinating Marcos Arellanos?”
At this astounding accusation a livid paleness overspread Cuchillo’s features.
He could no longer disguise from himself the fate that awaited him.
The bandage which covered his eyes fell suddenly; and to the flattering delusions with which he had deceived himself succeeded a formidable reality.
“Marcos Arellanos!” he stammered out in a weak voice, “who told you that? I did not kill him!”
Fabian smiled bitterly.
“Who tells the shepherd,” he cried, “where the den of the jaguar is to be found that devours his sheep?
“Who tells the vaquero where the horse that he pursues has taken refuge?
“To the Indian, the enemy he seeks?
“To the gold-seeker the ore, concealed by God?
“The surface of the lake only does not preserve the trace of the bird which flies over its waters, nor the form of the cloud which it reflects; but the earth, with its herbs and mosses, reveals to us sons of the desert, the print of the jaguar’s foot as well as the horse’s hoof and the Indian’s track; do you not know it, even as I do?”
“I did not kill Arellanos,” repeated the assassin.
“You did kill him; you cut his throat near to our common country; you threw his corpse into the river; the earth revealed it to me—since I noticed the defect in the horse you rode, as well as the wound in your leg, which you received in the struggle.”
“Pardon, Don Tiburcio?” cried Cuchillo, overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of these facts, to which God alone had been witness. “Take back all the gold you gave me, but spare my life; and to show my gratitude, I will kill all your enemies everywhere, and always at a sign from you—for nothing—even my father, if you command me; but in the name of the all-powerful God, spare my life—spare me my life!” he continued, crawling forward and clutching at Fabian’s knees.
“Arellanos also craved for mercy; did you listen to him?” said Fabian, turning away.
“But when I killed him, it was that I might possess all this gold myself. Now I restore it all for my life—what can you want more?” he continued, while he resisted Pepé’s efforts, who was trying to prevent him from kissing Fabian’s feet.
With features distorted by excess of terror, a whitish foam upon his lips, his eyes starting from his head, yet seeing nothing, Cuchillo still sued for mercy, as he endeavoured to crawl towards Fabian. He had by continued efforts reached the edge of the platform. Behind his head, the sheet of water fell foaming downwards.
“Mercy, mercy!” he cried, “in the name of your mother—for Doña Rosarita’s sake, who loves you, for I know that she loves you—I heard—”
“What?” cried Fabian, in his turn rushing towards Cuchillo, but the question expired upon his lips.
Spurned along the earth by the carabinier’s foot Cuchillo with head and arms stretched back was hurled into the abyss!
“What have you done, Pepé?” exclaimed Fabian.
“The wretch,” said the ex-carabinier, “was not worth the cord which might have hung him, nor the bullet that would have sent him out of the world.”
A piercing cry,—a cry which rose from the abyss—which drowned their voices and was heard above the roar of the cascade, caused Fabian to stretch his head forward and withdraw it again in horror. Hanging to the branches of a shrub which bent beneath his weight, and which scarce adhering to the sides of the rock, was fast giving way, Cuchillo hung over the abyss, howling forth his terror and anguish.
“Help!” he shouted, in a voice despairing as the damned. “Help! if you are human beings—help!”
The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow.
Suddenly the bandit’s voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips.
A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert. The abyss had swallowed up him whose life had been a long tissue of crime.