Chapter 53 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The Stranger’s Story
Her head veiled by a silk scarf which partly concealed the luxuriant tresses of her dark hair as they fell in luxuriant clusters upon her bosom, Doña Rosarita’s countenance gave evidence of long and secret suffering.
As she seated herself, a look of deep disquietude increased her paleness. It seemed as though the young girl feared the approach of a moment, in which she might be required to renounce those sweet dreams of the past, for the reality of a future she dared not contemplate.
When the stranger was also seated the haciendado addressed him.
“We are indebted to you, my friend,” he said, “for travelling thus far to bring us news which I have been forewarned may prove of a very sad nature; nevertheless we must hear all. God’s will be done!”
“My news is in truth sad; but as you say, it is necessary,” and the stranger, laying a stress upon these last words, seemed to address himself more particularly to Doña Rosarita, “that you should hear all. I have been witness to many things yonder; and the desert does not conceal so many secrets as one might suppose.”
The young girl trembled slightly, while she fixed upon the man of the red handkerchief, a deep and searching glance.
“Go on, friend,” said she, in her melodious voice, “we shall have courage to hear all.”
“What do you know of Don Estevan?” resumed the haciendado.
“He is dead, Señor.”
A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands.
“Who killed him?” he asked.
“I know not, but he is dead.”
“And Pedro Diaz—that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?”
“He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world.”
“And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?”
“Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except—but with your leave, Señor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all.”
“We shall listen to you patiently.”
“I need not detail,” resumed the narrator, “the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully.”
“Poor Don Estevan!” murmured the haciendado.
“During the last halt in which I was present, a report spread through the camp that we were in the vicinity of an immense treasure of gold. Cuchillo, our guide, deserted us; he was absent two days. It was doubtless God’s will that I should be saved, since it inspired Don Estevan with the idea of sending me in search of him. He therefore commanded me to scour the country in the environs of the camp.
“I obeyed him, notwithstanding the danger of the mission, and went in search of our guide’s footsteps. After some time I was fortunate enough to find his traces; when all at once I perceived in the distance a party of Apaches engaged in a hunt of wild horses. I turned my horse’s head round as quickly as possible, but the ferocious yells which burst out on every side told me that I was discovered.”
The stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless recognised Gayferos, the unfortunate man who had been scalped, paused an instant as though overcome by horrible recollections. Then in continuation, he related the manner in which he was captured by the Indians, his anguish when he thought of the torments they were preparing for him, the desperate struggle by which he kept up in his race against them with naked feet, and the inexpressible sufferings he endured.
“Seized by one of them,” said he, “I was struck by a blow which felled me to the earth; then I felt the keen edge of a knife trace, as it were, a circle of fire around my head. I heard a gun fired, a ball hissed close to my ears, and I lost all consciousness. I cannot tell how many minutes passed thus. The sound of a second shot caused me to open my eyes, but the blood which covered my face blinded me; I raised my hand to my head, which felt both burning and frozen. My skull was bare, the Indian had torn off the hair with the scalp attached to it. In short, they had scalped me! That is the reason, Señor, that I now wear this red handkerchief both by day and by night.”
During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator’s countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror.
After a momentary pause, he continued:
“I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details.”
Gayferos then related to his auditors the unexpected assistance he had obtained from the three hunters who had taken refuge upon the little island, and was describing the moment in which Bois-Rose carried him off in the presence of the Indians, when this heroic action drew from Don Augustin’s lips a cry of admiration.
“But there were then a score on this little island?” interrupted he.
“Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three,” continued the narrator.
“Santa Virgen! they were trusty men then—but continue.”
The adventurer resumed:
“The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age—that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Señorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son—such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation.”
Doña Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name.
Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted.
“Alas, Señorita,” he continued, “the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions.”
At this part of the narrative, Doña Rosarita’s cheek became deadly pale.
“Well, and the young man,” interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, “what became of him?”
Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest.
“Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief.
Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator.
“Continue!” said the haciendado; “but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan’s death.”
“I am ignorant of them,” continued Gayferos, “and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject.”
“He is dead,” said the young man to me, “you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country—for,” added he, with a sigh, “you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence—they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting—as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends.”
“Poor Don Estevan!” exclaimed the haciendado.
“And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?” asked Doña Rosarita.
“Not at the moment,” continued Gayferos; “only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly.”
A pang shot through Doña Rosarita’s heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of the datura, but she still remained silent.
“I draw towards the close of my recital,” continued Gayferos. “After having recovered the brave warrior’s son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion.
“When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of.
“Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter—‘Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.’ But the giant only sighed without replying.
“Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened.
“One night while the young man and I were watching, I recalled a name which six months before he had uttered in his sleep. I then learned the secret of that grief which was slowly consuming him. He loved, and solitude had but increased a passion which he vainly sought to stifle.”
Gayferos paused an instant to cast a searching glance upon the countenances of his auditors, especially upon that of Doña Rosarita. He appeared to take a secret pleasure in exciting the young girl by the recital of all the circumstances best calculated to touch the heart of a woman.
As a warrior and a hunter, the haciendado did not attempt to conceal the interest with which the stranger’s narrative was inspiring him.
Rosarita, on the contrary, endeavoured, under a mask of studied coldness, to conceal the charm she experienced on listening to this romance of heart and action, whose most stirring pages were so considerately opened to her by the intelligent narrator.
But her heightened colour and the fire in her large dark eyes completely belied her efforts.
“Ah!” cried Don Augustin, “if these three brave men had been under Don Estevan’s command, the fate of the expedition might have been far different.”
“I am of the same opinion,” replied Gayferos, “but God had ordained it otherwise. Meanwhile,” he continued, “I felt a great longing again to see my native land, but gratitude required that I should conceal it. But the old warrior divined my thoughts, and one day addressed me on this subject.
“Too generous to suffer me alone to brave the dangers of my homeward journey, the giant hunter resolved to accompany me as far as Tubac. His companion did not oppose his resolution, and we set out for the frontier. The young man alone seemed, to follow us reluctantly in this direction.
“I shall not describe our fatigues and the various difficulties we surmounted, in the course of our long and perilous journey. I wish, however, to speak of one of our last encounters with the Indians.
“In order to reach the Presidio we were obliged to cross the chain of the Rocky Mountains. It was towards the approach of night that we found ourselves amongst their gloomy solitudes, and we were obliged to halt.
“This is a spot much frequented by the Indians, and we could not encamp without the greatest precaution.
“Nothing, as it seems to me, can better resemble the abode of condemned souls than these mountains, where we spent the night. At every moment strange sounds, which appeared to proceed from the cavities of the rocks, broke upon our ears. At one time it was a volcano, which rumbled with dull and heavy noise beneath us, or the distant roar of a cataract: sometimes resembling the howling of wolves or plaintive cries; and from time to time dreadful flashes of lightning tore aside the veil of mist which eternally covers these mountains.
“For fear of a surprise we had encamped upon a rock which projected, in the form of a table, above a wide open valley about fifty feet below us. The two elder hunters were asleep; the youngest alone kept watch. It was his turn, and as usual he had been compelled to insist upon it—for his companions seemed unwilling thus to allow him to share their toils.
“As for myself, sick and suffering, I was stretched upon the ground. After many vain efforts to obtain a little rest, at length I slept, when a frightful dream awoke me with a start.
“‘Did you hear nothing?’ I asked of the young man, in a low voice. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘except the rumbling of the subterranean volcanoes in the mountains.’ ‘Say, rather, that we are here in an accursed spot,’ I continued, and then I related my dream to him.
“‘It is, perhaps a warning,’ he said gravely. ‘I remember one night to have had just such a dream, when—’
“The young man paused. He had advanced to the edge of the rock. I crawled after him mechanically. The same object arrested our attention at the same moment.
“One of those spirits of darkness which might have inhabited such a spot, appeared suddenly to have acquired a visible form. It was a kind of phantom, with the head and skin of a wolf, but erect upon its legs like a human being. I made the sign of the cross, and murmured a prayer, but the phantom did not stir.
“‘It is the devil,’ I whispered.
“‘It is an Indian,’ replied the young man; ‘there are his companions at some distance.’
“In short, our eyes, well practised in making out objects in the dark, could distinguish about twenty Indians, stretched upon the ground, and who, in truth, had no idea of our vicinity.
“Ah, Señorita!” added the narrator, addressing himself to Doña Rosarita, “it was one of those opportunities fraught with danger, which the poor young man sought with so much avidity; and your heart, like mine, would have been torn at beholding the sad joy which sparkled in his eyes; for the further we travelled in this direction the more his melancholy seemed to increase.
“‘Let us wake our friends,’ I suggested.
“‘No; let me go alone. These two men have done enough for me. It is now my turn to run a risk for them and, if I die, I shall forget—’
“As he spoke these words the young man quitted me, made a détour, and I lost sight of him—without, however, ceasing to behold the frightful apparition which continued immovable in the same spot.
“All at once I saw another dusky shape, which rushed towards the phantom and seized it by the throat. The two forms grappled with one another. The struggle was short and noiseless, and one might have believed them two spirits. I prayed to God in behalf of the poor young man who thus exposed his life with so much indifference and intrepidity. A short time afterwards I saw him return; the blood was flowing over his face from a large wound on his head.
“‘Oh, Heavens!’ I cried; ‘you are wounded.’
“‘It is nothing,’ he said; ‘I will now wake our companions.’
“What do you think, Señorita?” continued the narrator. “Was not my dream a warning from God? A party of Indians, whom we had put to flight on the other side of the mountains—had followed our track in order to revenge the blood of their companions, which had been spilt upon the banks of the Gila—at the place where we had rescued the young man.
“But the Indians had to contend with terrible adversaries. Their sentinel was the phantom who had been killed by the courageous hunter before he had time to utter a cry of alarm, and the rest, surprised in their sleep, were nearly all stabbed; a few sought safety in flight.
“The night had not passed before this new exploit was accomplished.
“The tall hunter hastened to dress the wound of the young man, whom he loved as a son; and the latter, overcome with fatigue, stretched himself upon the ground and slept.
“In the mean time his two friends watched by his side to guide his sleep, whilst I in sadness contemplated his altered countenance, his reduced figure, and the bloodstained bandage with which his head was bound.”
“Poor youth,” interrupted Doña Rosarita, gently, “still so young, and yet compelled to lead a life of incessant danger. And his father, also, he must have trembled for the life of a beloved son?”
“Beloved, as you say, Señorita,” continued the narrator.
“During a period of six months I was a daily witness to the infinite tenderness of this father for his child.
“The young man slept tranquilly, and his lips softly murmured a name—that of a woman—the same which had lately been revealed to me in his slumber.”
Rosarita’s dark eyes seemed to question the narrator, but her words expired upon her parted lips; she dared not utter the name her heart was whispering in her ears.
“But I encroach upon your time,” continued Gayferos, without appearing to notice the young girl’s agitation. “I draw towards the close of my narrative.
“The young man woke just as day began to dawn. ‘Comrade,’ said the giant to me, ‘go down yonder and count the dead which these dogs have left behind them.’
“Eleven corpses stretched upon the ground,” continued Gayferos, “and two captured horses, attested the victory of these intrepid hunters.”
“Let all due honour be given to these formidable men,” cried Don Augustin, with enthusiasm, whilst his daughter, clapping her little hands together, exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, and an enthusiasm which equalled that of her father—
“That is splendid! that is sublime! so young, and yet so brave.”
Rosarita only lavished her praises upon the young unknown—though perhaps the acute perception which belongs to a woman, and which almost resembles a second sight, may have revealed to her his name.
The narrator seemed to appreciate the praises bestowed upon his friends.
“But did you not learn their names?” asked Doña Rosarita, timidly.
“The elder was called Bois-Rose, the second Pepé. As to the young man—”
Gayferos appeared vainly endeavouring to recall the name without remarking the anguish which was depicted in the young girl’s agitated frame, and visible in her anxious eyes.
By the similarity of position between Tiburcio and the unknown, she could not doubt but that it was he; and the poor child was collecting all her strength to listen to his name, and not to utter, on hearing it, a cry of happiness and love.
“As to the young man,” continued the narrator, “he was called Fabian.”
At this name, which was unknown to the young girl, and which at once destroyed her pleasant delusions, she pressed her hand upon her heart, her lips became white, and the colour which hope had revived in her cheek faded away. She could only repeat mechanically.
“Fabian!”
At this moment the recital was interrupted by the entrance of a servant. The Chaplain begged the haciendado to come to him for an instant, upon some business he had to communicate to him.
Don Augustin quitted the apartment, saying that he should speedily return.
Gayferos and the young girl were now left alone; the former observed her some moments in silence, and with a delight he could scarcely conceal, saw that Rosarita trembled beneath the folds of her silk scarf. By a secret feeling the poor child divined that Gayferos had not yet finished. At length the latter said gently, “Fabian bore another name, Señorita; do you wish to hear it, while we are alone and without witnesses?”
Rosarita turned pale.
“Another name! oh, speak it?” she cried, in a trembling voice.
“He was long known as Tiburcio Arellanos.”
A cry of joy escaped the young girl, who rose from her seat, and approaching the bearer of this good news, seized his hand.
“Thanks! thanks!” she exclaimed, “if my heart has not already spoken them.”
Then she tottered across the chamber, and knelt at the feet of a Madonna, which, framed in gold, hung against the wall.
“Tiburcio Arellanos,” continued the narrator, “is now Fabian, and Fabian is the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana—a noble and powerful Spanish family.”
The young girl continued on her knees in prayer without appearing to listen to Gayferos’ words.
“Immense possessions, a lofty name, titles and honours. All these he will lay at the feet of the woman who shall accept his hand.”
The young girl continued her fervent prayer without turning her head.
“And, moreover,” resumed the narrator, “the heart of Don Fabian de Mediana still retains a feeling which was dear to the heart of Tiburcio Arellanos.”
Rosarita paused in her prayer.
“Tiburcio Arellanos will be here to-night.”
This time the young girl no longer prayed. It was Tiburcio and not Fabian, Count of Mediana. Tiburcio, poor, and unknown, for whom she had wept. At the sound of this name, she listened. Honours, titles, wealth. What were they to her? Fabian lived, and loved her still, what more could she desire?
“If you will come to the breach in the wall, where, full of despair, he parted from you, you will find him there this very evening. Do you remember the place?”
“Oh! my God!” she murmured, softly, “do I not visit it every evening?”
And once more bending before the image of the Virgin, Rosarita resumed her interrupted prayer.
The adventurer contemplated for some instants this enthusiastic and beautiful creature, her scarf partly concealing her figure, her nude shoulders caressed by the long tresses of her dark hair, which fell in soft rings upon their surface; then without interrupting her devotion, he rose from his seat and silently fitted the chamber.