The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Track, by Gustave Aimard This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Red Track A Story of Social Life in Mexico Author: Gustave Aimard Translator: Lascelles Wraxall Release Date: May 29, 2013 [EBook #42834] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED TRACK *** Produced by Camille Bernard and Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - University of California) THE RED TRACK A Story of Social life in Mexico BY GUSTAVE AIMARD AUTHOR OF "ADVENTURERS," "PEARL OF THE ANDES," "TRAIL HUNTER," "PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES," "TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER," "TIGER SLAYER," "GOLD SEEKERS," "INDIAN CHIEF," ETC. LONDON: CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW. PREFACE. The present volume of GUSTAVE AIMARD's works is a continuation of the "Indian Chief," and conclusion of the series comprising that work, the "Gold Seekers," and the "Tiger Slayer." At the present moment, when we are engaged in a war with Mexico, I feel assured that the extraordinary and startling descriptions given in this volume of the social condition and mode of life in the capital of that country will be read with universal gratification; for I can assert confidently that; no previous writer has ever produced such a graphic and truthful account of a city with which the illustrated papers will soon make us thoroughly acquainted. If a further recommendation be needed, it will be found in the fact that the present volume appears in an English garb before being introduced to French readers. GUSTAVE AIMARD is so gratified with the reception his works have found in this country, through my poor assistance, that he has considered he could not supply a better proof of his thankfulness than by permitting his English readers to enjoy, on this occasion, the first fruits of his versatile and clever pen. This is a compliment which, I trust, will be duly appreciated; for, as to the merits of the work itself, I have not the slightest doubt. Readers may imagine it impossible for GUSTAVE AIMARD to surpass his previous triumphs in the wildly romantic, or that he could invent anything equal to the "Prairie Flower," a work which I venture to affirm, to be the finest Indian tale ever yet written, in spite of the great authors who have preceded AIMARD; but I ask my reader's special admiration for the "RED TRACK," because in it our favourite author strikes out a new path, and displays versatility which puts to the blush those bilious critics—few in number—I grant, among the multitude of encouraging reviewers, who have ventured an opinion that GUSTAVE AIMARD can only write about Indian life, or, in point of fact, that he is merely a hunter describing his own experiences under a transparent disguise. Well, be it so, I accept the assertion. GUSTAVE AIMARD is but a hunter; he has seen nought but uncivilized life; he has spent years among savages, and has returned to his own country to try and grow Europeanized again. What then? The very objection is a proof of his veracity; and I am fully of the conviction that every story he has told us is true. It is not reasonable to suppose that a man who has spent the greater part of his life in hunting the wild animals of America—who has been an adopted son of the most powerful Indian tribes—who has for years never known what the morrow would bring forth, should sit down to invent. The storehouse of his mind is too amply filled with marvels for him to take that needless trouble, and he simply repeats on paper the tales which in olden limes he picked up at the camp fires, or heard during his wanderings with the wood rangers. And it is as such that I wish GUSTAVE AIMARD to be judged by English readers. His eminent quality is truth. He is a man who could not set down a falsehood, no matter what the bribe might be, he has lived through the incidents he describes, and has brought back to Europe the adventures of a chequered life. He does not attempt to fascinate his readers by a complicated plot. He does not possess the marvellous invention of a Cooper, who, after a slight acquaintance with a few powerless Indians, wrote books which all admirers of the English language peruse. But GUSTAVE AIMARD possesses a higher quality, in the fact that he only notes down incidents which he has seen, or which he has received on undoubted evidence from his companions. The present is the twelfth volume of GUSTAVE AIMARD's works to which. I have put my name; and, with the exception of a few captious criticisms whose motive may be read between the lines, the great body of the British Press has greeted our joints efforts with the heartiest applause. The success of this series has been unparalleled in the annals of cheap literature. Day by day the number of readers increases, and the publication of each successive volume creates an excitement which cannot fail to be most gratifying to the publishers. To please all parties, the proprietors of AIMARD's copyrights have projected an Illustrated Series, to which I would invite most earnest attention. Although by this time I am saturated with Indian life, I confess that I never thoroughly understood it till I saw the engravings after a Zwecker, a Huard, and a Corbould. The artists have carefully studied their subjects, and gone to the fountain-head for information; and the result is, that they have produced a series of works which only need to be seen to be appreciated. The last volume illustrated is "The Freebooters," which was entirely intrusted to Mr. Corbould, and though I do not wish for a moment to depreciate the other artists, I felt, on seeing the illustrations, that GUSTAVE AIMARD was worthily interpreted. All I can urge upon readers is, that they should judge for themselves. To wind up this unusually long Preface, into which honest admiration for the author has alone induced me, I wish to say that it affords me an ever-recurring delight to introduce GUSTAVE AIMARD's works to English readers, while it causes me an extra pleasure, on this occasion, to be enabled to repeat that the present volume appears on this side of the Channel before it has been introduced to French readers. And, knowing as I do the number of editions through which AIMARD's books pass in his own native land, I can appreciate the sacrifice he has made on this occasion at its full value. LASCELLES WRAXALL. DRAYTON TERRACE, WEST BROMPTON, March, 1862. CONTENTS. I. THE SIERRA OF THE WIND RIVER II. THE DEAD ALIVE III. THE COMPACT IV. THE TRAVELLERS V. THE FORT OF THE CHICHIMÈQUES VI. THE SURPRISE VII. THE EXPLANATION VIII. A DECLARATION OF WAR IX. MEXICO X. THE RANCHO XI. THE PASEO DE BUCARELI XII. A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION XIII. DON MARTIAL XIV. THE VELORIO XV. THE CONVENT OF THE BERNARDINES XVI. THE CONFESSOR XVII. THE BEGINNING OF THE STRUGGLE XVIII. A VISIT XIX. ASSISTANCE XX. EL ZARAGATE XXI. AFTER THE INTERVIEW XXII. THE BLANK SIGNATURE XXIII. ON THE ROAD XXIV. A SKIRMISH XXV. LOS REGOCIJOS XXVI. THE PRONUNCIAMIENTO XXVII. THE CAPILLA — A BUFFALO HUNT — A MUSTANG CHAPTER I. THE SIERRA OF THE WIND RIVER. The Rocky Mountains form an almost impassable barrier between California and the United States, properly so called; their formidable defiles, their rude valleys, and the vast western plains, watered by rapid streams, are even to the present day almost unknown to the American adventurers, and are rarely visited by the intrepid and daring Canadian trappers. The majestic mountain range called the Sierra of the Wind River, especially offers a grand and striking picture, as it raises to the skies its white and snow-clad peaks, which extend indefinitely in a north-western direction, until they appear on the horizon like a white cloud, although the experienced eye of the trapper recognizes in this cloud the scarped outline of the Yellowstone Mountains. The Sierra of the Wind River is one of the most remarkable of the Rocky Mountain range; it forms, so to speak, an immense plateau, thirty leagues long, by ten or twelve in width, commanded by scarped peaks, crowned with eternal snows, and having at their base narrow and deep valleys filled with springs, streams, and rock-bound lakes. These magnificent reservoirs give rise to some of the mighty rivers which, after running for hundreds of miles through a picturesque territory, become on one side the affluents of the Missouri, on the other of the Columbia, and bear the tribute of their waters to the two oceans. In the stories of the wood rangers and trappers, the Sierra of the Wind River is justly renowned for its frightful gorges, and the wild country in its vicinity frequently serves as a refuge to the pirates of the prairie, and has been, many a time and oft, the scene of obstinate struggles between the white men and the Indians. Toward the end of June, 1854, a well-mounted traveller, carefully wrapped up in the thick folds of a zarapé, raised to his eyes, was following one of the most precipitous slopes of the Sierra of the Wind River, at no great distance from the source of the Green River, that great western Colorado which pours its waters into the Gulf of California. It was about seven in the evening: the traveller rode along, shivering from the effects of an icy wind which whistled mournfully through the canyons. All around had assumed a saddening aspect in the vacillating moonbeams. He rode on without hearing the footfall of his horse, as it fell on the winding sheet of snow that covered the landscape; at times the capricious windings of the track he was following compelled him to pass through thickets, whose branches, bent by the weight of snow, stood out before him like gigantic skeletons, and struck each other after he had passed with a sullen snap. The traveller continued his journey, looking anxiously on both sides of him. His horse, fatigued by a long ride, hobbled at every step, and in spite of the repeated encouragement of its rider seemed determined to stop short, when, after suddenly turning an angle in the track, it suddenly entered a large clearing, where the close-growing grass formed a circle about forty yards in diameter, and the verdure formed a cheery contrast with the whiteness that surrounded it. "Heaven be praised!" the traveller exclaimed in excellent French, and giving a start of pleasure; "Here is a spot at last where I can camp for tonight night, without any excessive inconvenience. I almost despaired of finding one." While thus congratulating himself, the traveller had stopped his horse and dismounted. His first attention was paid to his horse, from which he removed saddle and bridle, and which he covered with his zarapé, appearing to attach no importance to the cold, which was, however, extremely severe in these elevated regions. So soon as it was free, the animal, in spite of its fatigue, began browsing heartily on the grass, and thus reassured about his companion, the traveller began thinking about making the best arrangements possible for the night. Tall, thin, active, with a lofty and capacious forehead, an intelligent blue eye, sparkling with boldness, the stranger appeared to have been long accustomed to desert life, and to find nothing extraordinary or peculiarly disagreeable in the somewhat precarious position in which he found himself at this moment. He was a man who had reached about middle life, on whose brow grief rather than the fatigue of the adventurous life of the desert had formed deep wrinkles, and sown numerous silver threads in his thick light hair; his dress was a medium between that of the white trappers and the Mexican gambusinos; but it was easy to recognize, in spite of his complexion, bronzed by the seasons, that he was a stranger to the ground he trod, and that Europe had witnessed his birth. After giving a final glance of satisfaction at his horse, which at intervals interrupted its repast to raise its delicate and intelligent head to him with an expression of pleasure, he carried his weapons and horse trappings to the foot of a rather lofty rock, which offered him but a poor protection against the gusts of the night breeze, and then began collecting dry wood to light a watch fire. It was no easy task to find dry firewood at a spot almost denuded of trees, and whose soil, covered with snow, except in the clearing, allowed nothing to be distinguished; but the traveller was patient, he would not be beaten, and within an hour he had collected sufficient wood to feed through the night two such fires as he proposed kindling. The branches soon crackled, and a bright flame rose joyously in a long spiral to the sky. "Ah!" said the traveller, who, like all men constrained to live alone, seemed to have contracted the habit of soliloquizing aloud, "the fire will do, so now for supper." Then, fumbling in the alforjas, or double pockets which travellers always carry fastened to the saddle, he took from them all the requisite elements of a frugal meal; that is to say, cecina, pemmican, and several varas of tasajo, or meat dried in the sun. At the moment when, after shutting up his alforjas, the traveller raised his head to lay his meat on the embers to broil, he stopped motionless, with widely-opened mouth, and it was only through a mighty strength of will that he suppressed a cry of surprise and possibly of terror. Although no sound had revealed his presence, a man, leaning on a long rifle, was standing motionless before him, and gazing at him with profound attention. At once mastering the emotion he felt, the traveller carefully laid the tasajo on the embers, and then, without removing his eye from this strange visitor, he stretched out his arm to grasp his rifle, while saying, in a tone of the most perfect indifference— "Whether friend or foe, you are welcome, mate. 'Tis a bitter night, so, if you are cold, warm yourself, and if you are hungry, eat. When your nerves have regained their elasticity, and your body its usual strength, we will have a frank explanation, such as men of honour ought to have." The stranger remained silent for some seconds; then, after shaking his head several times, he commenced in a low and melancholy voice, as it were speaking to himself rather than replying to the question asked him— "Can any human being really exist in whose heart a feeling of pity still remains?" "Make the trial, mate," the traveller answered quickly, "by accepting, without hesitation, my hearty offer. Two men who meet in the desert must be friends at first sight, unless private reasons make them implacable enemies. Sit down by my side and eat." This dialogue had been held in Spanish, a language the stranger spoke with a facility that proved his Mexican origin. He seemed to reflect for a moment, and then instantly made up his mind. "I accept," he said, "for your voice is too sympathizing and your glance too frank to deceive." "That is the way to speak," the traveller said, gaily. "Sit down and eat without further delay, for I confess to you that I am dying of hunger." The stranger smiled sadly, and sat down on the ground by the traveller's side. The two men, thus strangely brought together by accident, then attacked with no ordinary vigour, which evidenced a long fast, the provisions placed before them. Still, while eating, the traveller did not fail to examine his singular companion; and the following was the result of his observations. The general appearance of the stranger was most wretched, and his ragged clothes scarce covered his bony, fleshless body; while his pale and sickly features were rendered more sad and gloomy by a thick, disordered beard that fell on his chest. His eyes, inflamed by fever, and surrounded by black circles, glistened with a sombre fire, and at times emitted flashes of magnetic radiance. His weapons were in as bad a condition as his clothes, and in the event of a fight this man, with the exception of his bodily strength, which must once have been great, but which privations of every description, and probably endured for a lengthened period, had exhausted, would not have been a formidable adversary for the traveller. Still, beneath this truly wretched appearance could be traced an organization crushed by grief. There was in this man something grand and sympathetic, which appeared to emanate from his person, and aroused not only pity but also respect for torture so proudly hidden and so nobly endured. This man, in short, ere he fell so low, must have been great, either in virtue or in vice; but assuredly there was nothing common about him, and a mighty heart beat in his bosom. Such was the impression the stranger produced on his host, while both, without the interchange of a word, appeased an appetite sharpened by long hours of abstinence. Hunters' meals are short, and the present one lasted hardly a quarter of an hour. When it was over, the traveller rolled a cigarette, and, handing it to the stranger, said— "Do you smoke?" On this apparently so simple question being asked, a strange thing happened which will only be understood by smokers who, long accustomed to the weed, have for some reason or other been deprived of it for a lengthened period. The stranger's face was suddenly lit up by the effect of some internal emotion; his dull eye flashed, and, seizing the cigarette with a nervous tremor, he exclaimed, in a voice choked by an outburst of joy impossible to render— "Yes, yes; I used to smoke." There was a rather long silence, during which the two men slowly inhaled the smoke of their cigarettes, and indulged in thought. The wind howled fiercely Over their heads, the eddying snow was piling up around them, and the echoes of the canyons seemed to utter notes of complaint. It was a horrible night. Beyond the circle of light produced by the flickering flame of the watch fire all was buried in dense gloom. The picture presented by these two men, seated in the desert, strangely illumined by the bluish flame, fend smoking calmly while suspended above an unfathomable abyss, had something striking and awe-inspiring about it. When the traveller had finished his cigarette, he rolled another, and laid his tobacco-pouch between himself and his guest. "Now that the ice is broken between us," he said in a friendly voice, "and that we have nearly formed an acquaintance —for we have been sitting at the same fire, and have eaten and smoked together—the moment has arrived, I fancy, for us to become thoroughly acquainted." The stranger nodded his head silently. It was a gesture that could be interpreted affirmatively or negatively, at pleasure. The traveller continued, with a good-humoured smile— "I make not the slightest pretence to compel you to reveal your secrets, and you are at liberty to maintain your incognito without in any way offending me. Still, whatever may be the result, let me give you an example of frankness by telling you who I am. My story will not be long, and only consists of a very few words. France is my country, and I was born at Paris—which city, doubtless," he remarked, with a stifled sigh, "I shall never see again. Reasons too lengthy to trouble you with, and which would interest you but very slightly, led me to America. Chance, or Providence, perhaps, by guiding me to the desert, and arousing my instincts and aspirations for liberty, wished to make a wood ranger of me, and I obeyed. For twenty years I have been traversing the prairies and great savannahs in every direction, and I shall probably continue to do so, till an Indian bullet comes from some thicket to stop my wanderings for ever. Towns are hateful to me; passionately fond of the grand spectacles of nature, which elevate the thought, and draw the creature nearer to his Creator, I shall only mix myself up once again in the chaos of civilization in order to fulfil a vow made on the tomb of a friend. When I have done that, I shall fly to the most, unknown deserts, in order to end a life henceforth useless, far from those men whose paltry passions and base and ignoble hatred have robbed me of the small amount of happiness to which I fancied I had a claim. And now, mate, you know me as well as I do myself. I will merely add, in conclusion, that my name among the white men, my countrymen, is Valentine Guillois, and among the redskins, my adopted fathers, Koutonepi—that is to say, 'The Valiant One.' I believe myself to be as honest and as brave as a man is permitted to be with his imperfect organization. I never did harm with the intention of doing so, and I have done services to my fellow men as often as I had it in my power, without expecting from them thanks or gratitude." The speech, which the hunter had commenced in that clear voice and with that careless accent habitual to him, terminated involuntarily, under the pressure of the flood of saddened memories that rose from his heart to his lips, in a low and inarticulate voice, and when he concluded, he let his head fall sadly on his chest, with a sigh that resembled a sob. The stranger regarded him for a moment with an expression of gentle commiseration. "You have suffered," he said; "suffered in your love, suffered in your friendship. Your history is that of all men in this world: who of us, but at a given hour, has felt his courage yield beneath the weight of grief? You are alone, friendless, abandoned by all, a voluntary exile, far from the men who only inspire you with hatred and contempt; you prefer the society of wild beasts, less ferocious than they; but, at any rate, you live, while I am a dead man!" The hunter started, and looked in amazement at the speaker. "I suppose you think me mad?" he continued, with a melancholy smile; "reassure yourself, it is not so. I am in full possession of my senses, my head is cool, and my thoughts are clear and lucid. For all that though, I repeat to you, I am dead, dead in the sight of my relations and friends, dead to the whole world in fine, and condemned to lead this wretched existence for an indefinite period. Mine is a strange story, and that you would recognize through one word, were you a Mexican, or had you travelled in certain regions of Mexico." "Did I not tell you that, for twenty years, I have been travelling over every part of America?" the traveller replied, his curiosity being aroused to the highest pitch. "What is the word? Can you tell it me?" "Why not? I am alluding to the name I bore while I was still a living man." "What is that name?" "It had acquired a certain celebrity, but I doubt whether, even if you have heard it mentioned, it has remained in your memory." "Who knows? Perhaps you are mistaken." "Well, since you insist, learn, then, that I was called Martial el Tigrero." "You?" the hunter exclaimed, under the influence of the uttermost surprise; "why that is impossible!" "Of course so, since I am dead," the stranger answered, bitterly. CHAPTER II. THE DEAD ALIVE. The Tigrero had let his head fall on his chest again, and seemed engaged with gloomy thoughts. The hunter, somewhat embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken, and anxious to continue it, mechanically stirred up the fire with the blade of his navaja, while his eyes wandered around, and were at times fixed on his companion with an expression of deep sympathy. "Stay," he said, presently, as he thrust back with his foot a few embers that had rolled out; "pardon me, sir, any insult which my exclamation may seem to have contained. You have mistaken, I assure you, the meaning of my remarks; although, as we have never met, we are not such strangers as you suppose. I have known you for a long time." The Tigrero raised his head, and looked at the hunter incredulously. "You?" he muttered. "Yes, I, caballero, and it will not be difficult to prove it to you." "What good will it do?" he murmured; "what interest can I have in the fact of your knowing me?" "My dear sir," the Frenchman continued, with several shakes of his head, "nothing happens in this world by the effect of chance. Above us, an intellect superior to ours directs everything here below; and if we have been permitted to meet in a manner so strange and unexpected in these desolate regions, it is because Providence has designs with us which we cannot yet detect; let us, therefore, not attempt to resist God's will, for what He has resolved will happen: who knows whether I may not be unconsciously sent across your path to bring you a supreme consolation, or to supply you with the means to accomplish a long meditated vengeance, which you have hitherto deemed impossible?" "I repeat to you, señor," the Tigrero replied, "that your words are those of a stout-hearted and brave man, and I feel involuntarily attracted towards you. I think with you, that this accidental meeting, after so many days of solitude and grief, with a man of your stamp, cannot be the effect of unintelligent chance, and that at a moment when, convinced of my impotence to escape from my present frightful situation, I was reduced to despair and almost resolved on suicide, the loyal hand you offer me can only be that of a friend. Question me, then, without hesitation, and I will answer with the utmost frankness." "Thanks for that speech," the hunter said, with emotion, "for it proves that we are beginning to understand each other, and soon, I hope, we shall have no secrets; but I must, before all else, tell you how it is that I have known you for a long time, although you were not aware of the fact." "Speak, señor, I am listening to you with the most earnest attention." Valentine reflected for a moment, and then went on as follows:— "Some months ago, in consequence of circumstances unnecessary to remind you of, but which you doubtless bear in mind, you met at the colony of Guetzalli a Frenchman and a Canadian hunter, with whom you eventually stood on most intimate terms." "It is true," the Tigrero replied, with a nervous start, "and the Frenchman to whom you allude, is the Count de Prébois Crancé. Oh! I shall never be able to discharge the debt of gratitude I have contracted with him for the services he rendered me." A sad smile curled the hunter's lip. "You no longer owe him anything," he said, with a melancholy shake of the head. "What do you mean?" the Tigrero exclaimed, eagerly; "surely the count cannot be dead!" "He is dead, caballero. He was assassinated on the shores of Guaymas. His murderers laid him in his tomb, and his blood, so treacherously shed, cries to Heaven for vengeance: but patience, Heaven will not permit this horrible crime to remain unpunished." The hunter hurriedly wiped away the tears he had been unable to repress while speaking of the count, and went on, in a voice choked by the internal emotion which he strove in vain to conquer:— "But let us, for the present, leave this sad reminiscence to slumber in our hearts. The count was my friend, my dearest friend, more than a brother to me: he often spoke about you to me, and several times told me your gloomy history, which terminated in a frightful catastrophe." "Yes, yes," the Tigrero muttered; "it was, indeed, a frightful catastrophe. I would gladly have found death at the bottom of the abyss into which I rolled during my struggle with Black Bear, could I have saved her I loved; but God decreed it otherwise, and may his holy name be blessed and praised." "Amen!" the hunter said, sadly turning his head away. "Oh!" Don Martial continued a moment later, "I feel my recollections crowding upon me at this moment. I feel as if the veil that covers my memory is torn asunder, in order to recall events, already so distant, but which have left so deep an impression on my mind. I, too, recognize you now; you are the famous hunter whom the count was trying to find in the desert; but he did not call you by any of the names you have mentioned." "I dare say," Valentine answered, "that he alluded to me as the 'Trail Hunter,' the name by which the white hunters and the Indians of the Far West are accustomed to call me." "Yes; oh, now I remember perfectly, that was indeed the name he gave you. You were right in saying that we had been long acquainted, though we had never met." "And now that we meet in this desert," the hunter said, offering his hand, "connected as we are by the memory of our deceased friend, shall we be friends?" "No, not friends," the Tigrero exclaimed, as he heartily pressed the hunter's honest hand; "not friends, but brothers." "Well, then, brothers, and each for the other against all comers," the hunter answered. "And now that you are convinced that curiosity plays no part in my eager desire to know what has befallen you since the moment when you so hurriedly left your friends, speak, Don Martial, and then I will tell you, in my turn, what are the motives that directed my steps to these desolate regions." The Tigrero, in a few moments, began his narrative as follows:— "My friends must have fancied me dead, hence I cannot blame them for having abandoned me, although they were, perhaps, too quick in doing so without an attempt either to recover my corpse, or assure themselves at least that I was really dead, and that assistance would be thrown away; but though I am ignorant of what happened in the cavern after my fall, the bodies left on the battlefield proved to me afterwards that they had a tough fight, and were compelled to fly before the Indians; hence, I say again that I do not blame them. You are aware that I was attacked by Black Bear at the moment when I believed that I had succeeded in saving those whom I had sworn to protect. It was on the very verge of the pit that Black Bear and myself, enwreathed like two serpents, began a final and decisive struggle: at the moment when I had all but succeeded in foiling my enemy's desperate efforts, and was raising my arm to cut his throat, the war yell of the Comanches suddenly burst forth at the entrance of the cavern. By a supreme effort the Apache chief succeeded in escaping from my clutch, bounded on his feet, and rushed towards Doña Anita, doubtless with the intention of carrying her off, as the unforeseen assistance arriving for us would prevent the accomplishment of his vengeance. But the maiden repulsed him with that strength which despair engenders, and sought refuge behind her father. Already severely wounded by two shots, the chief tottered back to the edge of the pit, where he lost his balance. Feeling that he was falling, by an instinctive gesture, or, perhaps, through a last sentiment of fury, he stretched out his arms as if to save himself, caught hold of me as I rose, half-stunned by my recent contest, and we both rolled down the pit, he with a triumphant laugh, and I with a shriek of despair. Forgive me for having described thus minutely the last incidents of this fight, but I was obliged to enter into these details to make you thoroughly understand by what providential chance I was saved, when I fancied myself hopelessly lost." "Go on, go on;" the hunter said, "I am listening to you with the greatest attention." Don Martial continued:— "The Indian was desperately wounded, and his last effort, in which he had placed all his remaining strength, cost him his life: it was a corpse that dragged me down, for during the few seconds our fall lasted he did not make a movement. The pit was not so deep as I fancied, not more than twenty or five-and-twenty feet, and the sides were covered with plants and grass, which, although they bent beneath our weight, prevented us from falling perpendicularly. The chief was the first to reach the bottom of the abyss, and I fell upon his body, which deadened my fall, though it was serious enough entirely to deprive me of consciousness. I cannot say how long I remained in this state, but, from a calculation I made afterwards, my faint must have lasted two hours. I was aroused by a cold sensation which suddenly affected me. I opened my eyes again, and found myself in utter darkness. At the first moment it was impossible for me to account for the situation in which I found myself, or what events had placed me in it; but my memory gradually returned, my thoughts became more lucid, and I only desired to emerge as speedily as possible from the pit into which I had fallen. I was suffering fearfully, although I was not actually wounded. I had received numerous contusions in my fall, and the slightest movement caused me an atrocious pain, for I was so bruised and shaken. In my present state I must endure the evil patiently: attempting to scale the sides of the pit when my strength was completely exhausted would have been madness, and I therefore resigned myself to waiting. I was in complete darkness, but that did not trouble me greatly, as I had about me everything necessary to light a fire. Within a few moments I had a light, and was enabled to look about me. I was lying at the bottom of a species of funnel, for the pit grew narrower in its descent, which had greatly helped to deaden my fall; my feet and legs almost to the knee were bathed in a subterranean stream, while the upper part of my body leant against the corpse of the Indian chief. The spot where I found myself was thirty feet in circumference at the most, and I assured myself by the help of my light that the sides of the pit, entirely covered with creepers, and even sturdy shrubs, rose in a gentle slope, and would not be difficult to escalade when my strength had sufficiently returned. At this moment I could not dream of attempting the ascent, so I bravely made up my mind, and although my anxiety was great about the friends I had left in, the cavern, I resolved to wait a few hours before proceeding to save myself. I remained thus for twenty hours at the bottom of the pit, tête-à-tête with my enemy's corpse. Many times during my excursions in the desert I had found myself in almost desperate situations, but never, I call heaven to witness, had I felt so completely abandoned and left in the hands of Providence. Still, however deplorable my position might be, I did not despair; in spite of the frightful pain I suffered, I had convinced myself that my limbs were in a satisfactory state, and that all I needed was patience. When I fancied my strength sufficiently restored, I lighted two torches, which I fixed in the ground, in order to see more clearly. I threw my rifle on my back, placed my navaja between my teeth, and clinging to the shrubs, by a desperate effort I began my ascent. I will not tell you of the difficulty I had in conquering the terrible shocks I was obliged to give my aching bones in surmounting almost unsurpassable obstacles; sufficient for you to know that I reached the mouth of the pit after an hour and a half's struggle, in which I expended all the energy a man possesses who hopes to save himself. When I reached the floor of the cavern, I lay for more than half an hour on the sand, exhausted, panting, unable to make the slightest movement, scarce breathing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, not even conscious of the frightful state into which I was plunged. Fortunately for me, this terrible condition did not last long, the refreshing air from without, reaching me through the passages of the cavern, recovered me, and restored the entire use of my mental faculties. The ground around me was covered with dead bodies, and there had, doubtless, been a terrible struggle between the white men and the redskins. I sought in vain for the corpses of Doña Anita and her father. I breathed again, and hope re-entered my heart, for my sacrifice had not been fruitless. Those for whom I had given my life were saved, and I should see them again. This thought restored my courage, and I felt quite a different man. I rose without any excessive difficulty, and, supporting myself on my rifle, went toward the mouth of the cavern, after removing my stock of provision, and taking two powder horns from the stores I had previously cached, and which my friends in their flight had not thought of removing. No words can describe the emotion I felt when, after a painful walk through the grotto, I at length reached the riverbank, and saw the sun once more: a man must have been in a similar desperate situation to understand the cry, or rather howl of joy which escaped from my surcharged bosom when I felt again the blessed sunbeams, and inhaled the odorous breath of the savannah. By an unreflecting movement, though it was suggested by my heart, I fell on my knees, and piously clasping my hands, I thanked Him who had saved me, and who alone could do so. This prayer, and the simple thanks expressed by a grateful heart, were, I feel convinced, borne upwards to heaven on the wings of my guardian angel. "As far as I could make out by the height of the sun, it was about the second hour of the tarde. The deepest silence prevailed around me; so far as the vision could extend, the prairie was deserted; Indians and palefaces had disappeared: I was alone, alone with that God who had saved me in so marvellous a fashion, and would not abandon me. Before going further, I took a little nourishment, which the exhaustion of my strength rendered necessary. When, in the company of Don Sylva de Torrés and his daughter, I had sought a refuge in the cavern, our horses had been abandoned with all the remaining forage in an adjacent clearing, and I was too well acquainted with the instinct of these noble animals to apprehend that they had fled. On the contrary, I knew that, if the hunters had not taken them away, I should find them at the very spot where I had left them. A horse was indispensable for use, for a dismounted man is lost in the desert, and hence I resolved to seek them. Rested by the long halt I had made, and feeling that my strength had almost returned, I proceeded without hesitation towards the forest. At my second call I heard a rather loud noise in a clump of trees; the shrubs parted, and my horse galloped up and gladly rubbed its intelligent head against my shoulder. I amply returned the caresses the faithful companion of my adventures bestowed on me, and then returned to the cavern, where my saddle was. An hour later, mounted on my good horse, I bent my steps toward houses. My journey was a long one, owing to my state of weakness and prostration, and when I reached Sonora the news I heard almost drove me mad. Don Sylva de Torrés had been killed in the fight with the Apaches, as was probably his daughter, for no one could tell me anything about her. For a month I hovered between life and death; but God in His wisdom, doubtless, had decided that I should escape once again. When hardly convalescent, I dragged myself to the house of the only man competent of giving me precise and positive information about what I wanted to learn. This man refused to recognize me, although I had kept up intimate relations with him for many years. When I told him my name he laughed in my face, and when I insisted, he had me expelled by his peons, telling me that I was mad, that Don Martial was dead, and I an impostor. I went away with rage and despair in my heart. As if they had formed an agreement, all my friends to whom I presented myself refused to recognize me, so thoroughly was the report of my death believed, and it had been accepted by them as a certainty. All the efforts I attempted to dissipate this alarming mistake, and prove the falsehood of the rumour were in vain, for too many persons were interested in it being true, on account of the large estates I possessed; and also, I suppose, through a fear of injuring the man to whom I first applied—the only living relation of the Torrés family, who, through his high position, has immense influence in Sonora. What more need I tell you, my friend? Disgusted in every way, heartbroken with grief, and recognising the inutility of the efforts I made against the ingratitude and systematic bad faith of those with whom I had to deal, I left the town, and, mounting my horse, returned to the desert, seeking the most unknown spots and the most desolate regions in which to hide myself and die whenever God decrees that I have suffered sufficiently, and recalls me to Him." After saying this the Tigrero was silent, and his head sunk gloomily on his chest. "Brother," Valentine said gently to him, slightly touching his shoulder to attract his attention, "you have forgotten to tell me the name of that influential person who had you turned out of his house, and treated you as an impostor." "That is true," Don Martial answered; "his name is Don Sebastian Guerrero, and he is military governor of the province of Sonora." The hunter quickly started to his feet with an exclamation of joy. "Don Martial," he said, "you may thank God for decreeing that we should meet in the desert, in order that the punishment of this man should be complete." CHAPTER III. THE COMPACT. Don Martial gazed at the hunter in amazement. "What do you mean?" he asked him. "I don't understand you." "You will soon do so, my friend," Valentine answered. "How long have you been roaming about this neighbourhood?" "Nearly two months." "In that case you are well acquainted, I presume, with the mountains among which we are at this moment?" "There is not a tree or a rock whose exact position I cannot tell, nor a wild beast trail which I have not followed." "Good: are we far from a spot called the 'Fort of the Chichimèques?'" The Tigrero reflected for a moment. "Do you know by what Indians these mountains are inhabited?" he at length asked. "Yes, by poor wretches who call themselves the Root-Eaters, and whom the hunters and trappers designate by the name of the 'Worthy of Pity.' They are, I believe, timid, harmless creatures, a species of incomplete men, in whom brutal instincts have stifled the intellect; however, I only speak of them from hearsay, for I never saw one of the poor devils." "You are perfectly well informed about them, and they are what you depict them. I have often had opportunities of meeting them, and have lamented the degree of brutalization into which this hapless race has fallen." "Permit me to remark that I do not see what connection can exist between this unhappy tribe and the information I ask of you." "There is a very great one. Since I have been roaming about these mountains you are the first man of my own colour with whom I have consented to enter into relations. The Root-Eaters have neither history nor traditions. Their life is restricted to eating, drinking, and sleeping, and I have not learned from them any of the names given to the majestic peaks that surround us. Hence, though I perfectly well know the spot to which you refer, unless you describe it differently, it will be impossible for me to tell you its exact position." "That is true; but what you ask of me is very awkward, for this is the first time I have visited these parts, and it will be rather difficult for me to describe a place I am not acquainted with. Still, I will try. There is, not far from here, I believe, a road which traverses the Rocky Mountains obliquely, and runs from the United States to Santa Fe; at a certain spot this road must intersect another which leads to California." "I am perfectly well acquainted with the roads to which you refer, and the caravans of emigrants, hunters, and miners follow them in going to California, or returning thence." "Good! At the spot where these two roads cross they form a species of large square, surrounded on all sides by rocks that rise to a considerable height. Do you know the place I mean?" "Yes," the Tigrero answered. "Well, about two gunshots from this square is a track winding nearly in an east-south-east course, along the side of the mountains. This track, at first so narrow that a horse even passes with difficulty, gradually widens till it reaches a species of esplanade, or terrace, if you like it better, which commands an extensive prospect, while on its edge are the remains of barbarous erections, which can, however, be easily recognized as an ancient parapet. This terrace is called the 'Fort of the Chichimèques,' though for what reason I cannot tell you." "I know no more than you do on that head, although I can now assure you that I am perfectly acquainted with the place to which you refer, and have often camped there on stormy nights, because there is a deep cavern, excavated by human hands, and divided into several passages, every turning of which I know, and which has offered me a precious shelter during those frightful tempests which, at intervals, overthrow the face of nature in these regions." "I was not aware of the existence of this grotto," the hunter said, with a glad start, "and I thank you for having told me of it; it will be very useful for the execution of the plans I have formed. Are we any great distance from this terrace?" "In a straight line, not more than five or six miles, and, if it were day, I could show it to you; but as we must ride round to reach the caravan road, which we are obliged to follow in order to reach the tracks, we have about three hours' ride before us." "That is a trifle, for I was afraid I had lost my way in these mountains, which are strange to me. I am delighted to find that my old experience has not failed me this time, and that my hunter's instincts have not deceived me." While saying this, Valentine had risen to explore the clearing. The storm had ceased, the wind had swept away the clouds, the deep blue sky was studded with brilliant stars, and the moon profusely shed its rays, which imparted a fantastic appearance to the landscape by casting the shadows of the lofty trees athwart the snow, whose pallid carpet spread far as eye could see. "'Tis a magnificent night," the hunter said, after carefully examining the sky for some moments. "It is an hour past midnight, and I do not feel the slightest inclination to sleep. Are you fatigued?" "I am never so," the Tigrero answered, with a smile. "All right: in that case you are like myself, a thorough wood ranger. What do you think of a ride in this magnificent moonlight?" "I think that after a good supper and an interesting conversation nothing so thoroughly restores the balance of a man's thoughts as a night ride in the company of a friend." "Bravo! that is what I call speaking. Now, as every ride to be reasonable should have an object, we will go, if you have no objection, as far as the Fort of the Chichimèques." "I was about to propose it; and, as we ride along, you will tell me in your turn what imperious motive compelled you to come to these unknown regions, and what the project is to which you alluded." "As for that," the hunter said, with a knowing smile, "I cannot satisfy you; at any rate not for the present, as I wish you to have the pleasure of a surprise. But be easy, I will not put your patience to too long a trial." "You will act as you think proper, for I trust entirely to you. I know not why, but I am persuaded, either through a sentiment or sympathy, that in doing your own business you will be doing mine at the same time." "You are nearer the truth at this moment than you perhaps imagine, so be of good cheer, brother." "The happy meeting has already made a different man of me," the Tigrero said, as he rose. The hunter laid his hand on his shoulder. "One moment," he said to him; "before leaving this bivouac, where we met so providentially, let us clearly agree as to our facts, so as to avoid any future misunderstanding." "Be it so," Don Martial answered. "Let us make a compact in the Indian fashion, and woe to the one who breaks it." "Well said, my friend," Valentine remarked, as he drew his knife from his belt. "Here is my navaja, brother; may it serve you as it has done me to avenge your wrongs and mine." "I receive it in the face of that Heaven which I call as witness of the purity of my intentions. Take mine in exchange, and one half my powder and bullets, brother." "I accept it as a thing belonging to me, and here is half my ammunition for you; henceforth we cannot fire at one another, all is in common between us. Your friends will be my friends, and you will point out your enemies to me, so that I may aid you in your vengeance. My horse is yours." "Mine belongs to you, and in a few moments I will place it at your service." Then the two men, leaning shoulder to shoulder, with clasped hands, eyes fixed on heaven, and outstretched arm, uttered together the following words: "I take God to witness that of my own free will, and without reservation, I take as my friend and brother the man whose hand is at this moment pressing mine. I will help him in everything he asks of me, without hope of reward, ready by day and night to answer his first signal, without hesitation, and without reproach, even if he asked me for my life. I take this oath in the presence of God, who sees and hears me and may He come to my help in all I undertake, and punish me if I ever break my oath." There was something grand and solemn in this simple act, performed by these two powerful men, beneath the pallid moonbeams, and in the heart of the desert, alone, far from all human society, face to face with God, confiding in each, and seeming thus to defy the whole world. After repeating the words of the oath, they kissed each other's lips in turn, then embraced, and finally shook hands again. "Now let us be off, brother," Valentine said; "I confide in you as in myself; we shall succeed in triumphing over our enemies, and repaying them all the misery they have caused us." "Wait for me ten minutes, brother; my horse is hidden close by." "Go; and during that time I will saddle mine, which is henceforth yours." Don Martial hurried away, leaving Valentine alone. "Thi...