Don Aníbal returned to the jacal, where Father Sandoval was waiting for him, surrounded by his staff. The general of the insurgents knew perfectly well that the summons he sent his enemy would remain unanswered, or, if he deigned to give one, that it would be of an insulting nature; but he thought himself bound to take this step, in order to have right entirely on his side, by forcing General Cárdenas, with whose character he was thoroughly acquainted, to commit one of those bloodthirsty acts to which he was accustomed. Such a deed would permit him to make every effort to carry the town and capture the general, of whom he purposed to make an example. Father Sandoval's calculations were perfectly correct. General Cárdenas had not hesitated to give orders to fire on a flag of truce. He had done even more, as the Mexican officers soon learned from the formidable clamour that ran along the whole army.
During the skirmish which took place a short distance from the town, the Spaniards took six or seven prisoners—poor peons, not so well mounted as their comrades, and who had not been able to rejoin the army so speedily as they might have liked. These prisoners were taken into the town, and as ill luck would have it the general perceived them as he entered the cabildo. On seeing them he could not restrain his fury, but ordered that they should at once be led to the ramparts, and hung in the sight of the Mexican army. In vain did the officers try to dissuade him. The general was inexorable, and the poor fellows were hung without any trial. They heaved their last sigh at the very moment when Don Aníbal de Saldibar entered the jacal, and the army burst into a fearful clamour, which caused the Mexican general and his officers to shudder with horror and passion.
The siege consequently began under mournful auspices. Every insurgent who fell into the hands of the Spaniards was hung on the ramparts. General Cárdenas had sworn to make a wall of corpses round the town. On their side, the Mexicans mercilessly massacred the hapless Spaniards whom the chances of war delivered into their hands. It was in vain that Padre Sandoval implored his comrades to spare their enemies. The exasperation of the Mexicans was at its height, and they remained deaf to the prayers and orders of their chief. At the same time the Spanish general defended himself like a lion. Every patch of ground gained by the insurgents was disputed inch by inch, and cost streams of blood.
The town had been invested for seven days, and as yet there was no prospect that it would be soon captured. On the eighth day, Father Sandoval received a copy of the treaty signed by General Iturbide and the Viceroy O'Donojú. This treaty stated substantially that Mexico was declared independent, on the condition of establishing a constitutional and representative monarchy, of which a member of the family of the Spanish Bourbons should be nominated King. The Viceroy understood the critical position in which the interests of the home country were placed, and despairing completely to preserve to Spain the possession of this rich colony, he skilfully turned the question, so as to save as much as he could.
This treaty terminated the war; but Father Sandoval did not know how to communicate the fact to General Cárdenas. After the menaces made by that general, and the summary executions that followed them, no one cared to go to him. Don Aníbal, ever ready to sacrifice himself for the common welfare, offered to proceed to the general. The latter, contrary to expectation, let the flag of truce enter the town, and even received him with a certain amount of courtesy, which surprised Don Aníbal himself, especially after the manner in which the first interview he had with him ended.
The hacendero handed the general a copy of the treaty, adding that he hoped this document would put a stop to the bloodshed. The general took the paper, which he read attentively twice, as if weighing all its clauses. While he was perusing it, Don Aníbal tried in vain to follow on his face the effect it produced; but the general's features seemed carved in marble, and no emotion was visible on them.
"My answer will be brief, caballero," he said, in a dry voice, but with an accent of gloomy resolution. "In my opinion, the Viceroy O'Donojú has no power to settle so serious a question as the independence of New Spain. The king, my master and his, delegated him, not to throw away this colony, but to keep it for him at all risks. This deed is therefore null, so long as the King of Spain and the Indies has not ratified it. As for me, caballero, I shall not resign the authority entrusted to me. A royal order alone will make me return my sword to the scabbard from which I have drawn it. Whatever the consequences of this resolution may be to me, I shall wait for that order. Good day."
The general bowed slightly to the flag of truce, and turned away as if to make him understand that his audience was over. Don Aníbal withdrew, and was conducted to the advanced posts with bandaged eyes, although treated with the utmost respect by the soldiers told off as his escort. The chief of the Liberals was most anxiously awaiting the return of his emissary, as he feared, with some show of reason, that the general, despising, as usual, the law of nations, had made him undergo unworthy treatment. Hence it was with extreme pleasure that he saw Don Aníbal return. Unhappily, the reply brought by the hacendero did not leave the slightest hope of peace. Father Sandoval, though recognizing in his heart the wisdom of his enemy's conduct, resolved with a sigh of regret to deal a heavy blow, and made his preparations accordingly.
CHAPTER XXX.
ON THE TRAIL.
Oliver Clary left Don Melchior's room in a very thoughtful state; the count followed him, not venturing to address him, as he seemed so preoccupied. On reaching the patio, where peons were holding two horses for them, the adventurer stopped, struck his forehead, and then turning to the count, said—
"You cannot come with me."
"Why not?" the count asked; "Where are you going?"
"How do I know? That young man's calm and resigned grief crushes my heart, and I am going to seek some consolation for him at all hazards."
"You are kind."
"No, I have suffered. I know grief, and pity the unhappy; that is all. Remain here; you will not be of the slightest use to me in what I am about to attempt; your presence, on the contrary, might be injurious to me and to yourself. You had better wait for me here. Watch that young man carefully and show him the greatest kindness. Perhaps, on my return I shall tell you more; I have a doubt on my mind which I am anxious to clear up. Heaven grant that I may meet the man in search of whom I am going. One word more: if I do not return at the hour settled, use your influence over Don Melchior to keep him patient. Farewell, I am about to attempt impossibilities."
And leaving the count amazed, and not at all understanding these mysterious and apparently unconnected remarks, the adventurer leapt on his horse, and galloped down the steep hill at the risk of breaking his neck twenty times. So soon as he had crossed the stream and found himself in the open country, the Canadian checked his horse's pace, turned its head in the direction of the Río Grande del Norte, and put on his considering cap.
The worthy Canadian, with the reckless temerity characteristic of the wood rangers, had formed the plan of setting out in search of a village or encampment of Indios bravos, as he felt convinced, after what had occurred a few days previously, that there must be one in the neighbourhood. By joining the redskins he would have no difficulty, thanks to his thorough knowledge of Indian manners, in obtaining information about the fate of the ladies, which would enable him afterwards to attempt one of those daring strokes to which he was accustomed, and which had so often proved successful.
The idea was good, but the execution offered extraordinary difficulties. A trail is a very awkward thing to follow in a desert or in a savage country, where there are no other tracks but those made by wild beasts. Still, a good wood ranger, when he has once discovered the beginning of a trail, however confused it may be, always succeeds in reaching the other end. But the trail must exist, that is to say, some sign, however fugitive or slight, must warn the hunter in what direction the people he is pursuing have gone. But, under the present circumstances, that was not the Canadian's situation; the trail he proposed to follow he must, to a certain extent, invent, as he was entering the desert without any settled purpose, and entirely trusting to chance, that great performer of miracles.
The adventurer did not conceal from himself the difficulties of his enterprise, hence, he tried, as far as possible, to get chance over to his side. When he had forded the river and found himself on Indian territory, the hunter carefully inspected his weapons, in the probable event of his being obliged to use them; then, after riding for about a mile straight ahead, he threw the bridle on his horse's neck and let it follow its own impulses, and that infallible instinct which animals possess, and which puts human reason to shame. After a few moments' hesitation, the noble animal shook its head several times, stretched out its neck, and suddenly seeming to form a determination, started in a direction exactly opposite to that which its master had hitherto compelled it to follow.
"Good," the Canadian said, "I'll bet two jaguar skins to a muskrat's that we shall soon have some news."
And he let his horse go on, contenting himself with carefully examining the thick scrub he passed and the tall grass through which he rode with great difficulty, in order not to let himself be attacked unawares by an invisible foe. It was about nine in the morning, the hour most pleasant for travelling in these torrid latitudes. For about an hour the Canadian thus advanced haphazard, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past his ear.
"Who is the clumsy scoundrel turning me into a target?" the hunter said, coolly, as he halted and looked around; "Devil take the animal for missing me so stupidly."
A slight smoke, which rose a short distance off, from the grass, soon indicated to him the spot whence the shot was fired; without hesitation, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and dashed in that direction, resolved to take a prompt revenge for this unfair attack. But almost immediately a hurried motion commenced in the tall grass; it parted under the pressure of a vigorous hand, and an Indian appeared. It was Running Water, holding in his hand the gun he had just used, the barrel of which was still smoking.
"Hang it, chief," the Canadian said gaily, "it must be confessed that you have a strange way of putting your question."
"My brother must pardon me; it is not my fault," the Indian answered.
"That you missed me," the Canadian interrupted him laughingly. "By Jove, I am convinced of that, for the bullet almost passed through my hair."
"My brother will not understand me. I did not recognize him. Had I done so, I should not have fired on the man to whom I owe my life."
"Nonsense! On the prairie that is of no consequence, chief; but, excepting the rather rough way in which you bade me welcome, I am delighted at having met you."
"My brother is now the friend of a chief; he is in safety on our hunting grounds."
"So it seems," the adventurer replied mockingly.
Running Water's face assumed an expression of sorrow.
"My brother, then, will not pardon an unhappy mistake, at which he sees his friend broken-hearted."
"Come, come, chief, let us say no more about it; there was more noise than hurt. I am glad to see you at liberty again, and, according to appearances, in good case. You have not taken long to procure weapons."
"The chief is on his own territory," the Indian answered, with a flash of pride.
"Very good, I admit that, although I fancy you venture rather close to the Spanish border."
"I am not alone."
"That is probable. I do not wish to know the motives that bring you to these parts; that is your business, although I suspect a hearty Indian revenge behind it."
An evil smile played round the chief's thin lips.
"Vengeance is the virtue of the red men," he answered in a hollow voice; "they never forget kindness and never pardon wrong."
"I am aware of that, chief, and I cannot blame you, for every man acts according to his instincts."
"Is my brother on the hunting trail?"
"I am on no trail, chief, I am rambling about for amusement."
Running Water gave a distrustful look, for Indians never allow that anyone does anything without a motive.
"Then my brother is not going anywhere?" he continued.
"Indeed no, I am letting my horse guide me."
"Wah! My brother is very merry."
"It is the case, I assure you; and the proof is that so soon as I leave you I shall turn back."
The Indian reflected for a moment.
"Will my brother consent to smoke the calumet at the fire of a chief?"
"I do not see any obstacle. Indian hospitality is great; and my ride has given me an appetite which I shall not be sorry to appease."
"Good; my brother will have no cause to complain of his friend. Let him follow, and he will soon be able to satisfy his hunger."
"Go on then, chief, and I will walk in your footsteps."
The Indian turned away, and re-entered the tall grass, where the hunter followed him without hesitation. Their march lasted but a few minutes, and they reached the camp of the Comanches, which was so well concealed among trees and bushes, that the Canadian might have passed close by and not noticed it. The Indians display extraordinary skill in the choice of their temporary encampments on the prairie; the most skilful hunter cannot compete with them in the cleverness with which they hide their presence, however large their numbers may be. Hence the camp which the Canadian now reached was composed of upwards of two hundred Indians, and yet nothing led him to suspect that he was so near them.
A thing that greatly surprised the hunter was, that he noticed a considerable number of women and children in camp. The redskins rarely travel with their families, unless they are going to change their abode. The periods of these migrations is indicated beforehand, and the year was not sufficiently advanced for the Comanches to leave their winter village, or dare to venture so near the Spanish border. Still, as a good diplomatist, the Canadian, in spite of the suspicions that began to spring up in his mind, seemed to attach no importance to this unusual circumstance, and did not make the slightest allusion to a subject which would doubtless arouse the distrust of his suspicious hosts.
The reception which the Comanches gave him was most cordial; Running Water especially, by all sorts of attentions, sought to make Clary forget the rather rough manner in which he had accosted him. The latter met the chief's advances halfway, and the most frank cordiality continued to preside over their chance meeting. When the breakfast, simple, like all Indian meals, and entirely composed of venison, was ended, the guests lit their pipes, and each began talking upon indifferent matters.
Still the Canadian did not let out of sight the motive which had urged him to enter the prairie; and while smoking, he thought over the means of quietly veering the conversation round to the point he desired, although he did not dare ask the chief any direct question, for he was aware of his craft. The pretext which the hunter vainly sought, Running Water very naturally supplied, in the following way. As usually happens between men accustomed to a desert life, the conversation gradually settled upon hunting, an always interesting and inexhaustible subject between Indians and wood rangers.
"My brother knows that the moon of the wild oats will soon begin," said the chief, "and that it is the period when the buffalo chase is most productive."
"I do," the Canadian replied.
"Will my brother hunt the buffalo?"
"I should like to do so, but unluckily I am very slightly acquainted with this country. The buffalo is an animal only found in herds, and a single man could not hunt it advantageously. My companions have left me, and I am alone, hence I shall be obliged to set traps during the coming season."
"A poor trade for a brave man," the chief remarked.
"You are right, but what can I do? No man can be expected to perform impossibilities. I regret more than I can tell you the loss of this season; but I am compelled to put up with it."
"The Comanches are the first hunters of the prairie," the chief said with emphasis; "the tribe of the Red Buffaloes is renowned; their totem is a buffalo."
"I have heard the skill and courage of the warriors of your tribe highly spoken of, chief."
The sachem smiled proudly.
"The buffaloes are our cousins," he said; "when we hunt them they know that it is because we have need of their meat and skins, and they allow us to capture them in order to do us a service."
The Canadian gave a silent nod of assent. He was aware of the redskin superstition, which makes them believe that each of their tribes is descended from some animal, and he considered it unnecessary to open a discussion, which could have no satisfactory result, on the point.
The chief continued—
"Why will not my brother the Sumach hunt in company with the Red Buffaloes?"
The Canadian shook his head, although he felt great pleasure at this unexpected overture, for the Indians are very jealous of their hunting grounds, and the greatest proof of friendship they can give a man is to make him such an offer.
"For several reasons, chief," he answered; "my ammunition is nearly exhausted, I must procure more, and the road is long to the first town where I can obtain good powder. Moreover, you seem to be travelling at this moment. Who knows whether I shall be able to find you on my return?"
"Wah, my brother is a skilful paleface hunter; it is easy for him to follow a friend's trail."
"Yes, if it is not old, and a fresh one has not crossed it."
Running Water reflected for a moment, during which the Canadian anxiously awaited the result of his meditation.
"Let my brother listen," the sachem at last went on, "the hunt will not begin till the ninth sun from this; that is more time than he requires to fetch his powder and return."
"I grant it."
"Good! The Red Buffaloes are not travelling; they are going to a grand assembly of their nations to witness a sacrifice of prisoners."
"Ah!" the hunter said with capitally feigned surprise, "I did not know that the Comanches had made an expedition against the Apache dogs?"
"The Apaches are cowardly knaves," the chief answered; "they have buried the hatchet so deep that they would be unable to find it, and lift it against the Comanches. The prisoners are palefaces."
While uttering these words, the sachem fixed a searching glance on the hunter, but the latter did not blench.
"That is of no concern of mine, chief," he replied carelessly, "especially if the prisoners are Spaniards."
"My brother does not love the Spaniards?"
"I should think not, the chief must remember the place where he met me a short time back."
"That is true; my brother has not a deceitful tongue, he is the friend of the redskins."
"I think I have proved that to you."
"Good! Running Water is one of the first sachems of his nation, his word is good; let my brother go and fetch his ammunition, he will find the chief at the gathering place appointed for the tribe."
"Very good, but where is it?"
"All the hunters know it; it is the teocali of Zoltepec; will my brother come?"
"I will try, chief; but, as you know, men are subject to the will of the master of life. If I missed the appointment you so graciously make with me, you must not be angry."
"The chase will not begin before the eighth sun of the coming moon. The chief will wait for his brother the Sumach until the second sun before the hunt."
"Oh, in that case," the hunter answered, not wishing to press the point further for fear of offending the chief, "you can count on me, I have more time than I require to settle my affairs, and be punctual at the meeting."
Matters thus arranged, the conversation took another turn. The Canadian remained for nearly an hour longer at the Comanche encampment, and then took his leave; the sachem repeated his invitation, and the two men separated, after many protestations of friendship, really well satisfied with each other. Running Water was delighted at having found an opportunity to pay the debt of gratitude he had contracted with the man who saved his life. As for the hunter, he was still better pleased, for he believed that he had obtained positive information as to the spot where the two unhappy captives were and the fate reserved for them. After leaving the Comanches, the Canadian started at a gallop for the hacienda, which he reached an hour before the time he had himself considered as the probable duration of his absence. The count, and especially Don Melchior, were awaiting his return impatiently. Clary, without loss of time, informed them of what he had done, and told them in the fullest details all he had picked up from Running Water.
"Now," he said, in conclusion, "I believe we have no other alternative than to return to our old plan; it is the wisest, and only one that offers a chance of success. Moonshine, with a dozen of his comrades, will get on the trail of the Indians, and—"
"But you?" the count interrupted.
"I have contracted obligations to the chief of the Red Buffaloes, which prevent my doing anything against them."
"That is true," the count remarked.
"So," the hunter added, "remain here, Don Melchior; within two days you will have a reinforcement enabling you to attempt the deliverance of the two most unhappy ladies; by acting otherwise you will only ruin yourself and them."
"Thanks," the young man replied, in a hollow voice, and burying his head in his hands, he took no further part in the conversation. An hour later the count and the hunter mounted, and started in the direction of the Hacienda del Barrio.
"The poor boy is very sad," the count remarked.
"I am afraid he will commit some folly," the hunter replied, with a shake of the head.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE JACAL.
The night was dark; the rain, driven by the wind lashed furiously; the Río Sabina, swollen by the storm, rolled along its yellow, muddy waters, which were filled with trunks of trees and fragments of every description, with a lugubrious murmur. The town and camp were plunged in gloomy silence, only interrupted at long intervals by the mournful cry, "Sentinela, alerta," with which the sentries on the ramparts and in the intrenchments called to each other. At times a vivid flash, immediately followed by a deafening peal of thunder, lit up the horizon with a fantastic and transient gleam; then all fell again into deeper silence and more complete obscurity.
In a miserable jacal, built in the centre of the camp, which every gust threatened to blow away, two men, seated in equipales, in front of a table covered with maps and plans, were conversing by the light of a smoking candle. The jacal was the headquarters of the Mexican army, while the men were Padre Sandoval and Don Aníbal de Saldibar. Outside, two sentries, wrapped up in their zarapés, were walking up and down in front of the door, cursing the wind and rain in a low voice, while several horses, saddled and fastened to pickets, were champing their feet and pawing up the ground impatiently.
"You see, my friend," Don Pelagio was saying at the moment we introduce the reader into the jacal, "everything favours us. Heaven is with us."
"Yes," the hacendero answered; "but, General Cárdenas is an old soldier, accustomed to European warfare. I doubt whether he will let himself be caught in this trap."
"You are a perfect St. Thomas, my friend," Don Pelagio continued, "and doubt is your essence. The ruse I have invented is too simple for the general not to be caught in it. For the last two days my spies have prepared him by clever reports to fall into the trap we are setting for him; and, moreover, I count upon an omnipotent ally."
"An ally?" Don Aníbal asked, curiously. "Who is he?"
"The general's immense pride," the priest replied with a smile. "You cannot imagine how this haughty man suffers at being held at bay like a wild beast in its den by enemies whom he despises; be certain that he will eagerly seize the opportunity to chastise us."
"Hum!" the hacendero said, but slightly convinced.
"Come," the other continued gaily; "there you are again with your monstrous doubt. If pride fails us, my friend, we have ambition."
"What do you mean?"
"The general only came to America to regain his ruined fortunes and compromised reputation. The treaty signed between General Iturbide and the Viceroy—a treaty which, between ourselves, will not be ratified by the cabinet of the Escurial—offers him a splendid chance. A battle would restore hope to the Spaniards; momentarily re-establish the affairs of Ferdinand VII.; will make the king regard General Cárdenas as an indispensable man; will permit him to aspire to the highest dignities, and perhaps succeed O'Donojú. Do you now understand me?"
"Yes, yes. You have thoroughly studied human passions, and nothing escapes your infallible glance; but, perhaps, you have let yourself be carried too far."
"¿Quién sabe?" Don Pelagio said gently; then he suddenly changed the conversation. "You have received no news from Barrio?"
"None; which leads me to hope that all is well; were it otherwise, Don Melchior or Sotavento would have come to warn me."
"You know, my friend, that I have several times remarked to you that you place too great confidence in that man."
"I have ever found him faithful and devoted."
"You think so; but take care. You know that I am rarely deceived in my appreciations. Now, I am convinced this man deceives, and is playing a long studied part."
"My dear friend, several persons have said to me what you are now stating. I have watched the man with the greatest care, and never has anything suspicious in his conduct justified the unjust doubts entertained about him."
"Heaven grant that he may always be so, my friend; and that you may not be aroused, at the moment when you least expect it, from your imprudent slumber by a thunderclap."
At the same instant a dazzling flash shot athwart the sky, and the thunder burst forth furiously. The two men, involuntarily struck by this strange coincidence, remained for a moment dumb and amazed, listening to the alarm cries of the sentries as they challenged each other in the darkness, and feeling their hearts contracted by an undefinable sadness.
"It is, perchance, a warning from heaven," Don Pelagio muttered in a low voice.
"Oh! I cannot believe it," the hacendero replied, as he passed his hand over his damp forehead.
The general rose.
"Come," he said, as he looked out, "that thunderclap is the last effort of the tempest, and the sky seems growing clearer. We shall have a splendid day tomorrow."
"At what hour do you intend starting, General?" the hacendero asked him.
Don Pelagio looked at his watch.
"It is half past ten," he said; "the camp will not be completely evacuated till midnight. We will set out at two o'clock, with the few men I have selected."
"In that case, with your permission, I will retire and sleep till the hour for departure."
"Do so, my friend; but mind and be here again at half past one."
"That is settled, General."
The two gentlemen shook hands affectionately, and Don Aníbal walked towards the door of the jacal. Just as he was going, the noise of several horses could be heard.
"¿Quién vive?" the sentry challenged.
"Méjico e independencia," a voice replied, which Don Aníbal fancied he recognized.
"¿Qué gente?" the soldier continued.
"El Coronel Don Aurelio Gutiérrez."
"Let him come in, let him come in," the general shouted.
"Pase Vd: adelante," the sentry said.
"Stay here," Don Pelagio said to the hacendero. "This unexpected visitor doubtless brings us valuable news."
The horsemen dismounted; their heavy spurs could be heard clanking on the saturated ground, and five men entered the jacal. Four remained at the door, half hidden by the darkness, and the fifth alone walked up to the general. It was Don Aurelio.
"How comes it, Colonel," the general asked him quickly, without leaving him time to speak, "that you are here, instead of remaining at the post I assigned you?"
Don Aurelio bowed respectfully to his chief.
"General," he replied, "I have strictly obeyed the orders you were pleased to give me. The division you placed under my command is at its post; but I thought it my duty myself to lead to you these four persons, who came to my main guard, and requested to be immediately brought into your presence."
"Ah!" the general continued, taking an inquiring glance at the strangers, whom the darkness prevented him from recognizing. "Who are they?"
"They will tell you themselves, General. Now that my task is accomplished, permit me to retire and return to my post."
"Go, señor. Perhaps it would have been better had you not left it."
The colonel made no reply, but bowed and went out. Almost immediately after he could be heard riding away at a gallop. There was a momentary silence, during which Don Pelagio carefully examined the four persons still standing motionless. At length he decided on addressing them.
"Come hither, señores," he said, "and be good enough to tell me who you are."
Only two advanced. When they reached the lighted portion of the jacal, they dropped the corner of the zarapé which covered the lower part of their faces, and at the same moment doffed their vicuña hats, the broad brims of which fell over their eyes.
"The Canadian!" Don Aníbal exclaimed, with a start of surprise.
"Count de Melgosa?" Don Pelagio said, no less astonished.
The newcomers were really Oliver Clary and the count.
"It seems as if you did not expect us, General," the Canadian said gaily.
"On my word I did not," Don Pelagio replied, as he held out his hand to both. "I did not expect either of you; but you are not the less welcome."
"Thanks," said the count.
"Why, I thought you were dead, Señor Clary," the priest continued.
"Well," the Canadian said, "it was touch and go. You simply sent me to a wild beast. But, no matter; I managed to get out of his clutches."
"All the better. But you must require rest. Who are the persons accompanying you?"
"One is a confidential peon of mine; the other a prisoner whom Señor Don Olivero took," the count answered.
"Yes, yes," said the hunter; "we will talk about that scamp presently."
"To what fortunate accident may I attribute your presence here, Señor Conde?"
"A wish to see you, caballero."
"Ah, ah!" the general said, with a piercing glance, "Has grace fallen on you at last?—will you at length consent to join us? It would be a great pleasure to us, Señor Conde."
"You are nearer the truth than you suppose, Señor Padre," the count replied with a smile. "I am not on your side, as you pretend to suppose; but, on the other hand, I am no longer opposed to you; I have sent in my resignation, and, in one word, am neutral for the present."
"That is a bad position, Conde."
"Perhaps so, señor; but, for the present, I wish to keep it. Moreover, to be frank, I will confess that I have come more especially to see Don Aníbal."
"Me?" the hacendero exclaimed, as he stepped forward.
"Yes, my friend; but before I explain to you the cause of my coming, allow Señor Don Olivero to report to your chief the way in which he carried out the mission confided to him."
"Very good," the hacendero answered, as he fell back a step.
"Come, speak, Colonel," Father Sandoval said.
"Am I still a colonel?" the hunter asked.
"Hang it, as you are not dead, I see no reason why you should not be, especially as I am extremely pleased with your lieutenant, Moonshine, and your cuadrilla has done me eminent services."
"In that case, all is well," the hunter said joyfully, as he snapped his fingers, and coquettishly twisted his light moustache.
After this outburst of joy, the hunter began his narrative, to which the general listened with the deepest attention. When he came to the carrying off the papers, Don Pelagio interrupted him.
"Have you those papers with you?" he asked eagerly.
"Here they are," the hunter answered, as he drew them from the pocket into which he had stuffed them, and laid them on the table.
The general seized them, and going up to the candle, carefully perused them.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, with a sudden outburst, "I was not mistaken; all is really as I foresaw; now I have him, and he will not escape me. Colonel, you performed your mission as a man of heart and intellect. I shall remember it at the first opportunity. Now go on," he added, as he carefully placed the papers in his bosom.
"Well," the hunter gaily remarked, "it seems that I made a better haul than I supposed."
"You could not be more lucky."
"All the better then. What you say to me, General, causes me the greater pleasure, because I shall probably have to ask a favour of you ere long."
"It is granted beforehand, if it depends on me."
"On you absolutely, General; moreover, it is a service I wish to render Don Aníbal de Saldibar, your friend."
"Render me?" the hacendero exclaimed, in surprise.
"Yes, you, señor."
The count laid a finger on his lip, to recommend silence to Don Aníbal. The latter, surprised at his friend's gesture, was silent, as if involuntarily; but he suffered from a secret anxiety caused by this mystery, an explanation of which he racked his brains in vain to find. The hunter continued his narrative.
"As I had the honour of telling you, General, we left the Hacienda del Río in the morning. Our horses, fatigued by a long ride, only advanced with difficulty, and we were ourselves exhausted by the heat; moreover, it was already late, and the hour for the halt had arrived. At this moment I noticed a cave close by, and proposed to the count that we should rest in it, to which he assented. I entered this grotto, and after exploring it thoroughly, made my comrades a sign to join me. This cave, which was very large, formed several galleries. Forgive me, General, for entering into these details, which may appear to you prolix, but they are indispensable."
"Go on, Colonel; I am listening with the most lively interest," the general answered, though in his heart he wished the Canadian at the deuce.
"We consequently established ourselves as best we could, with our horses, in one of the most retired galleries. My comrades and the Señor Conde himself yielded to sleep, and I confess that I was about to follow their example, when suddenly the sound of footsteps very near the spot where we were cachéed, made me prick up my ears, and drove away my sleep. I lay down on the ground, and crawled cautiously in the direction of the noise I had heard. I was not mistaken; we were no longer alone in the cavern; a man had entered it, and that man was an Indian. I recognized this fact by his dress, for he had his back turned to me. After placing on the ground a rather large bundle, this Indian looked cautiously around him. I held my breath for fear of being discovered, so greatly did this man puzzle me. At length, feeling convinced that he was quite alone, and no one could see him, he took all his clothes off, and darted out of the cavern like a startled deer. I could not comprehend it at all, and was not far from taking the man for a lunatic; but, when I saw him return, his paint had disappeared; he had merely plunged into the river to wash himself. When he was dry, he dressed himself again, but not in the same clothes, but in others he took out of the bundle he had laid on the ground when he came in. But then a singular thing occurred—my Indian of just now was metamorphosed into a Mexican!"
"What?" the general and the hacendero exclaimed in surprise, "A Mexican?"
"A Mexican," the hunter continued calmly; "and more extraordinary still, this Mexican I recognized so well that I could not restrain a cry of surprise. He heard me, and turned round with a start. Doubt was no longer possible. This Indian was Señor Don Aníbal's majordomo."
"Sotavento!" the hacendero exclaimed.
"Ah, ah!" said the general, "Go on, my friend. What did you do then?"
"On my word, General, seeing that I was discovered, I bounded upon him. I am free to confess that he did not seem at all anxious to be taken, for he offered a desperate resistance; but, thank goodness, I am tolerably strong, and in spite of all his efforts, I succeeded in mastering him, and brought him here, because his conduct appeared to me extremely suspicious, and the Señor Conde and myself wished to clear up certain suspicions which had occurred to us with reference to him. That is all I have to say to you, General."
The hunter ceased, apparently very pleased at having got so well through so long and difficult a narrative.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE PRISONER.
When the hunter finished his narrative a gloomy silence prevailed for some minutes in the jacal. Outside the wind blew fiercely, and the rain fell in torrents. The smoky flame of the candle, flickering in the gusts, only spread an uncertain gleam over the pale faces of these men, who felt their hearts contracted by a sinister presentiment. The hacendero was the first to overcome the emotion he felt. With head erect, frowning brows, and features contracted by a supreme resolution, he walked rapidly up to the prisoner, and, pulling down roughly the zarapé that covered the lower part of his face, he gazed at him for a moment with an expression of grief and passion impossible to render.
"It is true, then," he at length muttered, in a dull voice, "this man I believed so devoted to me is a traitor. I alone was blind when everybody around me accused him. Speak, villain, what have you done?"
"It is my place to answer that question," the count said, as he walked forward and laid his hand on Don Aníbal's arm.
The hacendero looked at him in amazement.
"You, Señor Conde?" he said.
"Yes, I, Don Aníbal. I, who have only come here to tell you a frightful secret, and am compelled to bring a terrible accusation against this man."
Don Aníbal felt as if his heart would break.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "What are you going to tell me, great God?"
Don Pelagio, who had hitherto leant his elbow on the table, and remained motionless and thoughtful, placed himself between the two gentlemen, and looked at them, in turn, with an expression of sorrowful compassion.
"Stay," he said, in a loud voice. "In the name of heaven—in the name of our country—I command it! However terrible the revelation you have to make, Señor Conde, may be; however great your impatience, Don Aníbal, to know the full extent of your misfortunes, this is neither the place nor the hour for such an explanation; honour bids you both defer it for some hours. We must start immediately, for the hour has arrived. If we delayed for a few moments the fruit of all our labour and efforts would be lost. What do you apprehend? This man is in your power, and will not escape. You will soon be able to inflict on him the punishment which he doubtless deserves."
"Oh!" the hacendero exclaimed, sorrowfully, "Suppose this villain escaped our vengeance, my friend; I feel a foreboding of some frightful misfortune."
The count and the hunter looked down sadly. Father Sandoval gently laid his hand on the shoulder of the hacendero, who had fallen into an equipal, and buried his face in his hands.
"Courage, friend," he said to him, softly. "God is watching. His justice never sleeps. Remember the precept written on the heart of every man of honour, 'Do your duty, no matter what may happen.'"
The hacendero replied with a choking sob.
"You no longer belong to yourself," the priest continued, more warmly; "your head and your arm are claimed by your country. Be a man, however great the sorrow that awaits you; draw yourself up, and become strong for the coming contest. Every man in the world has his cup which he drains to the dregs. Go, my friend, go where duty calls you; tomorrow you can think of yourself, but today belongs to your country."
The hacendero, overpowered by this manly appeal, rose mechanically, pulled his hat over his eyes, and went off without uttering a word. The priest looked after him, tenderly.
"Oh!" he muttered, "How that man of iron must suffer to be thus crushed!"
Then he turned to the count.
"Señor Conde," he added, laughingly, "you are my prisoner for four and twenty hours."
"I shall not leave you till the business for which I have come is ended," the count replied with a polite bow.
"Hilloh, my worthy lad," the priest continued, addressing Diego López, who throughout the interview had remained motionless in his corner, with his eyes constantly fixed on the prisoner, "my provost marshal will save you the trouble of guarding that man."
"That will be a great relief for me, Excellency."
"Good. Go and tell him to come here immediately. The prisoner is securely bound, I presume?"
"Señor Clary himself made the knot, Excellency."
"In that case, my mind is at rest. Go."
"The more so, because I undertake to watch the villain in the meanwhile," Oliver said, as he cocked a pistol.
"Good," Diego López remarked, and went out.
"Are your horses fit for a long ride, caballeros?"
"Well, hardly," the Canadian answered.
"Very well; you will choose among mine. Colonel Clary, your regiment, which you will find complete, is on escort tonight."
"Are we going away?" the count asked.
"This very instant."
The Mexican general clapped his hands, and an officer came in.
"Order your men to mount noiselessly, Captain. Are the horses shod with felt, as I ordered?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"Good; we shall start in ten minutes. You can go."
"Are we bound on an expedition?" the Canadian asked.
"Yes," the general replied, laconically.
"¡Caray!" the hunter exclaimed, as he rubbed his hands merrily, "That is what I call being in luck's way, arriving just in time for an expedition."
"Which will probably be serious," the general resumed.
"All the better; there will be something to gain in that case."
At this moment the provost marshal appeared at the door of the jacal, accompanied by a dozen soldiers.
"Caballero," the general said to him, "I confide this prisoner to you, for whom I hold you responsible. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, General," the provost answered respectfully. "Come, my men, seize the fellow."
The majordomo was led away by the soldiers. During the whole time the Indian had remained in the jacal, he had been cold and stoical, as if what was going on around him did not affect him in the least. As he went out he gave a sarcastic glance at the company and smiled contemptuously.
"I must watch that villain," the hunter said to himself, "he is surely meditating some Indian devilry."
A noise of men and horses, followed by the clang of arms, informed the general that his orders had been carried out.
"Let us be off, señores," he said.
They left the jacal. When the general and his escort had mounted, Father Sandoval placed himself at the head of the column.
"Forward, caballeros," he said, in a loud, firm voice, "and may heaven be gracious to us!"
The horsemen started a gallop, passing silently and rapidly through the darkness, like the wild horseman in the German ballad. While they were crossing the camp, one thing greatly surprised the hunter, though he did not dare ask for an explanation. On all sides burnt bivouac fires, sending myriads of sparks up into the air, but he could not notice a single sentry. The most perfect silence reigned; men, horses, guns and baggage had become invisible; the camp was or seemed to be entirely deserted. The entrenchments were abandoned; no sentry shouted, "Who goes there?" no vidette arrested the detachment. In a word, the entire Mexican army seemed to have faded away in smoke.
The escort left the camp, and then the pace, already rapid, increased in velocity. They proceeded toward the mountains which rose gloomy and frowning on the horizon in the first gleams of daylight. A little in the rear of the regiment of lancers, of which it formed as it were a second rearguard, came a detachment of fifty soldiers. They were the provost marshal's guard. In the midst of them was the majordomo, fastened with a strap upon a horse behind its rider. Sotavento, or the Stag, whichever the reader likes to call him, appeared to have lost none of his assurance or courage; his face was calm, and his eyes alone flashed at intervals, like those of a wild beast. On his right and left two troopers, carbine on thigh, carefully watched him.
They galloped on thus for nearly three hours; the sky grew less gloomy, and the outlines of the hills began to stand out upon the horizon. The detachment halted for a short time, on reaching one of those countless streams which intersect the desert, and which it was necessary to ford. On the other bank could be seen the last squadrons of lancers, entering at a gallop a canyon whose scarped and almost perpendicular sides were only covered with a stunted and sparse vegetation. With his arms fastened down on his chest, and his body attached by a strap, it seemed an impossibility for Sotavento to escape; hence his guardians who, as we said, did not let him out of sight, considered it unnecessary to tie his legs under the horse's belly.
The majordomo, however, far from yielding to a despair unworthy of him, seriously thought of escaping, and coolly calculated in his mind all the chances of success left him. We must confess that they were very small. Still, the Indian was determined to fly at all risks; he knew very well that the grave suspicions would soon be converted into a certainty, and that when this certainty was once acquired, his death would immediately ensue. Death did not terrify the Indian; he had seen it too often and under too many shapes to fear it; but, if he died, what would become of his vengeance, which he had followed up for so many years with feline patience, and which he was now on the point of seeing satiated?
Hence, ever since the moment he was led into the jacal, all his thoughts were directed to one object—flight. Crouched up like a tiger on the watch, his eyes incessantly sounded the darkness, seeking the opportunity which did not offer itself, and which he did not mean to lose when it presented itself. This long expected opportunity he believed had at length arrived, and he made all his preparations to take advantage of it.
Although night was passing away and the first gleams of dawn were already beginning to spread across the horizon large pearly bands, which gradually assumed all the colours of the rainbow, the darkness was still so great that it was difficult to make objects out distinctly, even at a short distance. During the whole of the journey Sotavento had remained gloomy and silent, with his head hanging over his chest, and careful not to give the soldiers who watched him the slightest pretext to redouble their vigilance; but for all that he was not idle, and his pretended immobility had an incessant and obstinate labour. The Indian was quietly nibbling with his teeth, which were as sharp as those of a wild beast, the leathern straps which bound his hands. When the detachment reached the riverbank the thongs were bitten through, although his hands were still secured.
The provost, after sending a trooper to examine the ford, went across with one half of his men. Excepting at the spot where the soldiers traversed the stream, the banks were scarped and abrupt, and consisted of rocks piled irregularly on each other, and rising to a considerable height above the water. The order was given to bring the prisoner across, and the soldier, behind whom he was fastened, trotted up to the riverbank. The ford was too narrow for three riders to pass abreast, and hence only one of the guards accompanied the prisoner. The latter prepared for action. He understood that, if he did not profit by the opportunity chance now afforded him, he would not find another.
The horses entered the river, and were soon up to their girths in water. The soldier behind whom Sotavento was fastened, had quite enough to do in keeping his horse in the line of the ford, and, at the same time, raising his weapons, so that they should not be wetted; hence he paid but slight attention to his prisoner. All at once, at the moment he reached the middle of the stream, the soldier received a terrible shock, and was unsaddled and hurled into the river before he had time even to utter a cry. Sotavento had boldly leapt into the water, dragging the trooper after him. A terrible struggle went on for a few seconds between the two men; but the soldier, feeling himself lost, and clinging eagerly to life, undid the strap that attached him to the prisoner, and rose to the surface in order to breathe.
"Look out! Look out!" the other trooper exclaimed as he halted; "The prisoner is escaping."
This shout produced disorder among the party, who at once galloped in all directions with their eyes fixed on the stream in the hope of pursuing the prisoner. But then a terrible thing occurred. The soldier who had been the first to give the alarm, felt himself suddenly dragged off his horse into the water, struggling vainly in the furious clutch of the majordomo, who had seized him by the throat and was pitilessly strangling him. With the rapidity of a wild beast, the Indian seized the knife which the soldier wore in his boot, brandished it over his enemy's head and scalped him; then, casting the dying man from him, he bestrode his horse, waved the scalp with a triumphant cry, and making the animal quit the ford, in which the couple had struggled up to their waist in water, he went down the current amid a shower of bullets which dashed up the spray all around him.
The horse, held by a firm hand, swam vigorously down with the current, still keeping to the centre of the stream. On both banks horsemen were galloping, shouting to each other, and trying in vain to approach the river, which was defended by impassable masses of rock. Still, if the scarped banks offered an obstacle to his pursuers, they equally prevented the majordomo from reaching land. His horse was beginning to pant, its strength was nearly exhausted, and it swam feebly. The Indian looked round him anxiously, caring little for the soldiers, but seeing with terror that the further he went the more difficult it became to land on either side.
In spite of the provost's repeated orders, the soldiers, despairing to catch up the fugitive, and perceiving the futility of their efforts, gave up the pursuit. The Indian was consequently alone; still, in spite of the certainty of having thrown out his foes, he feared that he had but changed his manner of death. At the moment when his horse was beginning to sink and beat the water with its forelegs, the chief uttered a shout of joy. In the very centre of the river was an islet easy of approach, and not more than sixty yards from him.
The Indian did not hesitate; removing his horse's bit, which was troublesome to it, he dived and swam vigorously toward the islet. The animal, freed from its rider's weight, seemed to regain its old strength, and, impelled by instinct, also proceeded in the same direction. A quarter of an hour after, man and horse walked together up the sandy bank of the island. They were saved!
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MOONSHINE.
It was about four in the morning; the night storm had completely swept the sky, which was of a deep azure; day would speedily appear. General Cárdenas, leaning sadly over the battlements of the town wall, was reflecting, while his eye wandered over the plain and the camp of the Mexicans, whose bivouac fires were beginning to die out. A little distance behind him, aides-de-camp and orderly officers carelessly leaning on their sabres were waiting with ill-disguised impatience till their chief thought proper to leave the ramparts and return to the cabildo.
The general, we said, was reflecting. His thoughts were sad and gloomy. Provisions and ammunition, squandered by the officers ordered to serve them out, were running short; the garrison, tired of being shut up within the walls, were beginning to mutter, and would ere long complain loudly. Coahuila had been so completely invested by the Mexican army that, from the day the siege began, no one had been able to enter or leave the town. The general, consequently, was as much deprived of news as if he were five hundred leagues away from Mexico. The soldiers, accustomed since the beginning of the insurrection to live at the expense of the country people, plunder, and ill-treat them, did not like the confined diet to which they were constrained. Unpleasant rumours circulated among them, although it was impossible to trace them to their source. The officers themselves were discouraged, and desired the end of this state of things, which every day that passed rendered worse. The general, therefore, saw with terror the moment at hand when all would fail him at once, and he would be forced to throw himself on the mercy of enemies whom he had supposed so contemptible, and whom he had taken a delight in exasperating by unlooked-for and objectless cruelty. Hurled thus from his high estate into a bottomless abyss, the general was suffering from one of those cold and concentrated attacks of fury which are the more terrible because they can find no outlet.
All at once the general fancied he could distinguished the shadowy outline of a man, who was approaching the ramparts with the utmost caution. Still this man appeared to care very little about being seen from the town, and only tried to conceal himself from the sentries, who might have noticed him in the camp. Some considerable time elapsed ere this man, who advanced looking back anxiously every moment, arrived within pistol shot of the ramparts. The general rose, and, making an officer a sign to approach, whispered a few words in his ear. The officer went off, and the general returned to his post of observation.
The stranger still advanced, apparently growing bolder the nearer he drew to the ramparts. All at once several men dashed out of a postern gate, and ere the stranger had time to attempt a useless resistance, he was thrown down, bound, and carried into the town by the men who had so cleverly seized him. Still, we are bound to mention that the soldiers experienced no difficulty in dragging their prisoner along; on the contrary, he affected to follow them with the most perfect readiness. The general, while waiting for the prisoner, walked up and down the ramparts; when he was brought up to him, he looked at him for a moment in silence. The stranger was a young man, with an intelligent and sarcastic face, tall and powerfully built.
"Who are you, scamp?" the general asked him roughly, "And how is it that you dare to prowl so near the walls of a besieged town?"
"Hang it all," the stranger replied, in excellent Spanish, though with a marked foreign accent, "I was not prowling round the walls."
"What were you doing, then?"
"I was merely trying to get into the town."
"This is an impudent scoundrel," the general said to himself, "but at least he is frank. And, why, pray, did you want to enter Coahuila?"
"If you do not mind, General, giving orders that I should be freed from these cords, which annoy me, I shall answer you with greater ease."
"Very good; but I warn you that, at the slightest suspicious movement, I shall have your brains blown out."
"That is your business, General," the stranger replied carelessly.
At a signal from the general the stranger was unfastened; he gave a sigh of relief on feeling himself at liberty.
"There," he said, "now a man can talk."
"Are you disposed to answer me?"
"Ask me a question."
"What is your name?"
"Moonshine."
"A capital name for a night bird."
"It is mine."
"What are you?"
"Canadian, and wood ranger; but, look ye, General, if we go on this way we shall never come to an end. I prefer coming straight to facts. I have come to offer you a bargain."
"What is it?"
"Oh, oh, General, do not go on too fast; in the first place how much will you give me?"
"Why in the first place I must know—"
"The amount, that is true; well, I will tell you,—four hundred ounces."[1]
"What! Four hundred ounces!" the general exclaimed, "You seem to me to be an amusing scoundrel; but take care I do not hang you, in order to teach you not to play the mountebank with me."
"That is the reward for doing people a service," the Canadian said with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders.
"But, animal," the general continued impatiently, "what service are you doing me?"
"An immense one, General."
"Come, explain yourself."
"I am most anxious to do so, but you will not let me speak."
The general had a knowledge, or fancied he had, of his fellow men; he remembered his interview with Oliver, and understood that if this man, knowing his reputation, ventured to speak in this way to him, he must have very powerful incentives, and feel very sure of impunity; besides, his own serious position made it a bounden duty for him to obtain information by all possible means. He therefore restrained himself, resolved if the Canadian was really laughing at him to have him hung at once.
"Well, speak, and the plague smother you!" he said to him.
"In that case, General, the matter is this. But pledge me first your word of honour that if what I am going to tell you is really as important to you as I fancy, you will at once pay me the sum I ask."
"Very good; but if you deceive me you will be hung or shot—the choice being left you."
"Very good; it is a bargain. Where is the money?"
"Do you suppose that I carry four hundred ounces about me?"
"Hang it, what is to be done?" the Canadian said, scratching his head.
"Stay," the general said, as he showed him two diamond rings, "these are worth nearly double the sum you ask. Are you satisfied?"
"On your word, now? Well, I will risk it. Well, listen. This night I had sheltered myself as well as I could about three or four leagues from here, for the purpose of camping. Unfortunately for me, the storm came on, and compelled me to seek a safer shelter."
"Cut it short."
"I will, General. The night was so dark that, not knowing the country, I lost my way, and got into the very centre of the Mexican camp."
"Ah, ah! And I suppose they gave you a warm reception?"
"They gave me no reception at all, General."
"What? Did they turn you out?"
"Who turn me out?"
"Hang it, how do I know? The sentries, perhaps."
"Why, General, that is the very point; the camp is deserted; the Mexican army has disappeared."
The general gave a bound of surprise.
"Are you mocking me, scoundrel?" he shouted violently; "Are you aware whom you are speaking to when you come to tell me such falsehoods?"
"Hang it, General, it is easy to assure yourself whether I speak the truth, by going to see. However, it appears that the Mexicans were in a hurry to be off, for they left behind them cannon, forage—everything, in a word."
"That is strange," the general muttered, as he fixed on the Canadian a glance that seemed trying to read his very heart's secrets, which the hunter sustained without evincing the slightest confusion, "that is strange," he repeated; "and do you not know the cause of this precipitate departure?"
"How should I know it? I am a stranger. Perhaps, though—but no, they cannot know it yet, as I expected to obtain a good reception from them by telling them of it."
The hunter spoke with such simple frankness, his face displayed such candour, that the general had not for a moment a thought of suspecting him; on the contrary, he listened to him with the most earnest attention.
"What more?" he asked eagerly.
"What, do you not know it?"
"It seems not."
"And yet it has caused a regular disturbance. It is reported that General Iturbide has been surprised by the Viceroy's troops and taken prisoner, after an obstinate resistance, so that the insurrection is once again subdued."
At this moment an officer, who had gone off with several others to obtain information about the Canadian's statement, ran up breathless.
"General," he said, "what this man has told you is true; the Mexican army has abandoned its camp with such haste that hardly anything has been removed."
"Then," said the hunter, "I have earned my money, General?"
"Yes," he answered, as he handed the Canadian the rings, which he carefully placed in his bosom. "But," he added, as he looked at him fixedly, and laid a stress on every word, "as you might, after all, be a traitor and clever spy, you will remain here till we obtain more thorough information. You appear to me to be much sharper than you pretend, and your head shall answer for your sincerity."
"I shall be very glad to remain here," the hunter replied carelessly; "here or elsewhere makes little difference to me. Still I do not quite understand how I can be a traitor, since you recognize the truth of what I have told you."
Moonshine allowed himself to be led away without the slightest emotion, and the general mounted his horse, in order to assure himself of the certainty of the facts announced to him. The camp was most thoroughly deserted, not a man or horse remained in it. Everything testified to the precipitation with which the Mexicans had retired. They had attempted to carry off a few guns and baggage waggons; but, doubtless discouraged by the difficulties they had to overcome, and probably demoralized by some crushing news, they had left guns and train scattered in all directions. Tumbrils filled with ammunition, arms, stores, even provisions, were thrown about in disorder, as if they had at first intended to remove them, but, pressed by time, had been forced to leave them behind.
The road followed by the Mexican army was perfectly visible, not only by the deep marks on the saturated ground, but also by the utensils of every description, uniforms, and arms scattered on the road. It was no longer a retreat, but a flight. The general tried in vain to seek the clue to this insoluble enigma. The chief of the Mexican army could not have had the idea of laying a trap for him. Everything contradicted this supposition; it was not admissible that an experienced soldier, for the purpose of deceiving his enemy, would consent to abandon to him his guns, ammunition, and even provisions; such a trick would have been most clumsy, since it would provide the Spaniards with all they wanted, as the Mexicans must be perfectly aware.
It was more simple to believe that what the hunter said was true; that General Iturbide has been defeated and made a prisoner by the Spanish troops, and that the Mexicans, terrified by this disastrous news, had been assailed by a panic and disbanded, seeking their safety in flight, as had happened several times already during the course of the war. Still, the general in chief, as a prudent and experienced man, would not risk anything till he had heard the opinions of his officers. After giving the requisite orders for a guard to be placed in the camp, he galloped back to the town and summoned a council of war. Moonshine was summoned before the council, and was heard again. The hunter repeated, without the variation of a syllable, what he had already told the general.
This deposition produced a marked effect on the members of the council. Each was of opinion that they must at once start in pursuit of the fugitives, in order not to allow them time to recover from their terror and reassemble. This was the general's opinion too; still, under circumstances of such gravity, he had desired to avoid responsibility, and appear constrained to yield to the wishes of his officers. As generally happens in such cases, the Spaniards passed from a state of the utmost dejection to the greatest braggadocio. The Mexicans, who had so long caused them to tremble, were only scoundrels, unworthy to contend with brave men, and they could be brought to order with the flat of the sabre.
The general, considering it useless to leave a strong garrison in the town, as the enemy had retired, and not wishing, in the case of the Mexicans making a stand, to advance without an imposing force, ordered two regiments of cavalry to mount, each trooper having an infantry man on his crupper, and took two field guns with him. This small army amounted to about five thousand men, more than sufficient to pursue and destroy demoralized bands, who would probably attempt no defence and be easily cut up. When all was ready for the start, General Cárdenas gave orders to bring up the Canadian, who had first brought him the happy news of the enemy's flight. The latter arrived, accompanied by the officer to whom he had been given in charge. The general smiled on the hunter.
"Listen to me," he said to him, "you appear a man of sense. You will come with us."
"What to do, General?" the hunter answered coldly; "I suppose you do not want me anymore?"
"I should like to have you near me."
"In order to blow out my brains, if you think proper to do so, eh?"
"That is possible; but come, notwithstanding."
"That would not be fair, General; I have honestly kept to my bargain. It is not my fault if, instead of quietly remaining here, you think proper to roam about the country at the risk of something happening."
"Then your advice would be that I should remain here?" the general said to him, with a searching glance.
"I have no advice to give you, General; I am neither a soldier nor an officer, and your affairs do not concern me. I tell you my opinion, that is all."
"But you are a wood ranger?" he continued, after a moment's reflection.
"Yes, General, and nothing else."
"In that case, you will make a famous scout."