We will now return to the hacendero, who, accompanied by his two friends, is galloping at full speed in the direction of Valentine's jacal. The road the three men followed led them further and further from the Paso del Norte. Around them nature grew more abrupt, the scenery sterner. They had left the forest, and were galloping over a wide and arid plain. On each side of the way the trees, becoming rarer, defiled like a legion of phantoms. They crossed several tributary streams of the Del Norte, in which their horses were immersed up to the chest.
At length they entered a ravine deeply imbedded between two wooded hills, the soil of which, composed of large flat stones and rounded pebbles, proved that this spot was one of those desaguaderos which serve to carry off the waters in the rainy season. They had reached the Cañon del Buitre, so named on account of the numerous vultures constantly perched on the tops of the surrounding hills.
The defile was deserted, and Valentine had his cabin not far from this spot. So soon as the three men had dismounted, Curumilla took the horses and led them to the jacal.
"Follow me," Valentine said to Don Miguel.
The latter obeyed, and the two men began then climbing the escarped flanks of the right hand hill. The climb was rude, for no road was traced; but the two hunters, long accustomed to force a passage through the most impracticable places, seemed hardly to perceive the difficulty of the ascent, which would have been impossible for men less used to a desert life.
"This spot is really delicious," Valentine said with the complacent simplicity of a landowner who boasts of his estate. "If it were day, Don Miguel, you would enjoy from this spot a magnificent view. A few hundred yards from the place where we are, down there on that hill to the right, are the ruins of an ancient Aztec camp in a very fine state of preservation. Just imagine that this hill, carved by human hands, though you cannot see it in the darkness, is of the shape of a pyramidal cone: its base is triangular, the sides are covered with masonry, and it is divided into several terraces. The platform is about ninety yards long by seventy-five in width, and is surrounded on three sides by a platform, and flanked by a bastion on the north. You see that it is a perfect fortress, constructed according to all the rules of military art. On the platform are the remains of a species of small teocali, about twenty feet high, composed of large stones covered with hieroglyphics sculptured in relief, representing weapons, monsters, rabbits, crocodiles, and all sorts of things; for instance, men seated in the oriental fashion, and wearing spectacles. Is not that really curious? This little monument, which has no staircase, doubtless served as the last refuge to the besieged when they were too closely beleaguered by the enemy."
"It is astonishing," Don Miguel answered, "that I never heard of these ruins."
"Who knows them? Nobody. However, they bear a considerable likeness to those found at Jochicalco."
"Where are you leading me, my friend? Are you aware that the road is not one of the pleasantest, and I am beginning to feel tired?"
"A little patience: in ten minutes we shall arrive. I am leading you to a natural grotto which I discovered a short time back. It is admirable. It is probable that the Spaniards were unacquainted with it, although the Indians, to my knowledge, have visited it from time immemorial. The Apaches imagine it serves as a palace to the genius of the mountain. At any rate, I was so struck by its beauty that I abandoned my jacal, and converted it into my residence. Its extent is immense. I am certain, though I never tried to convince myself, that it goes for more than ten leagues under ground. I will not allude to the stalactites that hang from the roof, and form the quaintest and most curious designs; but the thing that struck me is this: this grotto is divided into an infinite number of chambers, some of them containing pools in which swim immense numbers of blind fish."
"Blind fish! You are jesting, my friend," Don Miguel exclaimed, and stopped.
"I am wrong: blind is not the word I should have employed, for these fish have no eyes."
"What! No eyes?"
"None at all; but that does not prevent them being very dainty food."
"That is strange."
"Is it not? But stay—we have arrived."
In fact, they found themselves in front of a gloomy, gaping orifice, about ten feet high by eight wide.
"Let me do the honours of my mansion," Valentine said.
"Do so, my friend."
The two men entered the grotto: the hunter struck a match, and lit a torch of candlewood. The fairy picture which suddenly rose before Don Miguel drew from him a cry of admiration. There was an indescribable confusion: here a gothic chapel, with its graceful soaring pillars; further on, obelisks, cones, trunks of trees covered with moss and acanthus leaves, hollow stalactites of a cylindrical form, drawn together and ranged side by side like the pipes of an organ, and yielding to the slightest touch varied metallic sounds which completed the illusion. Then, in the immeasurable depths of these cavernous halls, at times formidable sounds arose, which, returned by the echoes, rolled along the sides of the grotto like peals of thunder.
"Oh, it is grand, it is grand!" Don Miguel exclaimed, struck with fear and respect at the sight.
"Does not man," Valentine answered, "feel very small and miserable before these sublime creations of nature, which God has scattered here as if in sport? Oh, my friend! It is only in the desert that we understand the grandeur and infinite omnipotence of the Supreme Being; for at every step man finds himself face to face with Him who placed him on this earth, and traces the mark of His mighty finger engraved in an indelible manner on everything that presents itself to his sight."
"Yes," Don Miguel said, who had suddenly become thoughtful, "it is only in the desert that a man learns to know, love, and fear God, for He is everywhere."
"Come," said Valentine.
He led his friend to a hall of not more than twenty square feet, the vault of which, however, was more than a hundred yards above them. In this hall a fire was lighted. The two men sat down on the ground and waited, while thinking deeply. After a few moments the sound of footsteps was audible, and the Mexican quickly raised his head. Valentine did not stir, for he had recognised his friend's tread. In fact, within a moment the Indian chief appeared.
"Well?" Valentine asked him.
"Nothing yet," Curumilla laconically answered.
"They are late, I fancy," Don Miguel observed.
"No," the chief continued, "it is hardly half past eleven: we are before our time."
"But will they find us here?"
"They know we shall await them in this hall."
After these few words each fell back into his thoughts. The silence was only troubled by the mysterious sounds of the grotto, which re-echoed nearly at equal intervals with an horrific din. A long period elapsed. All at once, ere any sensible noise had warned Don Miguel, Valentine raised his head with a hurried movement.
"Here they are," he said.
"You are mistaken, my friend," Don Miguel observed; "I heard nothing."
The hunter smiled.
"If you had spent," he said, "like we have, ten years in the desert, interrogating the mysterious voices of the night, your ear would be habituated to the vague rumours and sighs of nature which have no meaning to you at this moment, but which have all a significance for me, and, so to speak, a voice every note of which I understand, and you would not say I was mistaken. Ask the chief: you will hear his answer."
"Two men are climbing the hill at this moment," Curumilla answered sententiously. "They are an Indian and a white man."
"How can you recognise the distinction?"
"Very easily," Valentine responded with a smile. "The Indian wears moccasins, which touch the ground without producing any other sound than a species of friction: the step is sure and unhesitating, as taken by a man accustomed to walk in the desert, and only put down his foot firmly: the white man wears high-heeled boots, which at each step produce a distinct and loud sound; the spurs fastened to his boots give out a continuous metallic clink; the step is awkward and timid; at each moment a stone or crumble of earth rolls away under the foot, which is only put down hesitatingly. It is easy to see that the man thus walking is accustomed to a horse, and does not know the use of his feet. Stay! They are now entering the grotto: you will soon hear the signal."
At this moment the bark of the coyote was raised thrice at equal intervals. Valentine answered by a similar cry.
"Well, was I mistaken?" he said.
"I know not what to think, my friend. What astonishes me most is that you heard them so long before they arrived."
"The ground of this cave is an excellent conductor of sound," the hunter answered simply: "that is all the mystery."
"The devil!" Don Miguel could not refrain from saying; "You neglect nothing, I fancy."
"If a man wants to live in the desert he must neglect nothing: the smallest things have their importance, and an observation carefully made may often save a man's life."
While these few words were being exchanged between the two friends the noise of footsteps was heard drawing nearer and nearer. Two men appeared: one was Eagle-wing, the Chief of the Coras; the second, General Ibañez.
The general was a man of about thirty-five, tall and well-built, with a delicate and intelligent face. His manners were graceful and noble. He bowed cordially to the hacendero and Valentine, squeezed Curumilla's hand, and fell down in a sitting posture by the fire.
"Ouf!" he said, "I am done, gentlemen. I have just ridden an awful distance. My poor horse is foundered, and to recover myself I made an ascent, during which I thought twenty times I must break down; and that would have infallibly happened, had not friend Eagle-wing charitably come to my aid. I must confess that these Indians climb like real cats: we gente de razón[1] are worth nothing for that trade."
"At length you have arrived, my friend," Don Miguel answered. "Heaven be praised! I was anxious to see you."
"For my part I confess that my impatience was equally lively, especially since I learned the treachery of that scoundrelly Red Cedar. That humbug of a Wood sent him to me with so warm a recommendation that, in spite of all my prudence, I let myself be taken in, and nearly told him all our secrets. Unfortunately, the little I did let him know is sufficient to have us shot a hundred times like vulgar conspirators of no consequence."
"Do not feel alarmed, my friend. After what. Valentine told me today, we have, perchance, a way of foiling the tricks of the infamous spy who has denounced us."
"May Heaven grant it! But nothing will remove my impression that Wood has something to do with what has happened to us. I always doubted that American, who is cold as an iceberg, sour as a glass of lemonade, and methodical as a Quaker. What good is to be expected from these men, who covet the possession of our territory, and who, unable to take it from us at one lump, tear it away in parcels?"
"Who knows, my friend? Perhaps you are right. Unfortunately, what is done cannot be helped, and our retrospective recriminations will do us no good."
"That is true; but, as you know, man is the same everywhere. When he has committed a folly he is happy to find a scapegoat on which he can lay the iniquities with which he reproaches himself. That is slightly my case at this moment."
"Do not take more blame on yourself, my friend, than you deserve; I guarantee your integrity and the loyalty of your sentiments. Whatever may happen, be persuaded that I will always do you justice, and, if needed, defend you against all."
"Thanks, Don Miguel. What you say causes me pleasure and reconciles me with myself. I needed the assurance you give me in order to regain some slight courage, and not let myself be completely crushed by the unforeseen blow which threatens to overthrow our hopes at the very moment when we expected to find them realised."
"Come, come, gentlemen," Valentine said, "the time is slipping away, and we have none to waste. Let us seek to find the means by which to repair the check we have suffered. If you permit me I will submit to your approval a plan which, I believe, combines all the desirable chances of success, and will turn in our favour the very treachery to which we have fallen victims."
"Speak, speak, my friend!" the two men exclaimed, as they prepared to listen.
Valentine took the word.
[1] Literally, "men of reason"—a graceful expression the whites employ to distinguish themselves from the Indians, whom they affect to consider brute beasts, and to whom they do not even grant a soul.
"Gentlemen," said Valentine, "this is what I propose. The treachery of Red Cedar, in surrendering to the Government the secret of your conspiracy, places you in a critical position, from which you cannot escape save by violent measures. You are between life and death. You have no alternative save victory or defeat. The powder is fired, the ground is mined under your feet, and an explosion is imminent. Well, then, pick up the glove treachery throws to you—accept frankly the position offered you. Do not wait till you are attacked, but commence the contest. Remember the vulgar adage, which is perfectly true in politics, and specially in revolution—that 'the first blow is half the battle.' Your enemies will be terrified by your boldness—dashed by this uprising which they are far from expecting, especially now, when they imagine they hold in their hands all the threads of the conspiracy—an error which makes them put faith in the revelations of a common spy, and will ruin them if you act with skill—above all, with promptitude. All depends on the first blow. It must be terrible, and terrify them: if not, you are lost."
"All that is true; but we lack time," General Ibañez observed.
"Time is never lacking when a man knows how to employ it properly," Valentine answered peremptorily. "I repeat, you must be beforehand with your adversaries."
At this moment the sound of footsteps was heard under the vault of the cave. The most extreme silence at once reigned in the chamber where the five conspirators were assembled. Mechanically each sought his weapons. The steps rapidly approached, and a man appeared in the entrance of the hall. On seeing him all present uttered a cry of joy and rose respectfully, repeating, "Father Seraphin!"
The man advanced smiling, bowed gracefully, and answered in a gentle and melodious voice, which went straight to the soul,—
"Take your places again, gentlemen, I beg of you. I should be truly vexed if I caused you any disturbance. Permit me only to sit down for a few moments by your side."
They hastened to make room for him. Let us say in a few words who this person was, whose unexpected arrival caused so much pleasure to the people assembled in the grotto.
Father Seraphin was a man of twenty-four at the most, although the fatigues he supported, the harsh labours he had imposed on himself, and which he fulfilled with more than apostolic abnegation, had left numerous traces on his face, with its delicate features, its gentle and firm expression, imprinted with a sublime melancholy, rendered even more touching by the beam of ineffable goodness which escaped from his large, blue and thoughtful eyes. His whole person, however, exhaled a perfume of youth and health which disguised his age, as to which a superficial observer might have been easily deceived.
Father Seraphin was a Frenchman, and belonged to the order of the Lazarists. For five years he had been traversing as an indefatigable missionary, with no other weapon than his staff, the unexplored solitudes of Texas and New Mexico, preaching the gospel to the Indians, while caring nothing for the terrible privations and nameless sufferings he incessantly endured, and the death constantly suspended over his head.
Father Seraphin was one of those numerous soldiers, ignored martyrs of the army of faith, who, making a shield of the Gospel, spread at the peril of their lives the word of God in those barbarous countries, and die heroically, falling bravely on their battlefield, worn out by the painful exigencies of their sublime mission, aged at thirty, but having gained over a few souls to the truth, and shed light among the ignorant masses.
The abnegation and devotion of these modest men, yet so great in heart, are too much despised in France, where however, the greater number of these martyrs are recruited. Their sacrifices pass unnoticed; for, owing to the false knowledge possessed of beyond-sea countries, people are far from suspecting the continual struggles they have to sustain against a deadly climate. And who would credit it? The most obstinate adversaries they meet with in the accomplishment of their mission are not among the Indians, who always nearly welcome them with respect, if not joy, but among the men whom their labours benefit, and who ought to aid and protect them with all their might. There is no vexation or humiliation which they do not endure from the agents of Mexico and the American Union, to try and disgust and compel them to abandon the arena in which they combat so nobly.
Father Seraphin had gained the friendship and respect of all those with whom accident had brought him into contact. Charmed with meeting a fellow countryman in the midst of those vast solitudes so distant from that France he never hoped to see again, he had attached himself closely to Valentine, to whom he vowed a deep and sincere affection. For the same motives, the hunter, who admired the greatness of character of this priest so full of true religion, felt himself drawn to him by an irresistible liking. They had frequently taken long journeys together, the hunter guiding his friend to the Indian tribes across the desolate regions of Apacheria.
So soon as Father Seraphin had taken his place near the fire, Eagle-wing and Curumilla hastened to offer him all those slight services which they fancied might be agreeable to him, and offered him a few lumps of roast venison with maize tortillas. The missionary gladly gratified the two chiefs, and accepted their offerings.
"It is a long time since we saw you, father," the hacendero said. "You neglect us. My daughter asked me about you only two days ago, for she is anxious to see you."
"Doña Clara is an angel who does not require me," the missionary replied gently. "I have spent nearly two months with the Comanche tribe of the Tortoise. Those poor Indians claim all my care. They are thirsting for the Divine Word."
"Are you satisfied with your journey?"
"Sufficiently so, for these men are not such as they are represented to us. Their instincts are noble, and, as their primitive nature is not adulterated by contact with the vicious civilization that surrounds them, they easily understood what is explained to them."
"Do you reckon on staying long among us?"
"Yes; this last journey has fatigued me extremely. My health is in a deplorable state, and I absolutely need a few days' rest in order to regain the requisite strength to continue my ministry."
"Well, father, come with me to the hacienda; you will remain with us, and make us all truly happy."
"I am going to make that request to you, Don Miguel. I am delighted that you have thus met my wishes. If I accept your obliging offer, it is because I know I shall not incommode you."
"On the contrary, we shall be delighted to have you among us."
"Ah! I know the goodness of your heart."
"Do not make me better than I am, father: there is a spice of egotism in what I am doing."
"How so?"
"Hang it! By labouring at the education of the Indians you render an immense service to the race I have the honor of belonging to; for I, too, am an Indian."
"That is true," the priest answered with a laugh. "Come, I absolve you from the sin of egotism, in favour of the intention which makes you commit it."
"Father," Valentine then said, "is the game plentiful in the desert just at present?"
"Yes, there is a great deal: the buffaloes have come down from the mountains in herds—the elks, the deer, and the antelopes swarm."
Valentine rubbed his hands.
"It will be a good season," he said.
"Yes, for you. As for myself, I have no cause of complaint, for the Indians have been most attentive to me."
"All the better. I ever tremble when I know you are among those red devils. I do not say that of the Comanches, who are warriors I esteem, and have always displayed the sincerest affection for you; but I have a terrible fear lest those villains of Apaches may play you a wicked trick some fine day."
"Why entertain such ideas, my friend?"
"They are correct. You cannot imagine what treacherous and cruel cowards those Apache thieves are. I know them, and carry their marks; but do not frighten yourself. If ever they ventured on any extremities against you, I know the road to their villages: there is not a nook in the desert which I have not thoroughly explored. It is not for nothing I have received the name of the 'Trail-hunter.' I swear to you I will not leave them a scalp."
"Valentine, you know I do not like to hear you speak so. The Indians are poor ignorant men, who know not what they do, and must be pardoned for the evil they commit."
"All right—all right!" the hunter growled. "You have your ideas on that score, and I mine."
"Yes," the missionary replied with a smile, "but I believe mine be better."
"It is possible. You know I do not discuss that subject with you; for I do not know how you do it, but you always succeed in proving to me that I am wrong."
Everybody laughed at this sally.
"And what are the Indians doing at this moment?" Valentine continued. "Are they still fighting?"
"No; I succeeded in bringing Unicorn, the principal chief of the Comanches, and Stanapat (the Handful of Blood), the Apache sachem, to an interview, at which peace was sworn."
"Hum!" Valentine said incredulously, "that peace will not last long, for Unicorn has too many reasons to owe the Apaches a grudge."
"Nothing leads to the supposition, at present, that your forebodings will be speedily realised."
"Why so?"
"Because, when I left Unicorn, he was preparing for a grand buffalo hunt, in which five hundred picked warriors were to take part."
"Ah, ah! and where do you think the hunt will take place, father?"
"I know for a certainty, because, when I left Unicorn, he begged me to invite you to it, as he knew I should see you shortly."
"I willingly accept, for a buffalo hunt always had great attractions for me."
"You will not have far to go to find Unicorn, for he is scarce ten leagues from this place."
"The hunt will take place, then, in the neighbourhood?"
"The meeting-place is Yellowstone Plain."
"I shall not fail to be there, father. Ah! I am delighted, more than you can suppose, at the happy news you have brought me."
"All the better, my friend. Now, gentlemen, I will ask you to excuse me; for I feel so broken with fatigue that, with your permission, I will go and take a few hours' rest."
"I was a fool not to think of it before," Valentine exclaimed with vexation as he struck his forehead. "Pardon me, father."
"I thought for my brother," said Curumilla. "If my father will follow me all is ready."
The missionary thanked him with a smile and rose, bowed to all present, and supported by Eagle-wing, he followed Curumilla into another chamber of the grotto. Father Seraphin found a bed of dry leaves covered with bear skins, and a fire so arranged as to burn all night. The two Indians retired after bowing respectfully to the father, and assuring themselves that he needed nothing more.
After kneeling on the ground of the grotto Father Seraphin laid himself on his bed of leaves, crossed his arms on his chest, and fell into that childlike sleep which only the just enjoy. After his departure Valentine bent over to his two friends.
"All is saved," he said in a low voice.
"How? Explain yourself," they eagerly answered.
"Listen to me. You will spend the night here; at daybreak you will start for the Hacienda de la Noria, accompanied by Father Seraphin."
"Good! What next?"
"General Ibañez will proceed, as from you, to the governor, and invite him to a grand hunt of wild horses, to take place in three days."
"I do not understand what you are driving at."
"That is not necessary at this moment. Let me guide you; but, above all, arrange it so that all the authorities of the town accept your invitation and are present at the hunt."
"That I take on myself."
"Very good. You, general, will collect all the men you can, so that they can support you on a given signal, but hide themselves so that no one can suspect their presence."
"Very good," Don Miguel answered; "all shall be done as you recommend. But where will you be all this while?"'
"You know very well," he answered with a smile of undefinable meaning. "I shall be hunting the buffalo with my friend Unicorn, the great chief of the Comanches."
Hastily breaking off the interview, the hunter wrapped himself in his buffalo robe, stretched himself before the fire, closed his eyes, and slept, or feigned to sleep. After a few minutes' hesitation his friend imitated his example, and the grotto became calm and silent as on the day of the creation.
Before retiring to rest Father Seraphin, on the previous evening, had whispered a couple of words in the Indians' ears. The sun had scarce begun to rise a little above the extreme blue line of the horizon ere the missionary opened his eyes, and after a short prayer hurried to the hall in which his companions had remained. The four men were still asleep, wrapped in their furs and buffalo skins.
"Wake up, brothers," Father Seraphin said, "for day is appearing."
The four men started up in an instant.
"My brothers," the young missionary said in a gentle and penetrating voice, "I thought that we ought, before separating, to thank God in common: for the blessings He does not cease to vouchsafe to us—to celebrate our happy meeting of last night. I have, therefore, resolved to hold a mass, at which I shall be happy to see you with that purity of heart which such a duty demands."
At this proposition the four men exclaimed gladly their assent.
"I will help you to prepare the altar, father," Valentine said; "the idea is excellent."
"The altar is all ready, my friends. Have the kindness to follow me."
Father Seraphin then led them out of the grotto.
In the centre of a small esplanade in front of the cave an altar had been built by Eagle-wing and Curumilla on a grassy mound. It was very simple. A copper crucifix planted in the centre of the mound, covered by a cloth of dazzling whiteness; on either side of it two block-tin candlesticks, in which burned candles of yellow tallow, a Bible on the right, the pyx in the centre—that was all.
The hunter and the two Mexicans knelt piously, and Father Seraphin commenced offering the holy sacrifice, served devotedly by the two Indian chiefs.
It was a magnificent morning; thousands of birds, hidden beneath the foliage, saluted the birth of day with their harmonious songs; a fickle breeze poured through the branches, and refreshed the air; in the distance, far as eye could extend, undulated the prairie, with its oceans of tall grass incessantly agitated by the hurried foot falls of the wild beasts returning to their dens; and on the naked side of this hill, at the entrance of this grotto—one of the marvels of the New World—a priest, simple as an apostle, was celebrating mass on a grass altar under the eye of Heaven, served by two poor savages, and having as sole congregation three half-civilised men.
This spectacle, so simple primitive, had something about it imposing and sublime, which inspired respect and summoned up dreams of ancient days, when the persecuted church took refuse in the desert, to find itself face to face with God. Hence the emotion experienced by the witnesses of this religious act was sincere. A beam of happiness descended into their souls, and it was with real effusion that they thanked the priest for the pleasant surprise he had reserved for them. Father Seraphin was delighted at the result he had attained. Seeing the truly profound faith of his friends, he felt his courage heightened to continue the rude and noble task he had imposed on himself.
The mass lasted about three quarters of an hour. When it was finished the missionary placed the poor holy vessels in the bag he constantly carried with him, and they returned to the grotto for breakfast. An hour later, Don Miguel, General Ibañez, and the missionary took leave of Valentine, and mounted on their horses, which Curumilla had led to the entrance of the ravine. They started at a gallop in the direction of the Paso del Norte, whence they were about twenty leagues distant. Valentine and the two Indian chiefs remained behind.
"I am about to leave my brother," Eagle-wing said.
"Why not remain with us, chief?"
"My pale brother no longer requires Eagle-wing. The chief hears the cries of the men and women of his tribe who were cowardly assassinated, and demand vengeance."
"Where goes my brother?" the hunter asked, who was too thoroughly acquainted with the character of the Indians to try and change the warrior's determination, though he was vexed at his departure.
"The Coras dwell in villages on the banks of the Colorado. Eagle-wing is returning to his friends. He will ask for warriors to avenge his brothers who are dead."
Valentine bowed.
"May the Great Spirit protect my father!" he said. "The road is long to the villages of his tribe. The chief is leaving friends who love him."
"Eagle-wing knows it: he will remember," the chief said with a deep intonation.
And, after pressing the hands the two hunters held out to him, he bounded on his horse, and soon disappeared in the windings of the cañon.
Valentine watched his departure with a sad and melancholy look.
"Shall I ever see him again!" he murmured. "He is an Indian: he is following his vengeance. It is his nature: he obeys it, and God will judge him. Every man must obey his destiny."
After this aside the hunter threw his rifle on his shoulder and started in his turn, followed by Curumilla. Valentine and his comrade were on foot: they preferred that mode of travelling, which seemed to them sure, and quite as quick as on horseback. The two men, after the Indian custom, walked one behind the other, not uttering a syllable; but toward midday the heat became so insupportable that they were obliged to stop to take a few moments' repose. At length the sunbeams lost their strength, the evening breeze rose, and the hunters could resume their journey. They soon reached the banks of the Rio Puerco (Dirty River), which they began ascending, keeping as close as they could to the banks, while following the tracks made since time immemorial by wild animals coming down to drink.
The man unacquainted with the splendid American scenery will have a difficulty in imagining the imposing and savage majesty of the prairie the hunters were traversing. The river, studded with islets covered with cottonwood trees, flowed silent and rapid between banks of slight elevation, and overgrown with grass so tall that it obeyed the impulse of the wind from a long distance. Over the vast plain were scattered innumerable hills, whose summits, nearly all of the same height, present a flat surface; and for a greater distance northward the ground was broadcast with large lumps of pebbles resembling gravestones.
At a few hundred yards from the river rose a conical mound, bearing on its summit a granite obelisk one hundred and twenty feet in height. The Indians, who, like all primitive nations, are caught by anything strange, frequently assembled at this spot; and here the hecatombs are offered to the Kitchi Manitou.
A great number of buffalo skulls, piled up at the foot of the column, and arranged in circles, ellipses, and other geometrical figures, attest their piety for this god of the hunt, whose protecting spirit, they say, looks down from the top of the monolith. Here and there grew patches of the Indian potato, wild onion, prairie tomato, and those millions of strange flowers and trees composing the American flora. The rest of the country was covered with tall grass, continually undulating beneath the light footfall of the graceful antelopes or big horns, which bounded from one rock to the other, startled by the approach of the travellers.
Far, far away on the horizon, mingling with the azure of the sky, appeared the denuded peaks of the lofty mountains that serve as unassailable fortresses to the Indians: their summits, covered with eternal snow, formed the frame of this immense and imposing picture, which was stamped with a gloomy and mysterious grandeur.
At the hour when the maukawis uttered its last song to salute the setting of the sun, which, half plunged in the purple of evening, still jaspered the sky with long red bands, the travellers perceived the tents of the Comanches picturesquely grouped on the sides of a verdurous hill. The Indians had, in a few hours, improvised a real village with their buffalo skin tents, aligned to form streets and squares.
On arriving at about five hundred yards from the village the hunters suddenly perceived an Indian horseman. Evincing not the slightest surprise, they stopped and unfolded their buffalo robes, which floated in the breeze, as a signal of peace. The horseman uttered a loud cry. At this signal—for it was evidently one—a troop of Comanche warriors debouched at a gallop from the village, and poured like a torrent down the sides of the hill, coming up close to the motionless travellers, brandishing their weapons, and uttering their war yell.
The hunters waited, carelessly leaning on their guns. Assuredly, to a man not acquainted with the singular manners of the prairie, this mode of reception would have seemed overt hostilities. But it was not so; for, on coming within range of the hunters, the Comanches began making their horses leap and curvet with that grace and skill characteristic of the Indians, and deploying to the right and left, they formed a vast circle, inclosing the two unmoved hunters.
Then a horseman quitted the group, dismounted, and rapidly approached the newcomers: the latter hastened to meet him. All three had their arm extended with the palm forward in sign of peace. The Indian who thus advanced to meet the hunters was Unicorn, the great chief of the Comanches.
As a distinctive sign of his race, his skin was of a red tinge, brighter than the palest new copper. He was a man of thirty at the most, with masculine and expressive features; his face possessed a remarkable intelligence, and was stamped with that natural majesty found among the savage children of the prairie; he was tall and well built; and his muscular limbs evidenced a vigour and suppleness against which few men would have contended with advantage.
He was completely painted and armed for war; his black hair was drawn up on his head in the form of a casque, and fell down his back like a mane; a profusion of wampum collars, claws of grizzly bear, and buffalo teeth adorned his breast, on which was painted with rare dexterity a blue tortoise, the distinctive sign of the tribe to which he belonged, and of the size of a hand.
The rest of his costume was composed of the mitasses, fastened round the hips by a leathern belt, and descending to the ankles; a deerskin shirt, with long hanging sleeves, the seams of which, like those of the mitasse, were fringed with leather strips and feathers; a wide cloak, of the hide of a female buffalo, was fastened across his shoulders with a buckle of pure gold, and fell down to the ground; on his feet he had elegant moccasins of different colours, embroidered with beads and porcupine quills, from the heels of which trailed several wolf tails; a light round shield, covered with buffalo hide, and decorated with human scalps, hung on his left side by his panther skin quiver full of arrows. His weapons were those of the Comanche Indians; that is to say, the scalping knife, the tomahawk, a bow, and an American rifle; but a long whip, the handle of which painted red, was adorned with scalps, indicated his rank as chief.
When the three men were close together they saluted by raising their hands to their foreheads; then Valentine and Unicorn crossed their arms by passing the right hand over the left shoulder, and bowing their heads at the same time, kissed each other's mouth after the prairie fashion. Unicorn then saluted Curumilla in the same way; and this preliminary ceremony terminated, the Comanche chief took the word.
"My brothers are welcome at the village of my tribe," he said. "I was expecting them impatiently. I had begged the Chief of Prayer of the palefaces to invite them in my name."
"He performed his promise last night. I thank my brother for having thought of me."
"The two stranger great hunters are friends of Unicorn. His heart was sad not to see them near him for the buffalo hunt his young people are preparing."
"Here we are! We set out this morning at sunrise."
"My brothers will follow me, and rest at the council fire."
The hunters bowed assent. Each received a horse, and at a signal from Unicorn, who had placed himself between them, the troop started at a gallop, and returned to the village, which it entered to the deafening sound of drums, chikikouis, shouts of joy from the women and children who saluted their return, and the furious barking of the dogs. When the chiefs were seated round the council fire the pipe was lit, and ceremoniously presented to the two strangers, who smoked in silence for some minutes. When the pipe had gone the round several times Unicorn addressed Valentine.
"Koutonepi is a great hunter," he said to him; "he has often followed the buffalo on the plains of the Dirty River. The chief will tell him the preparations he has made, that the hunter may give his opinion."
"It is needless, chiefs," Valentine replied. "The buffalo is the friend of the redskins: the Comanches know all its stratagems. I should like to ask a question of my brother."
"The hunter can speak; my ears are open."
"How long will the chief remain on the hunting grounds with his young men?"
"About a week. The buffaloes are suspicious: my young men are surrounding them, but they drive them in our direction before four or five days."
Valentine gave a start of joy.
"Good," he said. "Is my brother sure of it?"
"Very sure."
"How many warriors have remained with the chief?"
"About four hundred: the rest are scattered over the plain to announce the approach of the buffaloes."
"Good! If my brother likes I will procure him a fine hunt within three days."
"Ah!" the chief exclaimed, "then my brother has started some game?"
"Oh!" Valentine answered with a laugh, "Let my brother trust to me, and I promise him rich spoils."
"Good! Of what game does my brother speak?"
"Of gachupinos[1]. In two days they will meet in large numbers not far from here."
"Wah!" said the Comanche, whose eyes sparkled at this news, "My young men will hunt them. My brother must explain."
Valentine shook his head.
"My words are for the ears of a chief," he said.
Without replying, Unicorn made a signal: the Indians rose silently, and left the tent. Curumilla and Unicorn alone remained near the fire. Valentine then explained to the Comanche, in its fullest details, the plan he had conceived, in the execution of which the aid of the Indians was indispensable for him. Unicorn listened attentively without interrupting. When Valentine had ended,—
"What does my brother think?" the latter asked, fixing a scrutinising glance on the impassive countenance of the chief.
"Wah!" the other replied, "the paleface is very crafty. Unicorn will do what he desires."
This assurance filled Valentine's heart with joy.
[1] Wearers of shoes—a name given by the Indians to the Spaniards at the conquest.
Don Miguel Zarate and his two friends did not reach the hacienda till late. They were received in the porch by Don Pablo and Doña Clara, who manifested great joy at the sight of the French missionary, for whom they felt a sincere esteem and great friendship. Spite of all his care, Fray Ambrosio had always seen his advances repelled by the young people, in whom he instinctively inspired that fear mingled with disgust that is experienced at the sight of a reptile.
Doña Clara, who was very pious, carried this repulsion to such a pitch that she only confessed her faults and approached the holy table when Father Seraphin came to spend a few days at the hacienda.
Fray Ambrosio was too adroit to appear to notice the effect his presence produced on the hacendero's children: he feigned to attribute to timidity and indifference on religious matters what was in reality a strongly expressed loathing for himself personally. But in his heart a dull hatred fermented against the two young folk, and especially against the missionary, whom he had several times already attempted to destroy by well-laid snares.
Father Seraphin had always escaped them by a providential chance; but in spite of the chaplain's obsequious advances, and the offers of service he did not fail to overwhelm him with each time they met, the missionary had thoroughly read the Mexican monk. He had guessed what fearful corruption was hidden beneath his apparent simplicity and feigned piety: and while keeping to himself the certainty he had acquired, he remained on his guard, and carefully watched this man, whom he suspected of incessantly planning some dark treachery against him. Don Miguel left his children with the missionary, who immediately took possession of him and dragged him away, lavishing on him every possible attention. The hacendero retired to his study with General Ibañez, when the two men drew up a list of the persons they intended to invite; that is to say, the persons Valentine proposed to get out of the way, though they were innocent of his scheme. The general then mounted his horse, and rode off to deliver the invitations personally. For his part Don Miguel sent off a dozen peons and vaqueros in search of the wild horses, and to drive them gradually toward the spot chosen for the hunt.
Gen. Ibañez succeeded perfectly: the invitations were gladly accepted, and the next evening the guests began arriving at the hacienda, Don Miguel receiving them with marks of the most profound respect and lavish hospitality.
The governor, General Isturitz, Don Luciano Pérez, and seven or eight persons of inferior rank were soon assembled at the hacienda. At sunrise a numerous party, composed of forty persons, left the hacienda, and proceeded, accompanied by a crowd of well-mounted peons, towards the meet. This was a vast plain on the banks of the Rio del Norte, where the wild horses were accustomed to graze at this season. The caravan produced the most singular and picturesque effect with the brilliant costumes of the persons who composed it, and their horses glittering with gold and silver. Starting at about four a.m. from the hacienda, they reached four hours later a clump of trees, beneath whose shade tents had been raised and tables laid by Don Miguel's orders, so that they might breakfast before the hunt.
The riders, who had been journeying for four hours, already exposed to the rays of the sun and the dust, uttered a shout of joy at the sight of the tents. Each dismounted: the ladies were invited to do the same, among them being the wives of the governor and General Isturitz, and Doña Clara, and they gaily sat down round the tables.
Toward the end of the breakfast Don Pablo arrived, who had started the evening previously to join the vaqueros. He announced that the horses had been started, that a large manada was now crossing the Plain of the Coyotes, watched by the vaqueros, and that they must make haste if they wished to have good sport. This news augmented the ardor of the hunters. The ladies were left in camp under the guard of a dozen well-armed peons, and the whole party rushed at a gallop in the direction indicated by Don Pablo.
The Plain of the Coyotes extended for an enormous distance along the banks of the river. Here and there rose wooded hills, which varied the landscape that was rendered monotonous by the tall grass, in which the riders disappeared up to their waists. When the hunting party reached the skirt of the plain Don Miguel ordered a halt, that they might hold a council, and hear the report of the leader of the vaqueros.
The races of wild horses that nowadays people the deserts of North America, and especially of Mexico, is descended from Cortez' cavalry. Hence it is a pure breed, for at the period of the Spanish conquest only Arab horses were employed. These horses have multiplied in really an extraordinary manner. It is not rare to meet with manadas of twenty and even thirty thousand head. They are small, but gifted with an energy and vigour of which it is impossible to form a fair idea without having seen them. They accomplish without fatigue journeys of prodigious length. Their coat is the same as that of other horses, save that during winter it grows very long, and frizzy like the wool of sheep. In spring this species of fur falls off. The American horses may be easily trained. Generally, so soon as they find themselves caught they easily submit to the saddle.
The Mexicans treat their steeds very harshly, make them journey the whole day without food or drink, and only give them their ration of maize and water on reaching the bivouac, where they let them wander about the whole night under guard of the nena, a mare whose bell the horses follow, and will never leave. It is not from any cruel motive, however, that the Mexicans treat their horses thus, for the riders are very fond of their animals, which at a given moment may save their lives. But it seems that this mode of treatment, which would be impracticable in Europe, is perfectly successful in Mexico, where the horses are much better off than if treated in a more gentle way.
The leader of the vaqueros made his report. A manada of about ten thousand head was two leagues off on the plain, quietly grazing in the company of a few elks and buffaloes. The hunters scaled a hill, from the top of which they easily saw on the horizon a countless mob of animals, grouped in a most picturesque way, and apparently not at all suspecting the danger that threatened them.
To hunt the wild horses men must be like the Mexicans, perfect centaurs. I have seen the jinetes of that country accomplish feats of horsemanship before which our Europeans would turn pale.
After the vaquero's report Don Miguel and his friends held a council, and this is the resolution they came to. They formed what is called in Mexico the grand circle of the wild horses; that is to say, the most skilful riders were echeloned in every direction at a certain distance from each other, so as to form an immense circle. The wild horses are extremely suspicious: their instinct is so great, their scent is so subtle, that the slightest breath of wind is sufficient to carry to them the smell of their enemies, and make them set off at headlong speed. Hence it is necessary to act with the greatest prudence, and use many precautions, if a surprise is desired.
When all the preparations were made the hunters dismounted, and dragging their horses after them, glided through the tall grass so as to contract the circle. This manoeuvre had gone on for some time, and they had sensibly drawn nearer, when the manada began to display some signs of restlessness. The horses, which had hitherto grazed calmly, raised their heads, pricked their ears, and neighed as they inhaled the air. Suddenly they collected, formed a compact band, and started at a trot in the direction of some cottonwood trees which stood on the banks of the river. The hunt was about to commence.
At a signal from Don Miguel six well-mounted vaqueros rushed at full speed ahead of the manada, making their lassoes whistle round their heads. The horses, startled by the apparition of the riders, turned back hastily, uttering snorts of terror, and fled in another direction. But each time they tried to force the circle, horsemen rode into the midst of them, and compelled them to turn back.
It is necessary to have been present at such a chase, to have seen this hunt on the prairies, to form an idea of the magnificent sight offered by all these noble brutes, their eyes afire, their mouths foaming, their heads haughtily thrown up, and their manes fluttering in the wind, as they bounded and galloped in the fatal circle the hunters had formed round them. There is in such a sight something intoxicating, which carries away the most phlegmatic, and renders them mad with enthusiasm and pleasure.
When this manoeuvre had lasted long enough, and the horses began to grow blinded with terror, at a signal given by Don Miguel the circle was broken at a certain spot. The horses rushed, with a sound like thunder, toward this issue which opened before them, overturning with their chests everything that barred their progress. But it was this the hunters expected. The horses, in their mad race, galloped on without dreaming that the road they followed grew gradually narrower in front of them, and terminated in inevitable captivity.
Let us explain the termination of the hunt. The manada had been cleverly guided by the hunters toward the entrance of a cañon, or ravine, which ran between two rather lofty hills. At the end of this ravine the vaqueros had formed, with stakes fifteen feet long, planted in the ground, and firmly fastened together with cords of twisted bark, an immense corral or inclosure, into which the horses rushed without seeing it. In less than no time the corral was full; then the hunters went to meet the manada, which they cut off at the risk of their lives, while the others closed the entrance of the corral. More than fifteen hundred magnificent wild horses were thus captured at one stroke.
The noble animals rushed with snorts of fury at the walls of the inclosure, trying to tear up the stakes with their teeth, and dashing madly against them. At length they recognised the futility of their efforts, lay down, and remained motionless. In the meanwhile a tremendous struggle was going on in the ravine between the hunters and the rest of the manada. The horses confined in this narrow space made extraordinary efforts to open a passage and fly anew. They neighed, stamped, and flew at everything that came within their reach. At length they succeeded in regaining their first direction, and rushed into the plain with the velocity of an avalanche. Several vaqueros had been dismounted and trampled on by the horses, and two of them had received such injuries that they were carried off the ground in a state of insensibility.
With all the impetuosity of youth Don Pablo had rushed into the very heart of the manada. Suddenly his horse received a kick which broke its off foreleg, and it fell to the ground, dragging its rider with it. The hunters uttered a cry of terror and agony. In the midst of this band of maddened horses the young man was lost, for he must be trampled to death under their hoofs. But he rose with the rapidity of lightning, and quick as thought seizing the mane of the nearest horse, he leaped on its back, and held on by his knees. The horses were so pressed against one another that any other position was impossible. Then a strange thing occurred—an extraordinary struggle between the horse and its rider. The noble beast, furious at feeling its back dishonoured by the weight it bore, bounded, reared, rushed forward; but all was useless, for Don Pablo adhered firmly.
So long as it was in the ravine, the horse, impeded by its comrades, could not do all it might have wished to get rid of the burden it bore; but so soon as it found itself on the plain it threw up its head, made several leaps on one side, and then started forward at a speed which took away the young man's breath.
Don Pablo held on firmly by digging his knees into the panting sides of his steed; he unfastened his cravat, and prepared to play the last scene in this drama, which threatened to terminate in a tragic way for him. The horse had changed its tactics; it was racing in a straight line to the river, resolved to drown itself with its rider sooner than submit. The hunters followed with an interest mingled with terror the moving interludes of this mad race, when suddenly the horse changed its plans again, reared, and tried to fall back with its rider. The hunters uttered a shout of agony. Don Pablo clung convulsively to his animal's neck, and, at the moment it was falling back, he threw his cravat over its eyes with extraordinary skill.
The horse, suddenly blinded, fell back again on its feet, and stood trembling with terror. Then the young man dismounted, put his face to the horse's head, and breathed into its nostrils, while gently scratching its forehead. This operation lasted ten minutes at the most, the horse panting and snorting, but not daring to leave the spot. The Mexican again leaped on the horse's back, and removed the bandage; it remained stunned—Don Pablo had tamed it[1]. Everybody rushed toward the young man, who smiled proudly, in order to compliment him on his splendid victory. Don Pablo dismounted, gave his horse to a vaquero, who immediately passed a bridle round its neck, and then walked toward his father, who embraced him tenderly. For more than an hour Don Miguel had despaired of his son's life.