Valentine was the first to overcome his grief and regain his self-mastery. Since he had been crossing the desert, the hunter had witnessed so many strange scenes, had been an actor in so many mournful tragedies, that, his tender feelings were considerably blunted, and the most terrible events affected him but slightly.
Still, Valentine felt a deep friendship for the general; in many circumstances he had appreciated all that was really grand and noble in his character, hence the fearful catastrophe which had, without any preparation, broken the ties between them, produced a great impression on him.
"Come, come," he said, shaking his head as if to get rid of painful thoughts, "what can't be cured must be endured. Our friend has left us for a better world,—perhaps it is for the best so. God does everything well; our grief will not restore our dear friend's life, so let us think of ourselves, my friends, for we are not lying on roses, and if we do not make haste, we may run a risk of speedily joining him. Come, let us be men."
Don Miguel Zarate looked at him sadly.
"That is true," he said; "he is happy now; let us attend to ourselves. Speak then, Valentine: what is to be done? We are ready."
"Good," said Valentine; "it is time for our courage to return, for the hardest part of our task is not yet done; it is nothing to have crossed that barranca if our trail can be found here, and that I wish to avoid."
"Hum!" Don Pablo remarked; "that is very difficult, not to say impossible."
"Nothing is impossible with strength, courage, and skill. Listen attentively to what I am about to say to you."
"We will."
"The barranca, on this side of the mountain, is not peaked as it is on the side we have just left."
"That is true," said Don Miguel.
"About twenty yards below us you perceive a platform, close to which begins an inextricable forest, descending to the end of the precipice."
"Yes."
"That is our road."
"What, our road, my friend!" Don Miguel objected; "but how shall we reach the platform to which you allude?"
"In the easiest way: I will let you down with my lasso."
"That is true; it is easy for us, but how will you join us?"
"That need not trouble you."
"Very good," Don Miguel remarked; "but now permit me to make a remark."
"Do so."
"Before us," the hacendero said, stretching out his hand, "is a readily traced road, most convenient to follow, I fancy."
"In truth," Valentine coldly answered, "what you say is most correct; but two reasons prohibit my taking that road, as you call it."
"And those two reasons are?"
"First, that ready traced road is so easy to follow that I am certain Red Cedar's suspicions will be directed to it at once, if the demon allows him to come here."
"And the second?" Don Miguel interrupted.
"Is this," Valentine went on: "in addition to the incontestable advantages the road I propose offers, I do not wish, and I feel sure you are of the same opinion, that the body of my poor comrade, who has rolled to the foot of the precipice, should remain unburied and become the prey of wild beasts. That is my second reason, Don Miguel; what do you think of it?"
The hacendero felt his heart dilate at these noble words; the tears sprung from his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. He seized the hunter's hand, and pressed it forcibly.
"Valentine," he said, in a broken, voice, "you are better, than all of us; your noble heart is filled with every great and generous feeling; thanks for your good idea, my friend."
"It is agreed, then," the hunter simply said in response; "we will go."
"Whenever you please."
"Good; but as the night is dark, and the road rather dangerous, Curumilla, who has long been used to the desert, will go first to show you the way. Come, chief, are you ready?"
The Ulmen nodded his assent. Valentine leant his whole weight against a rock, twisted the lasso twice round his body, and let the end fall into the chasm; then, he made the chief, a sign to go down. The latter did not let the invitation be repeated; he seized the rope in both hands; and placing his feet in crevices in the rocks, he gradually descended till he reached the platform.
The hacendero and his son attentively followed the Indian's movements. When they saw him safe on the rock, they gave a sigh of relief, and prepared to follow him, which they did without accident.
Valentine remained alone; consequently, no one could hold the lasso and render him the service he had done his comrades; but he was not embarrassed by so trivial a circumstance. He passed the rope round a rock, so that both ends were even, then slowly descended in his turn, and safely rejoined his comrades, who were startled and frightened at such a daring descent. Then he let go the end of the lasso, drew it to him, rolled it up, and fastened it to his girdle.
"I believe," he said with a smile, "that if we go on thus, Red Cedar will have some difficulty in finding our trail, while we, on the contrary, may find his. Come let us now take a look at our domain, and see a little where we are."
And he at once began walking round the platform. It was much larger than the one they had just left, and at its extremity began the virgin, forest, which descended with a gentle incline to the bottom of the barranca. When Valentine had examined the place, he returned to his comrades, shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" Don Pablo asked; "Have you seen anything suspicious?"
"Hum!" Valentine answered; "I am greatly mistaken, or the lair of a wild beast is somewhere close by."
"A wild beast!" Don Miguel exclaimed; "What, at this elevation?"
"Yes, and it is that very fact which makes me anxious; the traces are wide and deep. Look for yourself, Curumilla," he added, turning to the Indian, and pointing at the spot where he should proceed. Without replying, the Ulmen stooped down, and attentively examined the footprints.
"What animal do you think we have to deal with?" Don Miguel asked.
"A grizzly," Valentine answered.
The grizzly bear is the most terrible and justly feared animal in America. The Mexicans could not repress a start of terror on hearing the name of this terrible adversary pronounced.
"But here's the chief returning," Valentine added. "All our doubts will be cleared up. Well, chief, to what does that sign belong?"
"Grizzly," Curumilla laconically answered.
"I was sure of it," said Valentine; "and what is t more, the animal is large."
"Very large; the footmarks are eight inches wide."
"Oh, oh," Don Miguel said, "we have a rough companion in that case. But in what state is the sign, chief?"
"Quite fresh; the animal passed scarce an hour ago."
"By Jove!" Valentine suddenly shouted, "here is its lair."
And he pointed to a large yawning hole in the mountain side. The hunters gave a start.
"Gentlemen," Valentine went on, "you are no more anxious than myself to measure your strength with a grizzly, I suppose."
"Certainly not," the Mexican exclaimed.
"If you will follow my advice we will not remain any longer here; the animal, I suspect, has gone down to drink, and will speedily return; let us not wait for it, but profit by its absence to be off."
The three men enthusiastically applauded the hunter's proposal; for, although of tried bravery, the contest appeared to them so disproportionate with this redoubtable adversary, that they did not at all desire to come face to face with it.
"Let us be off," they eagerly shouted.
Suddenly the sound of breaking branches was audible in the forest, and a formidable growling troubled the silence of night.
"It is too late," Valentine said; "here is the enemy, the fight will be a tough one."
The hunters leaned against the wall of rock, side by side, and in a few moments the hideous head of the grizzly appeared among the trees on a level with the platform.
"We are lost," Don Miguel muttered as he cocked his rifle; "for any flight from this rock is impossible."
"Who knows?" Valentine answered. "Heaven has done so much for us up to the present, that we should be ungrateful to suppose that we shall be abandoned in this new peril."
[1] This episode, incredible as it may appear, is rigorously true.—G.A.
On leaving the jacal, Red Cedar proceeded towards the mountains. The squatter was one of those old hands to whom all the tracks of the desert are known. From the few words uttered by Father Seraphin, and the haste he had shown in coming to warn him, Red Cedar understood that this time the final contest was about to begin, without truce or pity, in which his enemies would employ all their knowledge and skill to finish with him once for all.
He had been fortunate enough to reach the Sierra de los Comanches soon enough to be able, to efface his trail. During a month he and Valentine had carried on one of those incredible campaigns of skill and boldness in which each employed every scheme his fertile mind suggested to deceive his adversary.
As frequently happens under such circumstances, Red Cedar, who at the outset only accepted unwillingly the struggle into which he was forced, had gradually felt his old wood ranger instincts aroused. His pride had been excited, for he knew he had to deal with Valentine, that is to say, the cleverest hunter on the prairie, and he had consequently displayed a degree of skill that surprised himself, in order to prove to his terrible adversary that he was not unworthy of him.
For a whole month the two had been unsuccessfully manoeuvring within a circle of less than ten leagues, constantly turning round one another, and often only separated by a screen of foliage, or a ravine. But this contest must have an end sooner or later, Red Cedar felt, and being no longer sustained by the same passions which formerly served as the motive of all his actions, despondency was beginning to seize upon him, the more so, because physical pain had been recently joined to his moral sufferings, and threatened to deal him the final blow. Let us see in what condition Red Cedar was at the moment when the exigencies of our story compel us to return to him.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening; three men and a girl, assembled round a scanty fire of bois de vache, were warming themselves, and, at times, casting a dull glance at the gloomy gorges of the surrounding mountains. These four persons were Nathan, Sutter, Fray Ambrosio, and Ellen.
The spot where they found themselves was one of those narrow ravines, the bed of dried torrents, so many of which are met with in the Sierra de los Comanches. On the flanks of the ravine was a thick chaparral, the commencement of a gloomy virgin forest, from the mysterious depths of which could be heard at intervals the lengthened howling and roar of wild beasts.
The situation of the fugitives was most critical, and even desperate. Shut up for a month amid these arid mountains, tracked on all sides, they had hitherto only escaped their persecutors through the immense sacrifices and the prodigious craft displayed by Red Cedar. The pursuit had been so active, that, being constantly on the point of being surprised by their enemies, they did not dare kill the few head of game they came across. A shot, by revealing the direction in which they were, would have been sufficient to betray them.
In the meanwhile, the scanty stock of food they had brought with them from the jacal, in spite of their saving, had been consumed, and hunger, but before all, thirst, was beginning to be felt. Of all the scourges that afflict hapless travellers, thirst is indubitably the most terrible. Hunger may be endured during a certain length of time, without excessive suffering, especially at the end of a few days; but thirst occasions atrocious pain, which, after a while, produces a species of furious madness; the palate is parched, the throat is on fire, the eyes are suffused with blood, and the wretched man, a prey to a horrible delirium, which makes him see the desired water everywhere, at length dies in atrocious agony, which nothing can calm.
When their provisions were exhausted, they were compelled to procure others; but in the mountains that was almost impossible, as the fugitives were deprived of their freedom of action. For a few days they continued to support life on roots, and small birds caught in a snare; but unfortunately, the cold became daily sharper, and the birds withdrew to warmer regions; hence they were deprived of this resource.
The little water remaining was by common agreement reserved for Ellen. The maiden declined to accept this sacrifice, but thirst grew upon her with every moment, and, overcome by the entreaties of her companions, she eventually accepted it. The others found no other way of quenching the thirst that devoured them, than slitting the ears of their horses and drinking the blood as it ran. Next, they killed a horse, for the poor brutes found no more food than did their masters. The roasted flesh of this horse enabled them to pass a few days: in short, all four horses were eaten one after the other.
Now, nothing was left the adventurers, and for two days they had nothing to eat. Hence they maintained a mournful silence, exchanging stern glances, and plunging deeper and deeper into sinister reflections.
They felt their senses gradually leaving them and madness seizing on them; they felt the moment approaching when they would be no longer masters of their reason, and become the prey of the fearful calenture, which already pressed their temples as in a vice, and made the most startling images glitter before their fever-dried eyes.
It was a heart-breaking sight to see these three men, round the expiring fire, in this stern desert, lying without strength and almost without courage by the side of the maiden, who, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, prayed in a low voice.
Time passed; the wind howled mournfully in the quebradas; the moon, half veiled by a mass of vapour, only emitted at intervals its pallid rays, which fantastically illumined the scene of desolation, whose sinister silence was only disturbed by a suppressed oath or a groan drawn forth by pain. Ellen raised her head, and looked compassionately at her companions.
"Courage," she murmured in her gentle voice, "courage, brothers! God cannot abandon us thus."
A nervous groan was the only reply she obtained.
"Alas!" she continued, "Instead of, then yielding to despair, why not pray, brothers? It gives strength and restores hope."
"Will it quench the thirst that parches my throat?" the monk asked, brutally, as he rose with an effort on his elbow and gave her a furious glance.
"Silence! You foolish child, if you have no other help than your silly words to give us."
"Silence, villain!" Sutter interrupted him with a groan, "Do not insult my sister; she alone may perchance save us; for if God have pity on us, it will be for her sake."
"Ah!" the monk said, with a hideous grin, "Now you believe in God, my master. You must fancy yourself very near death to be so frightened? God! You poor fool, rejoice that there is none, instead of calling on Him for help; for if He really existed, He would have crushed you long ago."
"Well said, monk," Nathan remarked. "Come, let us have peace. If we are to die here like the dogs we are, let us die, at any rate, pleasantly. That is not asking too much I suppose?"
"Oh, how I suffer!" Sutter muttered, as he rolled wildly on the ground.
Ellen got up, gently approached her; brother, and putting to his lips the mouth of the skin, in which a little water yet remained, she bade him drink. The young man made a movement as if to seize the skin; but at the same instant he repulsed it, shaking his head in refusal.
"No," he replied, mournfully, "keep that, sister; you would give me your life."
"Drink, I insist," she said, authoritatively.
"No," he answered firmly, "that would be cowardly. I am a man, sister; I can suffer."
Ellen understood that her entreaties would be useless, for she knew the superstitious affection her brothers bore her; hence she returned to the fire. She sat down, took three buffalo-horn cups, which she filled with water, and placed before her; then she took a sharp pointed knife, and turning to the three men, who were anxiously watching her, she said—
"Here is water, drink. I swear that if you do not instantly obey me, I will slit the skin in which the little stock of water is left; all will then be lost, and I shall suffer the same pains as you do."
The men made no answer, but looked at each other.
"For the last time, will you drink or not?" she cried, as she placed the point of the knife on the skin.
"Stay," the monk shouted, as he rose and rushed towards her. "Demonios! She would do as she said."
And seizing a cup, he emptied it at a draught, his companions following his example. This mouthful of water—for the cups were very small—sufficed, however to calm their irritation—the fire that burned them was extinguished, they breathed more easily, and gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction, as they fell back on the ground. An angelic smile lit up the maiden's radiant face.
"You see," she said, "all is not lost yet."
"Come, come, Niña," the monk remarked, tranquilly, "why lull us with foolish hopes? The drop of water you have given us can only check our sufferings for a little while; within an hour our thirst will be more ardent and terrible than ever."
"Do you know what Heaven may reserve for you between this and then?" she asked, softly. "A respite, however short it may be, is in your position everything; all depends for you, not on the present moment, but on the coming one."
"Good, good! We'll not dispute after the service you have rendered us, Niña; still, everything seems to prove you wrong."
"How so?"
"Why, Caspita, what I say is very easy to understand; without going further, your father, who pledged his word never to desert us—"
"Well?"
"Where is he? Since daybreak he has left us to go—the deuce alone knows where? Night has long set in, and, and as you see, he has not returned."
"What does that prove?"
"Canarios! That he has gone away, that is all."
"Do you believe it, señor?"
"I am sure of it, Niña."
Ellen gave a contemptuous look.
"Señor," she haughtily answered, "you do not know my father if you consider him capable of such cowardice."
"Hum! In our position he would almost have an excuse for doing so."
"He might have done so, perhaps," she went on, quickly, "if he had no other comrade but yourself, caballero; but he would leave his children here, and he is not the man to abandon them when in danger."
"That is true," the monk said, with humility; "I did not think of that, so forgive me. Still, you will permit me to remark that it is an extraordinary thing your father has not yet returned?"
"Well, señor," the maiden said, warmly, "although you are so ready to accuse a friend, who has constantly offered you the most unequivocal proofs of his unknown devotion, how do you know that he is not delayed by his desire to save us?"
"Well spoken, by Heaven!" a rough voice said; "Thank you, my daughter."
The adventurers turned with an involuntary start; at this moment the bushes were parted by a firm hand, a heavy step sounded on the pebbles, and Red Cedar appeared, bearing a doe on his shoulder. On reaching the light of the fire he stopped, threw his burden the ground, and looked sarcastically around him.
"Oh, oh," he said, with a grin, "it seems that I have arrived just in time, señor Padre. Viva Dios! you were giving me a fine character in my absence; is that the way in which you understand Christian charity, gossip? Cristo! I do not compliment you on it, if that be the case."
The monk, startled by the sudden appearance and rough address, found no answer, so Red Cedar went on:
"By Jove! I am a better fellow than yourself, for I bring you food, and it was not without difficulty that I succeeded in killing that confounded animal, I can tell you. But now look sharp and roast a joint."
Sutter and Nathan had not waited for their father's orders, but had already begun skinning the doe.
"Hilloh!" Nathan remarked, "to roast this meat, we must enlarge our fire; and how about our pursuers?"
"It is a risk to run," Red Cedar replied; "settle among ourselves if you will incur it."
"What is your opinion?" the monk asked.
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me; but I wish you to understand one thing, once for all, as I am intimately convinced that we shall fall into the hands of our pursuers, I care very little whether it happen today or in a week's time."
"Confusion! You are not at all encouraging, gossip," Fray Ambrosio exclaimed. "Have you lost your courage too, or discovered any suspicious trail?"
"My courage never fails me; I know very well the fate reserved for me, and hence my mind is made up. As for suspicious signs, as you say, a man must be blind not to see them."
"Then there is no hope," the three men said, with ill-disguised terror.
"On my honour I do not think there is; but," he added, with a mocking accent, "why do you not roast the meat? You must be almost dead of hunger."
"That is true; but what you tell us has taken away our appetite," Fray Ambrosio remarked, sadly.
Ellen rose, approached the squatter, and laying her hand softly on his shoulder, placed her charming face close to his. Red Cedar smiled.
"What do you want, my girl?" he asked her.
"I wish, father," she said, in a coaxing voice, "that you should save us."
"Save you, poor child," he said, as he shook his head gravely, "I am afraid that is impossible."
"Then," she continued, "you will let us fall into the hands of our enemies?"
The squatter shuddered.
"Oh! Do not say that, Ellen," he replied, hoarsely.
"Still, my father, as you cannot help us to escape—"
Red Cedar passed the back of his hard hand over his dark forehead.
"Listen," he said presently, "there is perhaps one way—"
"What is it?" the three men said, eagerly, as they collected round him.
"It is very precarious, dangerous, and probably will not succeed."
"Tell it us for all that," the monk pressed him.
"Yes, yes—speak father," Ellen urged him.
"You desire it?"
"Yes, yes."
"Very well, then, listen to me attentively, for the means I am about to propose, strange as they may at first appear to you, offer a chance of success, which, in our desperate situation, must not be despised."
"Speak, pray speak!" the monk said impatiently.
Red Cedar looked at him with a grin.
"You are in a precious hurry," he said; "perhaps you will not be so presently."
"Before explaining my plan to you," Red Cedar went on, "I must tell you what our position really is, so that when I have described the means I wish to employ, you can decide with a full knowledge of the facts."
His hearers gave a nod of assent, but no one made an answer.
The squatter continued—
"We are surrounded on three sides: firstly, by the Comanches, next by Bloodson's rangers, and lastly by the French hunter and his friends. Weakened as we are by the terrible privations we have suffered since we came into the mountains, any contest is impossible; we must, therefore, give up all hope of opening a passage by force."
"What is to be done, then?" the monk asked; "it is plain that we must escape, and each second that slips away renders our prospects worse."
"I am as fully convinced of that as you can be. My absence today had a double object; the first was to obtain provisions, in which, as you see, I succeeded—"
"That is true."
"Secondly, to reconnoitre carefully the positions held by our enemies."
"Well?" they asked anxiously.
"I have succeeded. I advanced unnoticed close to their camps; they keep a good watch, and it would be madness to try and pass through them; they form a wide circle around us, of which we are the centre; this circle is being daily contracted, so that in two or three days, perhaps before, we shall find ourselves so pressed that it will be impossible to hide ourselves, and we must fall into their hands."
"Demonios!" Fray Ambrosio exclaimed, "that is anything but a pleasant prospect; we have no mercy to expect from these villains, who will, on the contrary, find a pleasure in torturing us in every way possible. Hum! the mere thought of falling into their hands makes my flesh creep; I know what the Indians are capable of in torturing, for I have seen them at work often enough."
"Very good; I will not press that point then."
"It would be perfectly useless. You will do better to explain to us the plan you have formed, and which, as you say, can save us."
"Pardon me! I did not offer you any certainty; I merely said that it had some chances of success."
"We are not in a position to quibble about words; let us have your scheme."
"It is this—"
The three men listened with the deepest attention.
"It is evident," Red Cedar went on, "that if we remain together, and try to fly in one direction, we shall be infallibly lost, supposing, as is certain, that our trail is discovered by our pursuers."
"Very well," the monk growled; "go ahead; I do not exactly understand what you want to come at."
"I have, therefore, reflected on this inconvenience, and I have formed the following scheme."
"Out with it."
"It is very simple; we will make a double trail."
"Hum! I suppose you mean, a false and a true one. The plan seems to me defective."
"Why so? Red Cedar asked with a smile.
"Because there must be a point where the false trail runs into the real one, and—"
"You are mistaken, gossip," Red Cedar sharply interrupted him; "both trails will be true, otherwise the idea would be absurd."
"In that case, I do not understand you."
"You soon will, if you will allow me to speak. One of us will devote himself to save the others; while we fly in one direction, he will go on another, trying to draw the enemy on his trail. In this way, he will open us a passage, through which we shall pass, without being discovered. Do you understand me now?"
"Caspita! I should think I did—the idea is magnificent," the monk exclaimed enthusiastically.
"All now wanted is to carry it out."
"Yes, without any delay."
"Very good! Who will sacrifice himself to save his comrades?"
No one answered.
"What," Red Cedar went on, "are you all silent? Come, Fray Ambrosio, you are a priest, so give us an example."
"Thank you, gossip, but I never felt any call to martyrdom. I am not at all ambitious."
"Still, we must get out of this scrape."
"Caramba! I wish for nothing better; still, I am not desirous that it should be at the expense of my scalp."
Red Cedar reflected for an instant. The adventurers looked at him anxiously, waiting till he had found the solution of this difficult problem. All at once the squatter raised his head.
"Hum!" he said, "Any discussion would be useless, for you are not the men to be led by your feelings."
They nodded their assent.
"This is what we will do; we will draw lots who shall devote himself; the one on whom it devolves will obey without a murmur. Does that suit you?"
"As we must bring matters to an end," said Nathan, "why, the sooner the better; that way is as good as another, so I do not object."
"Nor I," Sutter remarked.
"Nonsense!" The monk exclaimed; "I was always lucky at games of chance."
"It is settled then; you swear that the man on whom the lot falls, will obey without hesitation, and accomplish his task honourably?"
"We swear it," they said with one voice; "come, Red Cedar, let us have it over."
"Yes; but in what way shall we consult chance?" Red Cedar observed.
"That need not trouble you, gossip," Fray Ambrosio said with a laugh; "I am a man of caution."
While speaking thus, the monk fumbled in his vaquera boots, and produced a greasy pack of cards.
"These will do the trick," he went on with a triumphant air. "This pretty child," he added, turning to Ellen, "will shuffle the cards; one of us will cut them, and then she will deal the cards one by one, and the man who has the two of spades will have to make the double trail. Does that suit you?"
"Admirably," they replied.
Ellen took the cards from the monk and shuffled them, while a zarapé was laid on the ground by the fire, so that the colour of the cards might be distinguished by the flame.
"Cut," she said, placing the pack on the zarapé.
Fray Ambrosio thrust out his hand; but Red Cedar laughingly caught hold of his arm.
"A moment," he said; "those cards are yours, gossip, and I know your talent: permit me to cut."
"As you please," the monk said with a grimace of disappointment.
The squatter cut, and Ellen began dealing the cards.
There was something most strange about the scene. On a gloomy night, in the heart of this desolate gorge, with the wind moaning through the trees, these four men bending forward, anxiously watching the pale-browed girl, who, by the capricious and changing glare of the fire, seemed performing a cabalistic work, and the sinister looks of these men, staking their lives at this moment on a card—assuredly, a stranger who could have watched the extraordinary spectacle, himself unseen, would have fancied it an hallucination of the brain.
With frowning brows, pale faces, and heaving chests, they followed with a feverish glance each card as it fell, wiping away at intervals the cold perspiration that beaded on their temples. The cards still fell, but the two of spades had not yet appeared; Ellen had not more than ten cards left in her hand.
"Ouf!" the monk said, "It is a long job."
"Bah!" Red Cedar said with a grin; "perhaps you will find it too short."
"It is I," Nathan said in a choking voice. In fact, the two of spades fell to him, and all breathed freely again.
"Well," the monk said, as he tapped him on the shoulder, "I congratulate you, my friend Nathan: you have a glorious mission."
"Will you undertake it in my stead?" the other remarked with a grin.
"I would not deprive you of the honour of saving us," Fray Ambrosio said with magnificent coolness.
Nathan gave him a look of pity, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back on him. Fray Ambrosio collected the cards, and replaced them in his boot with evident satisfaction.
"Hum!" he muttered, "They may still be of service; we cannot tell in what circumstances chance may place us."
After this philosophic reflection, the monk, cheered up by the certainty of not being obliged to sacrifice himself for his friends, quietly sat down again by the fire. In the meanwhile, Red Cedar, who did not let out of sight the execution of his plan, had placed some lumps of meat on the fire, that his companions might acquire the necessary strength for the fatigues they would have to endure.
As usually happens under similar circumstances, the meal was silent; each, absorbed in his thoughts, ate rapidly without thinking of keeping up idle conversation. It was about five in the morning, and the sky was beginning to assume those opaline tints which summoned daybreak. Red Cedar rose, and the rest imitated him.
"Come, lad," he said to Nathan, "are you ready? The hour has arrived."
"I will start whenever you please, father," the young man answered, resolutely. "I am only awaiting your final instructions, that I may know the directions I have to follow, and at what place I shall find you again, if, as is not very likely, I have the luck to escape safe and sound."
"My instructions will not be lengthy, my lad. You must go north-west, as that is the shortest road to leave these accursed mountains. If you can reach the high road to Independence, you are saved; thence it will be easy for you to reach in a short time the cavern of our old comrades, where you will hide yourself while waiting for us. I recommend you specially to hide your trail as well as you can. We have to deal with the craftiest men on the prairie; an easy trail would arouse their suspicions, and our design would be entirely foiled. You understand me, I think?"
"Perfectly."
"For the rest, I trust to you; you know desert life too well to be humbugged; you have a good rifle, powder, and bullets. I wish you luck, lad! But do not forget that you have to draw our enemies after you."
"Do not be frightened," Nathan replied, roughly, "I am no fool."
"That is true; take a lump of meat, and good-bye."
"Good-bye, and the devil take you but watch over my sister; I care precious little for your old carcass, so long as the girl runs no danger."
"All right," the squatter said, "We will do what is needful to protect your sister, so do not trouble yourself about her; come, be off."
Nathan embraced Ellen, who affectionately pressed his hand, as she wiped away her tears.
"Don't cry, Ellen," he said hoarsely; "a man's life is nothing after all; don't bother yourself about me—the devil will look after his friends."
After uttering the words in a tone which he tried in vain to render careless, the young savage threw his rifle on his back, hung a piece of meat to his girdle, and went off hurriedly, not turning round once. Five minutes later, he disappeared in the chaparral.
"Poor brother!" Ellen murmured, "he is going to a certain death."
"Well," Red Cedar said, with a shrug of his shoulders, "we are all going to death, and each step unconsciously brings us nearer to it: what use is it feeling sorry about the fate that threatens him; do we know what awaits ourselves? We are not lying on a bed of roses. My child, I warn you, that we shall require all, our skill and sagacity to get out of it, for I cannot calculate on a miracle occurring."
"That is far more prudent," Fray, Ambrosio said, cunningly; "besides, it is written somewhere, I forget where, 'Help yourself, and heaven will help you.'"
"Yes," the squatter replied, with a grin, "and there never was a finer opportunity for putting the precept in practice."
"I think so, and am waiting for you to explain to us what we have to do."
Without answering the monk, Red Cedar turned to his daughter.
"Ellen, my child," he asked her, in an affectionate voice, "do you feel strong enough to follow us?"
"Do not trouble yourself about me, father," she replied; "wherever you pass, I will pass: you know that I have been accustomed to the desert from my childhood."
"That is true," Red Cedar remarked doubtfully: "but this is the first time you have tried the mode of travelling we shall be obliged to adopt."
"What do you mean? People travel on foot, horseback, or in a boat. We have moved about in one of those fashions twenty times before."
"You are right; but now we are constrained by circumstances to modify our mode of marching. We have no horses, no river, and our enemies hold the ground."
"In that case," the monk exclaimed with a grin, "we will imitate the birds, and fly through the air."
Red Cedar, looked at him earnestly.
"You have nearly guessed it," he said.
"What?" the monk remarked, "you are making fun of us, Red Cedar. Do you think this the proper moment for jesting?"
"I am not naturally inclined to jesting," the squatter coldly replied, "and at this moment less than ever. We shall not fly like the birds, because we have no wings; but for all that, we will make our journey in the air, in this way. Look around you; on the sides of the mountains extend immense virgin forests, in which our enemies are concealed. They are coming on quietly, carefully picking out every sign of our passing they can discover."
"Well?" the monk asked.
"While they are seeking our trail on the ground, we will slip through their hands like serpents, passing from tree to tree, from branch to branch, thirty yards above their heads, and they not dreaming of looking up, which would, indeed, be useless, for the foliage is too dense, the creepers too close for them to discover us. And then, again, this chance of safety, though very slight, is the only one left us. Have you the courage to try it?"
There was a momentary silence. At length the monk took the squatter's hand, and shook it heartily.
"Canarios! Gossip," he said to him, with a species of respect, "you are a great man. Forgive my suspicions."
"You accept, then?"
"Caspita! You need not ask that. Eagerly, and I swear it, that never squirrel leaped as I will do."
So soon as he had got out of sight of his comrades, Nathan halted. He was neither so careless nor confident as he wished to appear. When he was alone and away from those who might ridicule, he gave way to his ill temper, and cursed the chance that placed him in such a precarious and dangerous position.
Nathan, we think we have already said, was a species of Hercules, gifted with uncommon energy and ferocity. Accustomed from his childhood to a desert life and its sanguinary tragedies, he was not the man to despond and despair easily. Pitiless to himself as to others, he perfectly accepted the consequences of the situation in which he found himself at times placed, and, in case of necessity, was resolved to fight to the death in defence of his scalp.
At this moment, however, it was not his position in itself that rendered him anxious. He had been a hundred times beset by equal danger in crossing the prairie; but hitherto, when he had perilled his life, he had done it with an object he knew perfectly well, with the prospect, near or remote, of some profit; but this time he regarded himself as obeying a will he was ignorant of, for a purpose he did not understand, and for interests that were not his own. Hence, he cursed his father, Fray Ambrosio, and himself for having thus got into a trap, whence he did not know how to escape.
Red Cedar's last recommendation was necessary. Nathan was not at all anxious to have his trail discovered. He employed all the means his intelligence suggested to him to hide it from the keenest glance, only taking a step after convincing himself that the trace of the previous one had disappeared. After ripe reflection, he had arrived at the following conclusion—
"It's all the worse for them, but each for himself! If I lose my scalp they will not give it me back. I will, therefore, defend it as well as I can. They must do what they can, but for my part I must do my best to get out of the scrape."
After these words, uttered in a loud voice, in the way of men accustomed to live alone, Nathan gave that almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, which in all countries signifies "let what will happen." And, after carefully examining his rifle, he started afresh.
Europeans, accustomed to the horizons of the old world, to macadamised roads, bordered by pleasant houses and traversed in every direction, cannot form, even approximately, a correct idea of the position of a man alone in that ocean of verdure called the "Far West", who feels himself watched by invisible eyes, and knows he is tracked like a wild beast.
A man, however brave he may be, and accustomed to the adventurous life of the desert, shudders and feels very weak when he turns an enquiring glance around him, and sees himself, so little in the immensity that surrounds him. In the desert, if you wish to go north, you must march to the south; be attentive not to crush the leaves on which you walk, break the branches that bar the way, and, above all, not to make the pebbles on which you step grate against each other.
All the sounds of the desert are known to, explained, and commented on by the redskins. After listening for a few seconds, they can tell you if the animal whose footfall is heard in the distance, is a horse, a bear, a buffalo, an elk, or an antelope. A pebble rolling down the side of a ravine suffices to denounce a prowler. A few drops of water spilt on the edge of a ford, clearly reveal the passing of several travellers. An unusual movement in the tall grass, betrays a watching spy. Everything, in short, from the down-trodden blade of grass to the buffalo that suddenly cocks its ears while browsing, or the asshata bounding in alarm without cause—all in the desert serves as a book, in which the Indian reads the passage of friend or foe, and puts him on his trail, even though they be one hundred miles apart.
The men who live in these countries, where material life is everything, acquire a perfection of certain organs which, seems incredible; sight and hearing especially are enormously developed in them; and this, combined with extreme agility, dauntless courage, and sustained by muscles of remarkable vigour, renders them dangerous adversaries. In addition to this, we have that cunning and treachery which are never apart, and are the two great means which the Indians employ to seize their foes, whom they never attack face to face, but always by surprise. Necessity is the supreme law of the Indian, and he sacrifices everything to it, and, like all incomplete or badly-developed natures, he only admits physical qualities, caring nothing for virtues he does not want, but, on the contrary, would injure him in the life he leads.
Nathan was himself almost a redskin: only at rare intervals had he visited, for a few days at a time, the towns of the American Union. Hence all he knew of life he had learned in the desert; and that education is as good as another when the instincts of the man who receives it are good; because he is able to make a choice, and take what is noble and generous, laying aside what is bad. Unfortunately, Nathan had never any other teacher of morality but his father. From an early age he had been accustomed to regard things in the same way as the squatter did, and that was the worst of all. Hence with years the teaching be received had fructified so fully that he had become the true type of the civilised man who has turned savage; the most hideous transformation of species that can be imagined.
Nathan loved nothing, believed in nothing, and respected nothing. Only one person had any influence over him, and that was Ellen; but at this moment she was no longer by his side.
The young man marched on for a long time without perceiving anything that revealed the approach of danger; still this factitious security did not make him neglect his precautions. While walking on, with rifle thrust out before him, his body bent forward, and eye and ear on the watch, he thought, and the further he went, the more gloomy his thoughts became.
The reason was simple; he knew that he was surrounded by implacable foes, watched by numerous spies, and yet nothing disturbed the quiet of the prairie. All appeared to be in its ordinary state; it was impossible to notice the least suspicious movement in the grass or shrubs. This calmness was too profound to be natural, and Nathan was not deceived by it.
"Humph!" he said to himself, "I shall have a row presently, I feel certain; deuce take those brutes of redskins for not giving a sign of life. I am walking blindly, not knowing where I am going, I am convinced I shall fall into some trap laid for me by these villains, and which it will be impossible for me to get out of."
Nathan went on walking till about ten in the morning. At that hour, as he felt hungry, and his legs were rather stiff, he resolved at all hazards to take a few moments' rest and some mouthfuls of meat. He mechanically looked round him to seek a suitable, spot, but he suddenly gave a start of surprise as he raised his rifle, and hid himself behind an enormous tree. He had noticed, scarce fifty yards from him, an Indian, sitting carelessly on the ground and quietly eating a little pemmican.
After the first emotion had worn off, Nathan attentively examined the Indian. He was a man of thirty at the most; he did not wear the garb of a warrior, and two screech owl feathers fixed in his thick hair, over his right ear, rendered it easy to recognise a Nez-Percé Indian. The adventurer looked at him a long time ere he could make up his mind what to do; at length he threw his rifle on his shoulder, left his hiding place, and walked up to the Indian. The latter probably saw him, though he displayed no alarm, and quietly went on eating. When about two paces from the Nez-Percé the American stopped.
"I salute my brother," he said, raising his voice, and unfolding his zarapé in sign of peace; "may the Wacondah grant him a great hunt."
"I thank my paleface brother," the Indian replied, as he looked up; "he is welcome, I have two handfuls of pemmican left, and there is a place for him at my fire."
Nathan approached, and, without further ceremony, sat down by the side of his new friend, who paternally shared his food with him, but asked him no questions. After feeding, the Nez-Percé lit an Indian pipe, in which his companion at once imitated him.
The two men remained there, silently puffing the smoke in each other's face. When the Nez-Percé had finished his calumet, he shook out the ash on his thumb, placed the pipe in his belt, and and then resting his elbows on his knees, and his face in the palm of his hands, he plunged into that state of ecstatic beatitude which the Italians call the dolce far niente, the Turks keff, and which has no equivalent in English. Nathan filled his pipe a second time, and then turned to his comrade.
"Is my brother a chief?" he asked him.
The Indian raised his head.
"No," he answered, with a proud smile, "I am one of the masters of the great medicine."
Nathan bowed respectfully.
"I understand," he said, "my brother is one of the wise men, whom the redskins call allanus."
"I am also a sorcerer," the Nez-Percé said.
"Oh, oh! What, is my brother one of the Ministers of the Great Turtle?"
"Yes," he answered, "we command the caciques and warriors; they only act on our orders."
"I know it; my father has great learning, his power extends over the whole earth."
The Nez-Percé smiled condescendingly at this praise, and holding up a small staff decorated with gay feathers and bells which he held in his right hand, he said:
"This mulbache is a more tremendous weapon than the thunder of the palefaces; everywhere it makes me feared and respected."
A sinister smile for the second time curled the American's lips.
"Is my brother returning to his nation?" he asked.
"No," the Indian said with a shake of the hand; "I am expected at the village of the Buffalo Apaches, who require my counsel and my medicine, in order to undertake, under favourable auspices, a great expedition they are meditating at this moment. My brother will therefore forgive my leaving him, for I must reach the end of my journey this night."
"I will not leave my red brother," Nathan answered; "if he will permit me, I will walk in his moccasins, for my footsteps have the same direction as my brother's."
"I gladly accept my brother's proposition; let us start then."
"I am ready."
After rising and adjusting his dress, the Indian stooped to pick up a small bundle, which probably contained his scanty property. Nathan profited by the movement; swift as thought he drew his knife, and buried it to the hilt between the Indian's shoulders. The unhappy man uttered a stifled cry, stretched out his arms, and fell dead. The American phlegmatically drew his knife from the horrible wound, wiped it in the grass, and returned it to his girdle.
"Hum!" he said, with a grin; "there's a poor devil of a sorcerer, whose skill could not save him: I will try whether I cannot succeed better."
While talking with the redskin, whom he had at first no intention of killing, and whom he only wished to make a protector, a sudden idea crossed his mind. This idea, which at the first blush will seem extraordinary, suited the bandit, owing to the boldness and daring it required to carry it out successfully. He made up his mind to assume the sorcerer's clothes, and pass for him among the redskins. Long conversant with Indian habits and customs, Nathan felt sure he should play this difficult part with all the perfection necessary to deceive even sharper eyes than those of the savages. After assuring himself that his victim gave no sign of life, Nathan began removing his garments, which he put on instead of his own. When this first change was effected, he riffled the sorcerer's bag, took out a mirror, bladders filled with vermilion, and a black pigment, and with small pieces of wood painted on his face the strange figures that were on the sorcerer's. The imitation was perfect; from the face he passed to the body; then he fastened on his hair, and stuck in it the two screech owl feathers. Nathan had frequently disguised himself as an Indian, when going scalp hunting with his father, hence the metamorphosis in a few seconds.
"This carrion must not be found," he said.
Taking the body on his back, he hurled it to the bottom of a precipice.
"Well, that is settled," he continued, with a laugh; "if the Apaches are not satisfied with the great medicine man who is coming to them, they will be difficult to please."
As he did not wish to lose his clothes, he hid them in the Indian's bundle, which he passed over his rifle barrel; he then took the poor sorcerer's staff, and gaily set out, muttering to himself with an impudent smile—
"We shall soon see whether this mulbache really possesses the magic powers that are attributed to it."
Travellers and tourists who have only seen European forests, cannot imagine the grand, majestic, and sublime view offered by a virgin forest in the New World. There are none of those glades four or five yards wide, stretching out before you, straight and stiff for miles, but everything is abrupt and savage. There is no prospect, for the eye cannot see more than thirty or forty paces at the most in any direction. The primitive soil has disappeared beneath the detritus of trees dead from old age, and which time, rain, and sunshine have reduced to dust.
The trees grow very freely, enveloped by thick lianas, which twine around the stems and branches in the strangest curves, dashing in every direction, plunging into the ground to reappear again a yard further on, and chaining the trees together for enormous distances. The wood varies but slightly in certain districts, and hence, one tree serves the repetition of all. Then again, a grass, close and thick like the straw of a wheat field, grows to a height of five and often six feet.
Suddenly immense pits open beneath the feet of the imprudent traveller, or bogs covered by a crust scarce an inch in thickness, which swallow up in their fetid mud the man who ventures to put a foot on them; further on, a stream runs silent and unvisited, forming rapids, and forcing a path with difficulty through the heaps of earth and dead trees which it collects and deposits on the banks. From this short description it may be understood that it is not so difficult as might be supposed to pass from one tree to another for a long distance.
In order, however, to explain this thoroughly to the reader, we will tell him what he is probably ignorant of: that in certain parts of the prairie this mode of travelling is employed, not, as might be supposed, to escape the obstinate pursuit of an enemy, but simply to get on the more rapidly, not to be obliged to cut a path with the axe, and run no risk of falling down a precipice, the more so as most of the trees are enormous, and their solid branches so intertwined, that they thus form a convenient flooring, at eighty feet above the ground.
Hence Red Cedar's proposition had nothing extraordinary in itself, when made to men who had probably tried this mode of locomotion before. But what would have been an easy and simple thing for the adventurers, became serious and almost impossible for a girl like Ellen, who, though strong and skillful, could not take a step without running a risk of breaking her neck, owing to her dress catching in every branch. A remedy for this must be found, and the three men reflected on it for an hour, but discovered nothing which offered the necessary security. It was Ellen again who came to their help, and relieved them from the trouble.
"Well," she asked her father, "what are we doing here? Why do we not start? Did you not say we had not a moment to lose?"
Red Cedar shook his head.
"I said so, and it is true; each moment we lose robs us of a day of life."
"Let us be off, then."
"It is not possible yet, my child, till I have found what I am seeking."
"What is it, father? Tell, me, perhaps I can help you."
"Bah!" Red Cedar said, suddenly making up his mind, "Why should I make a secret of what concerns you as much as myself?"
"What is it, then, father?"
"Hang it all, your confounded gown, which renders it impossible for you to leap from one branch to another as we shall do."
"Is that all that troubles you?"
"Yes, nothing else."
"Well then, you were wrong not to speak to me sooner, for the evil would have been repaired, and we on the road."
"Is it true?" the squatter exclaimed joyfully.
"You shall see how quickly it will be done."
The girl rose, and disappeared behind a clump. In ten minutes she returned; her gown was so arranged that while allowing her the free use of her limbs, it no longer floated, and consequently ran no risk of being entangled in the trees.
"Here I am," she said, with a laugh; "how do you find me?"
"Admirable."
"Well, then, we will start when you please."
"At once."
Red Cedar made his final preparations; these were not long, for he had but to remove all traces of his encampment. More difficult still, none of the pursuers, if they happened to pass that way, should be able to discover the road taken by the adventurers. In consequence, Red Cedar took his daughter on his muscular shoulders, and heading the party in Indian file he followed for about an hour the road taken by Nathan. Then, he and his comrades returning, marching backwards, gradually effacing the footprints, not so carefully that they could not be discovered, but sufficiently so for those who found them not to suppose they had been left expressly.
After two hours of this fatiguing march, during which the adventurers had not exchanged a syllable, they reached a granite plateau, where they were enabled to rest for a few moments without any fear of leaving a trail, for the rock was too hard to take their footprints.
"Ouf!" Fray Ambrosio muttered, "I am not sorry to take breath, for this is the devil's own work."
"What, are you tired already, señor Padre?" Sutter replied with a grin; "You are beginning early; but wait a while; what you have done is nothing compared with what you have to do."
"I doubt whether the road we shall now follow can present so many difficulties; if so, we had better give it up."
"Well, if you prefer making a present of your scalp to those demons of Comanches, it is the easiest thing in the world; you need only remain quietly, where you are, and you may be certain they will soon pay you a visit. You know that the redskins are like vultures; fresh meat attracts them, and they scent it for a long distance."
"Canarios! I would sooner be roasted at a slow fire than fall into the hands of those accursed pagans."
"Come, come," Red Cedar interposed, "all that talking is of no use—what is written is written—no one can escape his destiny; hence, troubling oneself about what is going to happen is folly, take my word for it."
"Well said, Red Cedar; you have spoken like a man of great good sense, and I am completely of your opinion. Well, what have you to say to us?"
"I believe that, thanks to the manoeuvre we have employed, we have managed to hide our trail so cleverly, that the demon himself could not guess the direction we have taken. The first part of our task has been accomplished without an obstacle; now let us not betray ourselves by imprudence or extreme precipitation. I have brought you here, because, as you see, the virgin forest begins at the end of this platform. The most difficult task is to climb the first tree without leaving a trail; as for the rest, it is merely a question of skill. Leave me to act as I think proper, and I warrant you will have no cause to repent it."
"I know it; so, for my part, I assure you that you are quite at liberty to act as you please."
"Very good; that is what we will do; you see that enormous branch jutting out about thirty feet above our heads?"
"I see it—what next?"
"I will seize its end with my lasso, and we will pull it down till it touches the ground; we will hold it so while daughter mounts and reaches the higher branches; you will pass next, then Sutter, and myself last; in that way we shall leave no sign of our ascent."
"Your idea is very ingenious, I approve of it highly, especially as that way of mounting will be easy for your daughter and myself, while Sutter will not have much trouble. Still one thing bothers me."
"Out with it."
"So long as anyone is here to hold the branch, of course it will remain bent; but when we are up and you remain alone, how will you follow us? That I do not understand, and I confess I should not be sorry to learn it."
Red Cedar burst into a laugh.
"That need not bother you, señor Padre; I am too much used to the desert not to calculate my slightest actions."
"As it is so, we will say no more it. What I said was through the interest I take in you."
The squatter looked him in the face.
"Listen, Fray Ambrosio," he said as he laid his hand lightly on his shoulder, "we have known one another for a long while, so let us have no falsehoods; we shall never manage to divine each other, so let us remain as we are. Is that agreed, eh?"
The monk was upset by this harsh address; he lost countenance, and stammered a few words. Red Cedar had taken his lasso, and row whirled it round his head. He had measured so exactly, that the running knot caught the end of the branch.
"Help, all!" the squatter shouted.
Under their united efforts the branch gradually bent down to the level of the platform, as Red Cedar had foreseen.
"Make haste; Ellen, make haste, my child!" he shouted to the maiden.
The latter did not need any repetition of the invitation; she ran lightly along the branch, and in a twinkling was leaning against the stem. By her father's request she mounted to the upper branches, among which she disappeared.
"It is your turn, Fray Ambrosio," the squatter said.
The monk disappeared in the same way.
"It is yours, lad," the squatter said.
Sutter rejoined the other two. When left alone, Red Cedar put forth all his strength to hold the branch down, while he clung to its lower surface with his hand and feet. So soon as the branch was no longer held down, it rose, with a shrill whistle and a rapidity enough to make him giddy. The tree trembled to its roots. Ellen uttered a cry of terror and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw her father astride on the end of the tree engaged in unfastening the running knot of his lasso, after which the squatter rose with perfect calmness, and while rolling the lasso round his loins, joined his companions.
"Well," he said to them, "you see it is finished; now we must continue our journey; are you ready?"
"Quite," they all said.
We repeat our assertion, that with the exception of the strangeness of the road, this way of travelling had nothing dangerous or even inconvenient about it, owing to the immense network of lianas that twined capriciously round the trees and the interlaced branches. The party proceeded, almost without perceiving it, from one tree to the other, constantly suspended over an abyss of sixty, even eighty, feet in depth.
Beneath them they at times perceived the wild beasts which they troubled in their mysterious lairs, and which, with outstretched necks and flashing eyes, watched them pass in surprise, not understanding what they saw. They marched thus the whole day, stopping for a moment to take breath, and starting again immediately. They had crossed, still on their floating bridge, a rather wide stream, and would soon find themselves in the lowlands.
It was about five in the evening; the beams of the setting sun lengthened the shadows of the trees; the owls, attracted by the startled flight of the beetles, of which they are excessively fond, were already flying about; a dense vapour rose from the ground, and formed a mist, in which the four persons almost disappeared: all, in a word, announced that night would soon set in.
Red Cedar had taken the lead of the little party for fear lest his companions might take a wrong direction in the inextricable labyrinth of the virgin forest; for at the height where they were the outlines of the ground entirely disappeared, and only an immense chaos of tufted branches and interlaced creepers could be seen.
"Hilloa, gossip!" Fray Ambrosio said, who, little accustomed to long walks, and weakened by the lengthened privations he had gone through, had walked for some time with extreme difficulty, "Shall we soon stop? I warn you that I can go no further."
The squatter turned sharply and laid his large hand on the monk's mouth.
"Silence!" he hissed; "Silence, if you value your scalp!"
"Cristo, if I value it!" the other muttered, with a movement of terror; "But what is happening fresh?"
Red Cedar cautiously moved a mass of leaves, and made a sign to his comrades to imitate him.
"Look," he said.
In a second the monk drew himself back with features convulsed with terror.
"Oh," he said, "this time we are lost!"
He tottered, and would have fallen, had not the squatter seized him by the arm.
"What is to be done?" he said.
"Wait," Red Cedar coldly answered: "our position for the present is not so desperate; you see them, but they do not see us."
Fray Ambrosio shook his head sadly,
"You have led us to our ruin," he said, reproachfully.
"You are an ass," Red Cedar answered with contempt; "do I not risk as much as you? Did I not warn you that we were surrounded? Leave me to act, I tell you."