[1] Literally, Quiepaa, sky, tani, mountain, in the Zapothecan language.
The night was gloomy, not a star shone in the sky; the wind blew violently through the heavy boughs of the virgin forest, with that sad and monotonous soughing which resembles the sound of great waters when the tempest menaces; the clouds were low, black, and charged with electricity; they coursed rapidly through the sky, incessantly veiling the wan disk of the moon, whose cold rays only rendered the gloom denser; the atmosphere was oppressive, and those nameless noises, dashed back by the echoes like the rolling of distant thunder, rose from the quebradas and unknown barrancas of the prairies; the beasts howled sadly all the notes of the human register, and the night birds, troubled in their sleep by this strange uneasiness of nature, uttered hoarse and discordant cries.
In the camp of the Gambusinos all was calm; the sentries were watching, leaning on their rifles, and crouching near the expiring fire. In the centre of the camp two men were smoking their Indian pipes, and talking in a low voice. They were Brighteye and Marksman.
At length, Brighteye knocked the ashes out of his pipe, thrust it into his girdle, stifled a yawn, and rose, throwing out his legs and arms to restore the circulation.
"What are you going to do?" Marksman asked him, turning cautiously round.
"Sleep," the hunter answered.
"Sleep!"
"Why not? the night is advanced; we are the only persons watching, I feel convinced; it is more than probable that we shall not see Don Miguel before sunrise. Hum! the best plan for the moment, at least, is to sleep, at any rate, if you have not decided otherwise."
Marksman laid his finger on his lip, as if to recommend silence to his friend.
"The night is advanced," he said, in a low voice; "a terrible storm is rising. Where can Don Miguel be gone? This prolonged absence alarms me more than I can express: he is not the man to leave his friends thus, without some powerful reason, or perhaps—"
The hunter stopped, and shook his head sorrowfully.
"Go on," Brighteye said; "tell me your whole thought."
"Well, I am afraid lest some misfortune has happened to him."
"Oh, oh, do you think so? Still, this Don Miguel, from what I have heard you say, is a man of well-tried courage and uncommon strength."
"All that is true," Marksman replied, with a preoccupied air.
"Well! do you think that such a man, well armed, and acquainted with prairie life, is not able to draw himself out of a difficulty, whatever the danger which threatens him?"
"Yes, if he has to deal with a loyal foe, who stands resolutely before him, and fights with equal weapons."
"What other danger can he fear?"
"Brighteye, Brighteye!" the hunter continued, sadly, "you have lived too long among the Missouri fur traders."
"Which means—?" the Canadian asked, somewhat piqued.
"Come, my friend, do not feel vexed at my remarks; but it is evident to me, that you have, in a great measure, forgotten prairie habits."
"Hum! that is a serious charge against a hunter, Marksman; and in what, if you please, have I forgotten desert manners?"
"By Jove! in seeming no longer to remember that, in the country where we now are, every weapon is good to get rid of an enemy."
"Eh! I know that as well as you, my friend; I know, too, that the most dangerous weapon is that which is concealed."
"That is to say, treachery."
The Canadian started. "Do you fear treachery, then?" he asked.
"What else can I fear?"
"That is true," the hunter said, with a drooping head; "but," he added, a moment after, "what is to be done?"
"That is the very thing that embarrasses me. Still I cannot remain much longer in this state; the uncertainty is killing me; at all risks I must know what has happened."
"But in what way?"
"I know not, Heaven will inspire me."
"Still, you have an idea?"
"Of course, I have."
"What is it?"
"This—and I count on you to help me in carrying it out."
Brighteye affectionately pressed his friend's hand. "You are right," he said: "now for your idea."
"It is very simple; we will leave the camp directly, and go along the river side."
"Yes,—I would merely draw your attention to the fact, that the storm will soon break out, and the rain is already falling in large drops."
"The greater reason to make haste."
"That is true."
"Then you will accompany me?"
"By Jove! did you doubt it, perchance?"
"I am a goose; forgive me, brother, and thank you."
"Why so? on the contrary, I ought to thank you."
"How so?"
"Why, thanks to you, I am going to take a delightful walk."
Marksman did not answer; the hunters saddled and bridled their horses, and after inspecting their arms with all the care of men who are convinced that they will soon have occasion to use them, they mounted and rode toward the gate of the camp. Two sentries were standing motionless and upright at the gate; they placed themselves before the wood rangers. The latter had no intention of going out unseen, as they had no reason for hiding their departure.
"You are going away?" one of the sentries asked.
"No; we are merely going to make a survey of the country."
"At this hour?"
"Why not?"
"Hang it! I think it pleasanter to sleep in such weather, than ride about the prairie."
"You think wrong, comrade," Marksman answered, in a peremptory tone; "and, in the first place, bear this in mind, I am not accountable for my actions to anyone; if I go out at this hour in the storm which is threatening, I have possibly powerful motives for my conduct; now, will you or no let us pass? Remember, however, that I shall hold you responsible for any delay you occasion in the execution of my plans."
The tone employed by the hunter in addressing them struck the two sentries; they consulted together in a low voice; after which, the man who had hitherto spoken turned to the two hunters, who were quietly awaiting the result of this deliberation. "You can pass," he said; "you are at liberty to go wherever you think proper. I have done my duty in questioning you, and may Heaven grant you are doing yours in going out thus."
"You will soon know. One word more."
"I am listening."
"Our absence will probably be short; if not, we shall return by sunrise; still, pay great attention to this recommendation: should you hear the cry of the jaguar repeated thrice, at equal intervals, mount at full speed, and come, not you alone, but followed by a dozen of your comrades, for, when you hear that cry, a great danger will menace the Cuadrilla. Now, you understand me?"
"Perfectly."
"And will you do what I advise?"
"I will do so, because you are the friends we expected, and treachery could not be feared from you."
"Good."
"I wish you luck."
The hunters went on, and the gate was immediately closed after them.
The wood rangers had scarce entered the prairie, ere the hurricane, which had threatened since sunset, broke out furiously. A brilliant flash of lightning crossed the sky, followed almost instantaneously by a startling clap of thunder. The trees bowed beneath the fury of the blast, and the rain began falling in torrents. The adventurers advanced with extreme difficulty, amid the chaos of the infuriated elements; their horses, startled by the howling of the tempest, reared and shied at every step. The darkness had become so dense, that, although walking side by side, the two men could scarce see each other. The trees, twisted by the omnipotent blast, uttered almost human cries, answered by the mournful howling of the terrified wild beasts, while the stream, swollen by the rain, rose into waves, whose foaming crests broke with a crash against the sandy banks.
Brighteye and Marksman, case-hardened against the desert temporales, shook their heads contemptuously at every effort of the gust, which passed over them like an ardent simoom, and continued to advance, searching with the eye the gloom that enveloped them like a heavy shroud, and listening to the noises which the echoes bandied about.
In this way they reached the ford of the Rubio, without exchanging a syllable. Then they stopped, as if by mutual agreement.
The Rubio, a lost and unknown affluent of the Great Rio Colorado del Norte, into which it falls after a winding course of hardly twenty leagues, is in ordinary times a narrow stream, on which Indian canoes have a difficulty in floating, and which horses can ford almost anywhere, with the water scarce up to their girths; but at this hour the placid stream had suddenly become a mad and impetuous torrent, noisily rolling along, in its deep and muddy waters, uprooted trees, and even masses of rock.
To dream of crossing the Rubio at this moment would have been signal folly; a man so rash as to attempt the enterprise, would have been carried off in a few seconds by its furious waves, whose yellow surface grew wider every moment.
The hunters remained for a moment motionless beneath the torrents of rain that inundated them, regarding with thoughtful eye the water that still rose and rose, and holding in with great difficulty their startled horses, which reared with hoarse snorts of fear.
These men, with their hearts of bronze, stood stoically amid the frightful uproar of the unchained elements, not seeming to notice the awful tempest that howled around them, and as calm and easy minded as if they were comfortably seated in some snug cave, near a merry fire of twigs. They had only one idea, that of assisting the man whom they suspected of running a terrible danger at this moment.
Suddenly they started, and quickly raised their heads, while looking fixedly and eagerly in front of them. But the darkness was too thick; they could distinguish nothing.
In the midst of the thousand sounds of the tempest, a cry had struck their ear. This cry was a last appeal, a harsh and prolonged cry of agony, such as the strong man conquered by fatality utters, when he is forced to confess his impotence, when everything fails him at once, and he has no other resource than Heaven. The two men leaned forward quickly, and placing their hands to their mouth funnel wise, uttered in their turn a shrill and lengthened cry.
Then they listened. At the end of a moment a second cry, more piercing and desperate than the first, reached their ears.
"Oh!" Marksman shouted, as he rose in his stirrups and closed his fists in fury, "that man is in danger of death."
"Whoever he is, we must save him," Brighteye answered, boldly.
They had understood each other. But how to save this man? Where was he? What danger menaced him? Who could answer these questions which they mentally asked themselves?
At the risk of being carried off by the torrent, the hunters forced their horses to enter the river, and lying almost on the necks of the noble animals, they investigated the waters. But, as we have said, the darkness was too thick, they could see nothing.
"The demon interferes," Marksman said, in despair. "Oh, heavens! shall we let this man die without going to his aid?"
At this moment a flash of lightning crossed the sky, with a dazzling zigzag. By its fugitive gleam, the hunters saw a horseman struggling furiously against the efforts of the waves.
"Courage! courage!" they shouted.
"Help!" the stranger replied, in a shaking voice.
There was no time for hesitation, for every second was an age.
The man and horse struggled courageously against the torrent that bore them away, and the hunters' resolution was formed in a second. They silently shook hands, and at the same moment dug their spurs into their horses' flanks; the animals reared with a shriek of pain, but, compelled to obey the iron hands that held them, they bounded in terror into the middle of the stream.
Suddenly two shots were heard; a bullet passed with a whistle between our two friends, and a cry of pain was heard from the water. The man they had come to help was wounded. The storm was still increasing; the flashes succeeded each other with extraordinary rapidity. The hunters noticed the stranger clinging to his saddle, and letting his horse carry him where it liked; then, on the other bank, a man with his body bent forward, and his rifle shouldered, in readiness to fire.
"Each man his own," Marksman said, laconically.
"Good!" Brighteye said, with equal brevity.
The Canadian took the reata hanging at the saddlebow, and swinging it round his head, awaited the gleam of the next flash. It did not last long, but though it was so rapid, Brighteye had taken advantage of the transient gleam to hurl his reata. The leather cord whizzed out, and the running knot at the end fell on the neck of the horse which wrestled so bravely with the torrent.
"Courage! courage!" Brighteye shouted; "help, Marksman, help!" And giving a smart shake to his horse, he made it rise on its hind legs just as it was losing its footing, and forced it toward the river.
"Here I am," Marksman said, who was watching for the opportunity to fire: "patience, I am coming."
Suddenly he pulled the trigger, the bullet went forth, and from the other bank a cry of pain and rage reached the hunters.
"He is hit," Marksman said; "tomorrow I shall know who the scamp is;" and throwing his rifle behind him, he hurried forward to join Brighteye.
The horse the Canadian had lassoed, feeling itself supported and dragged toward the bank, seconded, with that intelligence possessed by these noble animals, the efforts made to save it.
The two hunters held on the reata. The united strength of their steeds, helped by the lassoed horse, succeeded in breasting the current, and after a minute's struggle, they at length reached the bank. So soon as they were comparatively in safety, the Canadians leaped from their saddles, and rushed toward the stranger's horse.
So soon as it felt terra firma under its feet, the noble animal had stopped, apparently comprehending that, if it advanced, it would cast its master against the rocks that covered the ground, for, although insensible, he still held the bridle firmly clasped in his clenched hand. The hunters cut the bridle, raised the man they had so miraculously saved in their arms, and carried him a few paces further to the foot of a tree, where they gently laid him; then, both eagerly bending over his body, awaited a flash which would enable them to see him.
"Oh!" Marksman said, as he drew himself up, with an expression of grief, mingled with terror, "Don Miguel Ortega!"
As we related a short time back, after leaving Brighteye Don Stefano had returned to the camp of the Gambusinos, into which he had managed to enter again unseen.
Once inside the camp, the Mexican had nothing more to fear; he went back to the fire, near which his horse was picketed, patted the noble brute, which turned toward him, and pricked up its ears at his approach, and then lay down calmly, rolled himself in his wraps, and fell asleep with that placidity peculiar to consciences at rest.
Several hours elapsed, and no sound arose to disturb the calmness that brooded over the camp. Suddenly Don Stefano opened his eyes, for a hand had been gently laid on his right shoulder.
The Mexican looked at the man who interrupted his sleep; by the light of the paling stars he recognized Domingo. Don Stefano rose, and silently followed the Gambusino. The latter led him to the entrenchments, probably with the design of speaking without fearing indiscreet ears.
"Well?" Don Stefano asked him, when the Gambusino had made a sign that he could speak.
Domingo, obeying the order he had received from Brighteye, concisely related to him all that had happened in the prairie. On learning that the Canadian had succeeded in meeting Marksman, Don Stefano gave a start of joy, and began listening to the Gambusino's story with increasing interest. When the latter at last finished, or at any rate remained silent, he asked him—"Is that all?"
"All," the other answered.
Don Stefano drew out his purse, and took from it several gold pieces, which he handed to Domingo; the latter took them with a gesture of pleasure.
"Did Brighteye give you no message for me?" the Mexican asked again.
The other seemed to reflect for a moment. "Ah!" he said, "I forgot; the hunter bade me tell you, Excellency, not to leave the camp."
"Do you know the reason of this recommendation?"
"Certainly; he intends to join the Cuadrilla this evening at the ford of the Rubio."
The Mexican's brow grew dark. "You are sure of that?" he said.
"That is what he said to me."
There was a few moments' silence. "Good!" he then continued; "the hunter added nothing further?"
"Nothing."
"Hum!" Don Stefano muttered, "after all, it is of no consequence;" then, leaning heavily on the Gambusino's shoulder, he looked him fiercely in the face. "Now," he added, laying a stress upon every word, "remember this carefully; you do not know me, whatever happens; you will not breathe a syllable of the way in which we met on the prairie."
"You may be assured of it, Excellency."
"I am assured," the Mexican replied, with an accent which made Domingo tremble, brave as he was: "remember the oath you took, and the pledge you gave me."
"I shall remember."
"If you keep your promise, and are faithful to me, it will be mine to keep you from want for life,—if not, look out."
The Gambusino shook his shoulders with disdain, and answered ill-temperedly—"It is unnecessary to threaten me, Excellency; what is said is said; what is promised is promised."
"We shall see."
"If you have nothing else to recommend to me, I believe we had better separate. The day is beginning to break; my comrades will soon awake, and I fancy you are no more anxious than I am to be surprised together."
"You are right." They then parted. Don Stefano returned to his place, while the Gambusino laid himself down where he was, and both slept, or seemed to do so.
With the first beams of the sun, Don Miguel raised the curtain of the tent, and walked toward his guest; the latter was soundly asleep. Don Miguel felt unwilling to trouble this peaceful sleep; he sat down at the fire, brought together the logs, blew them up, rolled one maize cigarette, and smoked philosophically, while awaiting his guest's awakening.
By this time all was movement in the camp; the Gambusinos were attending to their morning duties, some leading the horses to water, others lighting the fires, in order to prepare breakfast for the Cuadrilla; in short, everybody was engaged in his own way on the general behalf.
At length Don Stefano, on whose face a sunbeam had been playing for some minutes, thought it advisable to wake; he turned round, stretched his limbs, and opened his eyes, while yawning several times.
"Caramba!" he said, as he drew himself up, "it is day already; how quickly a night is passed; I feel as if I had been hardly an hour asleep."
"I see with pleasure that you have slept soundly, Caballero," Don Miguel said politely to him.
"What! is that you, my host?" Don Stefano exclaimed, with perfectly well-acted surprise; "the day will be a happy one for me, since the first face I notice, on opening my eyes, is that of a friend."
"I accept the compliment as politeness on your part."
"On my word, no: I assure you that what I say to you is the sincere expression of my thought," the Mexican said, simply; "it is impossible to do the honours of the desert better, or comprehend the holy laws of hospitality more thoroughly."
"I thank you for the good opinion you are kind enough to have of me. I trust that you will not leave us yet, but consent to remain several days with us."
"Would I could, Don Miguel—Heaven is my witness, that I should be delighted to enjoy your charming company for a short time; unfortunately, that is utterly impossible."
"Why so?"
"Alas! an imperious duty compels me to leave you this very day; I am really in despair at this vexatious mischance."
"What motive can be so powerful as to force you to leave us so suddenly?"
"A very trivial motive, and which will probably make you smile. I am a merchant of Santa Fé; a few days back, the successive failures of several houses at Monterey, with which I am extensively connected, obliged me to leave my house suddenly, in order to try and save, by my presence, a few waifs from the shipwreck with which I am threatened; I set out without asking anybody's advice, and here I am."
"But," Don Miguel objected, "you are still along way from Monterey."
"I know it; and it is that which drives me to despair. I have a frightful fear of arriving too late; the more so, as I have been warned that the people with whom I have to do are rogues: the sums they owe me are large, and form, I am sorry to say, the largest part of my fortune."
"Cáspita! if that is the case, I can understand that you are anxious to get there. I could not suspect that you had so serious a motive for pressing on."
"You see how it is; so pity me, Don Miguel."
All this conversation was carried on by the two men with a charming ease, and a simplicity perfectly well assumed on both sides; still neither was duped: Don Stefano, as so often happens, had committed the enormous fault of being too clever, and advancing beyond the limits of prudence, while trying to persuade this man of the sincerity of his words. This feigned sincerity had aroused Don Miguel's suspicions for two reasons: in the first place, if Don Stefano were going from Santa Fé to Monterey, he was not only off the road he ought to have followed, but was completely turning his back on those two towns—an error which his ignorance of the topography of the country made him commit without suspecting it. The second instance was equally premature: no merchant would have ever attempted, however grave the motive of such a journey, to cross the desert alone, for fear of the Indian bravos, the pirates, the wild beasts, and countless other dangers no less great, to which he would be exposed, without possible hope of escaping them.
Still, Don Miguel pretended to admit, without discussion, the reasons his guest offered him, and it was with an air of the utmost conviction that he answered,—"In spite of the earnest desire I may have of enjoying your agreeable society longer, I will not detain you, friend, for I understand how urgent it must be for you to hurry on."
Don Stefano bowed with an almost imperceptible smile of triumph.
"In short," Don Miguel added, "I wish that you may succeed in saving your fortune from the claws of those rogues; but at any rate, I hope, Caballero, that we shall not separate before breakfasting. I confess that your refusal to accept a share of my scanty supper last night pained me."
"Oh," Don Stefano interrupted him, "believe me, Caballero—"
"You gave me a very admirable excuse," Don Miguel continued, "but," he added, significantly, "we Gambusinos and adventurers are singular fellows—we fancy, rightly or wrongly, that the guest who refuses to eat with us is our enemy, or will become so."
Don Stefano gave a slight start at this unforeseen attack. "How can you imagine such a thing, Caballero?" he said, evasively.
"It is not I who suppose, but all of us; it is a prejudice, a foolish superstition; call it as you like, but so it is," he said, with a smile as sharp as a dagger's point, "and nothing will change our nature; so that is settled, we will breakfast together, then I will wish you a prosperous journey, and we shall part."
Don Stefano's face assumed an expression of despair.
"Really, I am the plaything of ill luck," he said, with a toss of the head.
"How so?"
"Good gracious, I know not how to explain it to you; it is so absurd, that I really dare not—"
"Pray speak, Caballero; although I am only an illiterate adventurer, I may possibly manage to understand you."
"The truth is, I shall hurt your feelings."
"Not the least in the world: are you not my guest? a guest is sent by heaven, that is to say, is sacred."
Don Stefano hesitated.
"Well," Don Miguel said, with a laugh, "I will have breakfast served; perhaps that will undo your tongue."
"That is the embarrassing point!" the Mexican exclaimed, quickly, with an accent of chagrin; "the fact is, that, in spite of my great desire to be agreeable to you, I cannot accept your kind invitation."
The young man frowned. "Ah, ah!" he said, fixing a suspicious glance on the speaker, "why so?"
"That is the very thing I dare not confess to you."
"You can, Caballero; have I not told you that you had the right to say anything?"
"Good heavens, you force me to it," he continued, in a voice that grew even more melancholy; "first imagine, then, that I have made a vow to Nuestra señora de los Ángeles, never to take food before sunset, so long as this accursed journey lasts."
"Ah!" Don Miguel said, with an accent of but slight conversion, "but last evening, when I offered you supper, the sun had set a long time, I fancy."
"Listen; I have not finished."
"Go on."
"And even then," the Mexican continued, "only to eat one of the maize tortillas I carry with me in my alforjas, and which I had blessed by a priest, prior to my departure from Santa Fé; you see, all this must seem to you very ridiculous, but we are fellow countrymen, we have Spanish blood in our veins, and instead of laughing at my foolish superstition, you will pity me."
"Cáspita! the more so, because you have a rude penance to undergo. I will not attempt to make you give up your superstition, for I too have mine; I believe that it is best not to return to the subject."
"You are not angry with me, at least?"
"I—why should I be angry?"
"Then we are still good friends?"
"More than ever," Don Miguel remarked, with a laugh. Still, the way in which these words were pronounced, but slightly reassured the Mexican—he took a side glance at the speaker, and then rose.
"Are you going?" the young man asked him.
"If you will permit me, I shall start."
"Do so, my guest."
Don Stefano, without further reply, immediately began saddling his horse.
"You have a noble brute there," Don Miguel observed.
"Yes, he is a purely bred barb."
"That is the first time I ever saw one of that precious race."
"Pray have a good look at him."
"I thank you, but I should be afraid of delaying you;—hola! my horse," he added, addressing Domingo.
The latter brought up a mustang full of fire, on the back of which Don Miguel leaped at a bound, while Don Stefano also mounted.
"If you have no objection, I will have the honour of accompanying you a little way, unless," he added, with a sarcastic smile, "you have made a vow which prevents it."
"Come," Don Stefano said, reproachfully, "you are angry with me."
"On my faith, no; I swear it."
"Very good: we will start when you please."
"I am at your orders."
They spurred their horses, and went out of the camp. They had scarce gone twenty yards, ere Don Miguel pulled up his horse and stopped.
"Are you going to leave me already?" Don Stefano asked him.
"I shall not go a step further," the young man answered, and drawing himself up fiercely and frowning, he said in a haughty tone, "Here you are no longer my guest; we are out of my camp in the desert; I can, therefore, explain myself clearly and plainly, and voto a brios, I will do so."
The Mexican regarded him with surprise. "I do not understand you," he said.
"Perhaps so: I hope it is so, but I do not believe it. So long as you were my guest, I pretended to believe the falsehoods you told me; but now that you are to me no more than the first comer, a stranger, I wish to tell you my thoughts frankly. I do not know by what name to address you to your livid face, but I am certain that you are my enemy, or, at any rate, a spy of my enemies."
"Caballero! these words—" Don Stefano exclaimed.
"Do not interrupt me," the young man continued, violently. "I care little who you are; it is sufficient to have asked you: I thank you for having entered my camp, at any rate; if ever I meet you again, I shall recognize you: but let me give you one piece of advice on parting: shake the dust off your boots on leaving me, and do not come across me again, for it might bring you misfortune."
"Threats!" the Mexican interrupted, pale with rage.
"Take my words as you please, but remember them in the interest of your safety; although I am only an adventurer, I give you at this moment a lesson in honesty you will do well to profit by; nothing would be easier for me than to acquire proofs of your treachery; I have with me twenty devoted comrades, who, at a sign, would treat you very scurvily; and who, by searching your clothes and alforjas, would doubtless find among your blessed tortillas," he said, with a sardonic smile, "the reasons for the conduct you have employed toward me ever since we met; but you have been my guest, and that title is your safeguard: go in peace, but do not cross my path again."
While uttering the last words, he raised his arm and dealt a vigorous blow with his chicote on the rear of Don Stefano's horse. The barb, but little used to such treatment, started off like an arrow from a bow, in spite of all his rider's efforts to hold him in.
Don Miguel looked after him for a moment, and then returned to the camp, laughing heartily at the way in which he had ended the interview.
"Come, lads," he said to the Gambusinos, "let us be off at once; we must reach the ford of the Rubio before sunset, where the guide is awaiting us."
And half an hour later the caravan set out.
No incident worthy of description troubled the journey during the day. The Cuadrilla traversed an undulating country, intersected by streams of slight depth, on the banks of which grew tall bushes, and clumps of cottonwood trees, peopled by an infinity of birds, of every description and variety of plumage: on the horizon a long yellowish line, above which hung a dense cloud which indicated the Rio Colorado Grande del Norte.
As Don Miguel had announced, the ford of the Rubio was reached a few minutes before sunset. We will explain here in a few words the mode in which caravans camp in the desert; this description is indispensable, in order that the reader may understand how it is easy to leave or return to the camp unnoticed.
The Cuadrilla, in addition to the baggage mules, had with it fifteen waggons, loaded with merchandise. When the spot for camping was selected, the waggons were arranged in a square, with a distance of thirty-five feet between each: between the intervals were stationed six or eight men, who lit a fire, round which they assembled to cook, eat, smoke, and sleep. The horses were placed in the middle of the square, not far from the mysterious tent, which occupied exactly the centre. Each horse had the two off legs hobbled with a cord twenty inches long. We may remark that, although a horse thus hobbled feels very awkward at first, it soon accustoms itself to it sufficiently to be able to walk slowly. Besides, this prudential measure is taken in order that the horses may not stray, or be carried off by the Indians. Two horses are also put together, one with its feet tied, and the other only held by a picket rope, so that, in case of an alarm, it may gallop round its companion, which thus serves, as it were, as a pivot.
The space left free between the waggons was filled up with fascines, trees piled up on top of one another, and the mule bales.
Nothing is more singular than the appearance of one of these camps on the prairie. The fires are surrounded by picturesque groups, seated or standing; some cooking, others mending their clothes or their horses' trappings, others furbishing their weapons; at intervals, bursts of laughter rise from the midst of the groups, which announce that merry stories are going the rounds, and that they are trying to forget the fatigues of the day, and preparing for those of the morrow. Then, to complete the picture, from distance to distance behind the entrenchments sentinels, calm and motionless, lean on their rifles.
From the description we have given, it is easy to understand that the waggons form a species of embrasures, by means of which an active man crawling under the carts can easily go out without being noticed by the sentries, and return whenever he pleases, without attracting the attention of his comrades, whose glances, usually directed on the prairie, have no reason to watch what goes on inside the camp.
So soon as all was in order, and each installed as comfortably as circumstances permitted, Don Miguel had a fresh horse brought him, which he mounted, and addressed his comrades collected around him. "Señores," he said, "business of a pressing nature obliges me to go out for a few hours. Watch carefully over the camp during my absence; above all, let no one enter. We are now in regions where the greatest caution is necessary to guard against the treachery which incessantly menaces, and assumes every shape in order to deceive those whom negligence prevents being on their guard. The guide we are expecting so impatiently will, doubtless, arrive in a few moments. All know him by repute; perhaps he may come alone, or he may have somebody with him. This man, in whom we must place the greatest confidence, must, during my absence, be entirely free in his actions—go and come without the slightest obstacle being offered him. You have understood me; so follow my instructions point by point. Besides, I repeat, I shall soon return."
After making a farewell signal to his comrades, Don Miguel left the camp, and proceeded to the Rubio, the ford of which, being nearly dry at the moment, he easily crossed.
What the chief of the adventurers had said to his comrades with reference to Marksman, was an inspiration of Heaven; for, if he had not peremptorily ordered that the hunter should be allowed to act as he pleased, it is probable that the sentinels would have barred his passage; and, in that case, the young man, deprived of the providential aid of the two backwoodsmen, would have been hopelessly lost.
After crossing the ford, Don Miguel urged his horse at full speed straight ahead. This furious race lasted nearly two hours, through thickets, which at every moment grew more closely together, and gradually were metamorphosed into a forest.
After crossing a deep gorge, whose perpendicular sides were covered with impenetrable thickets, the young man arrived at a species of narrow lane, into which the paths of wild beasts opened, and in the centre of which an Indian, dressed in his war costume, and smoking gravely, crouched over a fire of bois de vache; while his horse, hobbled a short distance off, was busily browsing on the young tree shoots. So soon as he saw the Indian, Don Miguel pushed on even at greater speed. "Good evening, Chief!" he said, as he leaped lightly to the ground, and amicably pressed the hand the warrior held out to him.
"Wah!" the Chief said to him, "I no longer expected my pale brother."
"Why so, as I had promised to come?"
"Perhaps it would have been better for the Paleface to remain in his camp. Addick is a warrior; he has discovered a trail."
"Good; but trails are not wanting on the prairie."
"Och! this is wide, and incautiously trodden; it is a Paleface trail."
"Bah! what do I care?" the young man remarked, carelessly. "Do you fancy my band the only one crossing the prairie at this moment?"
The Redskin shook his head. "An Indian warrior is not mistaken on the war trail. It is the trail of an enemy of my brother's."
"What makes you suppose that?"
The Indian did not seem willing to explain himself more clearly; he turned his head, and, after a moment, said, "My brother will see."
"I am strong—well-armed. I care very little for those who would try to surprise us."
"One man is not worth ten," the Indian remarked, sententiously.
"Who knows?" the young man answered, lightly. "But," he continued, "that is not the question of the moment. I have come here to seek the news the Chief promised me."
"The promise of Addick is sacred."
"I know it, Chief, and that is why I did not hesitate to come. But time is slipping away. I have a long journey to go, to join my comrades again. A storm is getting up; and I confess that I should like very little to be exposed to it during my return. Be kind enough to be brief."
The Chief bowed in assent, and pointed to a place by his side.
"Good. Now begin, Chief; I am all attention," Don Miguel said, as he threw himself on the ground. "And, in the first place, how comes it that I have not seen you till today?"
"Because," the Indian answered, phlegmatically, "as my brother knows, it is far from here to Queche Pitao (the City of God). A warrior is but a man; Addick has accomplished impossibilities to join his Paleface brother sooner."
"Be it so, Chief; I thank you. Now let us come to facts. What has happened to you since our parting?"
"Quiepaa Tani opened its gates wide before the two young pale virgins. They are in safety, in the Queche, far from the eyes of their enemies."
"And did they give you no message for me?"
The Indian hesitated for a second.
"No," he said at length; "they are happy, and they wait."
Don Miguel sighed. "That's strange," he muttered.
The Chief took a stealthy look at him. "What will my brother do?" he asked.
"I shall soon be near them."
"My brother is wrong. No one knows where they are. For what good reveal their refuge?"
"Soon, I hope, I shall be free to act without fearing indiscreet eyes."
A gloomy flame sparkled in the Indian's eye.
"Wacondah alone is master of tomorrow," he said.
Don Miguel looked at him.
"What does the Chief mean?"
"Nothing but what I say."
"Good. Will my brother accompany me to my camp?"
"Addick will return to Quiepaa Tani, that he may watch over those whom his brother has confided to him."
"Shall I see you again soon?"
"Perhaps so," he answered evasively: "but," he added, "did not my brother say that he expected soon to go to the Queche?"
"Yes."
"When will my brother come?"
"At the latest, on the first day of next month. Why this question?"
"My brother is a Paleface: if Addick himself does not introduce him into the Queche, the white Chief cannot enter it."
"That is true; at the period I stated, I will meet you at the foot of the mound where we parted."
"Addick will be there."
"Good! I count upon you; but now I must leave you: night is rapidly falling; the wind is beginning to blow furiously. I must be off."
"Farewell," the Chief said laconically, making no attempt to stop him.
"Good-bye."
The young man leapt into the saddle, and started at full speed. Addick watched him depart with a pensive air; then, when he had disappeared behind a clump of trees, he leaned slightly forward, and imitated twice the hiss of a cobra capello. At this signal the branches of a thicket a short distance from the fire parted cautiously, and a man appeared. After looking suspiciously around him, he walked toward the Chief, in front of whom he stopped.
The man was Don Stefano Cohecho. "Well?" he said.
"Has my father heard?" the Indian asked, in an equivocal tone.
"All."
"Then I have nothing to tell my father."
"Nothing."
"The storm is beginning: what will my father do?"
"What is agreed on. Are the Chiefs warriors ready?"
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"At the appointed spot."
"Good; let us start."
"I am ready."
These two men, who had evidently known each other for a long while, came to an understanding in a few words.
"Come!" Don Stefano said in a loud voice.
A dozen Mexican horsemen appeared.
"Here is a reinforcement, in case the warriors are not sufficient," he said, turning to the Chief.
The latter checked a movement of ill temper, and replied, as he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully,—"What need of twenty warriors against a single man?"
"Because the man is worth a hundred," Don Stefano said, with an accent of conviction which caused the Chief to reflect.
They started. In the meantime, Don Miguel had galloped on: still, he was far from suspecting the plot that was at this moment being formed against him; and, if he hurried on, it was not through any apprehension, but because the wind, whose violence increased every minute, and the heavy drops of rain, which began falling, warned him to seek shelter as speedily as possible. While galloping, he reflected on the short interview he had had with the Redskin warrior. While turning over in his mind the words exchanged between them, he felt a vague alarm, a secret fear, invade his heart, though it was impossible to account for the emotion he experienced; he fancied he could read treachery behind the Chief's studied reticence; he now remembered that he at times seemed embarrassed while talking with him. Trembling lest a misfortune had happened to the young ladies, or a peril menaced them, he felt his anxiety heightened; the more so, as he knew not what means he should employ to insure the fidelity of the man whom he suspected of perfidiousness.
Suddenly, a dazzling flash shot across the open, his horse suddenly bounded aside, and two or three bullets whistled past him. The young man sat up in his saddle. He was in the middle of the gorge he had traversed a few hours previously; a profound obscurity enveloped him on all sides, and in the shadow all around him, he fancied he could detect the outlines of human forms. At this moment, other shots were fired at him, his hat was carried off by a bullet, and several arrows passed close to his face.
Don Miguel raised his head boldly. "Ah! traitors!" he shouted in a loud voice. And, lifting his horse with his knees, he rushed forward at headlong speed, holding the bridle between his teeth, half bending over his steed's neck, and with a revolver in each hand.
A frightful war yell was heard, mingled with piercing imprecations uttered in Spanish.
Don Miguel passed like a tornado through the body of men moving round him, and discharged his revolvers in the thickest of his unknown enemies. Cries of pain and rage, bullets and arrows pursued him, but did not check the headlong speed of his horse, which seemed no longer to touch the earth, and rapidly did it course along.
Behind him the young man heard the galloping of several horses, hastening in pursuit. "Treachery, treachery!" he shouted, brandishing his sabre, making his horse rear, and bounding like a jackal in the midst of the throng which incessantly closed in upon him.
Suddenly, at the height of the contest, at the superior moment when he felt his strength was deserting him, three shots came from the darkness, and his assailants, attacked in the rear, were compelled in their turn to defend themselves against invisible foes.
"We are coming!" a stout voice shouted, whose energetic accent made the assailants tremble. "Hold your own! hold your own!"
Don Miguel responded by a terrific yell, and threw himself into the thick of the fight with redoubled efforts: now that he knew himself to be supported, he felt he was saved. The crowd gave way in the shadow, like ripe corn beneath the reaper's scythe; the compact mass of assailants parted asunder, and three men, or three demons, rushed into the hole they had made, and bounded forward to the side of the adventurer.
"Ah, ah!" the latter exclaimed, with a bitter burst of laughter, "the fight is now equal; forward, comrades, forward!" And he threw himself once more into the medley, followed by these intrepid allies.
Who were these men? Whence did they come? he did not know or dream of asking them. Besides, this was not the moment for explanations: they must conquer or die.
"Kill him, kill him!" a man yelled, who rushed upon him every moment with uplifted sabre, and in all the ferocious ardour of an inveterate hatred.
"Ah! it is you, Don Stefano Cohecho!" Don Miguel shouted; "I felt sure we should meet; your voice has denounced you."
"Death to him!" the latter answered.
The two men rushed upon each other, their horses met with a terrible shock, and the man whom the adventurer took for Don Stefano rolled on the ground.
"Victory!" Don Miguel shouted, as he cut down with his machete all within his reach.
His unknown friends, who were still by his side, rushed after him. In spite of all their efforts, the attacking party were unable to keep their position, and began flying in every direction. The gorge was free; no obstacle longer opposed Don Miguel's flight: he pressed his horse, and the noble beast redoubled its ardour. When so far free, the young man looked around him. His unknown defenders had suddenly disappeared, as if by enchantment.
"What is the meaning of this?" he murmured.
At this moment he felt on his left arm something resembling a blow from a whip: a bullet had struck him. This wound recalled him to a sense of his present position.
His enemies had rallied, and recommenced their pursuit. Before him he heard the yellow waters of the Rubio growling; the wrath of heaven and of man seemed leagued together to overwhelm him; it was then that a mad terror seized upon him; he fancied himself lost, and uttered that first cry of agony heard by the hunters.
Still, his pursuers gained rapidly upon him; without hesitation or reflection, he plunged into the Rubio with his horse; some twenty bullets dashed up the water round him; he turned bravely on his steed, and fired the last shots from his revolvers, uttering that cry to which the hunters had replied with the word,—"Courage!"
But human nature has limits which it cannot pass. This last effort exhausted the little strength left him, and, frantically clutching the bridle of his horse, he rolled into the river and fainted, while saying, in a stifled voice,—"Laura, Laura!"
Two shots crossed each other above his head, one fired by the man who was aiming at him from the bank, the other by Marksman. The stranger uttered a yell like a wild beast, turned away staggering like a drunken man, and disappeared.
Who was this man?—was he dead or merely wounded?
The events we have undertaken to narrate are so mingled with incidents intertwined in each other by that fatality of accident which governs human life that we are compelled once more, to our great regret, to interrupt our story, and let the reader be present at a scene which took place not far from the Rubio ford, on the same day that the events occurred which we have described in preceding chapters.
At about one o'clock of the tarde, that is to say, at the moment when the beams of the sun, which has reached its zenith, pour down on the prairie such an intense heat, that everything which lives and breathes seeks shelter in the deepest part of the woods, three horsemen passed over the ford, and boldly entered the path Don Miguel Ortega was destined to follow a few hours later.
These horsemen were white men, and what is more, Mexicans; it was easy to perceive, at the first glance, that they had not the slightest connection with any class of the adventurers who, under various names, such as Gambusinos, hunters, trappers, wood rangers, or pirates, swarm on the Western Prairies, which they incessantly cross in every direction.
The dress of these horsemen was that usually worn by the Mexican hacenderos on the frontiers:—The wide brimmed hat, gallooned, and decorated with the toquilla, the manga; the short calzoneras, open at the knee; the zarapé; the botas vaqueras, and the armas de agua, without which no one ventures on the desert. They were armed with rifles, revolvers, navajas, and machetes. Their horses, at this moment oppressed by the heat, but slightly refreshed by passing the ford, held their heads up proudly, and showed that, if necessary, they could have gone a long journey, in spite of their apparent fatigue.
Of the three horsemen, one seemed to be the master, or at least the superior, of the other two. He was a man of fifty years of age, with hard, energetic features, imprinted, however, with rare frankness, and great resolution; he was tall, well built, and robust; and he sat upright and stiff on his saddle, with that confidence which denotes the old soldier. His companions belonged to the class of Indios Manzos, a bastard race, in which Spanish blood and Indian blood are so mixed that it is impossible to assign them any characteristic type. Still, the richness of their dress, and the way in which they rode by the first horseman's side, rendered it easy to guess that they were confidential servants, men whose fidelity had been long proved—almost friends, in short, and not domestics, in the vulgar acceptation of the term. As far as it is possible to recognize the age of an Indian, in whose face traces of decrepitude are nearly always invisible, these two men must have reached middle age, that is, from forty to forty-five years.
These three horsemen rode a short distance behind each other, with a thoughtful and sorrowful air: at times they turned a glance of discouragement around, stifled a sigh, and continued their journey with drooping heads, like men convinced they have undertaken a task beyond their strength, but whom their will and, before all, their devotion urge onwards at all risks.
The presence of these strangers on the banks of the Rubio was, indeed, one of those unusual facts which no one would have been able to explain, and which would certainly have greatly surprised the hunters or Indians who might have seen them.
In the country where they now were, animals were rare; hence they were not hunting. These regions, remote from all civilized zones, fatally bordered unexplored countries, the last refuge of the Indians; these men were, therefore, neither traders nor ordinary travellers.
What reason could have been so powerful as to urge them to bury themselves in the desert, so few in number, where every human face must be to them that of an enemy? Where were they going? what were they seeking? This question none but the men themselves could have answered.
The ford had been passed; before them lay extended a barren and sandy plain, opening on the gorge to which we have already alluded. On this plain not a blade of grass glistened: the burning beams of the sun descended perpendicularly on the parched sand, which rendered the heat, if possible, more oppressive and stifling. The eldest of the travellers turned to his companions:—"Courage, Muchachos!" he said, in a gentle voice and a sad smile, as he pointed to the edge of the forest, not more than three miles from them, whose close and thick vegetation promised them a refreshing shade. "Courage! we shall soon rest."
"Your Excellency need not trouble yourself about us," one of the criados answered; "what your Excellency endures without complaining, we can also endure."
"The heat is stifling: hence, like yourselves, I feel the want of a few hours' rest."
"If absolutely necessary, we could go on a long time yet," the man who had already spoken said, "but our horses can hardly drag themselves along. The poor beasts are almost foundered."
"Yes, men and beasts want rest. However strong our will may be, there are limits before which the human organization must yield. Courage! in an hour we shall have arrived."
"Come, come, Excellency, do not think of us any more."
The first traveller made no answer, and they continued their journey in silence.
They soon reached the gorge, which they passed through, and found themselves among thickets, which, gently approaching, began to offer them a scanty shade, but, just as they reached the spot the first traveller had pointed out for their halt, he suddenly stopped and turned to his companions,—"Look there," he said, "Do you not see a slight pillar of smoke rising in the thicket, down there in front of us, a little on the left of the skirt of the forest?"
They looked. "In truth," the elder answered, "there can be no mistake about it, although from here it might be taken for a mist; still, the way in which the spiral rises, and its blue tinge, prove that it is smoke."
"After the ten mortal days we have been wandering about these immense solitudes without meeting a living soul, that fire must be welcome to us, for it indicates man, that is, friends; let us go straight up to them, then; perhaps we shall obtain from them some valuable information about the object of our journey."
"Pardon me, Excellency," the criado answered, quickly, "when we quitted the Presidio, you promised to place yourself in my hands, so excuse my giving you some advice, which, under present circumstances, will be very useful to you."
"Speak, my excellent Bermudez, I place the most perfect confidence in your experience and fidelity; your advice will be well received by me."
"Thanks, Excellency," the man answered, whom he had called Bermudez, "I have been a long time your vaquero, and in that capacity have been frequently mixed up both with hunters and Indians, which has given me certain notions of desert life, by which I have profited, although I never before went so far on to the prairie as today. Hence, in the spot where we are, we must above all avoid a meeting with our fellow men, and only accost them prudently, while employing the greatest precautions; the more so, as we do not know whom we have before us, and if we have to deal with friend or foe."
"It is true; your remark is correct; but, unfortunately, it is a little late."
"Why so?"
"Because, if we have seen the smoke of their fire, it is probable the people down there saw us long ago, and are spying all our movements, especially as we made no attempt at concealment."
"That is certain, Don Mariano, that is certain," Bermudez continued, with a shake of his head. "Hear, then, what, with your permission, Excellency, I propose, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, which is always unpleasant; you will remain here with Juanito, while I go on alone, and push on my reconnoissance up to the fire."
Don Mariano hesitated to reply, for it seemed to him hard to refuse his old servant thus.
"Decide, Excellency," the latter said, quickly; "I know the Redskin way of talking; they will salute me either with a shower of arrows, or a bullet; but, as they are generally very bad shots, they are almost certain not to hit me, and then I will easily enter into negotiations with them. You see that the risk I have to run is not tremendous."
"Bermudez is right, Excellency," Juanito answered, sententiously; being a methodical and silent man, who never took the word save under grave circumstances; "you must let him act as he thinks proper."
"No!" Don Mariano said, resolutely, "I will never consent to that. God is master of our existence; He alone can dispose of it at His will: if any accident happened to you, my poor Bermudez, I should never pardon myself; we will continue to advance together; at any rate, if they are enemies before us, we shall be able to defend ourselves."
Bermudez and Juanito were preparing to answer their master's objections, and the discussion would have probably lasted a long while, but at this moment the galloping of a horse was heard, the grass parted, and a rider appeared about a dozen paces from the group. It was a white man, and dressed in the garb of the prairie hunters. "Hold, Caballeros," he cried, as he made a friendly sign with his hand, and checked his horse; "advance without fear, you are welcome: I noticed your indecision, and am come to put an end to it."
The three men exchanged glances.
"I thank you for your cordial invitation," Don Mariano at length answered, "and accept it gladly."
All suspicion being done away with, the four persons walked together toward the fire, which they reached a few moments later. Near this fire were two Indians, man and wife.
The travellers dismounted, took off saddle and bridle, and after giving their horses food, seated themselves with a sign of satisfaction by their new friends, who did the honour of their provisions and bivouac with all the cordial simplicity of the desert.
The reader has doubtless recognized Ruperto, Flying Eagle, and Eglantine, whom we left proceeding toward the Chief's village, whither Ruperto had received orders from Marksman to accompany the Chief.
Don Mariano and his companions were not only fatigued, but also excessively hungry; the hunter and the Indians left them at full liberty to assuage their appetites, and when they saw them light their papelitos, they imitated them, and the conversation began. Turning at first on the ordinary topics of the desert, the weather, the heat, and the abundance of game, it soon grew more intricate, and assumed even a serious character.
"Now that the meal is ended, Chief," Ruperto said, "put out the fire; it is unnecessary for us to reveal our presence to the vagabonds who are doubtless prowling about the prairie."
Eglantine, at a sign from Flying Eagle, put out the fire.
"It was, indeed, your smoke which betrayed you," Don Mariano remarked.
"Oh!" Ruperto said, with a laugh, "because we wished it; had we not, we should have made our fire so as to remain unseen."
"You wish, then, to be discovered?"
"Yes; it was a throw of the dice."
"I do not understand you."
"What I say to you seems an enigma, but you will soon be able to understand it. Look," the hunter added, stretching out his arm in the direction of the gorge, "do you see that horseman going at full speed? In a quarter of an hour, at the most, he will be up with us; owing to the precaution I have taken, he will pass without noticing us."
"Do you fear anything from that horseman?"
"Nothing; on the contrary, the Chief and myself are here to help him."
"You know him then?"
"Not the least in the world."
"Hum! you are becoming more and more incomprehensible, Caballero."
"Patience," the hunter said, with a laugh, "did I not tell you you should soon have a solution of the enigma?"
"Yes, and I confess that my curiosity is so excited, that I am impatiently waiting it."
In the meanwhile, the horseman Ruperto had pointed out to Don Mariano came up rapidly, and soon passed, as the hunter had foreseen, a few paces from the bivouac, without noticing it. So soon as he had disappeared in the forest, Ruperto began again:—"A few hours ago," he said, "not far from the spot where we now are, the Chief and I, without wishing it, overheard a conversation of which this horseman was the object, a conversation in which the question was simply to make him fall into an odious snare. I do not know who this horseman is, nor do I wish to know it, but I have an instinctive repulsion to all that in the slightest degree resembles treachery. This Indian Chief, like myself, immediately resolved on saving this Caballero, if it were possible; we knew that he must pass by here, as he had an appointment with one of the men whom accident, or rather Providence, had made us so singularly listen to. Two men, however brave they may be, are very weak against some twenty bandits, still we did not lose courage, but resolved, if Heaven sent us no allies, bravely to attempt the adventure by ourselves; the more so, as the persons whose bloodthirsty plans we had surprised seemed to us to be atrocious villains; still, by the Chief's advice, I lit this fire, certain that if any traveller came this way the smoke would serve him as a beacon, and assuredly lead him here; you see, Caballero, that I was not mistaken, as you have come."
"And I am glad I have," Don Mariano warmly replied: "I most readily join in your plan, which appears to be suggested in every respect by an honest and good heart."
"Do not make me out better than I am, Caballero," the hunter made answer; "I am only a poor devil of a wood ranger, very ignorant of city matters; but under all circumstances, I obey the inspirations of my heart."
"And you are right, for they are sound and just."
"Thanks; now we are in force, I assure you that the pícaros, however numerous they may be, will see some fun; but we have still time before us; rest yourselves, sleep a few hours; when the moment arrives, we will arrange what to do."
Don Mariano was too tired to need a repetition of this invitation; a few moments later he and his companions were plunged in a deep and restorative sleep. At sunset Ruperto woke them, "It is time," he said.
They rose; for the few hours' rest had restored them all their strength. The arrangements to be made were simple, and soon decided on.
We have seen what took place; Addick and Don Stefano, themselves surprised, when they expected to surprise Don Miguel, not knowing how many enemies they had to contend with, fled after an obstinate struggle. Don Mariano and Ruperto, satisfied with having saved Don Miguel, retired so soon as the issue of the combat appeared no longer dubious.
Recalled, however, to the banks of the Rubio by the shots fired at the last moment by Don Miguel, they saw a man and rushed toward him, possibly more with the hope of helping him than taking him prisoner. The man had fainted. Don Mariano and Ruperto raised him in their arms, and transported him beneath the covert of the forest, where Eglantine had contrived with great difficulty to light a fire; but when they were enabled to see the wounded man's face by the glare, both uttered a cry of stupefaction.
"Don Stefano Cohecho!" Ruperto exclaimed.
"My brother!" Don Mariano said, with mingled grief and horror.