With the first gleam of day, the terrible hurricane, which had raged so cruelly through nearly the whole night, gradually calmed; the wind had swept the sky, and borne far away the gloomy clouds which studded the blue heavens with black spots; the sun rose majestically in floods of light; the trees, refreshed by the tempests, had reassumed that pale green hue, sullied on the previous day by the dusty sand of the desert; and the birds, hid in countless myriads beneath the dense foliage, poured forth that harmonious concert which they offer every morning at sunrise to the All High—a sublime and grand hymn, a ravishing hymn, whose rhythm, full of simple melodies, causes the man buried in this ocean of verdure to indulge in sweet dreams, and plunges him unconsciously into a melancholy reverie of the hope, whose realization is in heaven.
As we have said, Don Miguel Ortega, saved by the tried courage and presence of mind of the two wood rangers, was carried by them to the foot of a tree, beneath which they laid him.
The young man had fainted. The hunters' first care was to examine his wounds: he had two, one on the right arm, the other on the head, but neither of them was dangerous. The wound in the arm bled profusely, a bullet had torn the flesh, but had produced no fracture of the bone, or any grave accident; as for the wound in the head, evidently produced by a sharp instrument, the hair had already matted over it, and checked the haemorrhage.
Don Miguel's faintness was produced by the loss of blood in the first place, and next by the nervous excitement of a long and obstinate struggle, and the immense amount of strength he had been compelled to expend to resist the numerous enemies who had treacherously attacked him.
The wood rangers, owing to the life they led, and the innumerable accidents to which they are constantly exposed, are obliged to possess some practical knowledge of medicine, and particularly of surgery. Pupils of the Redskins, simples play a great part in their medical system. Brighteye and Marksman were masters of the art of treating wounds summarily, after the Indian fashion. After carefully washing the wounds, and removing the hair from that on the head, they plucked oregano leaves, formed them into a species of cataplasm, by slightly moistening them with spirits diluted in water, and applied this primitive remedy to the wounds, fastening it on with leaves of the abanigo, cut into strips, round which they wound aloe threads. Then, with the blade of a knife, they slightly opened the wounded man's tightly closed jaws, and poured a few drops of spirits into his mouth. In a few moments Don Miguel half opened his eyes, and a fugitive glow coloured his pallid cheeks.
The hunters, with their hands crossed on the muzzles of their rifles, carefully inspected the wounded man's face, trying to read on his features the probable results of the means they had thought it necessary to employ, in order to relieve him.
The man who recovers from a deep fainting fit is not at the first moment conscious of external objects, nor does he remember what has happened: the equilibrium of his faculties, suddenly interrupted by the successive blows they have experienced, is only re-established slowly and gradually, in proportion as the eye grows brighter, the memory clearer. Don Miguel looked around him with a glance that contained no warmth or expression, and almost immediately closed his eyes again, as if already wearied by the effort he had been forced to make in opening them.
"In a few hours his strength will be restored, and before three days there will not be a trace of it," Brighteye said, tossing his head sententiously. "By Jove! he is one of those sturdy fellows I like."
"Is he not?" Marksman answered,—"so young and so valiant? What a rude attack he sustained."
"Yes, and bravely, we must say; still, for all that, if we had not been there, he would have found it difficult to get out of the scrape."
"He would have perished, there is not the least doubt of it, and that would have been unfortunate."
"Very unfortunate! however, he is well out of it. By the way, what are we going to do with him now? We cannot stay here for ever; on the other hand, he is unable to make a movement; but we must take him back to the camp, his men will feel alarmed at his absence, and who knows what would happen if it were prolonged?"
"That is true; we cannot think of putting him on his horse, so we must hit on some other expedient."
"By Jove! that will not trouble us; the torpor into which he has fallen will last about two hours; in the meantime, he will be hardly capable of uttering a few words, and vaguely recalling what has happened to him; it is not, therefore, necessary for both of us to remain by him, one will be enough—say myself: you will go to the camp, state what has occurred, tell the Gambusinos in what condition their Chief is, ask for help, and bring it here as speedily as possible."
"You are right, Brighteye, on my word; your advice is excellent, and I will set about it at once. I shall not be gone more than two hours, so keep good watch, for we do not know who may be prowling round us, and spying our movements."
"Don't be frightened, Marksman, I am not one of those men who let themselves be surprised;—stay, I remember an adventure that occurred to me in every respect similar to this. It was a long time ago, in 1824, I was very young, and—"
But Marksman, who heard with secret terror his comrade beginning one of his interminable stories, hastily interrupted him without ceremony, saying—"By Jove! I have been acquainted with you for a long time, Brighteye, and know what manner of man you are, so I go perfectly easy in mind."
"No matter," the hunter replied, "if you would let me explain—"
"Useless, useless, my friend; explanations are uncalled for from a man of your stamp and experience," Marksman said, as he leaped into his saddle, and started at full speed.
Brighteye looked after him for a long time. "Hum!" he said, thoughtfully; "the Lord is my witness that that man is one of the most excellent creatures in existence; I love him as a brother, and regret that I can never make him understand how useful and precious it is to keep up a recollection of past events, so as not to feel embarrassed when any of those difficulties so common in desert life suddenly spring up:—well, I cannot help it." And he began once more examining the wounded man, with that intelligent attention he had not once ceased testifying toward him.
Don Miguel had not made a movement; more than an hour had elapsed, and when the effects of the fainting fit wore off, he instantaneously fell into that heavy, agitated sleep, from which nothing could arouse him for a long time. Brighteye, seated by his side, with his rifle betwixt his legs, philosophically smoked his Indian pipe, waiting, with the patience peculiar to hunters, till some symptom told him that the wounded man had succeeded in shaking off that torpor of evil augury which had seized upon him.
The old Canadian would have desired, even at the risk of an intense fever setting in, that a sudden commotion should recall the young man roughly to life; he built on the arrival of the Gambusinos to obtain this result, and he frequently consulted the desert with anxiety to try and perceive them, but he saw and heard nothing: all was silent around him.
"Come," he muttered at times, bending a dissatisfied glance at Don Miguel, who lay stretched at his feet, "the shock has been too rude, and nothing will happen to restore him to a consciousness of life; on my soul, I am most unlucky."
At the moment when, perhaps for the hundredth time, he repeated this sentence with ever-increasing annoyance, he heard at a short distance off a rather loud rustling, and the breaking of some dead branches.
"Eh, eh!" the hunter said, "what is the meaning of this?"
He raised his head smartly, and looked carefully around; suddenly he broke into a concentrated burst of laughter, and his eyes sparkled with joy.
"By Jove!" he said, gaily, "this is exactly what I want. Heaven has sent that young gentleman to draw me from my dilemma, and he is right welcome."
At about twenty paces from the hunter, a magnificent jaguar, crouching on the largest branch of an enormous cochineal tree, fixed a glaring look upon him, while at intervals passing one of its fore claws over its ears, with the airs and purring sound peculiar to the feline race. This wild beast, probably terrified by the hurricane of the past night, had not been able to regain its den, toward which it was proceeding, when it found the two men in its path.
The jaguar, or American tiger, far from attacking men, carefully avoids a meeting with them, and only accepts a combat when compelled and driven to bay, but then it becomes terrible, and a contest with it is frequently mortal, unless its opponent is accustomed to the numerous tricks it employs to insure the victory. At the moment the tiger perceived the hunter, the latter saw the tiger, hence the combat was imminent. The two enemies remained for several minutes in an attitude of observation; their glances crossed like sword blades.
"Come, make up your mind, sluggard," Brighteye muttered.
The jaguar uttered a hoarse yell, sharpened its formidable claws for a few seconds on the branch which served it for a pedestal, and then, drawing itself up, bounded on the hunter. The latter did not stir; with his rifle to his shoulder, his feet well apart and firmly fixed, and his body bent slightly forward, he followed with a careful eye all the movements of the wild beast; at the moment the latter made its spring, the hunter pulled the trigger.
The tiger turned a somersault with a ferocious yell, and fell at Brighteye's feet. The Canadian bent down to it, but the jaguar was dead; the hunter's bullet had entered its brain through the right eye, and killed it on the spot. At the howl of the brute, and the sound of Brighteye's rifle, Don Miguel opened his eyes and suddenly raised himself on his elbow, with a terrified look, and features contracted by a strange and terrible emotion, which reddened his face.
"Help! help!" he shouted in a thundering voice.
"Here I am!" Brighteye exclaimed, as he rose up, and forced him to lie down again.
Don Miguel looked at him.
"Who are you?" he said, at the expiration of a minute; "what do you want with me? I do not know you."
"That is true," the hunter said, imperturbably, and addressing him like a child, "but you will soon know me: do not be alarmed; for the moment, it is enough for you to know that I am a friend."
"A friend!" the wounded man repeated, trying to restore order to his ideas, which were still confused, "what friend?"
"By Jove!" the hunter said, "you do not count them by thousands, I suppose; I have been your friend for some hours past. I saved you at the moment when you were dying."
"But all that tells me nothing—teaches me nothing. How am I here? how are you here?"
"Those are a good many questions all at once, and it is impossible for me to answer them: you are wounded, and your state forbids any conversation. Will you drink?"
"Yes," Don Miguel answered, mechanically. Brighteye held his gourd to him.
"Still," he continued, after a moment, "I have not been dreaming."
"Who knows?"
"Those shots, the shouts I heard?"
"Quite a trifle;—a jaguar I killed, and which you can see a few yards off."
There was silence for a few minutes: Don Miguel was thinking deeply; light was beginning to dawn on his mind, his memory was returning. The hunter anxiously followed on the young man's face the incessant progress of returning thought. At length a flash of intelligence lit up the young man's eye, and fixing his feverish glance on the old hunter, he asked him,—"How long is it since you saved me?"
"Scarce three hours."
"Then, since the events that brought me here—there has only passed—?"
"One night."
"Yes!" the young man continued in a deep voice, a terrible voice, "I fancied I was dead."
"You only escaped by a miracle."
"Thanks."
"I was not alone."
"Who else came to my assistance? tell me his name, that I may preserve it preciously in my memory."
"Marksman."
"Marksman!" the wounded man exclaimed, tenderly, "always he. Oh! I ought to have expected that name, for he loves me."
"Yes."
"And what is your name?"
"Brighteye."
The young man trembled, and held out his arm. "Your hand," he said; "you were right just now in saying you were a friend, you have been so for a long time, Marksman has often spoken to me about you."
"We have been connected for thirty years."
"I know it: but where is he, that I do not see him?"
"He went, about two hours back, to the camp of the Cuadrilla to bring help."
"He thinks of everything."
"I remained here to watch over and take care of you during his absence; but he will soon return."
"Do you believe that I shall be long helpless?"
"No; your wounds are not serious. What floors you at this moment is the moral shock you received, and chiefly the blood you lost when you fell in a fainting state into the Rubio."
"Then that river—"
"Is the Rubio."
"I am, then, on the spot where the struggle ended?"
"Yes."
"How many days do you think I shall remain in this state?"
"Four or five at the most."
There was silence for several minutes.
"You told me that it is the weakness of my senses, produced by the moral shock I received, which overpowers me, I think?" Don Miguel began again.
"Yes, I said so."
"Do you believe that a firm and powerful will could produce a favourable reaction?"
"I do."
"Give me your hand."
"There it is."
"Good: now help me."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get up."
"By Jove! I was right in saying you were a man. Come, I consent: have a try."
After a few minutes spent in fruitless efforts, Don Miguel at length succeeded in standing upright.
"At last!" he said, triumphantly.
At the first step he took, he lost his balance, and rolled on the ground. Brighteye rushed toward him.
"Leave me," he shouted to him, "leave me; I wish to get up by myself."
He succeeded: this time he took his precautions better, and succeeded in walking a few steps. Brighteye regarded him with admiration.
"Oh! the will must subdue the matter," Don Miguel continued, with frowning brow and swollen veins, "I will succeed."
"You will kill yourself."
"No, for I must live; give me something to drink."
For the second time Brighteye handed him the gourd; the young man eagerly raised it to his lips. "Now!" he exclaimed, with a feverish accent, as he returned the gourd to the hunter, "to horse."
"What, to horse?" Brighteye said, with stupefaction.
"Yes; I must be moving."
"Why, that is madness."
"Let me alone, I tell you, I will hold on; but as the wound in the left arm prevents my getting into the saddle, I must claim your assistance."
"You wish it."
"I insist on it."
"Be it so; and may God be merciful to us."
"He will protect us, be assured."
Brighteye helped the young man into the saddle; against the hunter's previsions, he kept firm and upright. "Now," he said, "take up your jaguar's skin, and let us be off."
"Where are we going?"
"To the camp; Marksman will be greatly astonished to see me, when he believes me to be half dead."
Brighteye silently followed the young man; he gave up any further attempts to understand this strange character.
In spite of Don Miguel's firm will to overcome the pain, the horse's movement occasioned him a degree of suffering which made his features quiver, and drops of cold perspiration stand on his face, which was pale as that of a corpse; at times his sight troubled him, he found everything turning around him, he tottered in his saddle, and held on convulsively to his horse's mane through fear of falling.
"Stupid matter," he muttered in a hoarse voice, "shall I not succeed in conquering you?"
Then he redoubled his efforts to seem apathetic, smiled on Brighteye, and gaily addressed him.
For the first time in his life, the old hunter felt himself nonplussed: though he ransacked his memory to try and find an analogous circumstance to this in the course of his varied life, to his great regret he was forced to confess to himself that he had never witnessed anything like it. This annoyed him, and he therefore walked with a dissatisfied air by the young man's side.
Still they advanced. Suddenly, however, they heard the sound of horses near them on the trail they were following.
"Here is Marksman," Don Miguel said.
"That is probable."
"He will be greatly astonished to meet me coming toward the help he is bringing."
"That is certain."
"Let us hurry our horses on a little."
Brighteye looked at him. "You have sworn, then, to bring on a congestion of the brain?" he said to him plainly.
"How so?" the young man asked in surprise.
"By Jove! that is easy to see," the hunter went on, hastily; "for an hour you have been committing one act of madness after the other; but do not deceive yourself, Caballero, what you take for strength is only fever. It is that alone which sustains you, so take care, do not obstinately continue an impossible struggle, from which, I warn you, you will not emerge the victor. I let you act as you pleased, because I saw no harm in doing so up to the present; but, believe me, you have done enough. You have measured your strength, and know what you are capable of doing under urgent circumstances. That is all you want; so now let us stop and wait."
"Thank you," Don Miguel said, cordially squeezing his hand; "you are really my friend, your rude words prove it to me. Yes, I am a madman; but what would you? I am in a strange position, when every hour I lose may entail extreme dangers on myself and other persons, and I am afraid of succumbing before I have accomplished the task which misfortune has imposed on me."
"You will succumb much sooner if you will not be reasonable. Four or five days are soon passed; and, besides, what you cannot do, your friends will accomplish."
"That is true. You make me blush for myself. I am not only mad, but also ungrateful."
"Come, do not talk about that any more. The noise is approaching. They are probably your companions; still they might be enemies, for everything must be expected in the desert. Let us enter this thicket, where we shall be perfectly concealed from the eyes of the comers. If it be Marksman, we will show ourselves; if not, we will keep close."
Don Miguel warmly approved of the idea, for he understood that, in case of a fight, he should be but slight help to his companion in his present condition. The two men disappeared in the thicket, which closed on them, and they awaited, pistol in hand, the arrival of the persons.
Brighteye was not mistaken. It was really Marksman, returning with some fifteen Gambusinos. When they were only a few paces off, the two horsemen showed themselves. Marksman could not believe his eyes. He did not understand how the man he had left deprived of consciousness, stretched out on the ground like an inert and almost lifeless body, had possessed the strength to come and meet him, and to sit so upright and firm in his saddle.
Don Miguel enjoyed for a little while his triumph, and the admiration he inspired in these men, with whom the sole supremacy is that of strength, and then bent down with a smile to Marksman.
"You are not the less welcome with the help you bring me," he said in a low voice; "this help has become, at this moment, very necessary, if not indispensable; for my resolution alone keeps me in the saddle."
"You must make haste to return to the camp, and, for fear of accident, lie down on a litter."
"A litter?" Don Miguel objected.
"You must, believe me. It is urgent that you should reassume, as soon as possible, the command of your Cuadrilla, so do not waste your strength in useless bravado."
Don Miguel bowed without replying, for he understood the truth of the hunter's remark. So, after getting off his horse with the aid of the two Canadians, he himself ordered his companions to make the litter in which he should be carried to the camp.
Marksman passed his arm through the young man's, and, making a sign to Brighteye to follow them, led him a few paces from the party, and made him sit down on the grass.
"Now that you are in a condition to answer me, profit by the time during which your litter is being made. You have plenty to tell me."
The young man sighed. "Question me," he said.
"Yes, that will be better. How and by whom were you attacked?"
"I cannot tell you. It is a strange history; so confused that it is impossible for me, in spite of all my efforts, to disentangle it."
"No matter. Tell me what happened to you; perhaps we, who are better accustomed to the prairies than yourself, will find a thread which will guide us through this apparently inextricable labyrinth."
Don Miguel then told all the facts that had occurred, in all their detail. At the name of Addick, Marksman frowned; when the Mexican spoke of Don Stefano, the hunters exchanged an intelligent glance; but when the young man reached that singular turn in the combat when, on the point of succumbing, he had been suddenly surrounded by strangers, who disappeared as if by enchantment, after disengaging him, the hunters displayed marks of the greatest surprise.
"Such," Don Miguel concluded, "was the odious ambush into which I fell; and to which I should have been a victim, if you had not arrived so opportunely to save me. Now that you know all as well as I do, what is your opinion?"
"Hum!" the hunter said; "all that is really very extraordinary. There is at the bottom of the affair a dark machination, carried out with a diabolical skill and perversity which startles me. I have certain suspicions which I wish first to clear up; hence, I cannot give you my opinion at once. Before all, I must investigate certain matters; but trust to me for that. But these men who came so fortunately to your help—did you not see them?—did you not speak to them?"
"You forget," Don Miguel said, with a smile, "that they appeared in the thick of the fight; brought as it were by the hurricane, that raged so furiously. The time would have been badly chosen for conversation."
"That is true; I did not know what I was saying. But," the hunter added, striking the ground with the butt of his rifle, "I will not be beaten. I swear to you that I shall soon have discovered who your enemies are, whatever care they may take, and precautions employ, to conceal themselves."
"Oh! I intend to go in pursuit of them, so soon as I have got back my strength."
"You, Caballero," Marksman remarked drily, "have first to get well. On reaching your camp, you will have to shut yourself up, as in a citadel, and not take a step till you have seen me again."
"What! do you intend to leave me, then?"
"Brighteye and myself are going to start directly. We should be of no use near you, while we may be of service elsewhere."
"What do you intend to do?"
"On our return, you shall know all."
"I cannot remain in such a state of uncertainty. Besides, I do not understand you."
"Yet it is clear enough. I intend, aided by Brighteye, to tear the mask from this Don Stefano—a mask which, in my opinion, hides a very ugly countenance—to know who this man is, and why he is such an obstinate enemy to you."
"Thanks, Marksman; now I am easy in my mind. Go; do all that seems proper to you. I am convinced that you will accomplish everything that can be humanly accomplished. But, before separating, promise me one thing."
"What is it?"
"Promise me, that so soon as you have obtained all the information you are going to seek, you will bring it to me, without undertaking anything against this man, on whom I intend to take personally—you understand me, Marksman, personally—exemplary vengeance."
"That is your affair. I shall not interfere with you. Every man has his task in this world; the man is your enemy, and not mine. So soon as I have succeeded in bringing you face to face, or at least putting you opposite each other in an equal position, you will do as you please. I shall wash my hands of it."
"Good, good!" Don Miguel muttered. "If any day I hold that demon in my clutches, as he held me in his, he shall not escape, I swear!"
"So it is settled, we can start?"
"When you please."
Brighteye had hitherto listened calmly to the conversation; but at this remark he stepped forward, and laid his hand on Marksman's arm. "One moment," he said.
"What, more last words?" the hunter answered.
"Only a word; but one which, I fancy, possesses some value in the present state of affairs."
"Make haste, then!"
"You wish to discover who this Don Stefano is, as he thinks proper to call himself, and I approve it; but there is another matter, I fancy, quite as serious, which we ought to try and make out first."
"What is it?"
Brighteye turned his head to the right, and then to the left, bent his body slightly forward, and lowering his voice so that the persons he addressed could hardly hear him, he continued in a severe tone,—"Desert life in no way resembles that in the towns. Down there people know each other slightly or intimately, either by name or through personal relations; they are frequently connected by interests more or less direct; in a word, socialities exist between all the inhabitants of towns, attaching them one to the other, and forming them, as it were, into one family. In the desert this is no longer the case; egotism and personality are the masters; the 'I' is the supreme law; each man only thinks of himself, only acts for himself, and I will say, further, only loves himself."
"Cut it short, for goodness sake, Brighteye; cut it short!" Marksman said impatiently. "What the deuce are you driving at?"
"Patience!" the imperturbable Canadian said; "patience! and you shall know. In short, then, in the desert, unless a man has lived for years side by side with another—sharing pain and pleasure, good fortune and ill, with him—he lives alone, without friends, only counting indifferent persons as enemies. In the trap to which Don Miguel almost fell a victim last night, two sorts of people revealed themselves spontaneously to him. These were, first, inveterate enemies, and then equally staunch friends. Do not fancy," the hunter continued, growing warm, "that I have not calculated the range of the words I have just made use of; you would be greatly mistaken. Does it not seem strange to you, as it does to me, now that you are cool, and reason in all the plenitude of your faculties,—does it not seem strange to you, I repeat, that, at a given moment, without it being possible to know how or why—these men suddenly emerged, as it were, from the ground, to lend you a hand; then, when the danger was past, or nearly so, they disappeared as suddenly as they came, leaving no trace of their passage, and not breaking the incognito which covered them,—is not this strange?—answer!"
"In truth," Marksman muttered, "I did not think of that till now; the conduct of those men is inexplicable."
"That is exactly what must be explained!" Brighteye exclaimed violently. "The prairie is not so densely populated that, at a given moment, and amid a frightful hurricane, there should be men ready to defend you for the mere satisfaction of doing so; those people must have had secret motives for doing so, and that object it is urgent for us to discover. Who tells us that they did not form part of the band which attacked you? that it was not a trick to seize you more easily—a part of the game, the execution of which our unforeseen presence destroyed? I repeat to you, we must, before all, find these men, know who they are, and what they want; in a word, whether they are friends or enemies."
"It is very late now to undertake such a search," Don Miguel observed.
The two hunters smiled, as they exchanged a significant glance. "Very late for you, certainly, who do not possess the key of the desert," Brighteye replied; "but with us it is different."
"Yes," Marksman supported him: "let us only find a trace of their passage, however light it may be—a footstep on the damp sand, so as to hold one end of their trail—that will be enough to reach the other, and we shall give a good account of these strangers, whose conduct, as Brighteye observed very truly, is too strange and too fine to be honest."
"Oh! why cannot I follow you?" Don Miguel exclaimed, regretfully.
"Get well first; then, I am certain, your part will begin; for, before three days, we shall bring you all the information you want today, and without which you can effect nothing."
"So you promise me that in three days—"
"Yes, in three days we shall return from our expedition. Trust to our promise, and nurse yourself, so as to be able to begin the campaign at once."
"I shall be ready."
"So, now, good-bye! the sun is already high in the heavens; we have not a moment to lose."
"Good-bye, and good luck!"
The hunters cordially pressed Don Miguel's hand, remounted their horses, and went off rapidly in the direction of the Rubio ford. The chief of the Gambusinos, laid on a litter, went quickly back to his camp, which he reached a little before sunset.
We will now return to Don Stefano Cohecho, whom we left in a fainting state between Ruperto and Don Mariano.
The double exclamation drawn from the hunter and the Mexican traveller, on recognizing the man they had picked up on the river bank, had plunged all three of them into a profound state of stupefaction. Bermudez was the first to recover his coolness, and he walked up to his master. "Come, Don Mariano," he said to him, "do not stay here. Perhaps it will be as well that, when your brother opens his eyes, he should not see you."
Don Mariano fixed a burning glance on the wounded man. "How is it that I find him here?" he said, as if speaking to himself. "What is he doing in these savage regions? It was false, then, what he wrote about important business calling him to the United States, and that he had started for New Orleans?"
"Señor Don Estevan, your brother," Bermudez replied gravely, "is one of those darkly-intriguing men with whom it is impossible to know their thoughts, or guess their motives or action. You see the hunter gives him a name which does not belong to him. For what purpose does he conceal himself, then? Believe me, Don Mariano, there is a mystery beneath this which we will clear up, with the aid of Heaven; but let us be prudent; let us not reveal our presence to Don Estevan; there will always be time to do so when we discover that we have been deceived."
"That is true, Bermudez; your advice is good, and I will follow it; but, before retiring, let me assure myself as to his present condition. That man is my brother; and, however great the injuries he has done me may be, I should not like to see him die without assistance."
"Perhaps it would be better," Bermudez muttered.
Don Mariano looked at him angrily, and bent over the wounded man. The latter was still in a fainting state. Eglantine lavished on him those delicate and intelligent attentions, of which women of all nations and every colour possess the secret, but yet could not recall him to life.
"Pray, Excellency, take my advice," Bermudez urged, "and retire."
Don Mariano took a last look at his brother, and seemed to hesitate; then turning away, with an effort, he said—"Let us go." The old servant's face brightened.
"I recommend this man to you," Don Mariano added, addressing Ruperto. "Pay him all the attention his condition demands and humanity orders."
The hunter bowed. The Mexican gentleman walked a few steps toward his horse, which, with those of his companions, was fastened to a young ebony tree. Don Mariano retired with regret: a secret voice seemed to warn him to remain. At the moment he placed his foot in the stirrup, a hand was laid on his arm, and he turned sharply. A man was standing by his side. It was Flying Eagle.
The chief had left to the whites the care of transporting the wounded. With the instinct peculiar to his race, he had examined with the utmost attention the scene of the ambush and all the spots whither the accidents of the combat had led the fighters. His object in thus acting had been to discover some trace, some sign, which, in case of need, might be useful to those who had an interest in discovering the causes of the snare laid for Don Miguel. Accident had aided him admirably, by supplying him with a proof whose value must be immense, and which, doubtlessly, Don Stefano would have bought back with his best blood, in order to destroy it. Unfortunately, this proof, interesting as it was, was a sealed letter for the Indian, and in his hands possessed no value.
Flying Eagle immediately thought of Don Mariano, who would probably explain to him the importance of the mysterious find he had made. After turning it over several times, he hid it in his bosom, and with the characteristic decision of his race, walked rapidly back to the camp, where he was certain of finding the Mexican.
"Is my father going away?" the Redskin asked.
"Yes," Don Mariano answered; "but I am glad to see you, Chief, before my departure, that I may thank you for your cordial hospitality."
The Indian bowed. "My father can decipher the 'collars' of the Palefaces. I think," he continued, "the whites have great knowledge. My father must be a chief of his nation."
Don Mariano looked at the Comanche in surprise.
"What do you mean?" he asked him.
"Our Indian fathers taught us to preserve, on the skins of animals, prepared for the purpose, the interesting events that happened in our tribe in the old ages of the world. The Palefaces know all; they possess the great medicine; they also have collars."
"Certainly, we have books, in which, by means of recognized signs, the history of nations, and even the thoughts of men, can be traced."
The Indian made a gesture of joy.
"Good!" he said; "my father must know these signs, for his head is grey."
"I do know them. Can the simple knowledge I possess be of any service to you?"
Flying Eagle shook his head negatively.
"No," he said; "not to me, but perhaps to others."
"I do not understand you, Chief; be good enough, therefore, to explain yourself more clearly, for I wish to go away before that man regains his consciousness."
The Indian took a side glance at the injured man.
"He will not open his eyes for an hour," he said. "Flying Eagle can talk to his father."
In spite of himself, Don Mariano felt interested in knowing what the Indian wished to tell him; so he resolved to wait, and made him a sign to speak. The chief continued in a low voice,—"Let my father listen," he said. "Flying Eagle is not an old gossiping woman; he is a renowned chief. The words his breast breathes are all inspired by the Wacondah. Flying Eagle loves the Palefaces, because they have been good to him, and have, in certain circumstances, rendered him great services. After the fight, the Chief went over the field of battle; near the spot where the man fell whom my father brought here, Flying Eagle found a medicine bag, containing several collars. The Indian looked at them on all sides, but could not understand them, because the Wacondah had spread over his eyes the thick bandage which prevents the Redskins equalling the Whites. Still the Chief, suspecting that perhaps this mysterious bag, useless to him, might be important for my father, or some of his friends, previously concealed it in his breast, and ran in all haste to hand it to my father. Here it is," he added, drawing a portfolio from his bosom, and handing it to Don Mariano; "let my father take it; perhaps he will be able to discover what it contains."
Though the Redskin's action was perfectly natural on his part, and the portfolio and its contents might be matters of indifference to the gentleman, he only took it from the Chief's hands with reluctance. The Indian folded his arms and waited, perfectly satisfied with what he had done.
Don Mariano absently examined the portfolio he held in his hand. It was made of very ordinary shagreen, with no ornaments or gilding; it could be seen that it was more for use than luxury; and it was crammed with papers, and fastened with a small silver clasp. The examination, begun absently, suddenly assumed a great importance for Don Mariano, for his eyes had fallen on these words, half effaced, engraved in letters of gold on one of the sides of the portfolio,—"Don Estevan de Real del Monte."
At the sight of these words, which revealed to him the name of the owner of the object he held, he gave a start of surprise. While turning and speaking, he came on his brother, who still lay unconscious, and by a movement independent of his will, his hand squeezed it forcibly. This pressure opened the hasp, and several papers fell out.
Bermudez stooped quickly, and handed them to his master. The latter mechanically held out his hand to receive them, and return them to the portfolio; but Bermudez checked him resolutely.
"Heaven gives you the means to know the truth at last," he said; "do not neglect the opportunity it affords you, or you may repent it when too late."
"Violate my brother's secrets!" Don Mariano muttered, with a movement of repulsion.
"No," Bermudez retorted drily, "but learn how he became master of yours. Excellency, remember the object of our journey."
"But if I were discovered—if he were not guilty?"
"All the better. In that way you will acquire certainty."
"What you urge me to do is wrong. I have no right to act so."
"Well, I, who am only a wretched Criado, Excellency, whose actions have no serious import, will assume that right for your sake, Excellency." And by a gesture swift as thought, he seized the portfolio.
"Wretch!" Don Mariano shouted. "Stay, what are you going to do?"
"Save, perhaps, her you love, as you dare not do it yourself."
"My father will leave his slave free," the Indian interposed, "the Wacondah inspires him."
Don Mariano had not the courage to resist longer, for involuntarily an unknown feeling he could not explain, told him that he was wrong, and Bermudez did well to act so. The half-caste had, with the greatest coolness, opened the papers, not appearing to care for any seeming impropriety in his conduct.
"Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "did I not tell you, Excellency, that Heaven placed in your hands the proofs you had so long been seeking in vain? Read! read! and if it be possible, still doubt the testimony of your eyes, and refuse longer to believe in your brother's perfidy, and odious treason."
Don Mariano seized the papers with a feverish gesture, and hurriedly read them. After reading them two or three times, he stopped, raised his eyes to heaven, and then let his head fall in his hands with an expression of the utmost pain. "Oh, oh!" he muttered, in despair, "my brother! my brother!"
"Courage!" Bermudez said, softly.
"I will have it," he answered; "the hour of justice has arrived."
A strange change had suddenly taken place in him. This man, a few moments previously so timid, and whose hesitation was extreme, was metamorphosed. He seemed to have grown; his features had assumed an imposing rigidity, and his eyes flashed fire.
"No more childish fears," he said; "no further tergiversation. We must act."
Then turning to Flying Eagle, he asked him,—
"Is that man seriously wounded?"
The Indian carefully examined Don Stefano.
During the whole period of the examination, no one uttered a word. Everyone understood that Don Mariano had at length formed an energetic resolution, and that he would accomplish it remorselessly, and without hesitation, no matter what the consequences might be to him hereafter.
Flying Eagle returned in a few minutes.
"Well?" the gentleman asked him.
"That man is not really wounded," the Indian answered; "he has only received a serious contusion on the head, which has plunged him into a sort of lethargic faint, from which he will not recover for an hour."
"Very well; and on waking, in what state will he be?"
"Very weak; but that weakness will soon wear off, and tomorrow he will be as right as before he received the blow."
A bitter smile played round Don Mariano's lips. "Tell that hunter, your friend, to come here; I must speak to you both," he said. "I have a service to ask of you."
The Chief obeyed.
"I am at your service, Excellency," Ruperto remarked.
"We will hold a council," Don Mariano then said. "Is not that the term you employ in the desert when you have to discuss important business?"
The hunter and the Indian made a sign of assent.
"Listen to me attentively," the gentleman continued, in a firm and impressive voice. "The man there is my brother, and he must die. I do not wish to kill him, but to try him. All you now present will be his judges; I his accuser. Will you aid me to accomplish an act of vengeance, but a deed of the most rigorous justice? I repeat to you, I will accuse him before you all, and documents in hand. He will be at liberty to defend himself; your conscience will be clear; he will have entire freedom to do so; and, moreover, you will condemn or acquit him, according to the opinion you form on the evidence. You have heard me; reflect; I await your reply."
There was a supreme silence. After a few moments, Ruperto took the word. "In the desert, where human justice does not penetrate," he said, "the law of God must prevail. If we have a right to kill the noxious and malevolent brutes, why should we not the right to punish a villain? I accept the office you offer me, because in my heart I am persuaded that in doing so I am doing my duty, and am useful to society, of which I make myself the avenger."
"Good!" Don Mariano answered. "I thank you. And you, Chief?"
"I accept," the Comanche said distinctly. "Traitors must be punished, no matter to what race they belong. Flying Eagle is a chief; he has the right to sit at the council fire, in the first rank of the Sachems, and condemn or acquit."
"It is now your turn," Don Mariano continued, addressing his servant; "answer."
Bermudez stepped forward a pace, and bowed respectfully to Don Mariano. "Excellency," he said, "we knew this man when he was a child; we dandled him on our knees. At a later date he became our master; our hearts would not be free in his presence. We cannot judge him; we ought not to condemn him. We are only fit to execute the sentence, whatever it may be, which is dealt out to him, if we receive the order. Old slaves, liberated by the kindness of their master, are never equal to him."
"Those feelings are what I expected from you. I thank you for your frankness, my children. In truth, you should not interfere in this matter. Heaven, I hope, will send us two men with loyal hearts and firm will to take your places, and fulfil the duty of judges impartially."
"Heaven has heard you, Caballero," a rough voice said; "we are here at your disposal."
The branches of the thicket near which our characters were, were then torn boldly asunder, and two men appeared. They walked a few steps forward, rested their rifles on the ground, and waited.
"Who are you?" Don Mariano asked.
"Hunters."
"Your name?"
"Marksman."
"And yours?"
"Brighteye. For about half an hour we have been hidden behind this bush. We heard all you said, and hence it is useless to repeat your statement. But there is another man who must be present at the trial."
"Another man! Who?"
"The one he attacked so traitorously, whom you drew from his hand, and whom we saved."
"Ha! who knows where to find that man at present?"
"We do," Marksman said, "as we only left him an hour ago, to take up your trail."
"Oh, if that is the case, you are right; that man must come."
"Unfortunately, he is seriously wounded; but if he cannot come of himself, he can be carried: and I know not why, but his presence seems to me not only necessary, but even indispensable, in order to clear up certain facts which it is our duty to fathom."
"What do you mean?"
"Patience, Caballero! you will soon understand. This man's camp is not far off, and he can be here before sunset."
"But who will warn him?"
"Myself," Brighteye answered.
"I thank you for the hearty offer."
"We are possibly more interested than yourself in clearing up this mysterious machination," Marksman answered.
At a sign from his friend, Brighteye remounted his horse, which he had left in the thicket, and rode off at full speed, while Don Mariano followed him with a glance at once curious and puzzled. "You speak to me in riddles," he said to Marksman, who was still leaning on his rifle.
The latter shook his head.
"The history, whose odious incidents will be unrolled before you, is a sad one, Excellency, and you have not the key, in spite of the proofs you believe you possess."
Don Mariano sighed, and two burning tears ran down his cheeks, which were furrowed by grief.
"Courage, mi amo!" Bermudez said. "Heaven is at length on your side."
The gentleman pressed the hand of his faithful servant, and turned his head away to conceal the emotion he felt.
When Brighteye went off, Marksman, the Indian, and Ruperto approached the wounded man, who was still plunged in the same state of lethargy, and collected around him, in order to await his recovery.
Don Mariano, whose scruples were now extinguished, and who was anxious to know all the windings of his brother's dark machinations, in order to have solid arguments for the accusations he was about to bring against him before that supreme tribunal he had so unexpectedly found, withdrew from his servants into a dense coppice, where, free from all glances, he opened the portfolio with feverish impatience, and began reading the papers it contained, with a horror that increased with every fresh letter he unfolded.
Don Mariano did not wish his brother to be aware of his presence before being confronted with his judges, for he counted on his unexpected apparition to foil his perspicacity and presence of mind, by making him lose his coolness. Hence he concealed himself in a spot invisible to the most searching glance, reserving the right of appearing at the decisive moment.
More than an hour elapsed, ere Don Stefano, in spite of Eglantine's incessant care, made a movement indicating his return to life. Still the three men, crouched silently round him, did not for a moment relax in their watchfulness; they understood the full extent of the act they were about to accomplish, and desired, with that intuitive mistrusting possessed by loyal souls, that the man they were about to try should be sufficiently collected, and so far in possession of his faculties, as to defend his life bravely.
At the moment when the sun, rapidly declining on the horizon, lengthened the shadows of the trees, and only appeared through the lower branches like a huge ball of fire, the evening breeze passed like a fresh breath over the pale brow of the wounded man, who uttered a deep sigh at the feeling of comfort this beneficial freshness caused him to experience, after the stifling heat of the day.
"He is going to open his eyes," Marksman muttered.
Flying Eagle laid his finger on his lips as he pointed to the wounded man.
Low as the hunter had spoken, Don Stefano had heard him; though not, perhaps, understanding the meaning of the words that had struck his ears, but sufficiently so to recall him to a sense of existence.
Don Stefano was no common man, and a worthy son of the bastard race of Mexico. Cunning was the most prominent point in his eminently dissimulating character; accustomed ever to judge men and things badly, distrust seemed innate in his heart. Marksman's words warned him to keep on his guard, without stirring, without opening his eyes, lest he should reveal his return to life; he made a supreme effort to recall the events that preceded his accident, so as to arrive, from deduction to deduction, at the position in which he now was, and guess, if that were possible, into whose hands chance, or his ill fortune, had made him fall.
The task Don Stefano imposed on himself was not easy, for, by the force of circumstances, he was deprived of his most potent auxiliary, sight, which would have enabled him to recognize the persons who surrounded him, or, at any rate, perceive were they friends or enemies. Thus, though he listened with the utmost attention, in order to catch a word or a phrase to guide him in his suppositions, and show him how to base his calculations on probable, if not positive, data, as the hunters, warned by the Chief, and suspecting a trick, abstained for their part from making a gesture or uttering a word, all his previsions were foiled, and he remained in the most utter ignorance.
This prolonged silence further heightened Don Stefano's anxiety, and presently threw him into such a state of alarm that he resolved, at all risks, on removing his doubts. Putting his plans almost at once into execution, he made a movement as if to rise, and suddenly opened his eyes, and took an inquiring and searching glance around.
"How do you feel?" Marksman asked, as he bent over him.
"Very weak," Don Stefano answered, in a suffering voice. "I feel a general heaviness, and frightful buzzing in my ears."
"Good," the hunter continued, "that is not dangerous. It is always so after a fall."
"I have had a fall, then?" the wounded man continued, whom the sight of Ruperto, an old acquaintance, began to reassure.
"Hang it! it is probable, as we found you lying on the banks of the Rubio."
"Ah, you found me, then?"
"Yes, about three hours back."
"Thanks for the aid you gave me; had it not been for that, I should probably be dead."
"Very possibly; but do not be in a hurry to thank us."
"Why not?" Don Stefano suddenly said, as he cocked his ears at this ambiguous answer, which seemed to him a disguised threat.
"Eh, who knows?" Marksman retorted, simply; "No one can answer for the future."
Don Stefano, whose strength was rapidly returning, and who had already regained all his lucidity of mind, rose quickly, and fixed on the Canadian a glance which seemed meant to read his most intricate thoughts. "I am not your prisoner, though?"
"Hum!" was all the hunter replied.
This interjection made the wounded man thoughtful, and disturbed him more than a long phrase. "Let us speak frankly," he said, after a few moments' reflection.
"I wish for nothing better."
"Of you, then, there is one I know," he continued, pointing to Ruperto, who gave a silent nod of assent. "I never, to my knowledge, injured that man; on the contrary—"
"That is true," Ruperto answered.
"I never saw you, so you can have no feelings of animosity against me."
"That is correct. This is the first time Providence has brought us face to face."
"There remains this Indian warrior, who, like yourself, is a perfect stranger to me."
"All that is correct."
"For what reason, then, can I be your prisoner? Unless, as I cannot believe, you belong to those birds of prey, called pirates, who swarm in the desert?"
"We are not pirates, but frank and honest hunters."
"A further reason why I should address my question to you again, and ask you if I am your prisoner or no?"
"The question is not so simple as you suppose, although we have no reproaches to bring against you personally. Have you not insulted or offended other persons since you have been on the prairie?"
"I?"
"Who else but you? Did you not try, no later than last night, to assassinate a man in an ambuscade you laid for him?"
"Yes; but that man is my enemy."
"Well! Suppose, for a moment, we are friends of that man!"
"But it is not so. It cannot be."
"Why not? What makes you suppose so?"
Don Stefano shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"You must think me very foolish," he said, "if you would try to make me believe that quibble."
"It is not so much one as you imagine."
"Nonsense! If I had fallen into the hands of that man, he would have had me conveyed to his camp, in order to revenge himself on me in the presence of the bandits he commands, and to whom the sight of my punishment would, doubtlessly, have been too agreeable for him to have tried to deprive them of the delightful sight."
The old hunter, whose language had hitherto been ironical and face malicious, suddenly changed his tone, and became as serious and stern as he had previously been sarcastic. "Listen," he said, "and profit by what you are going to hear. We are not the dupes of your feigned weakness. We know very well that your strength has nearly returned. The advice I give you is frank, and intended to guard you against yourself; you are not our prisoner, it is true, and yet you are not free."
"I do not understand you," Don Stefano interrupted him, the last words clouding over his face, which had suddenly grown brighter.
"Not one of the persons present," Marksman continued, "has any charge to bring against you. We do not know who you are; and before today, I, at least, was entirely ignorant of your existence; but there is a man who asserts that he has against you—not feelings of hatred, for that would be a matter to settle between yourselves in a fair fight—but motives of complaint sufficiently great to justify your immediate trial."
"My trial!" Don Stefano repeated, in the utmost astonishment; "but before what tribunal does that man intend to try me? We are here in the desert."
"Yes; and you seem to forget it. In the desert, where the laws of cities are powerless to punish the guilty, there is a terrible, summary, implacable legislature, to which, in the common welfare, every aggrieved person has a right to appeal, when suspicious circumstances demand it."
"And what is this law?" Don Stefano asked, whose pale face had already assumed a cadaverous hue.—
"It is Lynch law."
"Lynch law?"
"Yes; and in the name of that law we, who, as you say, you do not know, have been assembled to try you."
"Try me! But that is impossible. What crime have I committed? Who is the man that accuses me?"
"I cannot answer these questions. I do not know the crime of which you are accused, nor the name of your accuser; but believe me, we have no hatred or prejudice against you, and we shall, therefore, be impartial. Prepare your defence during the few moments left you, and when the moment arrives, try to prove your innocence, by confounding your accuser—a thing which I ardently desire."
Don Stefano let his head fall in his hands with an expression of despair. "But how would you have me prepare my defence, when I am ignorant of the nature of the crimes imputed to me? Give me a light through the darkness, a flash, however slight, that I may be able to guide myself, and know where I am."
"In speaking as I did, Caballero, I obeyed my conscience, which ordered me to warn you of the danger that threatened you. It would be impossible for me to tell you more, for I am as ignorant as yourself."
"Oh! it is enough to drive a man mad," Don Stefano exclaimed.
At a sign from Marksman, Ruperto and Flying Eagle rose. The hunter nodded to Eglantine to imitate their example. All four withdrew, and Don Stefano was left alone.
The Mexican rolled on the ground with the insensate fury of a man before whom an insurmountable obstacle suddenly rises, and who, driven into a desperate position, is forced to confess himself vanquished. A prey to the deepest anxiety, ignorant whither to turn in order to dispel the tempest growling over his head, he sought in vain in his mind for the means to escape from the hands that held him. His inventive genius, so fertile in schemes of every description, furnished him with no subterfuge, no stratagem, that would aid him advantageously in supporting this supreme contest with the unknown. In vain he racked his brains: he found nothing. Suddenly he drew himself up, and by a movement rapid as thought, thrust his hand into his chest. "Ah!" he exclaimed, sorrowfully, and let his hand fall again by his side, "what has become of my portfolio?" He searched eagerly around him, but found nothing. "I am lost," he added, "if those men have found it. What shall I do? What will become of me?"
A sound of horses was heard in the distance, gradually approaching the spot where the hunters were encamped. The sound soon became more distinct, and it was easy to recognize the advent of a numerous party of horsemen. In fact, within a quarter of an hour, some thirty mounted men, led by Brighteye, entered the clearing. "Brighteye among these bandits!" Don Stefano muttered. "What can be the meaning of it?"
His uncertainty did not last long. The new arrivals escorted a man whom Don Stefano recognized at once. "Don Miguel Ortega! oh, oh!" Then he added, with one of those cunning smiles habitual to him, "Now I know my accuser. Come, come," he said to himself, "the position is not so desperate as I supposed. It is evident these men know nothing, and my precious papers have not fallen into their hands. Hum! I fancy that this terrible Lynch law will be wrong this time, and I shall escape from this peril, as I have done from so many others."
Don Miguel had passed without seeing Don Stefano, or perhaps, as was more likely, without appearing to notice him. As for the prisoner, interested as he was in observing everything, and not allowing the slightest detail to escape his notice, he followed with watchful eye, while feigning the most indifferent behaviour, all the movements of the hunters. After gently depositing the litter at the side of the clearing opposite to that where Don Stefano lay, the Gambusinos, instead of dismounting, formed a large circle, and remained motionless, rifle on thigh, thus rendering any attempt at flight impossible.
Buffalo skulls, intended to act as seats, were arranged in a semicircle round a fire of dry branches. On these skulls, five in number, five men immediately took their seats, arranged in the following order:—Don Miguel Ortega, performing the duties of president, in the centre, having on his right Marksman, on his left Brighteye, and then the Indian Chief and a Gambusino. This tribunal in the open air, in the heart of the virgin forest, surrounded by these horsemen, in their strange costume, motionless as bronze statues, produced an effect at once imposing and striking. These five men, with stern looks and frowning eyebrows, calm and apathetic, bore a marvellous resemblance to that Holy Vehm, which in old times, on the banks of the Rhine, took the place of legal justice, no longer able to repress crime, and gave its judgments in the open air, to the hoarse growling of the winds, and the mysterious murmurs of the waters.
In spite of his daring, Don Stefano felt a shudder of terror all over him, as he looked round the clearing, and saw all eyes fatally fixed upon him, with the implacable rigidity of desert force and justice. "Hum!" he muttered to himself, "I believe I shall have a difficulty to get out of the scrape, and was too hasty in claiming victory."
At this moment, two hunters, at a sign from Don Miguel, quitted the ranks, dismounted, and approached the wounded man. The latter made an effort, and succeeded in gaining his feet. The hunters took him by the arms, and led him before the tribunal. Don Stefano drew himself up, crossed his arms on his chest, and bent a sardonic glance on the men before whom he was led. "Oh, oh!" he said, with a mocking accent, addressing Don Miguel, "it is you, then, Caballero, who are my accuser?"
The captain shrugged his shoulders slightly. "No," he replied; "I am not your accuser, but your judge."
After these words, there was a moment of expectation—almost of hesitation. A leaden silence seemed to brood over the forest.
Don Stefano was the first to overcome the feeling of terror which involuntarily pervaded him. "Well!" he said, with a contemptuous tone, and a clear, cutting voice; "if it be not you, where is this accuser? Will he hide himself, now that the hour has arrived? Will he recoil before the responsibility he has assumed? Let him appear—I am ready for him!"
Don Miguel shook his head. "When he does appear, you may, perhaps, find that he has come too soon," he answered.
"What do you want with me, then?"
"You shall hear."
Don Miguel was pale and sombre; a sad smile played round his discoloured lips; it was evident that he was making extraordinary exertions to overcome his weakness and keep his seat. After a few moments' consideration, he raised his head. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Don Stefano Cohecho," the accused answered without hesitation.
The judges exchanged a glance.
"Where were you born?"
"At Mazatlán, in 1808."
"What is your profession?"
"Merchant, at Santa Fé."
"What motive brought you into the desert?"
"I have told you already."
"Repeat it!" Don Miguel said, with perfect coldness.
"I would remark that these questions, perfectly unnecessary for you, are beginning to grow tiresome."
"I ask you what motive brought you into the desert?"
"The failure of several of my correspondents compelled me to take a journey, in the hope of saving some fragments of my endangered fortune. I am in the desert, because there is no other road to the town I wish to reach."
"Where are you going?"
"To Monterey. You see the docility with which I answer all your questions," he said, with the impertinent tone he had assumed ever since he was led before his judges.
"Yes," Don Miguel replied, slowly, and laying a stress on each word, "you display great docility. I wish, for your own sake, you were equally truthful."
"What do you mean by that remark?" Don Stefano asked, haughtily.
"I mean that you have answered each of my questions with a falsehood," Don Miguel said, coolly and drily.
Don Stefano frowned, and his tawny eye emitted a flash. "Caballero!" he said, violently, "such an insult—"
"It is no insult," the adventurer answered, in his old tone; "it is the truth, and you know it as well as I."
"I should be curious to know the meaning of this," the Mexican tried to say.
Don Miguel looked at him fixedly; and, in spite of his impudence, Don Stefano could not endure the glance.
"I will satisfy you," the adventurer said.
"I am listening."
"To my first question you answered that your name was Don Stefano Cohecho?"
"Well?"
"That is false; for your name is Don Estevan de Real del Monte."
The accused gave a slight start. Don Miguel continued:—"To my second question, you replied that you were born at Mazatlán, in 1808. That is false; you were born at Guanajuato, in 1805."
The adventurer waited a moment, to give the man he addressed time to reply. But Don Estevan, whose right name we will in future adhere to, did not think it advisable to do so. He remained cold and gloomy. Don Miguel smiled contemptuously, and continued:—
"To my third question, you answered that you carried on the business of a merchant, and were established at Santa Fé. That is all false. You never were a merchant. You are a senator, and reside in Mexico. Lastly—You said you were only crossing the desert on your road to Monterey, where the interests of your pretended business called you. As for the latter assertion, I need hardly, I believe, prove its falsehood to you, for that is palpable from the other answers you made. Now I await your reply, if you have one to make—which I doubt."
Don Estevan had had time enough to recover from the rude blow he had received; hence he did not feel alarmed, as he believed he could guess whence the attack came, and by what means those in whose presence he now was had obtained this information about him. Hence he replied in a sarcastic tone, and drawing in his lips spitefully,—"Why do you fancy I cannot answer you, Caballero? Nothing is more easy; on the contrary, cáspita! because, during my fainting fit, you—shall I say robbed me? No, I am polite; I will therefore say—adroitly carried off my portfolio; and because, after opening it, you obtained certain information, you throw it in my face, convinced that I shall feel disarmed by your being so conversant with my affairs. Nonsense! You are mad, on my soul. All these things are absurdities, which will not bear analysis. Yes, it is true that my name is Don Estevan. I was born at Guanajuato, in 1805, and am a senator—what next? Those are strong motives on which to base an accusation against a Caballero! Cuerpo de Cristo! Am I the only man in the desert who assumes a name other than his own? By what right do you, who only call each other by your surnames, wish to prevent me from following your example? It is the height of absurdity; and if you have no better reason to allege, I must ask you to let me go and attend to my affairs in peace."