paroxysm can render possible, the abbess succeeded in removing her gag
slightly."

"Perhaps!' she yelled, in a voice which sounded like a knell in Don
Torribio's ears."

"Overcome by this great effort, she fainted."

"Five minutes after, there was no one in the convent beyond its usual
inmates."

CHAPTER IX.

BRIGHTEYE AND MARKSMAN.

At this point in his narrative Brighteye stopped, and began, with a
thoughtful air, filling his Indian pipe with tobacco.

There was a lengthened silence. His auditors, still under the influence
of this extraordinary influence, dared not venture any reflections. At
length Marksman raised his head. "That story is very dramatic and very
gloomy," he said, "but pardon my rude frankness, old and dear comrade,
it seems to me to have no reference to what is going on around us, and
the events in which we shall, probably, be called upon to be interested
spectators, if not actors."

"In truth," Ruperto observed, "what do we wood rangers care for
adventures that happen in Mexico, or any other city of the _Tierras
Adentro_? We are here in the desert to hunt, trap, and thrash the
Redskins. Any other question can affect us but slightly."

Brighteye tossed his head in a significant manner, and laid his pipe
mechanically by his side.

"You are mistaken, comrades," he continued; "do you believe, then, that
I should have made you waste your time in listening to this long story,
if it did not possess an important reality for us?"

"Explain yourself, then, my friend," Marksman observed, "for I honestly
confess that, for my part, I have understood nothing of what you have
been good enough to tell us."

The old Canadian raised his head, and seemed, for a few moments, to be
calculating the sun's height. "It is half past six," he said; "you
have still more than sufficient time to reach the ford of the Rubio,
where the man is to wait, to whom you have engaged yourself as guide.
Listen to me, therefore, for I have not quite finished. Now that I have
told you the mystery, you must learn what has come out to clear it up."

"Speak!" Marksman replied, in the tone of a man who is resolved to
listen through politeness to a story which he knows cannot interest him.

Brighteye, not seeming to remark his friend's apathetic condescension,
went on in the following terms:--"You have remarked that Don Torribio
provided for everything with a degree of prudence which must keep off
any suspicion, and cover this adventure with an impenetrable veil.
Unfortunately for him, the evangelista was not killed. He could not
only speak, but show a copy of each of the letters he daily handed
to the young man--letters which the latter paid so dearly for, and
which, with that prudence innate in the Mexican race, he had previously
guarded, to employ, if needed, as a weapon against Don Torribio; or,
as was more probable, to avenge himself if he fell a victim to any
treachery. This was what happened:--The evangelista, found in a dying
state by an early customer, had strength enough to make a regular
declaration to the Juez de Lettras, and hand him the letters ere he
died. This assassination, taken in connection with the attack on the
serenos by a numerous band, and the invasion of the Convent of the
Bernardines, furnished a clue which the police begun following with
extreme tenacity; especially as the young lady whose body had been
so audaciously carried off had powerful relations, who, for certain
reasons known to themselves, would not let this crime pass unpunished,
and spent their gold profusely. It was soon learned that the bandits,
on leaving the convent, mounted horses brought by their confidants, and
started at full speed in the direction of the Presidios. The police
even succeeded in discovering one of the men who supplied the horses.
This individual, Pepito by name, bought over by the money offered
him, rather than frightened by threats, stated that he had sold to
Don Torribio Carvajal twenty-five post horses, to be delivered at the
Convent of the Bernardines at two o'clock in the morning. As these
horses were paid for in advance, he, Pepito, did not trouble himself
at all about the singularity of the spot, or of the hour. Don Torribio
and his companions had arrived, bearing with them two women, one of
whom appeared to have fainted, and immediately galloped off. The trail
of the ravishers was then followed to the Presidio de Tubar, where Don
Torribio allowed his party to rest for several days. There he purchased
a close palanquin, a field tent, and all the provisions necessary for a
lengthened journey in the desert, and one night suddenly disappeared,
with all his band, which was augmented by all the adventurers he could
pick up at the Presidio, no one being able to say in what direction
he had gone. This information, though vague, was sufficient up to a
certain point, and the relations of the young lady were continuing
their search."

"I fancy I am beginning to see what you want to arrive at," Marksman
interrupted him; "but conclude your story; when you have finished, I
will make sundry observations, whose justice you will recognize, I am
sure."

"I shall be delighted to hear them," Brighteye said, and went on:--"A
man who, twenty years ago, did me a rather important service, whom I
had not seen since, and whom I should assuredly not have recognized,
had he not told me his name--the only thing I had not forgotten--came
to me and my partner Ruperto, while we were at the Presidio de Tubar,
selling a few panther and tiger skins. This man told me what I have
just repeated to you: he added that he was a near relation of the young
lady, reminded me of the service he had rendered me--in a word, he
affected me so greatly, that I agreed to take vengeance on his enemy.
Two days later we took up the trail. For a man like myself, accustomed
to follow Indians' signs, it was child's play and I soon led him almost
into the Spanish caravan commanded by Don Miguel Ortega."

"The other was called Don Torribio Carvajal."

"Could he not have changed his name?"

"For what good in the desert?"

"In the consciousness that he would be pursued."

"Then the relatives had a great interest in this pursuit?"

"Don José told me he was the young lady's uncle, and felt a paternal
tenderness for her."

"But I fancy she is dead, or at least you told me so, if I am not
mistaken."

Brighteye scratched his ear. "That is the awkward part of the affair,"
he said; "it seems she is not dead at all; on the contrary."

"What!" Marksman exclaimed; "she is not dead! That uncle knows it,
then; it was by his consent that the poor creature was buried alive!
But, if that is the case, there must be some odious machination in the
business."

"On my word, if I must confess it, I fear so too," the Canadian said,
in a hesitating voice. "Still, this man rendered me a great service. I
have no proof in support of my suspicions, and----"

Marksman rose, and stood in front of the old hunter. "Brighteye," he
said to him, sternly; "we are fellow countrymen; we love each other
like brothers; for many long years we have slept side by side on the
prairie, sharing good fortune and ill between us, saving each other's
lives a hundred times, either in our struggles with wild beasts, or our
fights with the Indians--is it so?"

"It is true, Marksman, it is true, and anyone who said the contrary
would lie," the hunter replied with emotion.

"My friend, my brother, a great crime has been committed, or is on the
point of being committed. Let us watch--watch carefully; who knows
if we may not be the instruments chosen by Providence to unmask the
guilty, and cause the innocent to triumph? This Don José, you say,
wishes me to join you; well, I accept. Yourself, Ruperto, and I, will
go to the ford of the Rubio, and, believe me, my friend, now that I am
warned, I will discover the guilty party, whoever he may be."

"I prefer things to be so," the hunter answered, simply. "I confess
that the strange position in which I found myself weighed heavily
upon me. I am only a poor hunter, and do not at all understand these
infamies of the cities."

"You are an honest man, whose heart is just and mind upright. But
time is slipping away. Now that we are agreed as to our parts, and
understand one another, I believe we shall do well by starting."

"I will go whenever you please."

"One moment. Can you do without Ruperto for a little while?"

"Yes."

"What's the matter?" the latter asked.

"You can do me a service."

"Speak, Marksman, I am waiting."

"No man can foresee the future. Perhaps, in a few days we shall need
allies on whom we may be able to count. These allies the Chief here
present will give us whenever we ask for them. Accompany him to his
village, Ruperto: and, so soon as he has arrived there, leave him, and
take up our trail--not positively joining us, but managing so that, if
necessary, we should know where to find you."

"I have understood," the hunter said, laconically, as he rose. "All
right."

Marksman turned to Flying Eagle, and explained what he wanted of him.

"My brother saved Eglantine," the Chief answered, nobly; "Flying Eagle
is a sachem of his tribe. Two hundred warriors will follow the warpath
at the first signal from my father. The Comanches are men; the words
they utter come from the heart."

"Thanks, Chief," Marksman answered, warmly pressing the hand the
Redskin extended to him; "may the Wacondah watch over you during your
journey!"

After hastily eating a slice of venison cooked on the ashes, and
drinking a draught of pulque--from which, after the custom of his
nation, the only one which does not drink strong liquors, the Comanche
declined to take a share--the four men separated; Ruperto, Flying
Eagle, and Eglantine going into the prairie in a western direction;
while Brighteye and Marksman, bending slightly to the left, proceeded
in an easterly course, in order to reach the ford of the Rubio, where
the latter was expected.

"Hum!" Brighteye observed, as he threw his rifle on to his left arm,
and starting with that elastic step peculiar to the wood rangers; "we
have some tough work cut out for us."

"Who knows, my friend?" Marksman answered, anxiously. "At any rate, we
must discover the truth."

"That is my opinion, too."

"There is one thing I want to know, above all."

"What is it?"

"What Don Miguel's carefully-closed palanquin contains."

"Why, hang it! a woman, of course."

"Who told you so?"

"Nobody; but I presume so."

"Prejudge nothing, my friend; with time, all will be cleared up."

"God grant it!"

"He sees everything, and knows everything, my friend. Believe me, that
if it hath pleased Him to set those suspicions growing in our hearts
that trouble us now, it is because, as I told you a moment ago, He
wishes to make us the instruments of His justice."

"May His will be done!" Brighteye answered, raising his cap piously. "I
am ready to obey Him in all that He may order me."

After this mutual exchange of thoughts, the hunters, who till
this moment had walked side by side, proceeded in Indian file, in
consequence of the difficult nature of the ground. On reaching the tall
grass, after emerging from the forest, they stopped a moment to look
around.

"It is late," Marksman observed.

"Yes, it is nearly midday. Follow me, we shall soon catch up lost time."

"How so?"

"Instead of walking, would you not be inclined to ride?"

"Yes, if we had horses."

"That is just what I am going to procure."

"You have horses?"

"Last night Ruperto and I left our horses close by here, while going
to the meeting Don José had made with us, and in which I was obliged to
employ a canoe."

"Eh! eh! those brave beasts turn up at a lucky moment. For my part, I
am worn out. I have been walking for many a long day over the prairie,
and my legs are beginning to refuse to carry me."

"Come this way, we shall soon see them."

In fact, the hunters had not walked one hundred yards in the direction
indicated by Brighteye, ere they found the horses quietly engaged in
nibbling the pea vines and young tree shoots. The noble animals, on
hearing a whistle, raised their intelligent heads, and hastened toward
the hunters with a neigh of pleasure. According to the usual fashion in
the prairies, they were saddled, but their _bozal_ was hung round their
necks. The hunters bridled them, leapt on their backs, and started
again.

"Now that we have each a good horse between our legs we are certain of
arriving in time," Marksman observed; "hence, it is useless to hurry
on, and we can talk at our ease. Tell me, Brighteye, have you seen Don
Miguel Ortega yet?"

"Never, I allow."

"Then you do not know him?"

"If I may believe Don José, he is a villain. For my own part, never
having had any relations with him, I should be considerably troubled to
form any opinion, bad or good, about him."

"With me it is different. I know him."

"Ah!"

"Very well indeed."

"For any length of time?"

"Long enough, I believe, at any rate to enable me to form an opinion
about him."

"Ah! Well, what do you think of him?"

"Much good and much bad."

"Hang it? ah!"

"Why are you surprised? Are not all men in the same case?"

"Nearly so, I grant."

"This man is no worse or no better than the rest. This morning, as
I foresaw that you were about to speak to me about him, I wished to
leave you liberty of action by telling you that I was only slightly
acquainted with him; but it is possible that your opinion will soon be
greatly modified, and, perhaps, you will regret the support you have
hitherto given Don José, as you call him."

"Would you like me to speak candidly, Marksman, now that no one, but He
above, can hear us?"

"Do so, my friend. I should not be sorry to know your whole thoughts."

"I am certain that you know a great deal more about the story I told
you last night than you pretend to do."

"Perhaps you are right; but what makes you think so?"

"Many things; and in the first place this."

"Go on."

"You are too sensible a man. You have acquired too great an experience
of the things of this world, to undertake, without serious cause, the
defence of a man who, according to the principles we profess on the
prairie, you ought to regard, if not as an enemy, still as one of those
men whom it is often disagreeable to come in contact, or have any
relations with."

Marksman burst into a laugh. "There is truth in what you say,
Brighteye," he at length remarked.

"Is there not?"

"I will not attempt to play at cunning with you; but I have powerful
reasons for undertaking the defence of this man, but I cannot tell you
them at this moment. It is a secret which does not belong to me, and of
which I am only the depositary. I trust you will soon know all; but,
till then, rely on my old friendship, and leave me to act in any way."

"Very good! At any rate, I am now beginning to see clearly, and,
whatever may happen, you can reckon upon me."

"By Jove! I felt certain we should end by understanding one another;
but, silence, and let nothing be seen. We are at the meeting place.
Hang it! the Mexicans have not kept us waiting. They have already
pitched their camp on the other side of the river."

In fact, a hunter's camp could be seen a short distance off, one side
resting on the river, the other on the forest, and presenting perfectly
fortified outworks, with the front turned to the prairies, and composed
of bales and trees stoutly interlaced.

The two hunters made themselves known to the sentries, and entered
without any difficulty. Don Miguel was absent; but the Gambusinos
expected him at any moment. The hunters dismounted, hobbled their
horses, and sat down quietly by the fire.

Don Stefano Cohecho had left the Gambusinos at daybreak, as he had
announced on the previous evening.

CHAPTER X.

FRESH CHARACTERS.

In order to a right comprehension of ensuing facts, we will take
advantage of our privilege as story tellers, to go back a fortnight,
and allow the reader to be witness of a scene intimately connected with
the most important events of this history, and which took place a few
hundred miles from the spot where accident had collected our principal
characters.

The Cordillera of the Andes, that immense spine of the American
continent, the whole length of which it traverses under different names
from north to south, forms, at various elevations, immense _llanos_, on
which entire people live at a height at which all vegetation ceases in
Europe.

After crossing the Presidio de Tubar, the advanced post of civilization
on the extreme limit of the desert, and advancing into the mediano
region of the _tierra caliente_ for about one hundred and twenty miles,
the traveller finds himself suddenly, and without any transition, in
front of a virgin forest, which is no less than three hundred and
twenty miles deep, by eighty odd miles wide.

The most practised pen is powerless to describe the marvels innumerable
inclosed in that inexhaustible network of vegetation called a virgin
forest, and the sight, at once strange and peculiar, majestic and
imposing, which it offers to the dazzled sight. The most powerful
imagination recoils before this prodigious fecundity of elementary
nature, continually springing up again from its own destruction with
a strength and vigour ever new. The creepers, which run from tree to
tree, from branch to branch, plunge, at one moment, into the earth,
and then rise once more to the sky, and form, by their interlacing
and crossing, an almost insurmountable barrier, as if jealous nature
wished to hide from profane eyes the mysterious secrets of these
forests, beneath whose shade man's footsteps have only reached at long
intervals, and never unpunished. Trees of every age and species grow
without order or symmetry, as if sown by chance, like wheat in the
furrows. Some, tall and slight, count only a few years; the extremities
of their branches are covered by the tall and wide boughs of those
whose haughty heads have seen centuries pass over them. Beneath their
foliage softly murmur pure and limpid streams, which escape from the
fissures of the rocks, and, after a thousand meanderings, are lost in
some lake or unknown river, whose bright waters had never reflected
aught in their clear mirror save the sublime secrets of the solitude.
There may be found, pell-mell and in picturesque confusion, all
the magnificent productions of tropical regions:--The acajou; the
ebony; the palisander; the stunted mahogany; the black oak; the cork;
the maple; the mimosa, with its silvery foliage; and the tamarind,
thrusting in every direction their branches, laden with, flowers,
fruits, and leaves, which form a dome impenetrable to the sunbeams.
From the vast and unexplored depths of these forests emerge, from time
to time, inexplicable noises--furious howls, feline miauls, mocking
yells, mingled with shrill whistling or the joyous and harmonious song
of the birds.

After plunging boldly into the centre of this chaos, and struggling
hand to hand with this uncultivated and wild nature, the traveller
succeeds, with axe in one hand and torch in the other, in gaining, inch
by inch, step by step, a road impossible to describe. At one moment, by
crawling like a reptile over the decaying leaves, dead wood, or guano,
piled up for centuries; or by leaping from branch to branch, at the
tops of the trees, standing, as it were, in the air. But woe to the man
who neglects to have his eye constantly open to all that surrounds
him, and his ear on the watch: for, in addition to the obstacles
caused by nature, he has to fear the venomous stings of the serpents
startled in their lairs, and the furious attacks of the wild beasts.
He must also carefully watch the course of the rivers and streams he
meets with, determine the position of the sun during the day, or guide
himself at night by the Southern Cross; for, once astray in a virgin
forest, it is impossible to get out of it--it is a maze, from which no
Ariadne's web would help to find the issue.

At last the traveller, after he has succeeded in surmounting the
dangers we have describe, and a thousand others no less terrible, which
we have passed over in silence, emerges on an immense plain, in the
centre of which stands an Indian city. That is to say, he finds himself
before one of those mysterious cities into which no European has yet
penetrated, whose exact position even is unknown, and which, since
the conquest, have served as an asylum for the last relics of Aztec
civilization.

The fabulous accounts given by some travellers about the incalculable
wealth buried in these cities, has inflamed the covetousness and
avarice of a great number of adventurers, who, at various periods,
have attempted to find the lost road to these queens of the Mexican
prairies and savannahs. Others again, only impelled by the irresistible
attraction extraordinary enterprises offer to vagabond imaginations,
have also, especially during the last fifty years, set out in search of
these Indian cities, though up to the present time success has never
crowned these various expeditions. Some have returned disenchanted, and
half killed by this journey toward the unknown; a considerable number
have left their bodies at the foot of precipices or in the quebradas,
to serve as food for birds of prey; while others, more unfortunate
still, have disappeared without leaving a trace, and no one has ever
heard what has become of them.

Owing to events, too long to narrate here, but which we shall describe
some day, we have lived, against our will, in one of these impenetrable
cities, though, more fortunate than our predecessors, whose whitened
bones we saw scattered along the road, we succeeded in escaping
from it, through dangers innumerable, all miraculously avoided. The
description we are about to give, then, is scrupulously exact, and
cannot be doubted, for we write from personal observation.

Quiepaa Tani, the city which presents itself to the traveller's sight
after leaving the virgin forest, of which we have given a sketch,
extends from east to west, and forms a parallelogram. A wide stream,
over which several bridges of incredible lightness and elegance are
thrown, runs through its entire length. At each corner of the square an
enormous block of rock cut perpendicularly on the side that faces the
plains, serves as an almost impregnable fortress; these four citadels
are also connected by a wall twenty feet thick, and forty feet high,
which, inside the city, forms a slope sixty feet wide at the base. This
wall is built of native bricks, made of sandy earth and chopped straw;
they are called _adobes_, and are about a yard long. A wide and deep
fosse almost doubles the height of the walls. Two gates alone give
access to the city. These gates are flanked by towers and pepper boxes,
exactly like a mediaeval fortress; and, what adds to the correctness of
our comparison, a small bridge, made of planks, extremely narrow and
light, and so arranged as to be carried away on the slightest alarm, is
the only communication between these gates and the exterior.

The houses are low, and terminate in terraces, connected with each
other; they are slight, and built of wicker and canaverales covered
with cement, in consequence of the earthquakes so frequent in these
regions; but they are large, airy, and pierced with numerous windows.
None of them are more than one story in height, and the fronts are
covered with a varnish of dazzling whiteness.

This strange city, seen from a distance, as it rises in the midst of
the tall prairie grass, offers the most singular and seductive sight.

On a fine evening in the month of October, five travellers, whose
features or dress it would have been impossible to distinguish, owing
to the obscurity, came out of the forest we have described above,
stopped for a moment, with marked indecision, on the extreme edge of
the wood, and began examining the ground. Before them rose a hillock,
which, if no great height, yet cut the horizon at right angles.

After exchanging a few words, two of these persons remained where they
were; the other three lay down on their faces, and, crawling on their
hands and feet, advanced through the rank grass, which they caused to
undulate, and which completely concealed their bodies. On reaching the
top of the mound, which they had found such difficulty in scaling, they
looked out into the country, and remained struck with astonishment and
admiration.

The eminence, at the top of which they were, was perpendicular on the
other side, like all the rest of the ground which extended on either
side. A magnificent plain lay expanded a hundred feet below them, and
in the centre of the plain, at a distance of about a thousand yards
from them, stood, proud and imposing, Quiepaa Tani,[1] the mysterious
city, defended by its massive towers and thick walls. The sight of this
vast city in the midst of the desert produced on the minds of the three
men a feeling of stupor, which they could not explain, and which for
a few moments rendered them dumb with surprise. At length one of them
rose on his elbow, and addressed his comrades.

"Are my brothers satisfied?" he said, with a guttural accent, which,
though he expressed himself in Spanish, proved him to be an Indian.
"Has Addick (the Stag) kept his promise?"

"Addick is one of the first warriors of his tribe; his tongue is
straight, and the blood flows clearly in his veins," one of the men he
addressed, answered.

The Indian smiled silently, without replying;--this smile would have
given his companions much matter for thought, had they seen it.

"It seems to me," the one who had not yet spoken said, "that it is very
late to enter the city."

"Tomorrow, at sunrise, Addick will lead the two Paleface maidens to
Quiepaa Tani," the Indian answered; "the night is too dark."

"The warrior is right," the second speaker remarked, "we must put off
the affair till tomorrow."

"Yes, let us return to our friends, whom a longer absence may alarm."

Joining deeds to words, the first speaker turned round, and, exactly
following the track his body had left in the grass, he soon found
himself, as well as his companions, who imitated all his movements, at
the skirt of the forest, into which, after their departure, the two
persons they left behind had returned.

The silence which reigns beneath these gloomy roofs of foliage and
branches during the day, had been succeeded by the dull sounds of a
wild concert, formed by the shrill cries of the night birds, which
woke, and prepared to attack the loros, humming birds, and cardinals,
belated far from their nests; the roaring of the cougars; the
hypocritical miauling of the jaguars and panthers, and the snappish
barks of the coyotes, which reechoed, with a mournful sound, from the
roofs of the inaccessible caverns and gaping pits which served as
lurking places for these dangerous guests.

Returning on the trail they had traced with their axes, the three men
soon found themselves near a fire of dead wood, burning in the centre
of a small clearing. Two women, or rather girls, were crouching,
pensive and sad, by the fire. They counted scarce thirty years between
them; they were lovely, and of that creole beauty which the divine
pencil of a Raphael has been alone able to reproduce. But at this
moment they were pale, seemed fatigued, and their faces reflected a
gloomy sorrow; At the sound of the approaching steps they raised their
eyes, and a flash of joy illumined their faces like a sunbeam.

The Indian threw some sticks on the fire, which was threatening to
go out, while one of the hunters occupied himself with giving their
provender to the horses, hobbled a short distance off.

"Well, Don Miguel," one of the ladies said, addressing the hunter
who had taken a seat by her side, "shall we soon near the end of our
journey?"

"You have arrived, señorita; tomorrow, under the guidance of our friend
Addick, you will enter the city, that inviolable asylum, where no one
will pursue you."

"Ah!" she continued, looking absently at the Indian's gloomy and
apathetic face; "we shall separate tomorrow."

"We must, señorita; the care for your safety demands it."

"Who would dare to seek me in these unknown districts?"

"Hatred dares everything. I implore you, señorita, to put faith in my
experience; my devotion to you is unbounded. Though still very young,
you have suffered enough, and it is time that a blessed sunbeam should
brighten your dreary brow, and dispel the clouds which thought and
grief have been so long collecting on it."

"Alas!" she said, as she let her head droop, to hide the tears that ran
down her cheeks.

"My sister, my friend, my Laura!" the other maiden said, embracing her
tenderly, "be courageous to the end. Shall I not be with you? Oh, fear
nothing!" she added, with a charming expression. "I will take half your
grief on myself, and your burthen will seem less heavy."

"Poor Luisa!" the maiden murmured, as she returned her caresses.
"You are unhappy through me. How shall I ever be able to repay your
devotion?"

"By loving me, as I love you, cherished angel, and by regaining hope."

"Before a month, I trust," Don Miguel said, "your persecutors will be
prevented from troubling you again. I am playing a terrible game with
them, in which my head is the stake; but I care little, so long as I
save you. On leaving you, permit me to take with me, in my heart, the
hope that you will in no way attempt to leave the refuge I have found
for you, and that you will patiently await my return."

"Alas, Caballero! you are aware that I live only by a miracle; my
relatives, my friends, indeed, all those I loved, have abandoned me,
except my Luisa, my foster sister, whose devotion to me has never
swerved; and you, whom I do not know, whom I never saw, and who
suddenly revealed yourself to me in my tomb, like the angel of divine
justice; since that terrible night, when, thanks to you, I emerged from
my sepulchre, like Lazarus, you have shown me the kindest and most
delicate attentions; you have taken the place of those who betrayed me;
you have been to me more than a father."

"Señorita!" said the young man, at once confused and happy at these
words.

"I say this to you, Don Miguel," she continued, with a certain feverish
animation, "because I am anxious to prove to you that I am not
ungrateful. I know not what God, in His wisdom, may do with me; but I
tell you, that my last thought, my last prayer will be for you. You
wish me to await you; I will obey you. Believe me, I only dispute my
life through a certain feeling of anxiety, like the gambler at his last
stake," she added, with a heartbreaking smile; "but I understand how
much you need liberty of action for the rude game you have undertaken.
Hence, you can go in peace; I have faith in you."

"Thanks, señorita; this promise doubles my strength. Oh, now I am
certain of success!"

A rude jacal of branches had been prepared for the maidens by the other
hunters and the Indian warrior, and they retired to rest.

Although the young man's mind was so full of restless alarms, after a
few moments of deep thought he laid himself down by the side of his
companions, and soon fell asleep. In the desert nature never surrenders
its claims, and the greatest grief rarely succeeds in gaining the
victory over the material claims of the human organization.

Scarce had the first sunbeams begun to tinge the sky of an opal hue,
ere the hunters opened their eyes. The preparations for starting were
soon completed; the moment of separation arrived, and the parting was a
sad one. The two hunters had accompanied the maidens to the edge of the
forest, in order to remain longer with them.

Doña Luisa, taking advantage of an instant when the road became so
narrow that it became almost impossible for two to walk side by side,
drew nearer Don Miguel's hunting companion.

"Do me a service," she whispered, hurriedly.

"Speak," he answered, in the same key.

"That Indian inspires me with but slight confidence."

"You are wrong; I know him."

She shook her head petulantly. "That is possible," she said; "but will
you do me the service I want of you?--if not, I will ask Don Miguel,
though I should have preferred him not knowing it."

"Speak, I tell you."

"Give me a knife and your pistols."

The hunter looked her in the face. "Good!" he said presently. "You are
a brave child. Here is what you ask for." And, without anyone noticing
it, he gave the objects she wished to obtain from him, adding to them
two little pouches, one of gunpowder, the other of bullets.

"No one knows what may happen," he said.

"Thanks," she answered, with a movement of joy she could not master.

This was all that she said; and the weapons disappeared under her
clothes, with a speed and resolution which made the hunter smile. Five
minutes after, they reached the skirt of the virgin forest.

"Addick," the hunter said laconically; "remember that you will answer
to me for these two women."

"Addick has sworn it," the Indian merely replied. They separated; it
was impossible to remain longer at the spot where they were, without
running the risk of being discovered by the Indians. The maidens and
the warrior proceeded toward the city.

"Let us mount the hill," Don Miguel said, "in order to see them for the
last time."

"I was going to propose it," the hunter said, simply.

They went, with similar precautions, to the spot they had occupied for
a few moments on the previous evening.

In the brilliant beams of the sun, which had gloriously risen, the
verdurous landscape had assumed, a truly enchanting aspect. Nature
was aroused from her sleep, and a most varied spectacle had been
substituted for the gloomy and solitary view of the previous night.
From the gates of the city, which were now widely opened, emerged
groups of Indians on horseback and on foot, who dispersed in all
directions with shouts of joy and shriller bursts of laughter. Numerous
canoes traversed the stream, the fields were populated with flocks
of vicunas, and horses led by Indians, armed with long goads, who
were proceeding toward the city. Women quaintly attired, and bearing
on their heads long wicker baskets filled with meat, fruit, and
vegetables, walked along conversing together, and accompanying each
phrase with that continual, sharp, and metallic laugh, of which the
Indian nation possess the secret, and the noise of which resembles very
closely that produced by the full of a quantity of pebbles on a copper
dish.

The maidens and their guide were soon mixed up in this motley crowd, in
the midst of which they disappeared. Don Miguel sighed.

"Let us go," he said in a deep voice.

They returned to the forest. A few moments later, they set out again.

"We must separate," Don Miguel said when they had crossed the forest;
"I shall return to Tubar."

"And I am going to try to render a small service to an Indian chief, a
friend of mine."

"You are always thinking of others, and never of yourself, my worthy
Marksman; you are ever anxious to be of use to someone."

"What would you have, Don Miguel? It seems to be my mission--you know
that every man has one."

"Yes!" the young man answered in a hollow voice. "Good-bye!" he added
presently, "do not forget our meeting."

"All right! In a fortnight, at the ford of the Rubio; that is settled."

"Forgive me my chariness of speech during the few days we have spent
together; the secret is not mine alone, Marksman; I am not at liberty
to divulge it, even to so kind a friend as yourself."

"Keep your secret, my friend; I am in no way curious to know it; still,
it is understood that we do not know one another."

"Yes; that is very important."

"Then, good-bye."

"Good-bye!"

The two horsemen shook hands, one turned to the right, the other to the
left, and they set off at full speed.

[1] Literally, _Quiepaa_, sky, _tani_, mountain, in the Zapothecan
language.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FORD OF THE RUBIO.

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!"

CHAPTER XII.

DON STEFANO COHECHO.

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.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE AMBUSCADE.

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?

CHAPTER XIV.

THE TRAVELLERS.

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.

CHAPTER XV.

RECALLED TO LIFE.

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.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SEARCH AFTER TRUTH.

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.

CHAPTER XVII.

DON MARIANO.

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