The Indian Chief: The Story of a Revolution

"You know that, with the exception of the few words you told me through Curumilla, I am completely ignorant of the details of this affair."

"They would be too long to give you at the present moment, brother, for we have hardly the requisite time for action."

"Have you any plan?"

"Certainly. If it succeed, the people who hope to surprise us will be awfully taken in."

"On my word, I trust to you with the greater pleasure because we have been a long time already at La Magdalena, and I wish to begin my forward march seriously."

"Very good. Can you spare me fifty adventurers?"

"Take as many as you like."

"I only want fifty resolute men accustomed to desert warfare. For that purpose I shall take Captain de Laville, and recommend him to select from among the men he brought with him from Guetzalli the boldest and most clever."

"Do so, my friend. As for myself, I will carefully watch over the camp, and double the patrols."

"That precaution can do no harm. So now good-by till tomorrow."

"Farewell!"

They separated, and Don Louis returned to his tent.

At the moment Valentine reached Captain de Laville's jacal he saw Don Cornelio quitting the camp with an indifferent air, and mechanically looked after him. In a moment he lost him out of sight behind a clump of trees, but all at once saw him reappear but mounted this time, and setting off full gallop in the direction of the pueblo.

"Eh, eh?" Valentine muttered with a thoughtful air. "What can Don Cornelio have to do in such haste at La Magdalena? I will ask him."

And he entered the jacal, where he found the captain, with whom he immediately began discussing the plan he had formed to foil the intended surprise on the part of the Mexicans. As we shall see this plan carried out presently, we will say nothing about it here, but go and rejoin Father Seraphin and Doña Angela.

CHAPTER XVII

THE QUEBRADA DEL COYOTE

It is especially at night, about two hours after sunset, that American scenery assumes grand proportions. Under the influence of the first night shadows the trees seem to put on majestic forms; the animated silence of the desert becomes more mysterious; and man experiences involuntarily a feeling of undefinable respect, which contracts his heart, and fills him with superstitious dread. At that hour the waters of the rivers flow with hoarse murmurings; the heavy and sinister flight of the birds of night agitates the air with a fluttering of evil augury; and the wild beasts, aroused in their hidden dens, salute the darkness with long howlings of joy, for at night they are incontestably the kings of the desert, for man is deprived of his greatest strength – the power of the eye.

Father Seraphin was riding by the side of the two females along the foot of a lofty mountain, whose wooded slopes were lost in the black depths of the Barrancas. Since leaving the camp they had not stopped once. They were following at this moment a narrow path traced by mules, which wound with countless turnings along the sides of the mountain. This path was so narrow that two horses could scarce go along side by side; but the steeds on which our travellers were mounted were so sure-footed, that the latter proceeded without any hesitation along a road on which no other animal would have ventured in the darkness.

The moon had not yet risen; not a star glistened in the cloud-laden sky; the darkness was dense; and, under the circumstances, this was almost fortunate; for had the travellers been able to see the spot where they were, and the way in which they were suspended, as it were, in space at a prodigious height, possibly their courage would have failed them, and their heads grown dizzy. Father Seraphin and Doña Angela were riding side by side: Violanta was a few paces behind.

"My father," the young lady said, "we have now been travelling for nearly six hours, and I am beginning to feel fatigued. Shall we not halt soon?"

"Yes, my child, in an hour at the most. In a few moments we shall leave this path, and cross a defile called the Quebrada del Coyote: at the end of that pass we shall spend the night in a poor house, which is now not more than two miles off."

"You say we are going to pass through the Coyote defile. We are, then, on the road to Hermosillo?"

"Quite true, my child."

"Is it not imprudent for us to venture on this road, which my father's troops command."

"My child," the missionary said gently, "in good policy we must often risk a great deal in order to secure greater tranquillity. We are not only on the road to Hermosillo, but we are going to that very city."

"What! to Hermosillo?"

"Yes, my child. In my opinion it is the only spot where you will be completely safe from your father's search, as he will never think of looking for you there, and cannot imagine that you are so near him."

"That is true," she said after a moment's reflection.

"The plan is a bold one, and hence must succeed. I believe, in truth, that Hermosillo is the only spot where I can be safe from the pursuit of those who have an interest in finding me."

"I will take care, besides, to recommend you to the persons to whom I shall intrust you; and, for greater security, I will leave you as little as possible."

"I shall be greatly obliged to you, my father, for I shall feel very sad and lonely."

"Courage, my child! I have faith in Don Louis. Heaven must protect his expedition, for the work he has undertaken is grand and noble, as it has for its object the emancipation of an entire country."

"Believe me, my father, I am happy to hear you speak thus. The count may fail; but in that case he will fall like a hero, and his death will be that of a martyr."

"Yes, the count is a chosen vessel. I believe, like yourself, my child, that if his contemporaries do not do him the justice which is his due, posterity at least will not confound him with those filibusters and shameless adventurers for whom gold alone is everything, and who, whatever may be the title they assume, are in reality no more than highway robbers. But the road is growing wider – we are about to enter the pass. This spot does not enjoy a very good reputation, so keep by my side. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear, it is always well to be prudent."

In fact, as the missionary stated, the path had suddenly widened out: the two sides of the mountain, which had, for some distance, been gradually drawing together, now formed two parallel walls, at the most only forty yards apart. It was this narrow gorge which was known as the Quebrada del Coyote. It was about half a mile in length; but then it suddenly grew wider, and opened on a vast chaparral, covered with thickets and fields of dahlias; while the mountains separated to the right and left, not to meet again till eighty leagues further on.

At the moment when the travellers entered the pass the moon broke out from the clouds in which it floated, and lighted up this dangerous pass with its mournful and sickly light. This gleam, weak as it was, could not fail to be agreeable to the travellers, as it allowed them to look around and see where they were. They pressed on their wearied steeds, in order to arrive more speedily at the end of the gloomy gorge in which they were. They had gone on for about ten minutes, and had nearly reached the centre of the pass, when the neighing of a horse smote their ears.

"We have travellers behind us," the missionary said with a frown.

"And in a hurry, as it seems," Doña Angela added. "Hark!"

They stopped to listen. The noise of hurried galloping reached their ears.

"Who can these men be?" the missionary murmured, speaking to himself.

"Travellers like ourselves, probably."

"No," Father Seraphin remarked, "travellers would not go at such a pace: they are doubtlessly persons in pursuit of us."

"That is not probable, my father: no one is aware of our journey."

"Treachery has the eye of the lynx and the ear of the opossum, my dear child. It is incessantly on the watch: everything is known – a secret is no longer one when two persons know it. But time presses: we must make up our minds."

"We are lost if they are enemies!" Doña Angela exclaimed with terror. "We have no help to expect from any one."

"Providence is on the watch, child. Place confidence in her: she will not abandon us."

The noise of horses rapidly approaching came nearer, and resembled the grumbling of thunder. The missionary drew himself up: his face suddenly assumed an expression of indomitable energy which would have been thought impossible for such gentle features; his voice, usually so pleasant and sonorous, became quick, and almost harsh.

"Place yourselves behind me, and pray," he said; "for, if I am not greatly mistaken, the meeting will be dangerous."

The two females obeyed mechanically. Doña Angela believed herself lost: alone with this poor priest, any resistance must be impossible. The missionary collected the reins in his left hand, attached them to the pommel of his saddle, and awaited the shock with his face turned to the newcomers. He had not long to wait: within scarce five minutes ten horsemen appeared at full gallop. When twenty paces from the travellers they halted as firmly as if their horses' hoofs were suddenly fixed in the ground.

These men, as far as it was possible to distinguish in the doubtful and tremorous light of the moon, were dressed in the Mexican garb, and their faces were covered with black crape. Doubt was no longer possible: these sinister horsemen were really in pursuit of our travellers. There was an instant of supreme silence – a silence which the missionary at length resolved to break.

"What do you want, gentlemen?" he said in a loud and firm voice. "Why are you pursuing us?"

"Oh, oh!" a mocking voice said, "the dove assumes the accent of the gamecock. Señor padre, we have no intention to injure you; we only wish to do you a service by saving you the trouble of guarding the two pretty girls you so cleverly have with you."

"Go your way, sirs," the priest continued, "and do not trouble yourselves about what does not concern you."

"Come, come, señor padre," the first speaker went on, "surrender with a good grace: we should not like to fail in the respect due to you. Resistance is impossible – we are ten against you alone: besides, you are a man of peace."

"You are cowards!" the missionary shouted. "Retire! A truce to mockery, and let me continue my journey in peace."

"Not so, señor padre, unless you consent to leave us your two companions."

"Ah, ah! that is it? Well, then, we must fight, gentlemen. It seems to me that you are strangely mistaken about me. Yes, I am a missionary, a man of peace; but I am also a Frenchman, and you appear to have forgotten that. You must understand that I will not suffer the slightest insult to the persons, whoever they may be, whom Heaven has placed under my protection."

"And with what will you defend them, Mr. Frenchman?" the stranger asked with a grin.

"With these," the missionary coldly replied as he drew a brace of pistols from his holsters, and set the hammers with a resolute air.

The bandits hesitated involuntarily. The missionary's action was so clear, his voice so firm, his presence so intrepid, that they felt themselves tremble; for they understood that they had a brave-hearted man before them, who would sooner die than yield an inch. The Mexicans do not respect much; but we must do them the justice of saying that they have an unbounded reverence for the priest's gown. The missionary was not a man like some who may be unfortunately met with, especially among the clergy of North and South America. His reputation for virtue and goodness was immense along the whole Mexican frontier: it was a serious matter to insult him, much more to threaten him with death. Still the strangers had advanced too far to give way.

"Come, padre," the man who had hitherto been spokesman said, "do not attempt any useless resistance. At all risks we will carry off these women."

And he made a movement as if to advance.

"Stop! One step further, and you are a dead man. I hold in my hands the life of two."

"And I of two others," a rough voice exclaimed; and a man, suddenly emerging from a thicket, bounded forward like a jaguar, and placed himself intrepidly by the missionary's side.

"Curumilla!" the latter exclaimed.

"Yes," the chief answered, "it is I. Courage! Our friends are coming up."

In fact a dull and continued sound could be heard rapidly increasing. The strangers had not yet paid attention to it, as they were so engaged by their discussion with the missionary. Still the situation was growing complicated. Father Seraphin saw that, so long as a pistol was not fired, he should remain almost master of the situation, certain, from Curumilla's words, as he was of seeing speedy help arrive. His resolution was at once formed: all he wanted was to gain time, and he attempted it.

"Come, gentlemen," he said, "you see that I am no longer alone: God has sent me a brave auxiliary; hence my position is no longer so desperate. Will you parley?"

"Parley!"

"Yes."

"Be quick."

"I will try to be so, as I presume, from the way in which you stopped me, you are salteadores. Well, look you. You have me almost in your power, or at least you think so. Remember that I am only a poor missionary, and that what I possess belongs to the unhappy. How much do you want for my ransom? Answer. I am ready to make any sacrifice compatible with my position."

Father Seraphin might have spoken thus for a long time, for the strangers were no longer listening: they had noticed the approaching sound, and were beginning to grow nervous.

"Maldición!" the man who had hitherto spoken said, "that demon has mocked us."

He dug his spurs into his horses flanks; but the noble animal, instead of bounding forward, reared up almost straight with a snort of pain, and then fell in a heap. Curumilla had cut its back sinews with a blow of his machete. After this exploit the Indian uttered a loud cry for help, which was answered by a formidable hurrah.

Still the impulse had been given, and the bandits rushed forward with a ferocious yell. The missionary discharged his pistols, rather for the purpose of hastening the advent of his unknown friends than of wounding his enemies, which was easy to see; for no one fell, and the two parties were so close that it was almost impossible to miss the mark.

At the same instant five or six horsemen rushed on the strangers like a whirlwind. A frightful medley began, and the bullets whistled in every direction. The missionary had dismounted, and, compelling the two females to do the same, he led them a few paces in the rear, in order to protect them from the shots. But the struggle was not a long one: within five minutes the bandits fled at full speed, pursued by nearly all the newcomers, and leaving four of their men stretched on the ground.

After a chase of a few minutes, however, the horsemen giving up a pursuit which they saw was useless, returned and joined the missionary. The latter, forgetting the unjust aggression he had just escaped, was already seeking to succour the unhappy men who had fallen victims to the trap they had laid for him: he went piously from one to the other, in order to offer them assistance if there were still time. Three were dead: the fourth was gasping and rolling on the ground in convulsions of death. The missionary raised the veil that concealed his face, and uttered a cry of surprise on recognising him. At this cry the dying man opened his eyes, and fixed a haggard glance on Father Seraphin.

"Yes, it is I," he said in an expiring voice. "I have only what I deserve."

"Unhappy man!" the missionary replied, "Is that what you swore to me?"

"I tried to do it," he continued. "A few days back I saved the man you recommended to me, father."

"And I," the missionary said sorrowfully, "you owe your life to me, and yet tried to kill me?"

The dying man made a gesture of energetic denial.

"No," he exclaimed, "never! Look you, my father: there are accursed natures in the world. El Buitre was a wretched bandit. Well, he dies as he lived: that is just. Good-by, father! Well, I saved your friend, the hunter. Ah, ah!"

While saying this the wretch had sat up. Suddenly he was seized with a convulsion, and rolled on the ground: he was dead. The missionary knelt down by his side and prayed. All present, moved involuntarily, took off their hats piously, and remained silent by his side. All at once shouts and firing were heard, and a numerous baud of horsemen galloped down the pass.

"To arms!" the men shouted, leaping into their saddles hurriedly.

"Stay," Curumilla said; "they are friends."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SURPRISE

Employing our privilege as romancers, we will go back a little way, and return to Don Cornelio, whom Valentine looked after with such astonishment when he saw him leave the camp in such an unusual manner.

In the first place we will say a few words about Don Cornelio, that joyous and careless gentleman whom, in the first part of this history, we saw so impassioned for music generally, and the romance del Rey Rodrigo in particular. At the present time he was greatly changed: he no longer sang – the chords of his jarana no longer vibrated under his agile fingers; a deep wrinkle crossed his brow; his cheeks had grown pale; and he frowned incessantly under the pressure of gloomy thoughts. What could have happened? What powerful cause had thus changed the Spaniard's character?

This cause might be easily guessed. Don Cornelio loved Doña Angela. He loved her with all his strength – we will not say with a true and sincere love, for it was not love at all that he felt for her: another sentiment, less noble, but perhaps more lively, had craftily entered the gentleman's heart by the side of love.

This sentiment was avarice. We previously stated that Don Cornelio was under the influence of a fixed idea. This idea had led the Spaniard to America. The hidalgo wished to make his fortune by a marriage with a lady young, rich, and fair, but, before all, rich. A fixed idea is more than a passion, more than a monomania: it is the first stage of madness. Many times had Don Cornelio been deceived in his attempts on rich American women, whom he sought to dazzle, not by his luxury (for he was poor as Job, of lamentable memory), but by his personal advantages; that is to say, his beauty and wit. His meeting with Doña Angela decided his fate. Persuaded that the young lady loved him, he began to love her, for his part, with the frenzy of the drowning man, for whom such a love was the only chance of salvation.

When he perceived his error it was too late. We will do him the justice of conceding that the poor gentleman had struggled valiantly to tear from his heart this insensate passion. Unfortunately all his efforts were futile, and, as ever happens under such circumstances, forgetting all he owed to Don Louis, who had saved him not only from misery, but also from death, he felt for the count an intense hatred, the more tenacious because it was dumb and concentrated; and, by a natural feeling, he turned one half of that hatred on Doña Angela, although the young lady and the count had only been the instruments, throughout the affair, of that fatality which was so bitter against him.

Thus, with extreme patience and unexampled hypocrisy, Don Cornelio prepared his vengeance against these two beings, who had never done him aught but kindness, and watched with the perfidy of a wild beast the opportunity to destroy them. This opportunity would not be difficult to find in a country where treachery is the order of the day, and forms the basis of all combinations and transactions, of whatever nature they may be.

Don Cornelio had entered into relations with the enemies of the count, and surrendered to them the secrets the latter allowed to let slip in his presence. He had so arranged as to make his two foes fall into a trap from which they could not escape, and in wreathing round them a net from which extrication would be impossible. And now that we have explained Don Cornelio's feelings to the reader we will proceed with our narrative.

The Spaniard had succeeded in drawing over to his side Doña Angela's waiting maid. Thus Violanta betrayed her mistress to the profit of Don Cornelio, by whom she believed herself beloved, and who, had led her to fancy that he would marry her some day. From the camarista, who had remained on the listen, the Spaniard learned all that was said in the jacal between Father Seraphin, the count, and the young lady: the order he afterwards received to go to La Magdalena and purchase the gowns dissipated all his doubts, and he resolved to act without loss of time.

It was by his advice that the Mexicans were to attempt to attack the camp that very night: hence he knew where to find them. Taking advantage, therefore, of a moment when everybody was too busy with his own affairs to think about what others were doing, he glided silently out of the camp, like a man taking a morning's walk, gained a clump of trees behind which a horse was hidden, and rode off at full speed across country, after taking a scrutinising glance around to assure himself that he was not watched.

He galloped thus for several hours, not seeming to follow any regular road, dashing straight on, and paying no attention to obstacles, or not checking the speed of his horse. Still, gradually his thoughts, at first gloomy and sad, assumed a different direction: he attached the bridle to his saddle-bow, and for the first time for many a day his fingers began straying mechanically over the resonant strings of his jarana, which he always wore in a sling, and brought with him; then, yielding unconsciously to the influence of the surrounding scenery, he began singing in a loud voice that couplet of the romance which bore a certain degree of reference to his present position: —

"Amada enemiga mia,De España segunda Elena,O ¡si yo naciera ciego!O ¡tú sin beldad nacieras!Maldito sea el punto y horaQue al mundo me dio mi estrella:Pechos que me dieron lecheMejor sepulcro me dieranPagará – "3

"Deuce take the owl singing at this hour!" a rough voice said, harshly interrupting the virtuoso. "Who ever heard such an infernal row?"

Don Cornelio looked around. The darkness was profound. A tall man with crafty air, and mustachios turned up, was examining him impudently while tapping the hilt of a long rapier.

"Eh, eh!" the Spaniard said with great composure, "Is that you, captain? What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, Cristo."

"Well, here I am."

"That is fortunate. When do we start?"

"All is changed."

"Eh?"

"Lead me first to your encampment, where I will explain it all to you."

"Come."

Don Cornelio followed him. This captain, whom the reader has doubtless recognised, was the old soldier of the war of independence whom we had the honour of presenting to him under the name of Don Isidro Vargas, the confidential tool of General Guerrero, to whom he was attached like the blade to the hilt.

The Spaniard, drawing his horse after him by the bridle, entered a large clearing lighted up by a dozen fires, round which were crouched a hundred men with sinister faces and irregular accoutrements, but all armed to the teeth. These bandits, whose ferocious appearance would have delighted a painter, illumined as they were by the fantastic flames of the braseros, were gambling, drinking, and quarrelling, and did not seem to notice Don Cornelio's arrival. The latter made a gesture of disgust on seeing them, but hobbled his horse near theirs, and rejoined the captain, who had already seated himself by a fire evidently made specially for him, as not one of the worthy people he had the honour of commanding came near it.

"Now I will hear you," the captain said so soon as he saw his comrade stretched out comfortably at his side.

"What I have to say will not take long."

"Let me hear it, at any rate."

"In two words, this is the matter: our expedition of this evening is useless – the bird has flown."

The captain, according to his habit in any moment of nervous excitement, rapped out a frightful oath.

"Patience!" the Spaniard went on. "This is what has happened."

And he described the way in which Father Seraphin had left the camp, accompanied by the young lady. On hearing it the worthy captain's face brightened.