Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“No,” replied Cuchillo, “he was born in Europe, and very likely in Spain.”

Arechiza appeared to fall into a reverie, his head bending towards his breast. Some souvenirs were disturbing his spirit.

“This much at least is known,” continued Cuchillo. “The commander of an English brig-of-war brought him to Guaymas. He stated that the child, who spoke both French and Spanish, had been captured in an affair between the brig and a French privateer. A sailor who was either killed in the fight or taken prisoner, was beyond doubt his father. The captain of the English brig, not knowing what to do with him, gave him to Arellanos – who chanced to be in Guaymas at the time – and Arellanos brought him up and has made a man of him – my faith! that he has. Young as the fellow is, there is not such a rastreador nor horse-tamer in the province.”

The Spaniard, while apparently not listening to Cuchillo, did not lose a word of what he was saying; but whether he had heard enough, or that the subject was a painful one, he suddenly interrupted the gambusino:

“And don’t you think, if this wonderful tracker and horse-breaker has been told the secret of his adopted father he might not be a dangerous rival to us?”

Cuchillo drew himself up proudly, and replied: —

“I know a man who will yield in nothing – neither at following a trail, nor taming a wild horse – to Tiburcio Arellanos; and yet this secret has been almost worthless in his keeping, since he has just sold it for the tenth part of its value!”

This last argument of Cuchillo’s was sufficiently strong to convince Don Estevan that the Golden Valley was so guarded by these fierce Indians that nothing but a strong party could reach it – in short, that he himself was the only man who could set this force afoot. For a while he remained in his silent reverie. The revelations of Cuchillo in regard to the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos had opened his mind to a new set of ideas which absorbed all others. For certain motives, which we cannot here explain, he was seeking to divine whether this Tiburcio Arellanos was not the young Fabian de Mediana!

Cuchillo on his part was reflecting on certain antecedents relative to the gambusino Arellanos and his adopted son; but for powerful reasons he did not mention his reflections to Don Estevan. There are reasons, however, why the reader should now be informed of their nature.

The outlaw, as we have said, frequently changed his name. It was by one of these aliases used up so quickly, that he had been passing, when at the Presidio Tubac he made the acquaintance of the unfortunate Arellanos. When the latter was about starting out on his second and fatal journey – before parting with his wife and the young man whom he loved as well as if he had been his own son – he confided to his wife the object of his new expedition; and also the full particulars of the route he intended to take. Cuchillo was nevertheless ignorant of this revelation. But the knowledge which the outlaw carefully concealed, was that he himself after having reached the Golden Valley guided by Arellanos, murdered his companion, in hope of having all the treasure to himself. It was true enough that the Indians appeared afterwards, and it was with difficulty that the assassin could save his own scalp. We shall now leave him to tell his own story as to how he made the acquaintance of young Arellanos, and it will be seen that this story is a mere deception practised upon Don Estevan.

“Nevertheless,” resumed Cuchillo in breaking the silence, “I was determined to free my mind from all doubt upon the subject. On my return to Arispe I repaired to the dwelling of the widow of Arellanos to inform her of the death of poor Marcos. But with the exception of the great grief which the news caused her, I observed nothing particular – nothing that could give me the least suspicion that I am not the sole possessor of the secret of the Golden Valley.”

“One easily believes what he wishes to believe,” remarked Arechiza.

“Hear me, Señor Don Estevan! There are two things on which I pride myself. One is, that I have a conscience easily alarmed; the other, that I am gifted with a perspicuity not easily deluded.”

The Spaniard made no further objections. He was satisfied, not with the outlaw’s conscience, but his perspicuity.

With regard to Tiburcio Arellanos, we need hardly state what the reader has no doubt already divined – that this young man was in reality no other than Fabian, the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana. Cuchillo has already related how the English brig brought him to Guaymas. Left without a guide to enable him to discover his family – disinherited of his rich patrimonial estates – an orphan knowing nothing of his parents, here he was in a strange land, the possessor of nothing more than a horse and a hut of bamboos.

Chapter Ten

The Afternoon Ride

When Cuchillo, after the interview just described, came forth from the hovel, the sun was no longer in the vertex of the heavens, but had commenced his downward course to the western horizon. The earth, burned up and dry as tinder, gave forth a thin vapoury mist, that here and there hung over the surface in condensed masses, giving that appearance known as the mirage. Limpid lakes presented themselves to the eye, where not a drop of water was known to exist – as if nature, to preserve a perfect harmony, offered these to the imagination in compensation for the absence of the precious fluid itself. Far off in the forest, could be heard at intervals the crackling of branches under the burning rays of the sun – just as if the woods were on fire. But the trees were beginning to open their leaves to the southern breeze that freshened as the hours passed on, and they appeared impatiently to await the twilight, when the night-dews would once more freshen their foliage.

Cuchillo gave a whistle, at which well-known signal his horse came galloping up to him. The poor beast appeared to suffer terribly from the thirst. His master, moved with pity, poured into a bowl a few drops of water from his skin bottle; and although it was scarce enough to moisten the animal’s lips, it seemed to bring back the vigour of his spirit.

Cuchillo having saddled and bridled his horse, and buckled on a pair of huge spurs, called one of the attendants of Don Estevan. To this man he gave orders to have the pack of mules harnessed, as well as to collect the remuda to be sent on in advance – in order that the sleeping quarters for the night should be ready upon their arrival. The place where the travellers were to rest that night – as Cuchillo informed the domestic – was to be at the cistern known as La Poza.

“But La Poza is not on the route to Tubac!” objected the servant; “it lies out of the way and on the road leading to the Hacienda del Venado.”

“You have nothing to do with the route,” peremptorily answered Cuchillo, “your master intends spending some days at the Hacienda del Venado. Therefore do as I have ordered you.”

The Hacienda del Venado was the most important estate between Arispe and the Indian frontier, and its proprietor had the reputation of being the most hospitable man in the whole province. It was, therefore, without repugnance that the attendants of Don Estevan heard this news from Cuchillo – since, although their route of march would be extended in making the détour by the Hacienda del Venado, they knew they would enjoy several days of pleasant repose at this hospitable mansion.

The man to whom Cuchillo had given his orders, immediately saddled his horse and set off to collect the remuda. He soon discovered the horses browsing in the woods near at hand, and collected, as usual, around the bell-mare.

As he approached, the troop bounded off in affright – just as wild horses would have done; but the active horseman was too quick for them, for already the running noose of his lazo was around the neck of one of them. The horse, perceiving that he was caught, and knowing well the lazo – whose power he had often felt – yielded without resistance, and permitted himself to be led quietly away. The capitansa (bell-mare) knew the signal and followed the horse of the servant, with all the others trooping at her heels.

Two of the freshest of the drove were left behind, for Don Estevan and the Senator. These would be enough to serve them as far as La Poza – the place of their intended night halt – which was only a few hours distant. The other horses, guided by the bell-mare, were taken on in advance, and the drove soon disappeared behind the cloud of dust thrown up by their hoofs.

Shortly after, the Senator made his appearance at the door of the hut where he had taken his siesta – a necessity almost imperious in these hot climates. At the same time, Don Estevan presented himself in the open air. The atmosphere, though a little fresher than when they had gone inside, was still sufficiently stifling to be disagreeable.

“Carramba!” cried the Senator, after inhaling a few mouthfuls of it, “it is fire, not air, one has to breathe here. If these hovels were not a complete nest of snakes and scorpions, I should prefer staying in them until night, rather than launch myself into this dreadful furnace.”

After this doleful speech the Senator climbed reluctantly into his saddle, and he and Don Estevan took the route, riding side by side, as in the morning. Behind, at a few paces distance, followed Cuchillo and Baraja, and after these the little recua of mules with the other domestics.

For the first hour of their march the shade of the trees rendered the heat supportable, but soon the forest ended, and the road debouched upon the open plains that appeared interminable.

It is hardly possible to conceive a more dreary prospect than that presented by those arid plains of Northern Mexico – naked, white, and almost destitute of vegetation. Here and there at long distances on the route, may be seen a tall pole which denotes the presence of some artificial well-cistern; but as you draw near, the leathern buckets, by which the water is to be raised, show by their stiff contracted outlines that for a long time they have held no water, and that the well is dried up – a sad fortune for the traveller whose evil star has guided him into these deserts during the dry season, especially if at the end of his day’s journey he reckons on a supply from these treacherous depositaries. If his canteen is not well filled, or if he is by any chance detained upon his route, his story is likely to be that of hundreds who have perished of thirst upon these plains, between a heaven and an earth that are equally unpitying.

“Is it true, then, Don Estevan,” inquired the Senator, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow, “that you have been through this country before?”

“Certainly,” replied Don Estevan; “and it is just because I have been here before that I am here now. But what brought me here formerly, and why I now return, is a secret I shall tell you presently. Let me say that it is a secret sufficient to turn a man’s brain, provided he is not one with a bold, firm heart. Are you that man, señor Senator?” added the Spaniard, fixing his eyes upon his companion, with a calm regard.

The Senator made no reply, farther than by giving a slight shiver that was perceptible through his frame, and which denoted that he felt some apprehension as to the rôle he might be called upon to play.

The Spaniard did not fail to observe his uneasiness, as he resumed:

“Meanwhile, señor, let me ask you, are you decided to follow my advice, and restore your fortunes by some rich matrimonial alliance which I shall arrange for you?”

“Without doubt I am,” replied the Senator, “though I can’t see what interest that can be to you, Señor Don Estevan.”

“That is my affair and my secret. I am not one of those who sell the skin of the bear before the animal is caught. It is enough for you to know, Don Vicente Tragaduros y Despilfarro, that I have a hundred thousand dollars at your disposal the moment you say the word – it only remains for you to hear my conditions, and subscribe to them.”

“I don’t say no,” replied the Senator, “but I candidly avow that for the life of me I cannot think of any one possessing such an inheritance as you mention – not one in the whole province.”

“Do you know the daughter of the rich landowner Augusta Peña – at whose hacienda, please God, we shall sleep to-morrow night?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Senator, “the proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado? I have heard of her —her dowry should be a million if report speaks true; but what folly it would be for me to pretend – ”

“Bah!” interrupted the Spaniard. “It is a fortress that well besieged may capitulate like any other.”

“It is said that the daughter of Peña is pretty.”

“Beautiful.”

“You know her, then?” said the Senator, regarding his companion with an astonished look. “Perhaps,” he added, “it is to the hacienda of Venado that you make those periodical and mysterious journeys, so much talked about at Arispe?”

“Precisely so.”

“Ah! I understand you,” said the Senator, turning a sly look upon his companion, “it was the beautiful eyes of the daughter that attracted you, the – ?”

“You are mistaken. It was the father, who was simply the banker from whom, from time to time, I drew the funds necessary for my expenses at Arispe.”

“Is that also the object of our present journey?”

“Partly,” replied the Spaniard, “but not altogether – there is another object, which I will communicate to you hereafter.”