Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

Such was the Hacienda del Venado. The proprietor, Don Augustin Peña, was a man of great opulence. In addition to a rich gold mine which he worked, at no great distance off, he was the owner of countless herds of horses, mules, and cattle, that in a half-wild state roamed over the vast savannahs and forests that constituted the twenty leagues of land belonging to the hacienda. Such a vast tract of territory belonging to one man is by no means a rare thing in northern Mexico.

At this time Don Augustin was a widower, and his family consisted of only one daughter – the young girl already introduced to the reader. Considering the immense heritage that the Doña Rosario – or, as she was more gracefully called, Rosarita – was likely to bring to whoever should become her husband, it was natural that an alliance with Don Augustin should be the object of many an ambition; in fact her beauty without the grand fortune – which, at her father’s death, she was to become mistress of – would of itself have been enough to have challenged a crowd of pretenders to her hand.

The Andalusian type has lost nothing in the northern provinces of Mexico. Its purity of outline is there associated with freshness of colour, and this happy mixture of graces was exhibited in the beautiful countenance of Rosarita. We have described her with black eyes and hair of raven hue; but hers was a beauty that words can but faintly portray, and about which all description would be superfluous.

And this lovely creature bloomed in the very midst of the desert, like the flower of the cactus which blossoms and fades under the eye of God alone.

The immense plain in the midst of which stood the Hacienda del Venado presented a double aspect. In front of the house only did the ground show any traces of cultivation. On that side fields of Indian corn and vast olive plantations denoted the presence and skilful labour of man.

Behind the hacienda – at some hundred paces distance from the stockade – the clearing ended, and thence extended the virgin forest in all its sombre and primitive majesty.

The cultivated ground was intersected by a considerable stream of water. During the dry season it ran gently and silently along, but in the season of rain it would suddenly change into an impetuous torrent that inundated the whole plain, bearing huge rocks along in its current, and every year widening its channel.

Perhaps the most powerful of Arab chiefs, the richest patriarch of ancient times, never counted such superb and numerous herds as roamed over the pasturage of the Hacienda del Venado.

About an hour before sunset – on that same day on which the travellers departed from La Poza – two men, one on horseback, the other mounted on a mule, were seen traversing the plain in the direction of the hacienda. Both horse and mule were each a splendid specimen of his kind – the horse with fiery eye, broad chest, and curving, swan-like neck, was scarce more to be admired than the mule, that with fine, delicate limbs, rounded flanks, and shining coat, walked side by side with him.

This horseman was the master of the hacienda, Don Augustin Peña. His costume consisted of a hat of Guayaquil grass, a shirt of the finest cambric, an embroidered vest, and silk velvet pantaloons fastened down the sides with large buttons of gold.

His companion, the rider of the mule, was the chaplain of the hacienda, a reverend Franciscan monk in a sort of half convent costume. This consisted of an ample blue frock confined around the waist with a thick cord of silk, the tassels of which hung down below his knees. Beneath this appeared a pair of large riding-boots heavily spurred. Upon his head a grey beaver, somewhat jauntily set, gave to the Franciscan an appearance rather soldier-like than monastic.

The haciendado appeared to be regarding with a look of pride his rich possessions – extending beyond view on every side of him – as if he was reflecting how much this kind of wealth was superior to golden ingots shut idly in a chest; while the monk seemed to be absorbed in some profound reverie.

“By Saint Julian! the patron saint of travellers!” said Don Augustin, breaking silence, “you have been more than twenty-four hours absent! I was afraid, reverend father, that some jaguar had swallowed both you and your mule.”

“Man proposes, and God disposes,” replied the monk. “When I took my departure from the hacienda, I did not except to be gone more than a few hours – giving Christian burial to poor Joaquin, that had been killed by one of the bulls – but just as I had blessed the earth where they had buried him, a young man came galloping up like a thunderbolt, both himself and horse all of a sweat, to beg that I would go along with him and confess his mother who was upon her death-bed. Only ten leagues he said it was, and I should have been glad for a pretext to get off from such a difficult turn of duty; but at the earnest entreaty of the young fellow, and knowing who he was, I could not refuse him. Who do you think he was?”

“How should I know?” replied the haciendado.

“Tiburcio, the adopted son of the famous gambusino, Marcos Arellanos.”

“How! his mother dead! I am sorry. He is a brave youth, and I have not forgotten the service he once did me. But for him we should all have been dead of thirst, my daughter, my people, and myself. If he is left without resources, I hope you have said to him that he will find a welcome at the Hacienda del Venado.”

“No – I have not,” replied the monk.

“And why?”

“Because this young fellow is desperately in love with your daughter; it is my duty to tell you so.”

“What signifies that, so long as my daughter does not love him?” replied Don Augustin. “And if she did, where would she find a man possessing higher physical or moral qualities than this same Tiburcio? I never dreamt of having for my son-in-law any other than an intelligent man, brave enough to defend the frontier against these hordes of savage Indians, and just such a man is young Arellanos. But in truth I forget myself; I have this day designed for Rosarita a husband of a more exalted station.”

“And it may be that you have done wrong,” rejoined the monk, in a serious tone; “from what I suspect – in fact, what I may say I know – this Tiburcio might make a more valuable son-in-law than you imagine.”

“It’s too late then,” said Don Augustin. “I have given my word, and I cannot retract it.”

“It is just about this matter I wish to speak to you, if you have time to hear me.”

At this moment the two horsemen, having passed the stockade, had arrived at the foot of the stone stairway – which led up to the portico, and thence into the grand sala of the hacienda – and while dismounting, their dialogue was interrupted.

This sala was a large room, which, according to the practice in hot countries, was so arranged as to be continually kept cool by a current of air passing lengthwise through its whole extent. Fine Chinese mats covered the floor, while richly painted window-blinds prevented the rays of the sun from entering the apartment. The walls, whitened with stucco, were adorned with rare illuminated paintings set in gold frames, some leathern chairs called butacas, several side tables – upon one of which stood a silver brazero filled with red cinders of charcoal – these, with a fauteuil or two, and a mahogany couch of Anglo-American manufacture, completed the furniture of the apartment.

Upon a table of polished balsam-wood stood several porous jars containing water; beside them, on a large silver waiter, were confections of several kinds; while heaped upon other dishes, also of solid silver, were fruits both of the tropic and temperate climes – oranges, granadillas, limes, and pitayas, here brought together to tempt the appetite or assuage the thirst.

The appearance of these preparations denoted that Don Augustin expected company. As soon as they had entered within the sala, the monk, observing the well garnished tables, inquired if such was the case.

“Yes,” answered the haciendado, “Don Estevan de Arechiza has sent me word that he will arrive this evening with a somewhat numerous train, and I have taken measures to entertain a guest of such importance. But you say you wish to speak to me about some business – what is it, Friar José Maria?”

The two now sat down, each choosing an easy-chair, and while Don Augustin was lighting a cigar the monk commenced speaking as follows:

“I found the old woman seated upon a bank outside the door of her hut, whither she had dragged herself to look out for my arrival. ‘Bless you, good father!’ said she, ‘you have arrived in time to receive my last confession. But while you rest a little, I wish you to listen to what I am going to say to him whom I have always treated as my own child, and to whom I intend to leave a legacy of vengeance.’”

“What! holy father!” interrupted Don Augustin, “surely you did not permit this infraction of God’s law, who says, vengeance belongs only to Him?”

“Why not?” replied the monk. “In these deserts, where neither laws nor tribunals exist, every man must be his own avenger.”

With this strange apology for his conduct, the monk continued:

“I sat down and listened to what she had to say to this adopted son. It was this: – ‘Your father was not killed by the Indians, as we were led to believe. It was his companion who murdered him – for the purpose of being the sole possessor of a secret, which I shall presently disclose – but to you only, Marcos.’

“‘God alone knows who this man was,’ said Tiburcio, ‘he alone knows him.’

“‘He only!’ cried the dying woman, with an air of disdain. ‘Is this the language of a man? When the Indians come to steal his cattle from the vaquero, does he sit still and say: God only can prevent them? No! – with his eye bent, and his hand ready, he follows upon their traces, till he has recovered his herds, or perished in the attempt. Go you and do as the vaquero! Track out the assassin of your father. That is the last wish of her who nourished you, and has never failed in her affection.’

“‘I shall obey you, my mother,’ answered the young man, in a firm voice.

“‘Listen, then, to what I have got to say!’ continued the widow. ‘The murder of Arellanos is no longer a supposition, but a reality. I have it from a herdsman who came from the country beyond Tubac. Some days before, he had met two travellers. One was your father Marcos; the other was a stranger to him. The herdsman was travelling on the same route, and followed them at some distance behind. At a place where certain signs showed that the two travellers had made their bivouac, the herdsman had found the traces of a terrible struggle. The grass was bent down, and saturated with blood. There were tracks of blood leading to a precipice that hung over a stream of water; and most likely over this the victim was precipitated. This victim must have been Marcos; for the herdsman was able to follow the trail of the murderer by the tracks of his horse; and a little further on he noticed where the horse had stumbled on the left fore-leg. The assassin himself must have been wounded in the struggle, for the herdsman could tell by his tracks leading to the precipice that he had limped on one leg.’”

Don Augustin listened with attention to this account – proving the wonderful sagacity of his countrymen, of which he had almost every day some new proof. The monk went on with his narration.

“‘Swear then, Tiburcio, to avenge your father!’ continued the dying woman. ‘Swear it, and I promise to make you as rich as the proudest in the land; rich enough to bend to your wishes the most powerful – even the daughter of Augustin Peña, for whom your passion has not escaped me. This day you may aspire to her hand without being deemed foolish; for I tell you, you are as rich as her own father. Swear, then, to pursue to the death the murderer of Arellanos?’

“‘I swear it,’ rejoined Tiburcio, with a solemn gesture.

“Upon this, the dying woman placed in the hands of the young man a piece of paper, upon which Arellanos, before leaving his home for the last time, had traced the route of his intended journey.

“‘With the treasure which that paper will enable you to find,’ continued the dying woman, ‘you will have gold enough to corrupt the daughter of a viceroy, if you wish it. Meanwhile, my child, leave me for a while to confess to this holy man: a son should not always hear the confession of his mother.’”

The monk, in a few more words, related the closing scene of the widow’s death, and then finished by saying: —

“Now, Don Augustin, you perceive my reason for saying that this young fellow, whatever may be his family, is not the less likely to make a good match for the Doña Rosarita.”

“I agree with you,” responded the haciendado; “but, as I have said to you, my word is given to Don Estevan de Arechiza.”

“What!” exclaimed the monk, “this Spaniard to be your son-in-law!”

Don Augustin smiled mysteriously as he replied: —

“He! no, good Fray José, not he, but another. Don Estevan does not wish this alliance.”