Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“Do you wish the proofs? – if you do you shall have them – but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.”

“No matter; I should like to hear them,” said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice.

“I will not speak of your conscience – mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders – nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars – ”

Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.

“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race – or appears to be of a race – that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”

“No,” said Cuchillo.

“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is: – In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”

“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.

“A second question: – Were they really Indians who murdered your companion?”

“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.

“Third question: – Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”

“I did – to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”

“One more question: – Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river – not quite dead, it may be?”

The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.

Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!

“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.

“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant – the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception – no treason, or your life will answer for it!”

“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”

The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:

“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration – ”

“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”

Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears – as of two persons engaged in conversation – but the words could not be distinguished.

“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.

“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”

A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this: – “If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”

Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.

The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?

Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!

“Providence,” said he to himself – and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips – “Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no – no – I spurn the occasion – it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”

As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.

“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes – now follow me!”

Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin.

The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition.

Tiburcio in going forth from his chamber, and traversing the path that conducted him to the appointed rendezvous, was under the belief he had not been observed: neither was he; but unfortunately chance had now betrayed him.

The night was not so dark as Don Estevan and Cuchillo would have wished; nevertheless, by crouching low, and keeping well in to the wall that enclosed the garden, they succeeded in reaching a little grove of orange and citron trees, the foliage of which was thick enough to shelter them from view. From this grove, thanks to the calmness of the night, they could catch every word that was said – for under the shadow of the trees they were able to approach very near to the speakers.

“Whatever you may hear,” whispered Don Estevan in the ear of the other, “remain motionless as I do.”

“I will,” simply answered Cuchillo.

The two now placed themselves in an attitude to see and hear. They were separated from the speakers by a slight barrier of leaves and branches, and by a distance not greater than an active man could pass over in two bounds. Little did the victims of their espionage suspect their proximity – little dreamt Tiburcio of the danger that was so near him.

Chapter Twenty Five

Love through the Window

For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches exchanged between lovers – when the young man, doubtful of his position, makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with Rosarita? It remains to be known.

According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window of Rosarita’s chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is called the reja, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon – for it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish race appear to the greatest advantage.

A reboso of silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette against the light burning within.

Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him.

“Ah!” said he, “I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in it that charmed my soul – something that I had never heard till that moment.”

“I have never forgotten the service you rendered us,” said the young girl; “but why recall those times? they are long past.”

“Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita – that scene appears to me as if it had happened yesterday. Yes,” continued the young man, in a tone of melancholy, “when the light of the camp-fire by little and little enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce describe the emotion which it gave me.”

Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks. Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen, without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of her beauty.

Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by emotion: – “I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible, Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I have lived from that day up to the present hour?”

There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.