Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“No,” at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight trembling of her voice, “I do not forget, but we were then only children – to-day – ”

“To-day,” interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, “to-day that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to comprise you in his projects of ambition.”

The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.

“Comprise me in his projects of ambition,” said she, her beautiful nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, “and who has told you, señor, that it is not I who condescend?”

“This stranger, too,” continued Tiburcio, still preserving his reproachful manner, “this Don Estevan – whom I hate even worse than the Senator – has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid – of the wonderful countries that lie beyond the sea – and you wish to see them with your own eyes!”

“Indeed I acknowledge,” answered Rosarita, “that in these deserts life appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have heard so much. What can you offer to me – to my father?”

“I understand now,” cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, “to be poor, an orphan, unhappy – these are not the titles to win the heart of a woman.”

“You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that happens – for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this preference with their daughters.”

There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio evidently did not comprehend – for he continued his reproaches and bitter recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to them.

“Of course you love this Senator,” said he. “Do not talk, then, of being compelled!”

“Who talks of being compelled?” said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the young man. “I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle dreams.”

“And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say, Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you do not make answer – you love him, Rosarita? And I – Oh! why did they not leave me to die upon the road?”

At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges, where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment.

“Hush!” said the young girl, “did you not hear a noise?”

Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the terrible anger that tortured it – but the rays of the moon shone only upon the silvery foliage – all was quiet around.

He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had passed as lightning though a sombre sky.

“Very likely,” said he, with a melancholy smile, “it is the spirit of some poor lover who has died from despair.”

“Santisima Virgen!” exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross. “You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of love?” she inquired in a tone of naïvété.

“It may be,” replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, “Hear me, Rosarita! you are ambitious, you have said so – hear me then! Supposing I could give you all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I shall become – for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it to you.”

As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in his soul the pride of an ancient race.

For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more attention than what she had hitherto exhibited.

Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of implacable raillery.

“We shall see now,” whispered the Spaniard, “whether this young fellow knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the Garden of Eden.”

Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.

As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with him was to discover whether Tiburcio’s passion was reciprocated: the rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.

Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin, and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.

“Not for your life!” said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw, whose hand rested upon his knife. “Not for your soul’s safety! Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred. Hush!” he continued, “listen!” and still holding the outlaw by the arm he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.

“Why should I conceal it from you longer?” exclaimed the young man, in a tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation. “Hear me, then! honours – riches – power I can lay at your feet, but you alone can enable me to effect this miracle.”

Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory expression.

“Perhaps I should have told you sooner,” continued Tiburcio, “that my adopted mother no longer lives – ”

“I know it,” interrupted the young girl, “you are alone in the world; I heard it this evening from my father.”

The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the pressure given to it.

At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold upon the arm of Cuchillo.

“Yes,” continued Tiburcio, “my mother died in poverty, though she has left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own. The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos.”

At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth. His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio.

“Here me further!” continued the young man. “About sixty leagues from here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?”

Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his heart like the tolling of a funeral knell.

“I hope, Tiburcio,” said she, with a significant smile, “that this is only a ruse on your part to put me to the proof – I hope so, because I do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make yourself master of a secret that belongs to another.”

“The secret of another!” cried the young man in a voice hoarse with astonishment.

“Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it – ”

Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret, too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of his disappointment, she too – for whose sake alone he had valued it – she to accuse him of treason!

“Ah!” cried he, “Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!” cried he, striking the ground with his heel, “perhaps it was himself!”

“Pray God rather to protect you, – you will need all his grace!” cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form – that of a man – rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio.

The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence – nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it.

“Now, villain, we are quits,” cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. “Villain!” repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: “you shall die the death of an assassin.”

Places had suddenly changed – Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.

“Hold,” screamed Rosarita, “hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father’s guest; his life is sacred under our roof.”

Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.

Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serapé around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.

“You call this being quits!” cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving from the pressure to Tiburcio’s knee. “Your life belongs to me – I only lent it to you, and I shall now take it back.”