Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“Come on, dog!” shouted Tiburcio, in answer; “and you too, Don Estevan, you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless people.”

The countenance of the Spaniard turned livid pale at this unexpected accusation. He instantly drew his dagger, and crying out: – “Down with him, Cuchillo!” rushed furiously forward to the attack.

No doubt Tiburcio would soon have succumbed before two such formidable antagonists, but at this moment a red light flashed upon the combatants, as Doña Rosarita, with a flaming torch in her hand, rushed forward between them.

The aspect of Tiburcio, who, despite the odds against him, and the blood that was running from his arm, still fearlessly maintained his defensive attitude, caused the heart of Rosarita to beat with sympathetic admiration. This sanguinary dénouement to their interview, was pleading the cause of the lover far more eloquently than either his reproaches or promises!

The first impulse of Rosarita was to fling herself into the arms of the young man so daring and beautiful. She was restrained only from following this impulse, by a feeling of feminine delicacy; and for an instant Tiburcio seemed the one about whom she was least concerned.

“Oh! my God!” cried she, “are you wounded? Don Estevan? Señor Cuchillo? Señor Arechiza! retire; for the love of the Virgin, let not the world know that a crime has been committed in our house.”

The excited bearing of the young girl, her bosom heaving under the light tissue of her dress, her reboso floating behind her, mingled with the long dark tresses of her dishevelled hair – all these, added to the proud savage beauty of her countenance – commanded respect; and as if by enchantment, the weapons of the combatants were restored to their sheaths.

Cuchillo growled like a dog newly muzzled, while Don Estevan preserved a sombre silence. Both walked away from the ground, and their forms were soon lost in the darkness.

Tiburcio, with face upturned, his eyes still flashing with rage, his features illuminated with the red light of the torch, remained for some moments without changing his attitude. His features exhibited that superb expression that danger only magnifies into grandeur. Gradually, however, their tone became softened, and an air of melancholy succeeded it, as his eyes rested upon Rosarita. The young girl had suddenly become pale, under the reaction of such vivid emotions, as well as under the influence of the powerful sentiment now rekindled within her heart. Acting under this influence as well, she hastily arranged her scarf in order to cover her nude shoulders, and the palpitating movements of her bosom. Even her motive for this was misunderstood by Tiburcio.

“Rosarita!” he said, speaking with perfect calmness, “I might have doubted your words, but your actions have spoken more plainly. It was to my enemies you first ran, though my blood was spilling; all your fears appeared to be for Don Estevan.”

“God knows that I do not deserve this reproach,” said the young girl, as with a look of terror she saw the blood streaming to the ground. At the same instant she advanced to examine the wound.

Tiburcio repulsed her by stepping backward.

“It is too late,” said he with a bitter smile, “the evil is done. Adieu! I have been too long your guest. The hospitality of your house is fatal to me. Under your roof my life has been threatened, my dearest hopes have been crushed! Adieu, Rosarita! Adieu!”

As he pronounced the last words, he turned and walked hastily away. There was a broken place in the wall of the enclosure, and towards this he directed his steps. A hundred paces beyond, the forest commenced, and the dark sombre trees were visible through the opening. The mysterious light he had already noticed, was still glimmering feebly above their tops.

“Where are you going, Tiburcio?” cried the young girl, her hands joined and her eyes filling with tears, “my father’s roof will protect you.”

Tiburcio only answered by a negative shake of the head.

“But yonder,” continued Rosarita, pointing to the woods, “yonder, alone and without defence – danger – death will await you.”

“God will send me friends,” answered Tiburcio, glancing towards the distant light. “The hospitality of the wandering traveller – a sleep by his camp-fire – will be safer for me than that of your father’s roof.” And Tiburcio continued to advance towards the breach with a gentle but resolute step.

“For the love of heaven do not expose yourself to dangers that may perhaps arise when I am no longer present to protect you! I tell you out yonder you will be risking your life;” then giving to her voice a tone of persuasive softness, she continued, “In what place, Tiburcio, will you be safer than with me?”

Tiburcio’s resolution was for a moment shaken, and he paused to make answer.

“One word, Rosarita!” said he; “say that you hate my rival as I hate him – say this, and I remain.”

A violent conflict appeared to arise in the breast of Rosarita. Her bosom swelled with conflicting emotions, as she fixed upon Tiburcio a glance of tender reproach, but she remained silent.

To a man of Tiburcio’s age the heart of a woman is a sealed book. Not till we have lost the attractions of youth – so powerful, despite its inexperience – are we able to penetrate the mysteries of the female heart – a sad compensation which God accords to the maturity of age. At thirty years Tiburcio would have remained. But he was yet only twenty-four; he had spent his whole life in the desert, and this was his first love.

“You will not say it? Adieu, then,” cried he, “I am no longer your guest,” and saying this, he leaped over the broken wall, before the young girl could offer any opposition to his departure.

Stupefied by this unexpected movement, she mounted upon the fragments that lay at the bottom of the wall, and stretching her arms toward the forest, she cried out —

“Tiburcio! Tiburcio! do not leave us so; do you wish to bring upon our house the malediction of heaven?”

But her voice was either lost to his ears, or he disdained to reply.

She listened a moment, she could hear the sound of his footsteps fast dying in the distance – until they could be heard no more.

“Oh! my God,” cried she, falling upon her knees in an attitude of prayer, “protect this young man from the dangers that threaten him. Oh God! watch over him, for alas! he carries with him my heart.”

Then forgetting in her grief her projects of ambition, the will of her father, all that deceptive confidence, which had kept silent the voice of a love, of the existence of which she was hitherto almost ignorant – the young girl rose hastily from her knees, once more mounted upon the wall, and in a heart-rending voice called out, “Come back! Tiburcio; come back! I love only you!”

But no answer was returned, and wrapping her face in her reboso, she sat down and wept.

Before returning to her chamber she cast one more look in the direction of the forest, but the woods were still enveloped in the obscurity of night; all was sombre and silent, though in the distance the feeble light was still glimmering over the tree tops. All at once it appeared for an instant to flash more brightly, as if offering a welcome to him who had no longer a home!

Chapter Twenty Six

An Abrupt Departure

Don Estevan and Cuchillo, on leaving the ground of the combat, returned to the alley of granadines; but for some time not a word passed between them. Don Estevan was buried in a profound meditation. More skilled than his coarse companion in the mysteries of the female heart, he had divined, before the end of the dialogue between Rosarita and Tiburcio, that the young girl felt for the latter a tender sentiment. It was true it was just germinating in her soul; but the accents of her voice, her gestures, and other signs, discovered to the experienced intelligence of Don Estevan that she really loved Tiburcio, though herself not yet aware of the extent of that love.

For Tiburcio knowing the secret of the Golden Valley, Don Estevan cared little – that was a matter of secondary importance; but Tiburcio’s love reciprocated by Doña Rosarita was a very different affair. This at once presented a series of obstacles to the ambitious projects of the Spaniard. Tiburcio then must be got out of the way at all hazards, and at any price. Such are the terrible exigencies of ambition.

It only remained to adopt some plan; but the Spaniard was not then in the spirit to think of one. He was writhing at the inadvertence that had just happened.

“The clumsy fool!” he muttered, but loud enough for his companion to hear him.

“Is it of me your excellency is speaking?” inquired Cuchillo, in a tone that savoured strongly of his usual impudence.

“Who else could I mean, you sot? You who neither know how to use strength or stratagem! A woman has accomplished what you could not do! I have told you that this child is a giant to you; and had it not been for me – ”

“Had it not been for you,” interrupted the outlaw, “this young fellow would not now have been living to trouble us.”

“How sir?” demanded Don Estevan.

“Last night, as I was bringing him to your bivouac, the fellow did an outrage to my honour, and actually threatened me. I was about putting an end to our differences by a shot from my carbine, when your precious old fool of a servant, Benito, came galloping up, and of course I had to renounce my design. So you see, the only good action I have ever done, has brought me to grief. Such is the reward of our virtue!”

“Speak for yourself, my droll fellow!” said the Spaniard, whose pride revolted at being thus classed with such company as the outlaw. “But if that could be outraged which does not exist, may I ask what attempt this young man made upon your honour?”

“I do not know myself – it was something that happened with my horse, who has the fault – ”

Cuchillo interrupted himself as one who has made an imprudent speech.

“The fault of stumbling in the left fore-leg?” added Don Estevan. “I see – this old history of the murder of Arellanos.”

“I did not murder him,” cried the outlaw, impudently. “I had reasons not to like him; but I pardoned him, for all that.”

“Oh! you are so magnanimous! But come, an end to these pleasantries. It remains for you to get this young man out of the way. I have my reasons for wishing it so – among others, he knows our secret. I gave you a half onza to save his life. To-day I have different views regarding him; and I promise to give you twenty onzas when I am assured that he is no longer alive.”

“Agreed, Don Estevan; and in to-morrow’s hunt of these wild horses, it will be strange if Tiburcio Arellanos don’t knock his brains out against either a rock or the trunk of a tree, or at least get himself into some corner, where he won’t be able to find his way out again. The only regret I have is, that I shall have to share these twenty onzas with my friends, Baraja and Oroche.”