Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“It is; although, to say the truth, Cuchillo is one of those people whom one is rarely wrong in accusing of perfidy; but I do not see what object he could have in betraying us.”

Don Estevan pointed to the fog which hid the tops of the mountains in the horizon. “The neighbourhood of those mountains,” said he, “might explain the absence of Cuchillo.” Then, with a changed tone, “Are our men still of the same mind.”

“Yes, Señor, and have more confidence than ever, in the chief who watches while they sleep, and fights like the humblest of them.”

“I have battled in many parts of the world,” said Don Estevan, sensible to praise, the sincerity of which he believed in, “and I have rarely commanded men more determined than these. Would they were five hundred instead of sixty, for then on the return of this expedition my projects would be easy of accomplishment.”

“I am ignorant what these projects are, of which you now speak to me for the first time,” said Diaz in a reserved tone. “But perhaps Don Estevan thinks me ambitious, only because he does me the honour to judge me by himself.”

“It is possible, friend Diaz,” replied Don Estevan, smiling; “the first time that I saw you I thought that your mind was of the same stamp as my own. We are made to understand each other, I am sure.”

The Mexican had all the vivacious intelligence of his country; he had judged Don Estevan, but he waited for him to take the initiative. He therefore bowed and kept silence.

The Spaniard pushed open the curtains of the tent, and, pointing one more to the horizon, “Another day’s march,” said he; “and we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains.”

“Yes, we are scarcely six leagues distant.”

“And do you know what is below that mass of fog which crowns their top?”

“No,” replied the Mexican.

Don Estevan cast upon Diaz a look which seemed as if meant to penetrate his soul, at the moment of revealing a secret until then so carefully kept. The Spaniard wished to assure himself that the confidant he was about to choose was worthy of his confidence. The honest look of Diaz – on whose countenance could be traced none of that cupidity which spurred on his companions – reassured him, and he went on:

“Well, it is towards those mountains that we have been marching. I shall now tell you why I have directed the expedition to this place, as the pilot conducts the ship to some point in the ocean known only to himself; this evening you shall read my mind clearly. That mass of fog, which the sun itself will not wholly disperse, serves as a veil to treasures which have been amassing perhaps from the beginning of the world. For centuries the rains have been washing them into the plains: the whites only suspected, and the Indians spared them; to-morrow they shall be ours! This has been my aim. Well, Diaz! do you not fall on your knees to thank God for being one of those called to share in these treasures?”

“No,” replied Diaz, simply; “cupidity would not have made me brave the dangers that a wish for revenge has done. I would have sought from the work of my arms what others seek by easier, if by less sure, methods. But the Indians have ravaged my fields, pillaged my flocks, and murdered my father and brothers. Of my people I alone escaped. Since that time I have made fierce war upon the savages, have slain many, have sold their sons by dozens, and it is still the hope of vengeance which brings me here – neither ambition nor cupidity. But I love my country and all that I should care for riches would be to enable me to make a last effort against that distant congress which tyrannises over but cannot protect us.”

“Good! friend Diaz!” cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the adventurer, and then added with vehemence:

“Strong by the aid of this gold, I will confide my plans to those sixty men now buried in sleep. On our return our numbers will swell like the stream which widens as it flows, and we shall shake off the yoke of a capital – which is capable only of constantly changing its men and its principles.”

Don Estevan had already noticed, in former conversations with Diaz, his great hatred of the federal system, but wishing to be sure whether or not it was founded on personal motives, he continued —

“The congress is far from you, and the government of Mexico has neither troops nor money to protect provinces so distant as yours. Is that the only reproach you have to make of it!”

“The only reproach! No. Independence is for us but an empty name, and we have to bear only the burden of a distant government.”

Don Estevan now unveiled to Diaz the project which he had discussed with the Senator. Then passing from principles to persons, he named the King, Don Carlos, as him whom they were to introduce.

“A king! King Charles! so be it,” replied Diaz, “but we shall have many obstacles to overcome.”

“Less than you imagine, Diaz. Gold will level all obstacles, and to-morrow we shall gather it by handfuls. We will pave the way to the new kingdom with gold, and pay largely the founders and guardians of a throne which will want only its king.”

Thus, as he had promised his master, the bold partisan laid, even in the desert, the foundation of a future dynasty. What the influence of the Senator was to effect in the congress, that of a man renowned by his exploits was to obtain from his equals.

After this conversation Diaz retired to seek repose from his fatigues, and Don Estevan accompanied him out of the tent. The latter threw around him a glance of tranquil pride; all obstacles were surmounted, the incessant vigilance of the Indians had been eluded, thanks to Diaz, and an immense treasure, untouched since the commencement of the world, awaited only the hands which were about to be extended to seize it.

“See!” said he, “from those will rise the elements of a new kingdom, and our names will belong to history. Now I have but one fear – that is, treachery on the part of Cuchillo – and you will share this fear with me when you hear that it is he who sold me the secret of this golden deposit.”

Diaz was looking earnestly at the plain.

“There!” cried he, “I see a man approaching at full gallop: it is Gayferos or Cuchillo?”

“Pray God it be the latter,” said Don Estevan. “I prefer having him near rather than far from my sight.”

“I think I recognise his grey horse.”

In a minute, indeed, they recognised Cuchillo himself.

“To arms! to arms!” cried the guide, “here are the Indians,” and he rushed precipitately through the opening made for him by the sentinels.

“Cuchillo! the Indians! both names of bad augury,” said Don Estevan, as he turned towards his companion.

Chapter Thirty Seven

The Attack

At the cry of Cuchillo, which resounded throughout the camp, the Spaniard and Diaz exchanged looks of intelligence.

“It is strange that the Indians should have found our trail again?” said Don Estevan, interrogatively.

“Very strange,” replied Diaz, and without saying another word, both descended from the eminence, on which they stood.

The camp was already in motion, and confusion reigned everywhere; there was a general movement among these intrepid men, who were accustomed to such surprises, and who had already more than once measured their strength with their implacable enemies. Each armed hastily, but soon the tumult subsided, and all stationed themselves at the posts assigned to them in case of attack. The first who interrogated Cuchillo were the shepherd and Baraja.

“Unless you drew the Indians on to our track, how could they have discovered us?” said the former, with a suspicious look.

“Certainly it was I,” replied Cuchillo, impudently. “I should have liked to have seen you pursued by a hundred, of these demons, and whether you would not, like me, have galloped to the camp to seek an asylum!”

“In such a case,” replied Benito, severely, “a man to save his companions, does not fly, but gives up his life sooner than betray them. I should have done so.”

“Every one in his own way,” replied Cuchillo, “but I have an account to render only to the chief, and not to his servants.”

“Yes,” murmured the other, “a coward and a traitor can but commit baseness and perfidies.”

“Are the Indians numerous?” asked Baraja.

“I had not time to count them; all that I know is that they must be near.”

And crossing the camp he proceeded to where Don Estevan – after having attended to the most important precautions – stood at the door of his tent waiting for him. As Cuchillo went on without replying to any of the questions with which he was assailed, a man advanced with a lighted torch in his hand to set fire to the fagots piled in various places, but Don Estevan cried —

“Not yet; it is, perhaps, a false alarm, and until we have the certainty of attack we must not light up the camp to betray ourselves.”

At the words “false alarm,” a smile played over Cuchillo’s features.

“However,” added Don Estevan, “let every one saddle his horse and be prepared.” Then he returned to his tent, making a sign to Diaz to accompany him.

“That means, friend Baraja,” said Benito, “that if the orders are given to light the fires, we are sure to be attacked – at night too; it is terrible.”