Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

It was the second time that he had faced the whites since the commencement of the campaign, and his name was known to them.

“Here, Diaz,” cried Baraja, “here is the Spotted Cat!”

At the name of Diaz, which had already reached him, the Indian chief looked round for him who bore it, with eyes which seemed to dart flames, and raised his lance to strike Diaz, when a blow from Oroche’s knife wounded his horse. The Indian thrown to the ground, let fall his lance. Diaz seized it, and while the chief raised himself on one knee and endeavoured to draw his sword, the lance which he had dropped, pierced his naked breast, and came out between his shoulders. Although mortally wounded, the Indian uttered no cry, his eyes never lost their haughty menace, and his face expressed only rage.

“The Spotted Cat dies not so easily,” said he, and with a vigorous hand he seized the wood of the lance still held by Diaz. A fierce struggle ensued, but at every effort of the Indian to draw Diaz towards him, and envelop him in a last deadly clasp, the murdering, lance pierced farther and farther. Soon his strength failed, and violently torn from his body the bloody weapon remained in the hands of Diaz. The Indian fell back, gave one glance of defiance, and then lay motionless upon the earth.

Their chief fallen, the others soon shared the same fate, while their companions vainly tried to force the line a second time. Victims of their temerity, the Indians, without asking for a mercy which they never showed, fell like their chief facing the enemy, and surrounded by the corpses of those who had preceded them in their journey to the land of spirits.

Of all the savages in the camp but one remained. He looked round him for a minute with eyes fierce as those of the hunted tiger; then, instead of seeking to hide his presence, he uttered anew his war-cry, but it was confounded with those from without – and profiting by a moment of confusion, during which the adventurers, attacked from without, left the breach almost clear – he caused his horse to leap over, and found himself once more among his own people.

Pedro Diaz alone saw him, and regretted his prey, but the implacable enemy of the Indians never indulged in sterile regrets. He was mounted on the war-horse presented to him by Don Augustin Peña. From his left hand hung by the sword-knot a long Toledo rapier, with the Spanish device:

Do not draw me without cause,
Or sheathe me without honour.

The blade was red with blood. Diaz shaded his eyes with his right hand, and tried to pierce the distant obscurity. All at once he perceived at the end of the luminous zone projected by the fires, the man he was seeking. He was making furious evolutions on his horse, and uttering shouts of defiance. Diaz remembered the speech of the haciendado about the horse he had given him – “The Indian whom you pursue must be mounted on the wings of the wind if you do not catch him,” and he resolved to make the attempt. The noble animal, excited by the spur, leaped over the intrenchments overthrown by the Indians, and the two were soon side by side. The Indian brandished his hatchet, Diaz his sword, and for some seconds there was a trial of agility, courage, and address. Each sustained his country’s reputation, but the Indian’s hatchet broke to pieces the sword of the Mexican. The two combatants then seized one another round the body and tried to drag each other from their horses, but like centaurs, each seemed to form a part of the animal he bestrode.

At last Diaz disengaged himself from his adversary’s clasp, and backed his horse, still facing the Indian. Then, when he was a little way off, he caused his horse to rear so furiously that the animal seemed for a moment to be raised over the Indian. At the same moment Diaz lifted his right leg, and with a blow from the large heavy iron-bound stirrup, broke his adversary’s skull, whom his horse carried away dead from the spot.

This last magnificent exploit seemed to end the battle; some arrows flew harmlessly around Diaz, who was welcomed back with shouts of triumph by his companions.

“Poor Benito!” cried Baraja; “may God rest his soul, I regret even his terrific histories.”

“What is still more to be regretted,” interrupted Oroche, “is the death of the illustrious Cuchillo, the guide of the expedition.”

“Your ideas are still confused from the blow you received on your head,” said Diaz, as he tried the flexibility of a new sword. “But for the illustrious Cuchillo, as you call him, we should not have lost to-night at least twenty brave comrades. Cuchillo unluckily died a day too late, and I cannot say ‘God rest his soul.’”

Meanwhile the Indians were deliberating. The last exploit of Diaz, the death that so many of their party had met with in the camp, and those killed by the filing, had thinned their ranks.

The Indian never persists in a hopeless struggle: a singular mixture of prudence and contempt of life characterises this singular race, and prudence counselled them to retreat; they did so precipitately as they had attacked.

But the tactics of the white men were different; they were anxious to profit by a victory the fame of which would penetrate to the furthest end of the desert, and render their future more secure. Therefore an order to pursue the fugitives given by Don Estevan was received with acclamations. Twenty cavaliers instantly rushed forward, Pedro Diaz among the foremost. Sword in one hand, and lasso and bridle in the other, he was soon out of sight.

Those who remained behind, though nearly all more or less wounded, occupied themselves first with reconstructing the intrenchment in case of any new attack; then, overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, after clearing the camp of the dead bodies which encumbered it, they lay down on the earth, still wet with blood, to seek for repose.

Chapter Thirty Eight

After the Fight

In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or bloody faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought.

All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention, and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded. The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying man – in whom he immediately recognised Benito.

“Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?” said he, with a look of profound pity.

“Yes,” replied the old shepherd, “it is old Benito, dying in the desert where he has nearly always lived. As for me – I know not who you are; my eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?”

“I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I hope, to bid you a last adieu.”

“I doubt it,” replied Benito; “I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?”

“Not a word.”

“Ah! I must do without it,” said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, “I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion – an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did.”

“A brother doubtless.”

“Better than that; my horse.”

“I shall remind him – do not fear.”

“Thank you,” said the old man. “As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth – now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner. That – ” he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.

“He was a brave man – peace be with him!” said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.

Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses’ feet indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they entered the camp.

The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his forehead.

“Señor Don Estevan,” said he, “we have not been lucky in our pursuit. We have but wounded one or two of the Indians, and have lost one of our own men. However I bring you a prisoner; do you wish to interrogate him?”

So saying, Diaz detached his lasso from the saddle-bow, and pointed to a mass held in its noose. It was an Indian, who, pitilessly dragged along over the sand and stones, had left behind at every step pieces of flesh, and now scarcely retained any vestige of humanity.

“He was alive when I took him, however,” cried Diaz, “but it is just like these dogs of Indians, he must have died in order not to tell anything.”

Without replying to this ferocious jest, Don Estevan signed to Diaz to accompany him to a place where they might converse without being overheard. When the new-comers had lain down and silence reigned anew, Don Estevan began:

“Diaz,” said he, “we are close on the end of our expedition: to-morrow, as I told you, we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains; but in order that success may crown our efforts, treason must not throw obstacles in our way. It is on this subject that I wish to consult you to-night. You have known Cuchillo long, but not so long as I have; and certainly, not as thoroughly. From his earliest youth he has always betrayed those to whom he appeared most devoted. I know not which of all the vices with which he is endowed has the ascendant; but in a word, the sinister look of his face is but a feeble reflection of the blackness of his soul. It was he who sold to me the secret of the rich and mysterious placer to which I am leading you – and of this secret he had made himself the sole master by murdering the friend who had freely confided it to him, and who thought to find him a faithful companion in his dangers.

“I have ever, therefore, kept a watchful eye over him. His disappearance for the last two days alarmed me, but it might have been the result of an accident common in these deserts. The attack, however, from which we have so narrowly escaped has confirmed my suspicions. He has advanced under our protection, until we have reached the place where he would, be able to seize a part of these immense treasures. He had need of auxiliaries in order to murder our sixty men, and the Indians who have attacked us were but his instruments.”

“Indeed,” replied Diaz, “his report seemed to me suspicious. But the simplest method will be to hold a court-martial, interrogate him, and if he be convicted of treason, let us shoot him at once.”

“At the commencement of the attack, I assigned him a post near me, in order to watch him more easily. I saw him totter and then fall apparently mortally wounded, and I was glad to be rid of a traitor and a coward. But I have just turned over and examined all the dead, and Cuchillo is not amongst them. It is therefore urgent that without loss of time we should follow him; he cannot be far off. You are accustomed to this sort of expedition; we must, without delay, set off in pursuit of him, and execute prompt justice on a villain whose life must pay for his treachery.”

Diaz appeared to reflect for a moment, and then said, “To trace him can neither be tedious nor difficult. Cuchillo must have gone towards the Golden Valley – therefore in that direction we must seek him.”

“Go rest for an hour, for you must be worn out,” said the chief. “Ah! Diaz, if all these men were like you, how easy our path would be – gold in one hand, and the sword in the other.”

“I have only done my duty,” said Diaz, simply.

“Say to our men that it is necessary for us to reconnoitre the environs of the camp, and tell the sentinels to keep strict watch until our return, and then we shall proceed towards the valley.”

“Cuchillo must certainly be there, and we shall catch him either going or returning.”

“We shall find him in the valley,” said Don Estevan. “When you have seen it, you will find it a place that a man like Cuchillo could not make up his mind to leave.”