Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”

A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.

“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot – ”

“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.

“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”

This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.

“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice – not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”

“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”

“The traitor who twice attempted your life – the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest – is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”

“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it – but are you also certain?”

“As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it.

“And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it.”

As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse’s girths, and prepared to depart.

“One word more!” cried Fabian, “has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?”

“More than two years, from what I have heard.”

This last scene had escaped the bandit’s observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.

Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serapé all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation.

“Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day,” said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. “What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepé – Bois-Rose – advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day.”

“Does the vile wretch, who cut your father’s throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?” answered the Canadian, resolutely.

“Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death,” added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, “and I abandon him to your justice.”

“It is with regret that I see you depart,” said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, “a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated.”

“My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan’s unhappy star,” replied the adventurer, “but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley.”

As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death.

The three friends speedily lost sight of him.

The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him.

Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose’s advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier.

“You have taken,” said the latter, in his turn, “a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband’s murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it.”

Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian’s countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; “But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo’s expect to be hung every day.”

As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepé approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw.

The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him – dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun’s light over the surface of the valley – had heard and seen nothing.

With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse.

“Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please,” cried Pepé, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; “Master Cuchillo!”

But Cuchillo did not hear.

It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier – after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected.

“Master Cuchillo,” resumed Pepé, “I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character.”

“Come!” said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely.”

Then aloud:

“A philosophical maxim?” said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. “What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point.”

Pepé, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbable sangfroid, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together.

No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile.

“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”

“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”

“Indeed!”

“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”

“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”

“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”

“Indeed!”

“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”

“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba – enough to build a church to your patron saint.”

Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.