Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“You did kill him; you cut his throat near to our common country; you threw his corpse into the river; the earth revealed it to me – since I noticed the defect in the horse you rode, as well as the wound in your leg, which you received in the struggle.”

“Pardon, Don Tiburcio?” cried Cuchillo, overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of these facts, to which God alone had been witness. “Take back all the gold you gave me, but spare my life; and to show my gratitude, I will kill all your enemies everywhere, and always at a sign from you – for nothing – even my father, if you command me; but in the name of the all-powerful God, spare my life – spare me my life!” he continued, crawling forward and clutching at Fabian’s knees.

“Arellanos also craved for mercy; did you listen to him?” said Fabian, turning away.

“But when I killed him, it was that I might possess all this gold myself. Now I restore it all for my life – what can you want more?” he continued, while he resisted Pepé’s efforts, who was trying to prevent him from kissing Fabian’s feet.

With features distorted by excess of terror, a whitish foam upon his lips, his eyes starting from his head, yet seeing nothing, Cuchillo still sued for mercy, as he endeavoured to crawl towards Fabian. He had by continued efforts reached the edge of the platform. Behind his head, the sheet of water fell foaming downwards.

“Mercy, mercy!” he cried, “in the name of your mother – for Doña Rosarita’s sake, who loves you, for I know that she loves you – I heard – ”

“What?” cried Fabian, in his turn rushing towards Cuchillo, but the question expired upon his lips.

Spurned along the earth by the carabinier’s foot Cuchillo with head and arms stretched back was hurled into the abyss!

“What have you done, Pepé?” exclaimed Fabian.

“The wretch,” said the ex-carabinier, “was not worth the cord which might have hung him, nor the bullet that would have sent him out of the world.”

A piercing cry, – a cry which rose from the abyss – which drowned their voices and was heard above the roar of the cascade, caused Fabian to stretch his head forward and withdraw it again in horror. Hanging to the branches of a shrub which bent beneath his weight, and which scarce adhering to the sides of the rock, was fast giving way, Cuchillo hung over the abyss, howling forth his terror and anguish.

“Help!” he shouted, in a voice despairing as the damned. “Help! if you are human beings – help!”

The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow.

Suddenly the bandit’s voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips.

A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert. The abyss had swallowed up him whose life had been a long tissue of crime.

Chapter Fifty Two

The Man of the Red Kerchief

Six months have elapsed since the three hunters, without deigning to carry with them a single grain of the treasures of the valley of gold, directed their steps, following the course of the Rio Gila, to the plains of Texas. The rainy had succeeded to the dry season, without anything being known of their fate, or of the expedition commanded by Don Estevan de Arechiza.

Diaz was no more, having carried with him to the tomb the secret of the wonderful valley – and Gayferos had followed his three liberators. What had become of these intrepid hunters who had willingly encountered fatigues, privations and dangers, instead of returning to civilised life? Were they as rich and powerful as they might have been? Had the desert claimed these three noble spirits, as it has done so many others? Like the monk, who seeks in the silence of cloister forgetfulness of the world’s vain show, had Fabian in the sublimity of solitude been able to forget the woman who loved him, and who secretly hoped for and expected his return?

What we are about to relate will answer these questions.

One sultry afternoon, two men, mounted and armed to the teeth, pursued the lonely road which leads from the utmost confines of the province of Sonora to the Presidio of Tubac. Their costume, the coarse equipment of their steeds, and the beauty of the latter, formed on the whole a striking contrast and seemed to indicate subalterns despatched by some rich proprietor, either to carry or to seek information.

The first was clothed in leather from head to foot, like the vaquero of some noble hacienda. The second, dark and bearded like a Moor, though less simply attired than his companion, did not appear to be of much greater consideration.

At the end of a journey of some days the white houses of the Presidio began to appear in the distance. The two cavaliers had probably exhausted every subject of conversation, for they trotted on in silence.

The scanty vegetation which covered the plains they were crossing was again becoming parched by the sun, after the winter rains; and the dry grass harboured innumerable grasshoppers whose shrill note was heard incessantly, mingled with the scorching breath of the south wind. The foliage of the Peruvian trees drooped languidly over the burning sand, like the willows upon the banks of a stream.

The two cavaliers arrived at the entrance of the Presidio just as the church clock sounded the evening angelus.

Tubac was then a village with two cross streets, its houses built of cement, with only a few windows in the front, as is the custom in places exposed to the sudden excursions of the Indians. Strong movable barriers, formed by trunks of trees, protected the four approaches to the village; and a piece of the artillery of the country, raised upon its carriage, was erected behind each of these barriers.

Previous to following the new-comers into the Presidio, we must relate an incident which, insignificant in itself, nevertheless acquired some importance in the heart of a solitary village of Tubac.

During the space of a fortnight a mysterious personage – inasmuch as he was unknown to the inhabitants of the Presidio – had frequently, and for a short time, appeared there. He was a man of about forty years of age, thin, but rough and vigorous in appearance, whose countenance seemed to tell of dangers overcome, but whose speech was as rare as his physiognomy was expressive. He replied shortly to any questions addressed to him; but, on the other hand, he asked a great many, and appeared particularly anxious to know what was passing at the Hacienda del Venado.

Some of the inhabitants of the Presidency knew the rich proprietor very well by repute, but few amongst them – or, one might rather say, none of them – were so thoroughly acquainted with Don Augustin Peña, as to be capable of answering the questions of the stranger.

Everybody in Tubac remembered the gold-seekers’ expedition which had set out six months previously; and according to some vague replies given by the mysterious personage, it was suspected that he knew more upon the matter than he chose to reveal. He had, he pretended, encountered in the deserts of the Apache country, a troop commanded by Don Estevan in a very critical position, and he had reason for believing that they must have fought a last and terrible engagement with the Indians, from the result of which he augured no good.

The evening before the arrival of the two travellers, he had inquired what direction he ought to take to reach Don Augustin’s house; and, above all, he had testified a great wish to learn whether Doña Rosarita was still unmarried.

The unknown always wore on his head a red checkered handkerchief, the folds of which hung down over his eyes; and in consequence of this head-dress he always went by the name of the “man with the red kerchief.”

This being explained, let us now return to our two travellers.

The new-comers – whose arrival created some sensation – on entering the presidency, directed their steps towards one of the houses of the village, at the door of which sat a man, who was soothing his leisure hours by playing upon the guitar.

One of the cavaliers, addressing him, said —

“Santas tardes! my master; will you afford hospitality to two strangers for a day and a night?”

The musician rose and bowed courteously.

“Pray dismount, noble cavaliers,” he answered, “this dwelling is at your service as long as you please to remain.”

Such is the simple ceremonial of hospitality still in vogue in these distant countries.

The cavaliers dismounted from their horses, in the midst of an idle group who had collected around them, and who observed the two strangers with considerable curiosity – for in the Presidio of Tubac an arrival is a rare event.

The host silently assisted his guests to unsaddle their horses, but the more inquisitive of the crowd did not exercise so much discretion, and without scruple addressed a multitude of questions to the travellers.

“Good people,” said one of the cavaliers, “let us first attend to our horses, and afterwards, when we have taken a mouthful of food, we shall have a chat. My comrade and myself have come here for that very purpose.”

Thus saying, the bearded cavalier unfastened his gigantic spurs, threw them across his horse’s saddle, which he deposited, together with its woollen covering carefully folded, in the piazza attached to the house.

The two strangers did not dwell long over their repast. They soon rejoined their host upon the threshold, and sat down beside him.

Their questioners had not yet departed from the house.

“I am the more inclined,” resumed the bearded traveller, “to inform you all of the object of our visit to the Presidio, since we are sent by our master to ask you a few questions. Will that be agreeable to you?”

“Perfectly,” replied several voices, “and first, may we know who your master is?”

“He is Don Augustin Peña; you are not without some knowledge of his name?”

“The proprietor of the great Hacienda del Venado – a man worth three millions! Who does not know him?” replied one of the bystanders.

“He is the same. This cavalier, whom you see, is a vaquero, entrusted with the care of the beasts of the hacienda; for myself, I am a major-domo attached to the service of the proprietor. Would you have the kindness, my dear friend, to give me a light for my cigar?” continued the bearded major-domo.