Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

When the stranger was also seated the haciendado addressed him.

“We are indebted to you, my friend,” he said, “for travelling thus far to bring us news which I have been forewarned may prove of a very sad nature; nevertheless we must hear all. God’s will be done!”

“My news is in truth sad; but as you say, it is necessary,” and the stranger, laying a stress upon these last words, seemed to address himself more particularly to Doña Rosarita, “that you should hear all. I have been witness to many things yonder; and the desert does not conceal so many secrets as one might suppose.”

The young girl trembled slightly, while she fixed upon the man of the red handkerchief, a deep and searching glance.

“Go on, friend,” said she, in her melodious voice, “we shall have courage to hear all.”

“What do you know of Don Estevan?” resumed the haciendado.

“He is dead, Señor.”

A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands.

“Who killed him?” he asked.

“I know not, but he is dead.”

“And Pedro Diaz – that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?”

“He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world.”

“And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?”

“Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except – but with your leave, Señor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all.”

“We shall listen to you patiently.”

“I need not detail,” resumed the narrator, “the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully.”

“Poor Don Estevan!” murmured the haciendado.

“During the last halt in which I was present, a report spread through the camp that we were in the vicinity of an immense treasure of gold. Cuchillo, our guide, deserted us; he was absent two days. It was doubtless God’s will that I should be saved, since it inspired Don Estevan with the idea of sending me in search of him. He therefore commanded me to scour the country in the environs of the camp.

“I obeyed him, notwithstanding the danger of the mission, and went in search of our guide’s footsteps. After some time I was fortunate enough to find his traces; when all at once I perceived in the distance a party of Apaches engaged in a hunt of wild horses. I turned my horse’s head round as quickly as possible, but the ferocious yells which burst out on every side told me that I was discovered.”

The stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless recognised Gayferos, the unfortunate man who had been scalped, paused an instant as though overcome by horrible recollections. Then in continuation, he related the manner in which he was captured by the Indians, his anguish when he thought of the torments they were preparing for him, the desperate struggle by which he kept up in his race against them with naked feet, and the inexpressible sufferings he endured.

“Seized by one of them,” said he, “I was struck by a blow which felled me to the earth; then I felt the keen edge of a knife trace, as it were, a circle of fire around my head. I heard a gun fired, a ball hissed close to my ears, and I lost all consciousness. I cannot tell how many minutes passed thus. The sound of a second shot caused me to open my eyes, but the blood which covered my face blinded me; I raised my hand to my head, which felt both burning and frozen. My skull was bare, the Indian had torn off the hair with the scalp attached to it. In short, they had scalped me! That is the reason, Señor, that I now wear this red handkerchief both by day and by night.”

During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator’s countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror.

After a momentary pause, he continued:

“I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details.”

Gayferos then related to his auditors the unexpected assistance he had obtained from the three hunters who had taken refuge upon the little island, and was describing the moment in which Bois-Rose carried him off in the presence of the Indians, when this heroic action drew from Don Augustin’s lips a cry of admiration.

“But there were then a score on this little island?” interrupted he.

“Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three,” continued the narrator.

“Santa Virgen! they were trusty men then – but continue.”

The adventurer resumed:

“The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age – that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Señorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son – such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation.”

Doña Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name.

Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

“Alas, Señorita,” he continued, “the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions.”

At this part of the narrative, Doña Rosarita’s cheek became deadly pale.

“Well, and the young man,” interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, “what became of him?”

Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest.

“Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child.”

“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief.

Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator.

“Continue!” said the haciendado; “but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan’s death.”

“I am ignorant of them,” continued Gayferos, “and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject.”

“He is dead,” said the young man to me, “you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country – for,” added he, with a sigh, “you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence – they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting – as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends.”

“Poor Don Estevan!” exclaimed the haciendado.

“And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?” asked Doña Rosarita.

“Not at the moment,” continued Gayferos; “only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly.”

A pang shot through Doña Rosarita’s heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of the datura, but she still remained silent.

“I draw towards the close of my recital,” continued Gayferos. “After having recovered the brave warrior’s son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion.

“When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of.

“Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter – ‘Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.’ But the giant only sighed without replying.

“Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened.