Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“Don Fabian? who is this Fabian of whom you speak?”

“He whom we called Tiburcio Arellanos.”

Don Augustin remained mute with surprise: his daughter took advantage of his silence.

“When I consented to this marriage,” said she, “I believed that Don Fabian was forever lost to us. I did not know that he still loved me; and yet – consider whether I do not love you, my father; consider what a grievous sacrifice I made in my affection for you – I knew well – ”

As she spoke these words – her eyes moist with tears, yet shining with their own sweet lustre – the poor girl approached, and, by a sudden impulse, threw herself upon her father’s shoulder to hide her rising blushes.

“I knew then that I loved him only,” she murmured.

“But of whom do you speak?”

“Of Tiburcio Arellanos – of the Count Fabian de Mediana – they are one and the same person.”

“Of the Count Mediana?” repeated Don Augustin.

“Yes,” cried Rosarita, passionately; “I still love in him Tiburcio Arellanos, however noble, powerful, and rich may be at this hour Count Fabian de Mediana.”

Noble, powerful, and rich, are words that sound well in the ear of an ambitious father, when applied to a young man whom he loves and esteems, but whom he believes to be poor. Tiburcio Arellanos would have met with a refusal from Don Augustin – softened, it is true, by affectionate words – but had not Fabian de Mediana a better chance of success?

“Will you tell me how Tiburcio Arellanos can be Fabian de Mediana?” asked Don Augustin, with more curiosity than anger. “Who gave you this information?”

“You were not present at the close of the stranger’s narrative,” replied Doña Rosarita, “or you would have heard that the young companion of the two brave hunters whose dangers he nobly shared, was no other than Tiburcio Arellanos, now become the Count Fabian de Mediana. To this day I am ignorant of how, alone and wounded, he quitted the hacienda, and by what circumstances he found these unexpected protectors – or what relationship exists between Tiburcio and the Duke de Armada. But this man, who knows, will tell you.”

“Let him be instantly sought,” said Don Augustin, quickly; and he called an attendant to whom he gave the order.

Don Augustin awaited with the greatest impatience, the return of Gayferos; but they sought him in vain. He had disappeared. We shall presently explain the motive of his departure. Almost at the same moment in which the haciendado and his daughter were informed of it, another attendant entered to announce that Tragaduros was dismounting in the court-yard of the hacienda.

The coincidence of the Senator’s return with the approaching arrival of Fabian, was one of those events in which chance, oftener than might be supposed, sports with the events of real life.

Rosarita, in order to secure an ally in her father, hastened to embrace him tenderly, and to testify her astonishment at a miracle, which had converted the adopted son of a gambusino into the heir of one of the most powerful families in Spain. After having launched this twofold dart against the Senator, the young girl vanished from the apartment, leaving her father alone.

Tragaduros entered like a man who feels that the announcement of his arrival is always welcome. His manner was that of a future kinsman, for he had obtained the father’s promise and the daughter’s consent, although that consent was only tacitly given. However, notwithstanding his self-satisfaction, and his confidence in the future, the Senator could not fail to remark the grave reserve of Don Augustin’s manner. He thought himself at liberty to remark it.

“Don Estevan de Arechiza, the Duke of Armada, is no more,” said the haciendado; “both you and I have lost a dear and noble friend.”

“What, dead?” cried the Senator, hiding his face with an embroidered cambric handkerchief. “Poor Don Estevan! I do not think I shall ever be able to console myself.”

His future, nevertheless, might not have been obscured by perpetual grief, for the regret he expressed was far from being in harmony with his most secret thoughts. While he acknowledged the many obligations he owed to Don Estevan, he could not help remembering that had he lived, he would have been compelled to spend in political intrigues the half of his wife’s marriage portion; half a million of money he must thus have thrown to the dogs. It is true, he said to himself, I shall neither be a count, marquis, or duke of any kind, but to my thinking, half a million of money is worth more than a title, and will multiply my pleasures considerably. This fatal event will besides hasten the period of my marriage. Perhaps after all Don Estevan’s death is not a misfortune. “Poor Don Estevan,” he continued aloud, “what an unexpected blow!”

Tragaduros had yet to learn that it might have been better for him had Don Estevan lived. We will leave him with the haciendado, and follow Gayferos – for perhaps the reader will be glad to hear from him again.

The adventurer had saddled his horse, and unseen by anybody had crossed the plain and again taken the road which led to the Presidio of Tubac.

The route which he followed for some time brought him in contact with few travellers, and when by chance some horseman appeared in the distance, Gayferos, as he passed him, exchanged an impatient salutation, but failed to recognise the one he sought.

The day was drawing towards a close, and it was at a late hour when Gayferos uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing three travellers advancing at a gallop.

These travellers were no others than the Canadian, Pepé, and Fabian de Mediana. The giant was mounted upon a strong mule, larger and more vigorous than the Mexican horses. Nevertheless this animal was somewhat out of proportion with the gigantic stature of the rider.

Fabian and Pepé rode two excellent coursers, which they had taken from the Indians.

The young man was greatly changed since the day when he arrived for the first time at the Hacienda del Venado.

Painful and indelible recollections had left their traces upon his pale and wasted cheeks, a few wrinkles furrowed his brow, though the brilliancy of his eye was heightened by the sorrowful reflection of the passion which consumed him. But perhaps in the eyes of a woman his pale and sickly appearance might render the young Count of Mediana still more handsome and interesting than was that of Tiburcio Arellanos.

Would not that countenance, ennobled by toil and travel, remind Doña Rosarita of the love for which she had every reason to feel proud and happy? Would it not tell of dangers overcome, and surround itself with a double halo of sacrifice and suffering?

As to the rough countenances of the hunters, sun, fatigue, and danger of every kind had left them unchanged. If the hot winds had bronzed their skin, six months more of the adventurous life to which they were accustomed left no trace upon their sunburnt features.

They testified no surprise on seeing the gambusino, but a lively curiosity was depicted in the glance of each. A look from Gayferos, however, soon satisfied them. That look doubtless assured them that all was as they wished. Fabian alone expressed some astonishment on seeing his old companion so near the Hacienda del Venado.

“Was if in order to precede us here that you came to take leave of us near Tubac?” asked Fabian.

“Doubtless – did I not tell you so?” replied Gayferos.

“I did not understand you thus,” said Fabian, who, without seeming to attach much importance to that which was said or done around him, relapsed into the melancholy silence which had become habitual to him.

Gayferos turned his horse’s head round, and the four travellers continued their journey in silence.

At the expiration of an hour, during which Gayferos and the Canadian only exchanged a few words in a low tone, and to which Fabian, always absorbed in thought, gave no attention, the recollections of a past, not very remote, crowded upon the memory of the three travellers. They were again crossing the plain which extends beyond El Salto de Agua, and a few minutes afterwards they reached the torrent itself which foams down perpetually between the rocks. A bridge, the same size as the former one, replaced that which had been precipitated into the gulf below by those men who now slept their last sleep in the valley of gold, the object of their ambition.

The Canadian here dismounted.

“Now, Fabian,” said he, “here Don Estevan was found; the three bandits (I except, however, poor Diaz, the tenor of the Indians) were there. See, here are still the prints of your horse’s hoofs – when he slipped from this rock, dragging you downwards in his fall. Ah! Fabian, my child, I can even now see the water foaming around you – even now hear the cry of anguish I uttered. What an impetuous young man you then were!”

“That I no longer am,” said Fabian, smiling sadly.

“Oh, no! at the present time your manner is imbued with the firm stoicism of an Indian warrior who smiles at the tortures of the stake. In the midst of these scenes your face is calm, yet I am convinced the recollections they recall to you must be harrowing in the extreme; is it not so, Fabian?”

“You are mistaken, my father,” replied Fabian; “my heart resembles this rock, where, though you say so, I no longer trace my horse’s hoofs; and my memory is mute as the echo of your own voice, which you seem still to hear. When, before suffering me to return and live forever removed from the inhabitants of yonder deserts, you required as a last trial that I should again behold a spot which might recall old recollections, I told you those recollections no longer existed.”

A tear dimmed the Canadian’s eye, but he concealed it by turning his back to Fabian as he remounted his mule.

The travellers then crossed the bridge formed of the trunks of trees.

“Do you trace upon this moss which covers the ground the print of my horse’s hoofs when I pursued Don Estevan and his troop?” asked Fabian of Bois-Rose. “No! the dead leaves of the past winter have obliterated them – the grass which sprung up after the rainy season has grown over them.”

“Ah! if I raised the leaves, if I tore up the grass, I should again discover their traces, Fabian; and if I searched the depth of your heart – ”

“You would find nothing, I tell you,” interrupted Fabian with some impatience; “but I am mistaken,” he added, gently, “you would find a reminiscence of childhood, one of those in which you are associated, my father.”

“I believe it, Fabian, I believe it – you who have been the delight of my whole life; but I have told you that I will not accept your sacrifice until to-morrow at this hour, when you shall have seen all, even the breach in the old wall, over which you once sprung, wounded in body and spirit.”

A shudder, like that of the condemned on seeing the last terrible instrument of torture, passed through Fabian’s frame.

The travellers halted at length, in that part of the forest situated between the Salto de Agua and the hacienda, in the open space where Fabian had found in the Canadian and his comrade, friends whom God seemed to have sent to him from the extreme ends of the earth.