Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“Listen,” said the young Count: “six months ago I had to avenge my mother’s death, and that of the man who had stood in my father’s place, Marcos Arellanos; for if you know all, you know that I am no longer – ”

“To me you are the same, Tiburcio; I never knew Don Fabian de Mediana.”

“The wretch who was about to expiate his crime – the assassin of Marcos Arellanos, in short, Cuchillo – begged for his life. I had no power to grant it; when he cried, ‘I ask it in the name of Doña Rosarita, who loves you, for I heard – ,’ the suppliant was upon the edge of a precipice. I would have pardoned him for love of you; when one of my companions precipitated him into the gulf below. A hundred times, in the silence of the night, I recalled that suppliant voice, and asked myself in anguish, What did he then hear? I ask it of you this evening, Rosarita.”

“Once, once only, did my lips betray the secret of my heart. It was here, in this very spot, when you had quitted our dwelling. I will repeat to you what I then said.”

The girl seemed to be collecting all her strength, before she dared tell the young man that she loved him, and that openly and passionately; then – her pure countenance shining with virgin innocence, which fears not, because it knows no ill, she turned towards Tiburcio.

“I have suffered too much,” she said, “from one mistake, to allow of any other; it is thus, then, with my hands in yours, and my eyes meeting yours, that I repeat to you what I then said. You had fled from me, Tiburcio. I knew you were far away, and I thought God alone heard me when I cried: ‘Come back, Tiburcio, come back! I love only you!’”

Fabian, trembling with love and happiness, knelt humbly at the feet of this pure young girl, as he might have done before a Madonna, who had descended from her pedestal.

At this moment he was lost to all the world, – Bois-Rose, the past, the future – all were forgotten like a dream on awaking, and he cried in a broken voice:

“Rosarita! I am yours forever! I dedicate my future life to you only.”

Rosarita uttered a faint cry. Fabian turned, and remained mute with astonishment.

Leaning quietly upon his long carbine, stood Bois-Rose, a few paces from them, contemplating, with a look of deep tenderness the two lovers.

It was the realisation of his dream in the isle of Rio Gila.

“Oh, my father!” cried Fabian sadly; “do you forgive me for suffering myself to be vanquished?”

“Who would not have been, in your place, my beloved Fabian?” said the Canadian, smiling.

“I have broken my oath, my father!” continued Fabian; “I had promised never to love any other but you. Pardon! pardon!”

“Child, who implores pardon, when it is I who should ask it?” said Bois-Rose; “you were more generous than I, Fabian. Never did a lioness snatch her cub from the hands of the hunters, and carry it to her den, with a more savage love than I dragged you from the habitations of men to hide you in the desert. I was happy, because all my affections were centred in you; and I believed that you might also be so. You did not murmur; you sacrificed, unhesitatingly, all the treasures of your youth – a thousand times more precious than those of the Golden Valley. I did not intend it should be so, and it is I who have been selfish, and not generous, for if you had died of grief, I should have died also.”

“What do you mean?” cried Fabian.

“What I say, child. Who watched over your slumbers during long nights, to hear from your lips the secret wishes of your heart? It was I, who determined to accompany to this spot, Gayferos, whom at your intercession I saved from the hands of the Apaches. Who sent him to seek this beautiful and gracious lady, and learn if in her heart, she still treasured your memory? It was I still, my child, for your happiness is a thousand times more precious than mine. Who persuaded you to make this last trial? It was still I, my child, who knew that you must succumb to it. To-morrow I had said to you, I will accept your sacrifice; but Gayferos had even then read the most secret pages of this lady’s heart. Why do you ask my pardon, when I tell you it is I, who should ask yours?”

The Canadian, as he finished these words, opened his arms to Fabian, who eagerly rushed into his embrace.

“Oh, my father,” cried he, “so much happiness frightens me, for never was man happier than I.”

“Grief will come when God wills it,” said the Canadian, solemnly.

“But you, what will become of you?” asked Fabian, anxiously. “Your loss will be to me the only bitterness in my full cup of joy.”

“As God wills, my child,” answered the Canadian. “It is true, I cannot live in cities, but this dwelling, which will be yours, is on the borders of the desert. Does not infinity surround me here? I shall build with Pepé – Ho, Pepé,” said the hunter in a loud voice, “come and ratify my promise.”

Pepé and Gayferos came forward at the hunter’s summons.

“I and Pepé,” he continued, “will build a hut of the trunks and bark of trees upon the spot of ground where I found you again. We shall not always be at home, it is true, but perhaps some time hence should you wish to claim the name and fortune of your ancestors in Spain, you will find two friends ready to follow you to the end of the world. Come, my Fabian, I have no doubt that I shall be even happier than you, for I shall experience a double bliss in my happiness and yours.”

But why dwell longer upon such scenes? happiness is so transitory and impalpable that it will not bear either analysis or description.

“There remains but one obstacle now,” resumed the hunter. “This sweet lady’s father.”

“To-morrow he will expect his son,” interrupted Rosarita, who stood by, listening with singular interest to the dialogue.

“Then let me bless mine,” said the Canadian.

Fabian knelt before the hunter.

The latter removed his fur cap, and with moist eyes raised to the starry heavens, he said —

“Oh! my God! bless my son, and grant that his children may love him as he has been loved by old Bois-Rose.”

The following day the illustrious Senator returned in sadness to Arispe.

“I was sure,” he said, “that I should unceasingly mourn for poor Don Estevan. I might at least have possessed, besides my wife’s marriage portion, a title of honour and half a million of money. It is certainly a great misfortune that poor Don Estevan is dead.”

Sometime afterwards a hut made of the bark and trunks of trees was built in the forest glade so well-known to the reader. Often Fabian de Mediana, accompanied by Rosarita, to whom he was now united by the holy ties of marriage, performed a pilgrimage to the dwellers in the hut.

Perhaps at a later period one of those pilgrimages might be undertaken with the view of claiming the assistance of the two brave hunters in an expedition to the Golden Valley or to the coast of Spain; but that is a thing of the future. Let us for the present be content with saying, that if the happiness of this world is not a vain delusion, in truth it exists at the Hacienda del Venado, enjoyed by Fabian, Rosarita, and the brave Wood-Rangers– Pepé and Bois-Rose.

The End