The Pirates of the Prairies: Adventures in the American Desert

CHAPTER III

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER

On this unforeseen attack the Apaches uttered a yell of terror; but, before they could pull up their horses, a second discharge made four fresh victims in their ranks. A mad terror then seized on the Indians, and they turned and fled in every direction; ten minutes later they had disappeared. The hunters did not dream for a moment of pursuing them; but Curumilla had dismounted, and crawling out to the scene of action, conscientiously finished and scalped the Apaches who had fallen under his comrades' bullets. At the same time he lassoed a riderless horse which passed a few paces from him, and then rejoined his friends.

"To what tribe do those dogs belong?" Valentine asked him.

"The Buffalo," Curumilla made answer.

"Oh, oh," the hunter went on; "we were in luck's way then. Stanapat, I believe, is the chief of the Buffalo tribe."

Curumilla nodded an assent; and after hobbling the horse he had lassoed by the side of the others, quietly seated himself on the river bank.

The stranger had been quite as much surprised as the Apaches by the unforeseen help that had so providentially arrived at the moment when he believed himself hopelessly lost. At the sound of the firing he checked his horse, and, after a moment's hesitation, slowly turned back.

Valentine watched all his movements. The stranger, on reaching the thicket, dismounted, pulled back with a firm hand the brambles that barred his way, and boldly proceeded to the clearing where the hunters were ambushed. This man, whom the reader already knows, was no other than the person Red Cedar called Don Melchior, and of whom he seemed so terribly afraid.

When he found himself in the presence of the Mexicans, Don Melchior took off his hat and bowed courteously; the others politely returned his salute.

"Viva Dios!" he exclaimed. "I do not know who you are, caballeros; but I thank you sincerely for your interference just now. I owe my life to you."

"In the Far West," Valentine answered nobly, "an invisible bond connects all the individuals of one colour, who only form a single family."

"Yes," the stranger said, with a thoughtful accent, "it should be so; but unfortunately," he added, shaking his head in denial, "the worthy principles you enunciate, caballero, are but very slightly put in practice: but I ought not at this moment to complain of them being neglected, as it is to your generous intervention that I owe my being among the living."

The listeners bowed, and the stranger went on:

"Be kind enough to tell me who you are, gentlemen, that I may retain in my heart names which will ever be dear to me."

Valentine fixed on the man who thus spoke a piercing glance, that seemed to be trying to read his most secret thoughts. The stranger smiled sadly.

"Pardon," he then said, "any apparent bitterness in my words: I have suffered much, and, in spite of myself, gloomy thoughts often rise from my heart to my lips."

"Man is sent on the earth to suffer," Valentine gravely replied. "Each of us has his cross to bear here: Don Miguel de Zarate, his son and General Ibañez are a proof of my assertion."

At the name of Don Miguel, a vivid blush purpled the stranger's cheeks, and his eye flashed, despite all his efforts to remain unmoved.

"I have often heard of Don Miguel de Zarate," he said, with a bow. "I have been informed of the dangers he has incurred – dangers from which he only escaped by the aid of a man – an honest hunter."

"That hunter is before you," Don Miguel said. "Alas! We have other and greater dangers still to incur."

The stranger looked at him attentively for an instant – then stepped forward, and crossed his arms on his chest.

"Listen!" he said, in a deep voice. "It was truly Heaven that inspired you to come to my help – for from this moment I devote myself, body and soul, to your service; and I belong to you as the haft does to the blade. I know the reason that compelled you to break up all old habits to visit the frightful solitudes of the Far West."

"You know it?" the hunter exclaimed, in surprise.

"Everything," the stranger firmly answered. "I know the treachery which cast you into the power of your enemies. I know, too, that your daughter has been carried off by Red Cedar."

"Who are you, then, to be so well informed?" Valentine asked.

A sad smile played for a second round the stranger's lips.

"Who am I?" he said in a melancholy voice. "What matters, since I wish to serve you?"

"Still, as we answered your questions, we have a right to expect the same from you."

"That is just," the stranger said, "and you shall be satisfied. I am the man with the hundred names: in Mexico I am called Don Luis Arroyal, partner in the firm of Simpson, Carvalho, and Company – in the northern provinces of Mexico, where I have long rendered myself popular by foolish squandering, El Gambusino – on the coasts of the United States, and in the Gulf of Mexico, where I sometimes command a cutter, and chase the slavers, I am called the Unknown – among the North Americans, the Son of Blood – but my real name, and the one men give me who know the little about me I think proper to tell them – it is la Venganza (Vengeance). Are you satisfied now, gentlemen?"

No one replied. The hunters had all heard of this extraordinary man, about whom the strangest rumours were rife in Mexico, the United States, and even on the prairie. By the side of heroic deeds, and acts of kindness deserving all praise, he was branded with crimes of unheard-of cruelty and unexampled ferocity. He inspired a mysterious terror in the whites and redskins, who equally feared to come in contact with him, though no proof had ever yet been brought forward of the contradictory stories told about him.

Valentine and his comrades had frequently heard talk of Bloodson; but this was the first time they had found themselves face to face with him; and, in spite of themselves, they were surprised to see so noble and handsome a man. Valentine was the first to regain his coolness.

"For a long time," he said, "your name has been familiar to me. I was anxious to know you. The opportunity offers, and I am pleased with it, as I shall be at length able to judge you, which was hitherto impossible, through the exaggerated stories told about you. You say that you can be useful to us in the enterprise we are meditating, and we accept your offer as frankly as you make it. On an expedition like this, the help of a brave man must not be despised – the more so, as the man we wish to force in his lair is dangerous."

"More than you imagine," the stranger interrupted him in a gloomy voice. "I have been struggling with Red Cedar for twenty years, and have not yet managed to crush him. Ah! He is a rough adversary! I know it, for I am his most implacable enemy, and have in vain tried all the means at my command to take an exemplary vengeance on him."

While uttering these words, the stranger's face had assumed a livid tint; his features were contracted, and he seemed to be suffering from an extraordinary emotion. Valentine looked at him for an instant with a mingled feeling of pity and sympathy. The hunter, who had suffered so much, knew, like all wounded souls, how to feel for the grief of men who, like himself, bore their adversity worthily.

"We will help you," he said, as he cordially offered him his hand, "Instead of five, we shall be six, to fight him."

The stranger's eye flashed forth a strange gleam. He squeezed the offered hand, and answered in a dull voice, but with an expression impossible to render:

"We shall be fifty; for I have comrades in the desert."

Valentine bent a joyous glance on his companions at this news, which announced to him a valuable support, that he was far from anticipating.

"But fifty men are not sufficient to contend against this demon, who is associated with the Pirates of the Prairies, and allied with the most dangerous Indians."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," Valentine observed. "We will also ally ourselves with Indian tribes. But I swear to you that I shall not quit the prairie till I have seen the last drop of that villain's blood run out."

"May heaven hear you!" the stranger muttered. "If my horse were not so tired, I would ask you to follow me; for we have not a moment to lose if we wish to force the wild beast. Unfortunately, we are compelled to wait some hours."

Curumilla stepped forward. "Here is a horse for my pale brother," he said, as he pointed to the animal he had lassoed a few minutes previously.

The stranger uttered a cry of joy.

"To horse!" he loudly exclaimed, "To horse!"

"Where are you taking us?" Valentine asked.

"To join my comrades in the hiding place I have selected for them. Then we will arrange the means we must employ to destroy our common enemy."

"Good," Valentine remarked, "that is excellent reasoning. Are we far from the place?"

"No, twenty to twenty-five miles at the most; we shall be there by sunset."

"We will start then," Valentine added.

The gentlemen leaped into their saddles, and started at a gallop in the direction of the mountains. A few minutes later, the spot had returned to its usual calmness and silence. Nothing was left to prove that man had passed that way, save a few mutilated corpses over which the vultures were already beginning to circle with hoarse croaking before they settled upon them.

CHAPTER IV

RED CEDAR AT BAY

The six men rode one after the other, following one of those inextricable tracks made by the wild beasts, which cross the desert in every direction. Bloodson served as guide to the little party, followed immediately by Curumilla. The Indian chief, with the genius peculiar to his race, advanced silently as usual, but casting right and left peering glances, which nothing escaped, and which render the redskins peculiar beings.

All at once Curumilla dismounted, and bent over the ground, uttering an exclamation of surprise. This was so extraordinary a fact, and so contrary to the habits of the Ulmen of the Araucanos, that Valentine hurried up to enquire what had happened.

"What's the matter with you, chief?" he asked, as soon as he came up with him.

"My brother can look," Curumilla said simply.

Valentine dismounted and stooped to the ground. The Indian showed him a half-effaced footstep, which still bore, however, the shape of a horseshoe. The hunter looked at it for some time with the utmost attention, then began walking cautiously in the direction the hoof marks seemed to go. Others soon presented themselves to him. His comrades had stopped, and silently awaited his explanation.

"Well!" Don Miguel at length said.

"There is no doubt possible," Valentine answered, as if speaking to himself, "Red Cedar has passed along here."

"What," the general observed, "do you believe it?"

"I am sure of it. The chief has just shown me the perfectly formed mark of his horse's hoof."

"Oh! Oh!" Don Miguel objected, "a horseshoe is a very slight sign; all are alike."

"Yes, as one tree resembles the other," Valentine answered quickly. "Listen: the chief has observed that the squatter, I know not by what accident, is mounted on a horse shod on all four feet, while the men composing his band have theirs only shod on the front feet; in addition, this horse in stepping throws back its feet, which causes the mark to be indistinct."

"In truth," Bloodson remarked, "the observation is correct, and only an Indian could make it; but Red Cedar is at the head of a numerous party, which cannot have passed along this way, or we should notice the trail."

"That is true," the general said; "what do you conclude from that?"

"A very simple thing; it is probable that Red Cedar has, for reasons unknown to us, left his men encamped some miles from here, and has ridden this way alone."

"I have it," Bloodson said; "not far from the spot where we now are, there is a nest of pirates, and Red Cedar has probably gone to ask their assistance in case of need."

"That's it," Valentine added; "the track is quite fresh, so our man cannot be far from us."

"We must pursue him," Don Pablo quickly said, who had, till this moment, maintained a gloomy silence.

"What do you say, gentlemen?" Valentine asked, turning to the rest.

"Pursue him," they answered unanimously.

Then, without further deliberation, they began following the trail, under the guidance of Valentine and Curumilla.

What the hunter stated had really happened. Red Cedar, when he entered the desert, after installing his band in a strong position, remounted his horse and set out, warning all his comrades that he should return within four days at the most, and leaving them temporarily under the orders of the monk.

Red Cedar did not fancy himself so closely pursued by Valentine, and hence had taken but slight precautions to conceal his track.

As he proceeded alone, in spite of the trail found by Curumilla, he would doubtless have escaped pursuit, had not a dog followed him from camp without his knowledge. The track left by that animal served as a guide to the pursuers at the moment when they had completely lost his trail. Valentine and Curumilla had dismounted, and were advancing slowly and examining the sand and soil over which they passed.

"Take care," the Trail-hunter said to his comrades, who followed him step by step; "do not come on so quickly; when picking up a trail you must mind where you put your foot down, and not look on both sides. Stay," he added, suddenly stooping and stopping Don Pablo; "here are traces you were just about to efface. Let us have a look at this: they are the marks of the horseshoe we have lost for some time. Red Cedar's horse has a peculiar way of putting down its feet, which I guarantee to recognise at the first glance. Hum, hum," he continued, "now I know where to find him."

"You are sure of it?" Don Miguel interrupted.

"It is not difficult, as you shall see."

"Forward, forward!" Don Pablo and the general shouted.

"Caballeros," the hunter observed, "be good enough to remember that on the prairies you must never raise your voice. The branches have eyes and the leaves ears here. Now, to remount and cross the river."

The six men, combined in a compact body, in order to afford a greater resistance to the current, which was very powerful at this spot, forced their horses into the Gila. The passage was executed without any obstacle, and the horses soon landed on the other bank.

"Now," Valentine said, "open your eyes, for the hunt begins here."

Don Pablo and the general remained on the bank to guard the horses, and the remainder of the party set out, forming a line of tirailleurs sixty feet long. Valentine had recommended his companions to concentrate their researches on a space of one hundred and fifty yards at most, in a semicircle, so as to reach an almost impenetrable thicket, situated at the foot of the hill by the riverside.

Each man advanced cautiously, with his gun thrust forward, looking on all sides at once, and not leaving a bush, a pebble, or a blade of grass unexamined. Suddenly Curumilla imitated the cry of the jay, the signal for assembling in the event of any important discovery. All rushed toward the spot whence the signal came; in the midst of the lofty grass, the ground was trampled and the lower branches broken.

"Red Cedar's horse was tied up here," Valentine said. "Attention! We are about to catch the bear in his den. You know with what sort of men we have to deal; be prudent: if not, there will soon be broken bones and punctured skins among us."

Without adding a word further, the hunter again took the head of the file. He carefully parted the bushes, and unhesitatingly entered the thicket. At this moment the furious barking of a dog could be heard.

"Hilloh!" a rough voice shouted: "What's the matter, Black? Did not the redskins have a sufficient lesson last night, that they want to try it again?"

These words were followed by the grating sound of a rifle being cocked. Valentine made his comrades a sign to stop, and boldly advanced.

"They are not Indians," he said, in a loud and firm voice: "it is I, Koutonepi, an old acquaintance, who wishes to have a chat with you."

"I have nothing to say to you," Red Cedar, still invisible, answered. "I know not why you have followed me to this place: we never were such good friends, I fancy, that you should desire the pleasure of my company."

"That's true," the hunter remarked: "you may be fully assured that we were always very bad friends: but no matter; call off your dog."

"If your intentions are good, and you are alone, you can advance, and will be received as a friend."

And he whistled to his dog, which rejoined him.

"As regards my intentions, I can assure you that they are good," the Trail-hunter replied, as he drew back the branches.

He suddenly found himself in front of Red Cedar, who was standing, rifle in hand, in the narrow entrance of a grotto. The two men were scarce fifteen yards apart, examining each other suspiciously. This is, however, the custom of the prairies, where all meetings are the same: distrust always holds the first place.