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CHAPTER XX
THE STRANGER

Father Seraphin and Don Pablo we left bearing the wounded man to the missionary's lodging. Although the house to which they were proceeding was but a short distance off, yet the two gentlemen, compelled to take every precaution, employed considerable time on the journey. Nearly every step they were compelled to halt, so as not to fatigue too greatly the wounded man, whose inert limbs swayed in every direction.

"The man is dead," Don Pablo remarked, during a halt they made on the Plaza de la Merced.

"I fear so," the missionary answered, sadly; "still, as we are not certain of it, our conscience bids us to bestow our care on him, until we acquire the painful conviction that it avails him nought."

"Father, the love of one's neighbour often carries you too far; better were it, perhaps, if this wretch did not come back to life."

"You are severe, my friend. This man is still young – almost a boy. Trained amid a family of bandits, never having aught but evil examples before him, he has hitherto only done evil, in a spirit of imitation. Who knows whether this fearful wound may not offer him the means to enter the society of honest people, which he has till now been ignorant of? I repeat to you, my friend, the ways of the Lord are inscrutable."

"I will do what you wish, father. You have entire power over me. Still, I fear that all our care will be thrown away."

"God, whose humble instruments we are, will prove you wrong, I hope. Come, a little courage, a few paces further, and we shall have arrived."

"Come on then," Don Pablo said with resignation.

Father Seraphin lodged at a house of modest appearance, built of adobes and reeds, in a small room he hired from a poor widow, for the small sum of nine reals a month. This room, very small, and which only received air from a window opening on an inner yard, was a perfect conventual cell, as far as furniture was concerned, for the latter consisted of a wooden frame, over which a bull hide was stretched, and served as the missionary's bed; a butaca and a prie-dieu, above which a copper crucifix was fastened to the whitewashed wall. But, like all cells, this room was marvellously clean. From a few nails hung the well-worn clothes of the poor priest, and a shelf supported vials and flasks which doubtless contained medicaments; for, like all the missionaries, Father Seraphin had a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, and took in charge both the souls and bodies of his neophytes.

The father lit a candle of yellow tallow standing in an iron candlestick, and, aided by Don Pablo, laid the wounded man on his own bed; after which the young man fell back into the butaca to regain his breath. Father Seraphin, on whom, spite of his fragile appearance, the fatigue had produced no apparent effect, then went downstairs to lock the street door, which he had left open. As he pushed it to, he felt an opposition outside, and a man soon entered the yard.

"Pardon, my reverend father," the stranger said; "but be kind enough not to leave me outside."

"Do you live in this house?"

"No," the stranger coolly replied, "I do not live in Santa Fe, where I am quite unknown."

"Do you ask hospitality of me, then?" Father Seraphin continued, much surprised at this answer.

"Not at all, reverend father."

"Then what do you want?" the missionary said, still more surprised.

"I wish to follow you to the room where you have laid the wounded man, to whose aid you came so generously a short time back."

"This request, sir – " the priest said, hesitating.

"Has nothing that need surprise you. I have the greatest interest in seeing with my own eyes in what state that man is, for certain reasons which in no way concern you."

"Do you know who he is?"

"I do."

"Are you a relation or friend of his?"'

"Neither one nor the other. Still, I repeat to you, very weighty reasons compel me to see him and speak with him, if that be possible."

Father Seraphin took a searching glance at the speaker.

He was a man of great height, apparently in the fullest vigour of life. His features, so far as it was possible to distinguish them by the pale and tremulous moonbeams, were handsome, though an expression of unbending will was the marked thing about them. He wore the dress of rich Mexican hacenderos, and had in his right hand a magnificently inlaid American rifle. Still the missionary hesitated.

"Well," the stranger continued, "have you made up your mind, father?"

"Sir," Father Seraphin answered with firmness, "do not take in ill part what I am going to say to you."

The stranger bowed.

"I do not know who you are; you present yourself to me in the depths of the night, under singular circumstances. You insist, with strange tenacity, on seeing the poor man whom Christian charity compelled me to pick up. Prudence demands that I should refuse to let you see him."

A certain annoyance was depicted on the stranger's features.

"You are right, father," he answered; "appearances are against me. Unfortunately, the explanation you demand from me justly would make us lose too much precious time, hence I cannot give them to you at this moment. All I can do is to swear, in the face of Heaven, on that crucifix you wear round your neck, and which is the symbol of our redemption, that I only wish well to the man you have housed, and that I am this moment seeking to punish a great criminal."

The stranger uttered these words with such frankness, and such an air of conviction, his face glistened with so much honesty, that the missionary felt convinced: he took up the crucifix and offered it to this extraordinary man.

"Swear," he said.

"I swear it," he replied in a firm voice.

"Good," the priest went on, "now you can enter, sir; you are one of ourselves; I will not even insult you by asking your name."

"My name would teach you nothing, father," the stranger said sadly.

"Follow me, sir."

The missionary locked the gate and led the stranger to his room, on entering which the newcomer took off his hat reverently, took up a post in a corner of the room, and did not stir.

"Do not trouble yourself about me, father," he said in a whisper, "and put implicit faith in the oath I took."

The missionary only replied by a nod, and as the wounded man gave no sign of life, but still lay much in the position he was first placed in, Father Seraphin walked up to him. For a long time, however, the attention he lavished on him proved sterile, and seemed to produce no effect on the squatter's son. Still, the father did not despair, although Don Pablo shook his head. An hour thus passed, and no ostensible change had taken place in the young man's condition; the missionary had exhausted all his stock of knowledge, and began to fear the worst. At this moment the stranger walked up to him.

"My father," he said, touching him gently on the arm, "you have done all that was humanly possible, but have not succeeded."

"Alas! No!" the missionary said sadly.

"Will you permit me to try in my turn?"

"Do you fancy you will prove, more successful than I?" the priest asked in surprise.

"I hope so," the stranger said softly.

"Still, you see I have tried everything that the medical art prescribes in such a case."

"That is true, father; but the Indians possess certain secrets known only to themselves, and which are of great efficacy."

"I have heard so. But do you know those secrets?"

"Some of them have been revealed to me; if you will permit me, I will try their effects on this young man, who, as far as I can judge, is in a desperate condition."

"I fear he is, poor fellow."

"We shall, therefore, run no risk in trying the efficacy of my superior remedy upon him."

"Certainly not."

The stranger bent over the young man, and regarded him for a moment with fixed attention; then he drew from his pocket a flask of carved crystal, filled with a fluid as green as emerald. With the point of his dagger he slightly opened the wounded man's closed teeth, and poured into his mouth four or five drops of the fluid contained in the flask. A strange thing then occurred; the young man gave vent to a deep sigh, opened his eyes several times, and suddenly, as if moved by supernatural force, he sat up and looked around him with amazement. Don Pablo and the missionary were almost inclined to believe in a miracle so extraordinary did the fact appear to them. The stranger returned to his dark corner. Suddenly the young man passed his hand over his dank forehead, and muttered in a hollow voice: —

"Ellen, my sister, it is too late. I cannot save her. See, see, they are carrying her off; she is lost!"

And he fell back on the bed, as the three men rushed towards him.

"He sleeps!" the missionary said in amazement.

"He is saved?" the stranger answered.

"What did he want to say, though?" Don Pablo inquired anxiously.

"Did you not understand it?" the stranger asked of him.

"No."

"Well, then, I will tell you."

"You!"

"Yes, I; listen! That lad wished to deliver your sister!"

"How do you know?"

"Is it true?"

"It is; go on."

"He was stabbed at the door of the house when she sought shelter."

"What next?"

"Those who stabbed him wished to get him out of the way, in order to carry her off a second time."

"Oh, that is impossible!"

"It is the fact."

"How do you know it?"

"I do not know it, but I can read it plainly."

"Ah!" Don Pablo exclaimed in despair, "my father – let us fly to my sister's aid!"

The two gentlemen rushed from the house with a presentiment of misfortune. When the stranger found himself alone with the wounded man, he walked up to him, wrapped him in his cloak, threw him over his shoulders as easy as if he were only a child, and went out in his turn. On reaching the street, he carefully closed the door, and went off at a great rate, soon disappearing in the darkness. At the same instant the melancholy voice of the sereno could be heard chanting —

"Ave Maria purísima! Los cuatro han dado! Viva Méjico! Todo es quieto!"⁶

What irony on the part of accident was this cry after the terrible events of the night!

Hail, most pure Mary! It has struck four. Long live Mexico! All is quiet.

CHAPTER XXI
GENERAL VENTURA

It was about six in the morning. A dazzling sun poured down its transparent rays on the streets of the Presidio of Santa Fe, which were already full of noise and movement at that early hour of the morning. General Ventura was still plunged in a deep sleep, probably lulled by agreeable dreams, judging from the air of beatitude spread over his features. The general, reassured by the speedy arrival of the dragoons promised him, fancied he had nothing more to fear from mutineers who had hitherto inspired him with lively apprehensions. He thought, too, that by the aid of the reinforcements, he could easily get rid of the Comanche, who, on the previous day, had so audaciously bearded him in the very heart of his palace.

He slept, then, that pleasant morning sleep, in which the body, entirely rested from its fatigue, leaves the mind the entire liberty of its faculties. Suddenly the door of the sleeping room in which the worthy governor reposed, was torn violently open, and an officer entered. General Ventura, aroused with a start, sat up in his bed, fixing on the importunate visitor a glance, at first stern, but which at once became uneasy on seeing the alarm depicted on the officer's features.

"What is the matter, señor Captain Don Lopez?" he asked, trying in vain to give firmness to his voice, which trembled involuntarily from a foreboding of evil.

Captain Lopez was a soldier of fortune, who had grown grey in harness, and contracted a species of rough frankness, that prevented him toning the truth down under any circumstances, which fact made him appear, in the General's eyes, a bird of very evil omen. The captain's arrival, therefore, doubly disquieted the governor. In the first place, through his alarmed face; and secondly, the reputation he enjoyed. To the general's query the captain only replied the following three storm laden words —

"Nothing that's good."

"What do you mean? Have the people rebelled??"

"On my word, no! I do not fancy they even dream of such a thing."

"Very well, then," the general went on, quite cheered by the good news, "what the deuce have you to tell me, captain?"

"I have not come to tell you anything," the other said, roughly. "There is a soldier outside who has just come from I don't know where, and who insists on speaking with you. Shall I bring him, or send him about his business."

"One moment," exclaimed the general, whose features had suddenly become gloomy; "who is the soldier?"

"A dragoon, I fancy."

"A dragoon! Let him come in at once. May heaven bless you, with all your circumlocution! The man, doubtless, brings me news of the arrival of the regiment I am expecting, and which should have been here before."

The captain shrugged his shoulders with an air of doubt.

"What is it now?" the general said, whom this expressive pantomime eminently alarmed; "What are you going to say?"

"Nothing, except that the soldier looks very sad to be the bearer of such good news."

"We shall soon know what we have to depend on. Let him come in."

"That is true," said the captain, as he went off.

During this conversation the general had leaped from his bed, and dressed himself with the promptness peculiar to soldiers. He now anxiously awaited the appearance of the trooper whom Don Lopez had announced to him. In vain he tried to persuade himself that the captain was mistaken, and that the soldier had been sent to tell him of the arrival of the regiment. In spite of himself, he felt in his heart a species of alarm which he could not account for, and yet nothing could dissipate.

A few minutes were thus passed in febrile restlessness. All at once a great noise was heard in the Plaza Major. The general went to a window, pulled aside a curtain, and looked out. A tumultuous and dense crowd was thronging every street leading to the square and uttering sharp cries. This crowd, momentarily increasing, seemed urged on by something terrible, which the general could not perceive.

"What is this?" the general exclaimed; "And what can be the meaning of this disturbance?"

At this moment the shouts grew louder, and the detachment of Comanche warriors appeared debouching by the Calle de la Merced, and marching in good order, and at quick step, upon the palace. On seeing them the general could not restrain a start of surprise.

"The Indians again!" he said; "How can they dare to present themselves here? They must be ignorant of the arrival of the dragoons. Such boldness is incomprehensible."

He let the curtain fall, and turned away. The soldier whom the captain had announced to him stood before him, waiting the general's pleasure to question him. The general started on perceiving him. He was pale; his uniform was torn and stained with mud, as if he had made a long journey on foot through brambles. The general wished to clear up his doubts; but, just as he was opening his mouth to ask the man a question, the door flew back, and several officers, among whom was Captain Don Lopez, entered the room.

"General," the captain said, "make haste! You are expected in the council hall. The Indians have come for the answer you promised to give them this morning."

"Well! Why this startled look, gentlemen?" the general said, severely. "I fancy the town has not yet been set on fire. I am not at the orders of those savages, so tell them that I have no time to grant them an audience."

The officers gazed at the general with a surprise they did not attempt to conceal, on hearing these strange and incomprehensible words.

"Good, good," Captain Lopez said, roughly, "the town is not yet fired, 'tis true; but it might be so, erelong, if you went on in this way."

"What do you mean?" the general asked, as he turned pale. "Are matters so serious?"

"They are most serious. We have not a moment to lose, if we wish to avoid heavy disasters."

The general started.

"Gentlemen," he then said, in an ill-assured voice, "it is our duty to watch over the safety of the population. I follow you."

And taking no further heed of the soldier he had ordered to be sent in, he proceeded towards the council hall.

The disorder that prevailed without had at length gained the interior of the palace. Nothing was to be heard but shrieks or exclamations of anger and terror. The Mexican officers assembled in the hall were tumultuously discussing the measures to be adopted in order to save a contest and the town. The entrance of the governor produced a healthy effect upon them, in so far that the discussion, which was degenerating into personalities and reproaches, dictated by individual fear, suddenly ceased, and calmness was restored.

General Ventura regretted in his heart having counted on imaginary help, and not having listened to the sensible advice of some of his officers, who urged him the previous day to satisfy the Indians by giving them what they asked. In spite of the terror he felt, however, his pride revolted at being compelled to treat on equal terms with barbarians, and accept harsh conditions which they would doubtless impose on him, in the consciousness of having the upper hand.

The governor, in entering the hall, looked around the assembly anxiously. All had taken their places, and, externally at least, had assumed that grace and stern appearance belonging to men who are penetrated with the grandeur of the duties they have to perform, and are resolved to carry them out at all hazards. But this appearance was very deceptive. If the faces were impassive the hearts were timorous. All these men, habituated to a slothful and effeminate life, did not feel capable of waging a contest with the rude enemies who menaced them so audaciously, even at the doors of the governor's palace.

Under present circumstances, however, resistance was impossible. The Indians, by the fact of their presence on the square, were masters of the town. There were no troops to oppose to them; hence, the only hope was to make the easiest terms possible with the Comanches. Still, as all these men wished to save appearances at any rate, the discussion began anew. When everyone had given his opinion, the governor rose, and said in a trembling voice —

"Caballeros, all of us here present: are men of courage, and have displayed that quality in many difficult circumstances. Certainly, if the only thing, was to sacrifice our lives to save the hapless townsmen, we would not hesitate to do so, for we are too well imbued with the soundness of our duties tot hesitate; but, unhappily, that sacrifice would not avail to save those whom we wish before all to protect. Let us treat, then, with the barbarians, as we cannot conquer them. Perhaps in this way we shall succeed in protecting our wives; and children from the danger that menaces them. In acting thus, under the grave circumstances in which we find ourselves, we shall at least have the consolation of having done our duty, even if we do not obtain all we desire."

Hearty applause greeted this harangue, and the governor, turning to the porter, who stood motionless at the door, gave orders to introduce the principal Indian chiefs.

CHAPTER XXII
THE COMANCHES

Valentine and his friends awoke at daybreak. The Comanches were already prepared to start; and Unicorn, dressed in his great war costume, presented himself to the hunter.

"Is my brother going?" Valentine asked him.

"Yes," the sachem answered. "I am returning to the Presidio to receive the answer of the chief of the palefaces."

"What is my brother's intention, should his demand be rejected?"

Unicorn smiled.

"The Comanches have long lances," he said; "the palefaces will not refuse."

"My anxiety will be extreme till you return, chief; the Spaniards are perfidious; take care they have not planned some treachery."

"They would not dare," Unicorn said, haughtily. "If the chief, whom my brother loves, is not delivered to me safe and sound, the Spanish prisoners shall be tortured on the plaza of Santa Fe, the town burned and sacked. I have spoken; my brother's mind may be at rest."

"Good! Unicorn is a wise chief; he will do what is necessary."

In the meantime the Comanche warriors had formed their ranks, and only awaited the signal of the sachem to start. The Spanish prisoners taken during the night were placed in the centre bound and half naked. Suddenly a disturbance was heard in the camp, and two men rushed panting toward the spot where stood Valentine, the sachem and Curumilla. They were Don Pablo and Father Seraphin, their clothes in disorder, their features haggard, and their faces glistening with perspiration. On reaching their friends, they fell, almost in a fainting state, on the ground. The proper attentions were at once paid them, and the missionary was the first to recover. Don Pablo seemed stupefied; the tears poured incessantly down his cheeks, and he could not utter a word. Valentine felt strangely alarmed.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "What has happened? Don Miguel – ?"

The missionary shook his head.

"No," he said, "nothing has happened to him, as far as I know."

"Heaven be praised! But what is the matter, father? What misfortune have you to announce to me?"

"A frightful one, indeed, my son," the missionary replied, as he buried his face in his hands.

"Speak, in Heaven's name! Your delay is killing me."

"Doña Clara – "

"Well!" he hunter said, sharply.

"Was captured again last night by Red Cedar, and torn from the refuge where I placed her."

"Oh!" Valentine exclaimed, with concentrated fury, as he stamped his foot, "Always that demon – that accursed Red Cedar. My curses on him! But take courage, father; let us first save Don Miguel, and then I swear to you that I will restore his daughter to him."

Unicorn advanced.

"Master of prayer," he said to Father Seraphin, in a soft and impressive voice, "your heart is good. The Comanches love you. Unicorn will help you. Pray to your God. He will protect us in our researches, since He is, as you say, so powerful."

Then the chief turned to Don Pablo, and laid his hand firmly on his shoulder.

"Women weep," he said; "men avenge themselves. Has not my brother his rifle?"

On feeling the Comanche's hand laid on him – on hearing these words – the young man quivered as if he had received an electric shock. He drew himself up, and fixed on the chief his eyes burning with the fever of sorrow.

"Yes," he said, in a broken voice, "you are right, chief, and," passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of rage, "let us leave tears to women, who have no other weapons to protect their weakness. I am a man, and will avenge myself."

"Good. My brother speaks well: he is a warrior; Unicorn esteems him; he will become great on the war path."

Don Pablo, crushed for a moment, had regained all his energy; he was no longer the same man; he looked around him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To Santa Fe, to deliver your father."

"I will go with you."

"Come," said Unicorn.

"No," Valentine interposed, authoritatively. "Your place is not there, Don Pablo; leave the Comanche warriors to act as they please; they do not need your help to carry out their plans properly. Remain with me."

"Command me, my friend," the young man said with resignation; "I have perfect confidence in your experience."

"Good. You are reasonable. Brother," he added, turning to the chief, "you can start. The sun is already high in the horizon; may Heaven grant that you may succeed!"

Unicorn gave the signal for departure. The Comanches uttered their war yell, while brandishing their arms, and started at a quick amble, the only pace they know. Curumilla then rose, and wrapped himself in his buffalo robe; Valentine watching him, inquiringly.

"Does my brother leave us?" he said.

"Yes," the Araucano answered, laconically.

"For long?"

"For a few hours?"

"Where is my brother going?"

"To look for the camp of Red Cedar's gambusinos," the Indian replied with a cunning smile.

"Good," Valentine said, gleefully. "My brother is a wise chief; he forgets nothing."

"Curumilla loves his brother; he thinks for him," the chief answered, simply.

After uttering these words, the Unicorn bowed gracefully, and proceeded in the direction of the Paso del Norte, soon disappearing in the windings of the road. Valentine looked after him for a long while. When he no longer saw him, he let his head fall pensively on his chest, murmuring in a low voice —

"Good, intelligent fellow! Heart of gold! The only friend left me! The only one remaining of my old and faithful comrades! Louis, my poor Louis, where are you now?" A deep sigh burst from his bosom, and he remained absorbed in a gloomy reverie.

At length Valentine raised his head, passed his hand over his brow, as if to dispel these sad thoughts, and turned to his friends.

"Pardon me," he said, "but I, at times, give way to my thoughts in that fashion. Alas! I, too, have suffered; but let us leave that," he added, gaily. "Bygones must be bygones. Let us attend to your affairs."

He made them a sign to sit down by his side on the grass, rummaged his alforjas and produced some slight food, which he laid before them.

"Eat," he said to them; "we do not know what awaits us within the next few hours, and we must recruit our strength. When you have satisfied your appetite, you will tell me all about Doña Clara being carried off again, for I must have the fullest details."

We will leave the three now conversing, and join the Comanches and Unicorn again.

When the Comanches reached the Plaza Mayor, opposite the Cabildo, they halted. At an order from Unicorn, the prisoners were completely stripped of their clothing and placed some distance in front of the first rank of Indians, each of them having at his side a fully armed Indian ready to massacre him mercilessly at the slightest sign from Unicorn. When the preparations were completed, and the Comanches had stationed sentinels at each corner of the streets, opening in the square, in order not to be taken in reverse, and surrounded by the Spaniards, if they felt any inclination for fighting, the Spider, the chief who had already performed the duty of flag of truce, pranced up to the gate of the palace, and demanded speech with the governor.

The officer of the guard, who was no other than Don Lopez, politely requested the Indian warrior to wait a few moments, and then proceeded in all haste to General Ventura. We have seen what took place, and, after a delay of nearly half an hour, Captain Don Lopez returned. It was time, for the Comanches were beginning to grow tired of waiting, and were preparing to force the passage which was not voluntarily granted them. After some preliminary explanations, Captain Lopez informed the Spider that the general, surrounded by his staff, was awaiting, in the hall of audience, the sachem of the nation and his three principal warriors.

The Spider communicated this answer to Unicorn, who gave a nod of assent, dismounted, and entered the Cabildo.