The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West

by Gustave Aimard

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  EL VADO DEL TORO.

  Red Cedar reasoned correctly when he told Fray Ambrosio and Garote thatDona Clara was in safety at the rancho, and no one would dream ofseeking her there. In truth, Valentine knew the squatter's cunning toowell to suppose that he would commit the impudence of bringing hisprisoner back to the very spot where she was discovered.

  The squatter's two accomplices passed the day quietly in playing, oncredit, at monte; each cheating with a dexterity which did honor totheir knowledge of that noble game. No one came to disturb them, or castan indiscreet glance into this famous den, which, in the brightsunshine, had an air of respectability pleasant to look on, and amplysufficient to dispel all suspicions. About nine in the evening, themoon, though new, rose magnificently on a deep blue sky, studded withbrilliant stars.

  "I fancy it is time to get ready, gossip," Fray Ambrosio said, "the moonis peering through the trees in your neighbour's garden."

  "You are right, senor Padre, we will be off; but let me, I implore you,first finish this deal; it is one of the most magnificent I everwitnessed. _Caspita!_ I will bet a nugget as big as my thumb on theseven of clubs."

  "I'll back the two of spades. Something tells me it will turn up first,especially if you pull up the sleeves of your jacket, which must behorribly in the way when dealing."

  "Oh dear, no, I assure you; but stay, what did I tell you? There is theseven of clubs."

  "That is really extraordinary," Fray Ambrosio replied, with feignedsurprise, for he was not duped by the gambusino's trickery; "but I fancywe had better make haste."

  "Decidedly," said Andres, as he hid his greasy cards in his vaqueraboots, and proceeded to the room in which Dona Clara was confined. Shefollowed him out, weeping bitterly.

  "Come, come," the gambusino said to her, "dry your tears, senorita; wedo not mean you any harm. Hang it all! Who knows but this may endperhaps better than you expect; ask that holy monk what he thinks."

  Fray Ambrosio bowed an assent, but the maiden made no response to thegambusino's consolation; she allowed herself to be disguisedunresistingly, but still continued to weep.

  "In truth, it is absurd," the worthy Andres muttered, in an aside tohimself, while attiring his prisoner and looking covetously at thepearls with which she was adorned, "to waste gold and pearls in thisfashion; would it not be much better to use them in buying somethingserviceable? What she has on her is worth at least three thousandpiastres--what a splendid game of monte a fellow could have with thatsum--and if that demon of a Red Cedar had only been willing--well, weshall see presently."

  While making these judicious reflections, the gambusino had completedthe maiden's Indian toilet. He perfected the disguise by throwing azarape over her shoulders; then giving a parting glance round hisdomicile, he put in his pocket a pack of cards accidentally left on thetable, drank a large glass of spirits, and left the room, followed byDona Clara and the monk, who, in spite of the varying incidents of thelast few days had regained all his good humour, doubtless owing to thegood company in which he was, and the game of monte--that inveteratepassion in every Mexican.

  Dona Clara was placed on a horse; Andres and the monk also mounted, andleaving the house to the problemical care of Providence, the gambusinogave the signal for departure. He made a wide circuit, to avoid passingthrough the Presidio, and then started at a gallop in the direction ofthe Cerro Prieto.

  Red Cedar had lost no time, and all was ready for departure. Thenewcomers did not even dismount, but so soon as they were sighted, thecaravan, composed, as we have stated of some hundred and twenty resolutemen, after forming in Indian file, started in the direction of theprairies, having first prudently detached two scouts to watch theneighbourhood.

  Nothing is so mournful as a night march in an unknown country, coveredwith snares of every description, when you fear least the ever-watchfulenemy may pounce on you from every bush. Thus, the gambusinos, restless,and starting at the slightest rustling of the leaves, advanced silentlyand gloomily, with their eyes fixed on the clumps that grew along thewayside, rifle in hand, ready to fire at the slightest suspiciousmovement. They marched, however, for upwards of three hours, and nothinghappened to justify their fears; a solemn calmness continued to prevailaround them. Gradually these apprehensions were dissipated; they begantalking in a suppressed voice, and laughing at their past terrors, whenthey reached, on the banks of the Del Norte, the _vado_, or Ford delToro.

  In the interior of Southern America, and specially in New Mexico, acountry still almost entirely unknown, the means of communication are_nil_, and consequently bridges may be looked for in vain. There areonly two methods of crossing even the widest rivers--looking for a ford,or, if you are in a great hurry, forcing your horse into the oft-timesrapid current, and trying to reach the other bank by swimming.

  The squatter had selected the first method, and in a few minutes thewhole party was in the water. Although the ground of the ford wasuneven, and at times the horses were up to their chests, and compelledto swim, the gambusinos managed to get across safely. The only personsleft on the bank were Red Cedar, Eagle-wing, the guide, Dona Clara, andAndres Garote.

  "It is our turn now, Heart of Stone," the squatter said, addressingEagle-wing; "you see that our men are in safety, and only await us toset out again."

  "The squaw first," the Indian replied, laconically.

  "That is true, chief," the squatter said, and, turning to the prisoner,"Go across," he said to her, coarsely.

  The maiden, not deigning to answer, boldly made her horse enter theriver, and the three men followed. The night was dark, the sky coveredwith clouds, and the moon, constantly veiled, only shone forth atlengthened intervals, which rendered the passage difficult and evendangerous, as it did not allow objects to be distinguished, even at adistance. Still, after a few seconds, Red Cedar fancied he saw that DonaClara's horse was not following the line traced by the ford, but wasturning to the left, as if carried away by the current. He pushed hishorse forward, to assure himself of the reality of the fact; butsuddenly a vigorous hand seized his right leg, and before he could eventhink of resisting, he was hurled back into the water, and his throatseized by an Indian. Andres Garote hurried to his assistance.

  During this time, Dona Clara's horse, probably obeying a hidden impulse,was proceeding still further from the spot where the gambusinos hadlanded. Some of them, at the head of whom were Dick, Harry, and thesquatter's three sons, perceiving what was going on, returned to thewater, to proceed to their chiefs help, while the others, guided by FrayAmbrosio, galloped down the river bank, in order to cut off retreat,when Dona Clara's horse landed.

  Andres Garote, after several fruitless efforts, succeeded in catchingRed Cedar's horse, which he brought to him at the moment when the latterhad scalped his enemy. The American got into his saddle again, reachedthe bank, and tried to restore some order among his band, while actuallywatching the incidents of the silent drama being played in the riverbetween Eagle-wing and the young Spanish girl.

  The Coras sachem had urged his steed in pursuit of Dona Clara's, andboth were following almost the same line down the stream, the formerstriving to catch up the latter, who, for her part, was doing her utmostto widen the distance between them. Suddenly the Coras horse gave aleap, while uttering a snort of pain, and began madly beating the waterwith its forelegs, while the river was tinged with blood around it. Thechief, perceiving that his horse was mortally wounded, leaped from thesaddle, and leant over the side, ready to leap off. At this moment, ahideous face appeared flush with water, and a hand was stretched out tograsp him. With that imperturbable coolness that never deserts theIndians, even under the most critical circumstances, the Coras seizedhis tomahawk, split his enemy's skull open, and glided into the river.

  A formidable war yell was, at this moment, heard from the forest, andsome fifty shots were fired from both banks at once, illumining thescene with their fugitive flashes. A multitude of redskins rushed on thegambusinos, and a terrible fi
ght commenced. The Mexicans, takenunawares, defended themselves at first poorly, giving ground and seekingshelter behind trees; but, obeying the thundering voice of the squatter,who performed prodigies of valor while exciting his comrades to selltheir lives dearly, they regained courage, formed in close column, andcharged the Indians furiously, beating them down with the butts of theirmuskets, or slashing them with their machetes.

  The combat was short; the redskins, who were only a party of maraudingPawnees, seeing the ill-result of their surprise, grew discouraged, anddisappeared as rapidly as they had come. Two minutes later calmness andsilence were so perfectly re-established, that had it not been for a fewwounded gambusinos, and several Indians stretched dead on thebattlefield, the strange scene would have appeared as a dream.

  So soon as the Indians were routed, Red Cedar bent an eager glance upthe river; on that side the struggle was also over, and Eagle-wing,mounted behind the young lady, was guiding her horse to the bank, whichit soon reached.

  "Well?" the squatter asked.

  "The Pawnees are cowardly coyotes," the Coras answered, pointing to twohuman scalps that hung all bloody from his girdle; "they fly like oldwomen, so soon as they see the war plume of a warrior of my nation."

  "Good!" the squatter said, gleefully, "My brother is a great warrior; hehas a friend."

  The Coras bowed with a smile of indescribable meaning. His object wasgained; he had acquired the confidence of the man he meant to destroy.Dona Clara, Ellen, and the squatter's wife were placed in the centre ofthe caravan, and the band started again.

  An hour later, a second party of horsemen also crossed the Vado delToro. It was much less numerous than the first, as it consisted of onlyfive men, but they were Valentine, Curumilla, Don Miguel, his son, andGeneral Ibanez. The real struggle was about to commence: behind themthey left the civilised world, to find themselves face to face on thedesert with their enemies.

  (Those of our readers who take an interest in the Trail-hunter, we mustask to follow his adventures through a second volume, to be called--THEPIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES.)

  THE END