The Adventurers, Page 2

  During my last sojourn in America, chance, or rather my good star, ledme to form an acquaintance with one of those hunters, or wood rangers,the type of whom has been immortalized by Cooper, in his poeticalpersonage, _Leather-Stockings_.

  The strange circumstance by which we were brought together was asfollows. Towards the end of July, 1855, I had left Galveston, terrifiedat the fevers prevalent there, which are so fatal to Europeans, with theintention of visiting the north-west portion of Texas, a country I wasthen unacquainted with.

  A Spanish proverb somewhere says, "It is better to go alone than inbad company;" and, like all other proverbs, this possesses a certainfoundation of truth, particularly in America, where the traveller isexposed at each instant to the chance of meeting rogues of every hue,who, thanks to their seducing exterior, charm him, win his confidence,and take advantage of the first occasion to remorselessly plunder andassassinate him.

  I had profited by the proverb, and, like a shrewd old traveller of theprairies, as I knew no one who inspired me with sufficient sympathyto lead me to make him my travelling companion, I had bravely set outalone, clothed in the picturesque dress of the inhabitants of thecountry, armed to the teeth, and mounted upon an excellent half wildhorse, which had cost me twenty-five piastres--an enormous sum in thosecountries, where horses are considered as worth little or nothing.

  I carelessly wandered here and there, living that nomadic life whichis so full of attractions; at times stopping at a _tolderia_, atothers encamping in the desert, hunting wild animals, and plungingdeeper and deeper into unknown regions. I had, in this fashion, passedthrough, without any untoward accident, Fredericksburgh, the LlanaBraunfels, and had just left Castroville, on my way to Quichi. Likeall Spanish-American villages, Castroville is nothing but a miserableagglomeration of ruined cabins, cut at right angles by streets chokedwith weeds, growing undisturbed, and concealing multitudes of ants,reptiles, and even rabbits of a very small breed, which spring upbeneath the feet of the few passengers. The _pueblo_ is bounded on thewest by the Medina, a slender thread of water, almost dry in the greatheat seasons; and on the east by thickly-wooded hills, the dark green ofwhich forms a pleasing contrast with the pale blue of the sky.

  At Galveston I had undertaken to deliver a letter to an inhabitant ofCastroville. The worthy man lived in this village like La Fontaine's ratin the depths of its Dutch cheese. Charmed by the arrival of a stranger,who, no doubt, brought him news for which he had been long anxious, hereceived me in the most cordial manner, and thought of every expedientto detain me. Unfortunately, the little I had seen of Castroville hadsufficed to completely disgust me with it, and my only wish was to getout of it as quickly as possible. My host, in despair at seeing allhis advances repulsed, at length consented to allow me to continue myjourney.

  "Adieu, then," he said, warmly pressing my hand, with a sigh of regret;"since you are determined to go, may God protect you! You are wrongin setting out so late; the road you have to travel is dangerous; the_Indios bravos_ are up; they assassinate without mercy all the whiteswho fall into their hands--beware!"

  I smiled at this warning, which I took for a last effort of the worthyman to detain me.

  "Bah!" I replied gaily; "the Indians and I are too old acquaintances forme to fear anything on their account."

  My host shook his head sorrowfully, and retreated into his hut, makingme a last farewell greeting. I again set forward. I soon began toreflect that it was full late, and pressed my horse, in order to pass,before nightfall, a _chaparral_, or large thicket of underwood, of atleast two miles in length, against which my host had particularly warnedme. This ill-famed spot had a very sinister aspect. The mezquite, theacacia, and the cactus constituted its sole vegetation, while here andthere, whitened bones and planted crosses plainly designated placeswhere murders had been committed. Beyond that extended a vast plain,called the Leona, peopled by animals of every description. This plain,covered by grass at least two feet in height, was dotted at intervalswith thickets of trees, upon which warbled thousands of golden-throatedstarlings, cardinals, and bluebirds. I was anxious to reach theLeona, which I saw in the distance; but ere I did so, I had to crossthe chaparral. After examining my weapons, and looking carefully inall directions, as I could perceive nothing positively suspicious, Iresolutely spurred my horse forward, determined, if attacked, to sell mylife as dearly as possible.

  The sun, in the meantime, was sinking rapidly towards the horizon, theruddy hues of closing day tinged with their changing reflections thesummits of the wooded hills, and a fresh breeze agitated the branchesof the trees with mysterious murmurs. In this country, where there isno twilight, night was not long in enveloping me in thick darkness, andthat before I had passed through two-thirds of the chaparral.

  I was beginning to hope I should reach the Leona safe and sound, when,all at once, my horse made a violent bound on one side, pricking up itsears, and snorting loudly. The sudden shock almost threw me out of thesaddle, and it was not without trouble that I recovered the masteryover my horse, which displayed signs of the greatest terror. As alwayshappens in such cases, I instinctively looked round me for the cause ofthis panic; and soon the truth was revealed to me. A cold perspirationbedewed my brow, and a shudder of terror ran through my whole frame, atthe horrible spectacle which met my eyes. Five dead human bodies laystretched beneath the trees, within ten paces of me. Among them wasone of a woman, and one of a girl about fourteen years of age. Theyall belonged to the white race. They appeared to have fought long andobstinately before they fell; they were literally covered with wounds;and long arrows, with jagged barbs, and painted red, stood out from thebodies, which they had pierced through and through. The victims had allbeen scalped. It was evidently the work of Indians, marked with theirsanguinary rage, and their inveterate hatred for the white race. Theform and colour of the arrows told me that the perpetrators of thisatrocity were the Apaches, the most cruel plunderers of the desert.Around the bodies I observed fragments of both wagons and furniture. Theunfortunate beings, assassinated with refined cruelty, had, no doubt,been poor emigrants on their way to Castroville.

  At the aspect of this heartbreaking spectacle, I cannot express the pityand grief which weighed upon my spirits; high in the air, urubus andvultures hovered with lazy wings over the bodies, uttering lugubriouscries of joy, whilst in the depths of the chaparral the wolves andjaguars began to growl portentously.

  I cast a melancholy glance around: all immediately near to me was quiet.The Apaches had, according to all appearances, surprised the emigrantsduring a halt. Gutted bales were still ranged in a symmetrical circle,and a fire, near which was a heap of dry wood, was not yet extinguished.

  "No!" said I to myself, "whatever may happen, I will not leaveChristians without burial, to become, in this desert, the prey of wildbeasts."

  My resolution, once formed, was soon carried into execution. Springingto the ground, I hobbled my horse, gave it some provender, and cast somebranches of wood upon the fire, which soon sparkled and sent into theair a column of bright flame. Among the necessaries of the emigrantswere spades, pickaxes, and other agricultural instruments, which, beingof no use to the Indians, they had disdainfully left behind them. Iseized a spade, and, after having carefully explored the environsof my encampment, to assure myself that no immediate danger need beapprehended, I set to work to dig a grave.

  The night had now set in; one of those American nights, clear,silent, full of intoxicating odours, and mysterious melodies chantedby the desert in praise of God. Extraordinary to say, all my fearshad vanished, as if by enchantment! Though alone in this sinisterplace, close to these frightfully-mutilated carcasses, watched in thedarkness, no doubt, by the unseen eyes of wild beasts, and, perhaps,of the murderous Indians, some incomprehensible influence sustainedme, and gave me strength to accomplish the rude but sacred task I hadundertaken. Instead of thinking of the dangers which surrounded me, Ifound myself yielding to a pensive melancholy. I thought of these poorpeople, who had come from
distant lands, full of hope for the future,to seek in the New World a little of the comfort and well-being whichwere denied to them at home, and who, scarcely landed, had fallen, in anobscure corner of the desert, by the hands of ferocious savages. Theyhad left in their own country friends, perhaps relations, to whom theirfate would for ever remain a mystery, and who would for years reckonthe hours with anxiety, looking for their much-wished return, or forintelligence of their success in their bold undertaking.

  Except two or three alarms caused by the rustling of the leaves in thebushes, nothing occurred to interrupt my melancholy duty. In less thanthree-quarters of an hour I had dug a grave large enough to contain thefive bodies. After extracting the arrows by which they were transfixed,I raised them one after the other in my arms, and laid them gentlyside by side at the bottom of the grave. I then hastened to throw inthe mould again, till it was level with the sod; and that being done,I dragged upon the surface all the large stones I could find, to keepwild beasts from profaning the dead. This religious duty accomplished,I breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction, and bowing my head towards theground, I mentally addressed a short prayer to the Almighty, for theunfortunate beings I had buried.

  Upon raising my head, I uttered a cry of surprise and terror, while atthe same time mechanically feeling for my revolver; for, without theleast noise having given me warning of his approach, a man was standingwithin four paces of me, watching me earnestly, and leaning on his longrifle. Two magnificent Newfoundland dogs were lying carelessly butquietly at his feet. On observing my gesture, the unknown smiled with akindly expression, and holding out his hand to me over the grave, said--

  "Fear nothing! I am a friend. You have buried these poor people; _I_have avenged them--their assassins are dead!"

  I silently pressed the hand that was so frankly extended to me.Acquaintance was formed--we were friends--we are so still! A few minuteslater we were seated near the fire, supping together with a goodappetite, while the dogs kept watch against intruders.

  The companion I had fallen in with in so curious a manner was a man ofabout forty-five years of age, although he did not appear to be morethan thirty-two. He was tall and well made; his broad shoulders andmuscular limbs denoting extraordinary strength and agility. He wore thepicturesque hunter's costume in all its purity, that is to say, the_capote_, or surtout (which is nothing but a kind of blanket worn as arobe, fastened to the shoulders, and falling in long folds behind), ashirt of striped cotton, large _mitasses_ (drawers of doeskin, stitchedwith hair, fastened at distances, and ornamented with little bells),leather gaiters, moccasins of elk skin, braided with beads and porcupinequills, and a checked woollen belt, from which hung his knife, tobaccopouch, powder horn, pistols, and medicine bag. His headdress consistedof a cap made of the skin of a beaver, the tail of which fell betweenhis shoulders. This man was a type of a hardy race of adventurers whotraverse America in all directions. A primitive race, longing foropen air, space, and liberty, opposed to our ideas of civilization,and consequently destined to disappear before the immigration of thelaborious races, whose powerful agents of conquest are steam and theapplication of mechanical inventions of all kinds.

  This hunter was a Frenchman, and his frank, manly countenance, hispicturesque language, his open and engaging manners, notwithstandinghis long abode in America, had preserved a reflex of the mother countrywhich awakened sympathy and created interest.

  All the countries of the New World were familiar to him; he had livedmore than twenty years in the depths of the woods, and had been engagedin dangerous and distant excursions among the Indian tribes. Hence,although myself well initiated in the customs of the redskins, andthough a great part of my existence had been passed in the desert, Ihave felt myself often shudder involuntarily at the recital of hisadventures. When seated beside him on the banks of the Rio Gila, duringan excursion we had undertaken into the prairies, he would at timesallow himself to be carried away by his remembrances, and relate to me,as he smoked his Indian pipe, the strange history of the early daysof his abode in the New World. It is one of these recitals I am aboutto lay before my readers--the first in order of date, since it is thehistory of the events which led him to become a wood ranger. I do notventure to hope that my readers will take the interest in it which itexcited in me; but I beg them to have the kindness to recollect thatthis narrative was told me in the desert, amidst that grand, vast, andpowerful nature, unknown to the inhabitants of old Europe, and that Ihad it from the lips of the man who had been the hero.