Wood Rangers Part 52

"It shall then be his last treason," said Don Estevan; and they now rode silently on with the certainty that Cuchillo was before them.

Strange chain of coincidences! When the sun appeared in the horizon, the different actors in this drama, apparently drawn together by accident, but in truth impelled onwards by the hand of G.o.d, had met in the most inaccessible part of the great American desert.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

THE GOLDEN VALLEY.

The darkness was no longer that of midnight--the outlines of the different objects began to be visible, and the peaks of the hills looked like domes or fantastic turrets in the half-light. Detached from the ma.s.s of the mountains, a rock in the form of a truncated cone towered up like an outwork. A cascade fell noisily from an adjacent hill into a deep gulf below, and in front of the rock a row of willows and cotton-trees indicated the neighbourhood of a stream. Then the immense plain of the delta formed by the two arms of the Rio Gila (which from east to west cuts for itself a double pa.s.sage through the chain of the Misty Mountains) displayed itself in all its sombre majesty. Such were the striking points of the landscape which opened before the travellers.

Soon the blue light of morning replaced the darkness, and the summits of the hills one by one became visible. On the top of the rock two pines could now be seen, their bending stems and dark foliage extending over the abyss. At their foot the skeleton of a horse, held up by hidden fastenings, showed upon his whitened bones the savage ornaments with which he had been embellished, and fragments of the saddle still rested upon his back. The increasing light soon shone on more sinister emblems: on posts raised in different places, and human scalps floating on them. These hideous trophies indicated the burial-place of an Indian warrior. In fact a renowned chief reposed there; and his spirit overlooked, like the genius of plunder, those plains where his war-cry had so often resounded, and which he had ridden over on that battle-horse whose bones were whitening by his tomb. Birds of prey flew over his grave, uttering their shrill cries, as if they would awaken him who slept there forever, and whose cold hand would no longer prepare for them their b.l.o.o.d.y feasts.

A few minutes later the horizon became tinted with pale rose-coloured clouds, and soon after, like the first spark of a fire, a ray of sunlight struck like a golden arrow on the thick fog, and floods of light inundated the depths of the valley. Day had come in all its glory, but wreaths of vapour still hung capriciously on the leaves of the trees or clung around the trunks. Soon were displayed wild precipices, with falls of water foaming down their sides; then deep defiles, at the entrance of which fantastic offerings of Indian superst.i.tion were suspended.

Above the tomb of the Indian chief rose the spray of the cascade, in which was reflected the colours of the rainbow; and lastly, a valley was visible, closed on one side by peaked rocks, from which hung long draperies of verdure, and on the other by a lake, whose waters were half-hidden by the aquatic plants on its surface: this was the Golden Valley.

At the first glance the whole scene only offered the sombre features of a wild nature; but the scrutinising eye would soon have divined the treasures concealed there. Nothing betrayed the presence of living things in that deserted place, when the three hunters made their appearance on the spot.

"If the devil has an abode anywhere on the earth," said Pepe, pointing to the mountains, "it must surely be among those wild denies!

"But if it be true," continued he, "that it is gold which is the cause of most crimes, it is more probable that the old fellow has chosen the Golden Valley for his abode, which contains, according to you, Don Fabian, enough to ruin an entire generation."

"You are right," said Fabian, who looked pale and grave, "it was here perhaps that the unlucky Marcos Arellanos was a.s.sa.s.sinated. Ah! if this place could speak, I should know the name of him whom I have sworn to pursue: but the wind and the rain have effaced the traces of the victim as well as those of the murderer."

"Patience, my child!" replied Bois-Rose; "I have never in the course of a long life known crime to go unpunished. Often we recover the traces that were believed to have been long effaced, and even solitude sometimes raises its voice against the guilty. If the a.s.sa.s.sin be not dead, cupidity will doubtless bring him again to this place, and before long; for no doubt he is one of those in the Mexican camp. Now, Fabian, shall we wait for the enemy here, or shall we fill our pockets with gold and return?"

"I know not what to decide," replied Fabian; "I came here almost against my will. I obey your wishes, or else a will stronger than either yours or mine. I feel that an invisible hand impels me on--as it did on that evening when, scarcely knowing what I did, I came and sat down by your fire. Why should I, who do not know what to do with this gold, risk my life to obtain it? I know not. I know only that here I am, with a sad heart and a soul filled with cruel uncertainty."

"Man is but the plaything of Providence, it is true," said Bois-Rose; "but as for the sadness you feel, the aspect of these places sufficiently accounts for it; and as for--"

A hoa.r.s.e cry, that scarcely appeared human, interrupted the Canadian.

It seemed to come from the Indian tomb, as if it were an accusing voice against the invaders of this abode of the dead. The three hunters glanced simultaneously towards the tomb, but no living creature was visible there. The eye of one of the birds of prey, that were sailing above the rock, could alone have told where the cry came from. The imposing solemnity of the place, the b.l.o.o.d.y souvenirs evoked by it in Fabian's mind, and the superst.i.tious ones in that of Pepe, joined to the strange and mysterious sound, inspired in both a feeling akin to terror.

There was something so inexplicable in the sound, that for a moment they doubted having heard it.

"Is it really the voice of a man?" said Bois-Rose, "or only one of those singular echoes which resound in these mountains?"

"If it were a human voice," asked Fabian, "where did it come from? it seemed to be above us, and yet I see no one on the top of the hill!"

"G.o.d send," said Pepe, crossing himself, "that in these mountains which abound in inexplicable noises, and where lightning s.h.i.+nes under a calm sky, we have only men to fight against! But if the fog contained a legion of devils--if the valley really contains, as you say, several years' income of the king of Spain, please, Senor Don Fabian, to recall your recollections, and tell us if we are still far off it."

Fabian threw a glance around him; the landscape was just what had been so minutely described to him.

"We must be close to the spot," said he, "for it should be at the foot of the tomb of the Indian chief--and these ornaments indicate that the rock is the tomb. We have no time to lose. You and Bois-Rose walk around the rock, while I go and examine those cotton-trees and willows."

"I am suspicious of everything in this mysterious place," said Bois-Rose; "that cry indicates the presence of a human being; and whether white or red, he is to be feared. Before we separate, let me examine the _sign_."

All three bent on the ground eyes accustomed to read there as in an open book. The prints of a man's feet were visible on the sand, and one of them had trodden down the plants, whose stems were still gently rising up again one after the other.

"What did I tell you?" cried Bois-Rose. "Here are the tracks of a white man's feet, and I swear it is not ten minutes since he was here. These footmarks lead towards yonder cotton-trees."

"In any case he is alone," suggested Fabian.

All three were advancing towards the trees, when Bois-Rose halted.

"Let me go first," said he; "this hedge may hide the enemy. But no, the man who has left these footprints has only pulled open the vines and glanced through--he has not gone further in that direction."

So saying, Bois-Rose, in his turn, pulled aside the branches and the climbing network which was interwoven with them, and after a short examination, which had no particular result, he retired and left the branches to reclose of themselves. He then tried to follow the tracks but further on the ground became stony, and all traces disappeared.

"Let us go round this conical rock," suggested Bois-Rose.

"Come, Pepe; Fabian will wait here for us."

The two hunters strode off, and Fabian remained alone and pensive. This Golden Valley, of whose possession he had dreamt at that time when his heart nourished sweet hopes, was now near to him. What had been a dream was now a reality, and still he was more unhappy than at the time when hopeful love caused him to scoff at poverty. It is thus that happiness flies just as we are about to seize it. Sometimes in the silence of the forest, the traveller lends a greedy ear to the notes of the mocking-bird, and advances with precaution towards the place where, hidden under the foliage, the bird of the solitudes utters its sweet song. Vain hope! he advances, and the singer flies, his voice still as distant and himself as invisible as ever! Thus man often hears in the distance voices which sing to him of happiness; seduced by their charm he rushes toward them; but they fly at his approach; and his whole life is pa.s.sed in pursuing, without ever reaching, the happiness promised by these delusive sounds.

For Fabian, happiness lay no longer in the Golden Valley. It existed nowhere. No voice now sang for him; he had no aim to pursue; no flying but charming image which he hoped to overtake. He was in one of those moods that G.o.d in His mercy makes rare in our lives--during which all is dark, as when at sea the light that guides the sailor becomes suddenly obscured.

He advanced mechanically towards the thick row of trees that formed an almost impenetrable hedge before him, but scarcely had he made a pa.s.sage for himself when he stopped motionless with surprise. The sunlight shone on the stones thick as those on a beach, and discovered innumerable glancing objects. Any other than a gold-seeker might have been deceived by these stones, which looked like vitrifications at the foot of a volcano; but the practised eye of Fabian instantly recognised the virgin gold under its clayey envelope, as it is brought down by the torrents from the gold-producing mountains. Before his eyes lay the richest treasure that was ever displayed to the view of man.

If the breeze could have brought to the ears of the young Count of Mediana the accents of Rosarita's voice, when she recalled him back to the hacienda, he would gladly have quitted all these treasures to run towards her. But the breeze was mute, and there is in gold so irresistible an attraction that Fabian, in spite of his sadness, was for the moment fascinated.

However, the soul of Fabian was not one to be intoxicated by success; and after a few minutes of this enthusiasm, he called his two companions. They came at his call.

"Have you found him?" said Pepe.

"The treasure, but not the man. See!" added he, pus.h.i.+ng aside the trees.

"What! those s.h.i.+ning stones!"

"Are pure gold--treasures which G.o.d has hidden during centuries."

"My G.o.d!" exclaimed Pepe.

And with ardent eyes fixed upon the ma.s.s of riches before him, the ex-carabinier fell upon his knees. Pa.s.sions long kept under seemed to rush back into his heart; a complete transformation took place in him, and the sinister expression of his face recalled to mind the hour of crime, when twenty years before he had bargained for the price of blood.

"Now," said Fabian, looking sadly at the gold, as he thought that all these riches were not worth to him a smile or look from her who had disdained him, "I understand how these two rivers, in their annual rise, and by their torrents that descend from the Misty Mountains, covering this narrow valley, bring down gold with them; the position of this valley is perhaps unique in all the world."

But the Spaniard heard him not. Riches--which the rough lesson he had received, and the life of independence and the savage happiness he had enjoyed, had taught him during the last ten years to disdain--suddenly resumed their terrible influence over his soul.

"You could not have imagined, could you, Pepe?" continued Fabian, "that so much gold could be collected in one place? I, who have been so long a gold-seeker, could not have imagined it, even after all I had heard."

Pepe did not reply; his eye wandered eagerly over the blocks of gold, and cast a strange glance on Fabian and on Bois-Rose. The hitter, standing in his favourite att.i.tude, his arm resting on his rifle, amidst all these treasures, looked only at what was dearest to him--the young man restored to him by heaven. Pepe had before him, on one side, his old companion in danger--in a hundred different battles they had uttered their war-cry together, like those brothers in arms in ancient chivalric times, who fought always under the same banner--who shared cold, hunger, and thirst together.

On the other side, the young man, partly orphaned by his crime--a crime which had occasioned him remorse through so many years--the love and sole thought of his only friend in the world; and the demon of cupidity at his heart effaced all these souvenirs, and he already began to think--

A shudder pa.s.sed through his frame as strange thoughts crossed his mind.

A struggle took place within him, a struggle of the feelings of youth with the more n.o.ble ones developed by the life of nature, where man seems brought near to G.o.d; but this struggle was short: the old outlaw disappeared, and there remained only the man purified by repentance and solitude. Still kneeling on the ground, Pepe had closed his eyes, and a furtive tear, unperceived by his companions, stole from his eyes, and rolled down his bronzed cheeks.