There were two of them. The day, just feebly breaking, permitted the count to distinguish them perfectly. They were dressed in Mexican costume; but, strangely enough in this country, where, under similar circumstances, the bandits care very little about showing their faces, the strangers were masked.

"Hold, my masters!" shouted the count. "What means this obstinate pursuit?"

"That we probably have an interest in catching you up," replied a hoarse voice sarcastically.

"Then you really are after me?"

"Yes, if you are the stranger known as the Count de Lhorailles."

"I am he," said he without any hesitation.

"Very good; then we can come to an understanding."

"I ask nothing better, though, from your suspicious conduct, you appear to me to be bandits, if you want my purse, take it and be off, for I am in a hurry."

"Keep your purse, caballero; we want to take your life, and not your money."

"Ah, ha! 'tis, then, a trap, followed by an assassination."

"You are mistaken. I offer you a fair fight."

"Hum!" the count said, "a fair fight: two against one – that is rather disproportionate."

"You would be correct if matters were as you assume," the man haughtily replied who had hitherto taken the word; "but my companion will content himself with looking on and taking no part in the duel."

The count reflected.

"Pardieu!" he said at last, "It is an extraordinary affair! A duel in Mexico and with a Mexican! Such a thing as that has never been heard of before."

"It is true, caballero; but all things must have a beginning."

"Enough of jesting. I ask nothing better than to fight, and I hope to prove to you that I am a resolute man; but before accepting your proposition, I should not be sorry to know why you force me to fight you."

"For what end?"

"Corbleu! Why, to know it. You must understand that I cannot waste my time in fighting with every ruffler I meet on the road, and who has a fancy to have his throat cut."

"It will be enough for you to know that I hate you."

"Caramba! I suspected as much; but as you seem determined not to show me your face, I should like to be able to recognise you at another time."

"Enough chattering," the unknown said haughtily. "Time is flying. We have had sufficient discussion."

"Well, my master, if that is the case, get ready. I warn you that I intend to take you both. A Frenchman would never have any difficulty in holding his own against two Mexican bandits."

"As you please."

"Forward!"

The three horsemen spurred their horses and charged. When they met they exchanged pistol shots, and then drew their sabres. The fight was brief, but obstinate. One of the strangers, slightly wounded, was carried away by his horse, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The count, grazed by a ball, felt his anger changed to fury, and redoubled his efforts to master his foe; but he had before him a sturdy opponent, a man of surprising skill and of strength at least equal to his own.

This man whose eyes he saw gleaming like live coals through the holes in his mask, whirled round him with extraordinary rapidity, making his horse perform the boldest curvets, attacking him incessantly with the point or edge of his sabre, while bounding out of reach of the counterblows.

The count exhausted himself in vain against this indefatigable enemy. His movements began to lose their elasticity – his sight grew troubled – the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. His silent adversary increased the rapidity of his attacks: the issue of the combat was no longer doubtful, when the Frenchman suddenly felt a slipknot fall on his shoulders. Before he could even dream of loosening it he was roughly lifted from his saddle, and hurled to the ground so violently that he almost fainted, and found it impossible to make an effort to rise. The second stranger, after a mad course of a few moments, had at length succeeded in mastering his horse; he returned in all haste to the scene of action, the two men so furiously engaged not noticing it; then, thinking it time to put an end to the duel, he raised his reata and lassoed the count.

So soon as he saw his enemy on the ground, the unknown leaped from his horse and ran up to him. His first care was to free the Frenchman from the slipknot that strangled him, and then tried to restore him to his senses, which was not a lengthy task.

"Ah!" the count said, with a bitter smile, as he rose and crossed his arms on his chest, "that is what you call fair fighting."

"You are alone to blame for what has happened," the other said quietly, "as you would not agree to my propositions."

The Frenchman disdained any discussion. He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

"Your life belongs to me," his adversary continued.

"Yes, through a piece of treachery; but no matter – assassinate me, and finish the affair."

"I do not wish to kill you."

"What do you want, then?"

"To give you a piece of advice."

The count laughed sarcastically.

"You must be mad, my good fellow."

"Not so much as you fancy. Listen attentively to what I have to say to you."

"I will do so even for the hope of being promptly freed from your presence."

"Good, Señor Conde de Lhorailles. Your arrival in this country has caused the unhappiness of two persons."

"Nonsense! You are jesting with me."

"I speak seriously. Don Sylva de Torrés has promised you his daughter's hand."

"How does it concern you?"

"Answer!"

"It is true. Why should I conceal it?"

"Doña Anita does not love you."

"How do you know that?" the count asked with a mocking smile.

"I know it; I know, too, that she loves another."

"Only think of that!"

"And that the other loves her."

"All the worse for him; for I swear that I will not surrender her."

"You are mistaken, señor conde. You will surrender her or die."

"Neither one or the other," the impetuous Frenchman shouted, now perfectly recovered from his stunning fall. "I repeat that I will marry Doña Anita. If she does not love me, well, that is unfortunate. I hope that she will presently alter her opinion of me. The marriage suits me, and no one will succeed in breaking it off."

The unknown listened, a prey to violent emotion. His eyes flashed lightning, and he stamped his feet furiously; still he made an effort to master the feeling which agitated him, and replied in a slow and firm voice, —

"Take care of what you do, caballero. I have sworn to warn you, and have done so honestly. Heaven grant that my words find an echo in your heart, and that you follow the counsel I give you! The first time accident brings us together again one of us will die."

"I will take my precautions, be assured; but you are wrong not to profit by the present occasion to kill me, for it will not occur again."

The two strangers had by this time remounted.

"Count de Lhorailles," the unknown said again, as he bent over the Frenchman, "for the last time, take care, for I have a great advantage over you. I know you, and you do not know me. It will be an easy thing for me to reach you whenever I please. We are the sons of Indians and Spaniards. We feel a burning hatred: so take care."

After bowing ironically to the count he burst into a mocking laugh, spurred his horse, and started at headlong speed, followed by his silent companion. The count watched them disappear with a pensive air. When they were lost in the obscurity he tossed his head several times, as if to shake off the gloomy thoughts that oppressed him in spite of himself, then picked up his sabre and pistols, took his horse by the bridle, and walked slowly toward the pulquería, near which the fight had taken place.

The light which filtered through the badly-joined planks of the door, the songs and laughter that resounded from the interior, afforded a reasonable prospect of obtaining a temporary shelter in this house.

"Hum!" he muttered to himself as he walked along, "That bandit is right. He knows me, and I have no way of recognising him. By Jupiter, I have a good sound hatred on my shoulders! But nonsense!" he added, "I was too happy. I wanted an enemy. On my soul, let him do as he will! Even if Hades combine against me, I swear that nothing will induce me to resign the hand of Doña Anita."

At this moment he found himself in front of the pulquería, at the door of which he rapped. Naturally impatient, angered, too, by the accident which had happened to him, and the tremendous struggle he had been engaged in, the count was about to carry out his threat of beating in the door, when it was opened.

"Válga me Dios!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "Is this the way you allow people to be assassinated before your doors, without proceeding to their assistance?"

"Oh, oh!" the pulquero said sharply, "Is anyone dead?"

"No, thanks to Heaven!" the count replied; "But I had a narrow escape of being killed."

"Oh!" the pulquero said with great nonchalance, "If we were to trouble ourselves about all who shout for help at night, we should have enough to do; and besides, it is very dangerous on account of the police."

The count shrugged his shoulders and walked in, leading his horse after him. The door was closed again immediately.

The count was unaware that in Mexico the man who finds a corpse, or brings the assassin to trial, is obliged to pay all the expenses of a justice enormously expensive in itself, and which never affords any satisfaction to the victim. In all the Mexican provinces people are so thoroughly convinced of the truth of what we assert, that, so soon as a murder is committed, everyone runs off, without dreaming of helping the victim; for, in the case of death supervening, such an act of charity would entail many annoyances on the individual who tried to imitate the good Samaritan.

In Sonora people do better still: as soon as a quarrel begins, and a man falls, they shut all the doors.

CHAPTER VIII
THE DEPARTURE

As Don Sylva had announced to his daughter, by daybreak all was ready for the start. In Mexico, and specially in Sonora, where roads are mainly remarkable for their absence, the mode of travelling differs utterly from that adopted in Europe. There are no public vehicles, no relays of post horses; the only means of transport known and practised is on horseback.

A journey of only a few days entails interminable cares and vexations. You must carry everything with you, because you are certain of finding nothing on the road. Beds, tents, provisions and water before all, must be carried on mule-back. Without these indispensable precautions you would run a risk of dying from hunger or thirst, and sleeping in the open air.

You must also be provided with a considerable and well-armed escort, in order to repulse the attacks of wild beasts, Indians and especially robbers with whom all the roads of Mexico swarm, owing to the anarchy in which this unhappy country is plunged. Hence it is easy to comprehend the earnest desire Don Sylva felt to quit Guaymas at as early an hour as possible.

The court of the house resembled an hostelry. Fifteen mules laden with bales were waiting while the palanquin in which Doña Anita was to travel was being got ready. Some forty steeds, saddled, bridled, with musquetoons attached at to the troussequins, and pistols in the holsters, were fastened to rings in the wall while a peon held in hand a splendid stallion, magnificently harnessed, which stamped and champed its silver bit, which it covered with foam.

In the street a crowd of people, among whom were Don Martial and Cucharés, already returned from their expedition to the Rancho, were curiously regarding this departure, which they could not at all comprehend at such an advanced period of the year, so unpropitious for a country residence, and making all sorts of comments on the reason of the journey.

Among all these people, collected by accident or through curiosity, was a man, evidently an Indian, who, leaning carelessly against the wall, never took his eyes off the door of Don Sylva's house, and followed with evident interest all the movements of the hacendero's numerous servants.

This man, still young, appeared to be an Hiaqui Indian, although an observer, after a close inspection, would have asserted the contrary; for there was in the man's wide brow, in his eyes, whose glitter he tried in vain to moderate, in the haughty mouth, and above all, in the native elegance of his vigorous limbs, which seemed carved on the model of the Greek Hercules, something proud, resolute and independent, which rather denoted the proud Comanche or ferocious Apache than the stupid Hiaqui; but in this crowd no one dreamed of troubling himself about the Indian, who, for his part, was careful to attract as little attention as possible.

The Hiaquis are accustomed to come to Guaymas, and let themselves out as workmen or servants; hence the presence of an Indian there is not at all extraordinary, and is not noticed.

At last, at about eight o'clock, Don Sylva, giving his hand to his daughter, who was dressed in a charming travelling costume, appeared beneath the portico of the house. Doña Anita was pale as a ghost. Her haggard features, her swollen eyes, testified to the sufferings of the night, and the restraint she was forced to place on herself, even at this moment, to prevent her bursting into tears in the presence of all. At the sight of the young lady, Don Martial and Cucharés exchanged a rapid glance, while a smile of indefinable expression played round the lips of the Indian to whom we have alluded.

On the hacendero's arrival silence was re-established as if by enchantment; the arrieros ran to the heads of their mules; the servants, armed to the teeth, mounted; and Don Sylva, after assuring himself by a glance that all was ready, and that his orders had been punctually executed, placed his daughter in the palanquin, where she at once nestled like a hummingbird among rose leaves.

At a sign from the hacendero, the mules, fastened to each other by the tails, began to leave the house behind the nana, whose bells they followed, and escorted by peons. Before mounting his horse Don Sylva turned to an old servant, who, straw hat in hand, respectfully stood near him.

"Adieu, Tío Pelucho!" he said to him. "I intrust the house to you. Keep good watch, and take care of all in it. I leave you Pedrito and Florentio to help you, and you will give them the necessary orders for all to go on properly during my absence."

"You may be at ease, mi amo," the old man answered, saluting his master. "Thanks to Heaven, this is not the first time you have left me alone here, and I believe I have ever done my duty properly."

"You are a good servant, Tío Pelucho," Don Sylva said with a smile; "I start in most perfect ease of mind."

"May God bless you, mi amo, as well as the niña!" the old man continued, crossing himself.

"Good bye, Tío Pelucho," the young lady then said, leaning out of the palanquin. "I know that you are careful of everything belonging to me."

The old man bowed with visible delight. Don Sylva gave the order for departure, and the whole caravan started in the direction of the Rancho de San José.

It was one of those magnificent mornings only known in these blessed regions. The night storm had entirely swept the sky, which was of a pale blue. The sun, already high in the horizon, shot forth its hot beams, which were slightly tempered by the odoriferous vapours exhaling from the ground. The atmosphere, impregnated by acrid and penetrating odours, was of extraordinary transparency; a light breeze refreshed the air at intervals; flocks of birds, glistening with a thousand colours, flew in every direction, and the mules following the bell of the nena madrina– the mother mule – were urged on by the songs of the arrieros.

The caravan moved along gaily through the sandy plain, raising round it clouds of dust, and forming a long twining serpent in the endless turnings of the road. A vanguard of ten servants explored the neighbourhood, examining the bushes, and shifting sand heaps. Don Sylva smoked a cigar while conversing with his daughter; and a rearguard, formed of twenty resolute men, closed the march, and insured the security of the convoy.

In this country, we repeat it, where the police are a nullity, and consequently surveillance impossible, a journey of four leagues – and the Rancho de San José is only that distance from Guaymas – is a very serious affair, and demands as many precautions as a journey of a hundred leagues with us, the enemies who may be met, and with whom you run a risk of a contest at any moment – Indians, robbers, or wild beasts – being too numerous, determined, and too greedy for plunder and murder to allow the traveller to confide with gaiety of heart in the speed of his horse.

They were already far from Guaymas, the white houses of which town had long ago disappeared in the numerous turnings of the road, when the capataz, leaving the head of the caravan, where he had hitherto remained galloped back to the palanquin, where Don Sylva was still riding.

"Well, Blas," the latter said, "what is there new? Have you noticed anything alarming ahead of us?"

"Nothing, excellency," the capataz replied: "all is going well, and in an hour at the latest we shall be at the Rancho."

"Whence, then, the haste you showed to join me again?"

"Oh! Excellency, it is not much; but an idea occurred to me – something I wished you to see."

"Ah, ah!" Don Sylva said. "What is it, my lad?"

"Look, excellency," the capataz continued, pointing in a south-western direction.

"Ah! What is that? A fire, if I am not mistaken."

"It is indeed a fire, excellency. Look here;" and he pointed east-south-east.

"There's another. Who on earth has lighted the fires on those scarped points? What can their object be?"

"Oh! It is easy enough to understand that, excellency."

"Do you think so, my boy? Well, then you will explain it to me."

"I am willing to do so. Stay," he said, pointing to the first fire: "that hill is the Cerro del Gigante."

"It is."

"And that," the capataz continued, pointing to the second fire, "is the Cerro de San Xavier."

"I think it is."

"I am certain of it."

"Well?"

"As we know that a fire cannot kindle itself, and as people do not amuse themselves with a fire when the thermometer is up at a hundred – "

"You conclude from that – ?"

"That those fires have been lighted by robbers or Indians, who have had scent of our departure."

"Stay, stay! That is most logical, my friend. Continue your explanation, for it interests me enormously."

Don Sylva's capataz, or steward, was a tall, herculean fellow of about forty, devoted body and soul to his master, who placed the greatest confidence in him. The worthy man bowed with a smile of satisfaction on hearing the hacendero's kind remarks.

"Oh! Now," he went on, "I have not much more to say, except that the ladrones who are watching us know, through that signal, that Don Sylva de Torrés and his daughter have left Guaymas for the Rancho."

"My faith! You are right. I had forgotten all those details. I did not think of all the birds of prey that are watching our passage. Well, after all, though, what do we care if the bandits are at our heels? We do not hide ourselves. Our start took place in the presence of plenty of persons. We are numerous enough not to fear any insult; but if any of those picaros dare to attack us, cascaras! They will find their work cut out for them, I am convinced. Push on, then, without any fear, Blas, my boy! Nothing unpleasant can happen to us."

The capataz saluted his master and galloped back to the head of the column. An hour later they reached the Rancho without any accident.

Don Sylva rode at the right-hand door of the palanquin, talking to his daughter, who only answered in monosyllables, in spite of the continued efforts she made to hide her sorrow from her father's clear eyes, when the hacendero heard his name called repeatedly. He turned his head sharply, and uttered an exclamation of surprise on recognising in the man who addressed him the Count de Lhorailles.

"What! Señor conde, you here? What singular hazard makes me meet you so near the port, when you should have been so far ahead of us?"

On perceiving the count the Doña felt herself blush, and fell back, letting the curtains of the palanquin slip from her hand.

"Oh?" replied the count, with a courteous bow, "Since last night certain things have happened to me which I must impart to you, Don Sylva – things which will surprise you, I am certain; but the present is not the moment to commence such a story."

"Whatever you think proper, my friend. But say, do you set out again, or remain here?"

"I go, I go! In stopping here my sole object was to await you. If you consent we will travel together. Instead of preceding you at Guetzalli, we shall arrive together – that is the only difference."

"Capital! Let us go," he added, making a sign to the capataz. The latter, on seeing his master conversing with the count, had ordered a halt, but now the caravan started again. The Rancho was speedily traversed, and then the journey commenced in reality.

The desert lay expanded before the travellers in endless sandy plains. On the yellow ground, a long, tortuous line, formed by the whitened bones of mules and horses that had broken down, indicated the road which must be followed so as not to go astray.

About two hundred yards ahead of the caravan a man was trotting along, carelessly seated on the back of a skeleton donkey, swaying from side to side, half lulled to sleep by the burning sunbeams which fell vertically on his bare head.

"Eh?" Don Sylva said, on perceiving the man. "Blas," said Don Sylva on perceiving this man, "call the Indian over yonder. These devils of redskins know the desert thoroughly and he can serve as our guide. In that way we shall run no risk of losing our road, for he will be sure to put us right."

"Quite true," the count observed; "in these confounded sand hills no man can be sure of his direction."

"Go to him," commanded Don Sylva.

The capataz put his horse at a gallop. On arriving within a short distance of the solitary traveller, he formed a sort of speaking trumpet with his hands.

"Halloh, José!" he shouted.

In Mexico all the Mansos, or civilised Indians, are called José, and reply to this name, which has grown generic. The Indian thus hailed turned round.

"What do you want?" he asked with a careless air.

It was the man whom we saw at Guaymas, watching so attentively the preparations for the hacendero's departure. Was it chance that brought him to this spot? That was a question which none but himself could have answered.

Blas Vasquez was what is called in Mexico a hombre de a caballo, versed for a long period in Indian tricks. He bent on the traveller an enquiring glance, which the latter supported with perfect ease. With his head timidly bowed, his hands laid on the donkey's neck, his naked legs hanging down on either side, he offered a complete type of the Indian manso, almost brutalised by the vicious contact with the whites. The capataz shook his head with a dissatisfied air; his investigation was far from satisfying him. Still, after a moment's hesitation, he resumed his interrogatory.

"What are you doing all alone on this road, José?" he asked him.

"I have come from del Puerto, where I have been engaged as a carpenter. I remained there a month, and as I saved the small sum I wanted, I started yesterday to return to my village."

All this was perfectly probable; the majority of the Hiaqui Indians act in this way; and then what interest could the man have in deceiving him? He was alone and unarmed; the caravan on the other hand, was numerous and composed of devoted men. No danger was, therefore, to be apprehended.

"Well, did you earn much money?" the capataz continued,

"Yes," the Indian said triumphantly; "five piastres and these three besides."

"Why, José, you are a rich man."

The Hiaqui smiled doubtfully.

"Yes," he said, "Tiburón has money."

"Is your name Tiburón (shark)?" the capataz said distrustfully. "That is an ugly name."

"Why so? The palefaces gave that name to their red son, and he finds it good, since it comes from them, and he keeps it."

"Is your village far from here?"

"If I had a good horse I should arrive in three days. The village of my tribe is between the Gila and Guetzalli."

"Do you know Guetzalli?"

The Indian shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"The redskins know all the hunting grounds on the Gila," he said.

At this moment the caravan caught up the two speakers.

"Well, Blas," Don Sylva asked, "Who is the man?"

"A Hiaqui Indian. He is returning to his village, after earning a trifle at the Puerto."

"Can he be of service to us?"

"I believe so. His tribe, he says, is encamped near the Gila."

"Ah!" said the count, drawing nearer, "Does he belong to the White Horse tribe?"

"Yes," the Indian said.

"In that case I answer for the man," the count said quickly. "Those Indians are very gentle; they are miserable beggars, often starving; and I employ them at the hacienda."

"Listen!" Don Sylva said, tapping the redskin's shoulder amicably. "We are going to Guetzalli."

"Good."

"We want a faithful and devoted guide."

"Tiburón is poor; he has only a poor donkey, which cannot march so quickly as his pale brothers drive their horses."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," the hacendero added. "I will give you such a horse as you never mounted, if you serve us honestly. On arriving at the hacienda, I will add ten piastres to those you already possess. Does that suit you?"

The Indian's eye sparkled with greed at this proposal.

"Where is the horse?" he asked.

"Here," the capataz replied, pointing to a superb stallion led by a peon.

The redskin looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Well, do you accept?" the hacendero said.

"Yes."

"Then get off your donkey, and let us start."

"I cannot abandon my donkey; it is a famous brute, which has done me good service."

"That need not trouble you; it can follow with the baggage mules."

The Indian gave a nod of assent, but made no further reply. In a few minutes he was mounted, and the caravan continued its march. The capataz alone did not appear to place any great confidence in the guide so singularly met.

"I will watch him," he said in a low voice.

The march went on the whole day without any fresh incident, and the next day they reached the Rio Gila. The banks of this river contrast by their fertility with the desolate aridity of the plains that surround them. Don Sylva's journey, though recommenced at the moment when the sun, arrived at its zenith, pours down its burning beams perpendicularly, was only an agreeable promenade of a few leagues, beneath the dense shade of tufted woods which grow with an amount of sap unknown in our climates.

It was nearly three o'clock when the travellers saw before them the colony of Guetzalli, founded by the Count de Lhorailles, and which, although it only had a few months' existence, had already attained a considerable size. This colony was composed of a hacienda, round which were grouped the labourers' huts. We will devote a few words to it.

The hacienda was built on a peninsula nearly three leagues in circumference, covered with wood and pasture, on which more than four thousand head of cattle grazed peacefully, returning at night to the parks adjoining the house, which was surrounded by the river, forming an enceinte of natural fortresses. The tongue of land, not more than eight yards in width, attaching it to the mainland, was commanded by a battery of six heavy guns, in its turn surrounded by a wide, wet ditch.

The house, surrounded by tall embattled walls, bastioned at the angles, was a species of fortress capable of sustaining a regular siege with the eight guns mounted on the bastions which guarded the approaches. It was composed of a huge main building, one story high, with a terraced roof, having ten windows in the frontage, and flanked on the right and left by two buildings, running out at right angles, one of which served as a magazine for grain and maize, while the other was occupied by the capataz and the numerous employés of the hacienda.

Wide steps, furnished with a double iron balustrade, curiously worked, and surmounted by a veranda, formed the approach to the count's apartments, which were furnished with that simple and picturesque taste which distinguishes the Spanish farms of America.

Between the house and the outer wall was a vast garden, exquisitely laid out, and so covered with bushes that at four paces' distance it was impossible to see anything. The space left free behind the farm was reserved for the parks or corrals in which the animals were shut up at night, and a species of large court, in which the matanza del ganado, or slaughter of the cattle, was performed once annually.

Nothing could be so picturesque as the appearance of this white house, whose roof could be seen for a long distance, half concealed by the branches which formed a curtain of foliage most refreshing to the eye. From the windows of the first floor the eye surveyed the plain on one side; on the other, the Rio Gila, which, like a wide silvery ribbon, rolled along with the most capricious windings, and was lost an immense distance off in the blue horizon.

Since the time when the Apaches all but surprised the hacienda, a mirador had been built on the roof of the main building, where a sentinel had been stationed day and night to watch the neighbourhood, and announce, by means of a bullock's horn, the approach of any stranger to the colony. Besides, a post of six men guarded the isthmus battery, whose guns were ready to thunder at the slightest alarm.

Thus the arrival of the caravan had been signalled when it was still a long distance off; and the count's lieutenant, Martin Leroux, an old African soldier, was standing behind the guns to interrogate the arrivals so soon as they were within hail. Don Sylva was perfectly aware of the regulations established in the hacienda, which were, indeed, common to all the establishments held by white men; for at these frontier posts, where people are exposed to the constant depredations of the Indians, they are obliged to be incessantly on the watch. But the thing the Mexican could not comprehend was that the count's lieutenant, who must have recognised him, did not open the gates immediately, and he made a remark to that effect.