"Listen to me, Don Miguel," Red Cedar said, "and pray do not mistake my meaning. I have not the slightest intention of intimidating you, nor do I think of attempting to gain your confidence by revelations which you may fairly assume I have accidentally acquired."

The hacendero regarded with amazement the speaker, whose tone and manner had so suddenly changed.

"I do not understand you," he said to him. "Explain yourself more clearly, for the words you have just uttered are an enigma, the key to which I seek in vain."

"You shall be satisfied, caballero; and if you do not catch the meaning of my words this time it must be because you will not. Like all intelligent men, you are wearied of the incessant struggles in which the vital strength of your country is exhausted unprofitably. You have seen that a land so rich, so fertile, so gloriously endowed as Mexico, could not – I should say ought not – to remain longer the plaything of paltry ambitions, and the arena on which all these transitory tyrannies sport in turn. For nearly thirty years you have dreamed of emancipation, not of your entire country, for that would be too rude a task, and unrealisable; but you said to yourself, 'Let us render New Mexico independent; form it into a new State, governed by wise laws rigorously executed. By liberal institutions let us give an impetus to all the riches with which it is choked, give intellect all the liberty it requires, and perhaps within a few years the entire Mexican Confederation, amazed by the magnificent results I shall obtain, will follow my example. Then I shall die happy at what I have effected – my object will be carried out. I shall have saved my country from the abyss over which it hangs, through the double pressure of the invasion of the American Union and the exhaustion of the Spanish race.' Are not those ideas yours, caballero? Do you consider that I have explained myself clearly this time?"

"Perhaps so, though I do not yet see distinctly the point you wish to reach. The thoughts you attribute to me are such as naturally occur to all men who sincerely love their country, and I will not pretend that I have not entertained them."

"You would be wrong in doing so, for they are great and noble, and breathe the purest patriotism."

"A truce to compliments, and let us come to the point, for time presses."

"Patience: I have not yet ended. These ideas must occur to you sooner than to another, as you are the descendant of the first Aztec kings, and born defender of the Indians in this hapless country. You see that I am well acquainted with you, Don Miguel Zarate."

"Too well, perhaps," the Mexican gentleman muttered.

The squatter smiled and went on: —

"It is not chance that led me to this country. I knew what I was doing, and why I came. Don Miguel, the hour is a solemn one. All your preparations are made: will you hesitate to give New Mexico the signal which must render it independent of the metropolis which has so long been fattening at its expense? Answer me."

Don Miguel started. He fixed on the squatter a burning glance, in which admiration at the man's language could be read. Red Cedar shrugged his shoulders.

"What! You still doubt?" he said.

He rose, went to a box from which he took some papers, and threw them on the table before the hacendero, saying, —

"Read."

Don Miguel hurriedly seized the papers, and ran his eye over them.

"Well?" he asked, looking fixedly at the strange speaker.

"You see," the squatter answered, "that I am your accomplice. General Ibañez, your agent in Mexico, is in correspondence with me, as is Mr. Wood, your agent at New York."

"It is true," the Mexican said coldly, "you have the secret of the conspiracy. The only point left is to what extent that goes."

"I possess it entirely. I have orders to enlist the volunteers who will form the nucleus of the insurrectionary army."

"Good!"

"Now, you see, by these letters of General Ibañez and Mr. Wood, that I am commissioned by them to come to an understanding with you, and receive your final orders."

"I see it."

"What do you purpose doing?"

"Nothing."

"What, nothing!" the squatter exclaimed, bounding with surprise. "You are jesting, I suppose."

"Listen to me in your turn, and pay attention to my words, for they express my irrevocable resolution. I know not nor care to know, by what means, more or less honourable, you have succeeded in gaining the confidence of my partners, and becoming master of our secrets. Still it is my firm conviction that a cause which employs such men as yourself is compromised, if not lost; hence I renounce every combination in which you are called to play a part. Your antecedents, and the life you lead, have placed you without the pale of the law."

"I am a bandit – out with it! What matter so long as you succeed? Does not the end justify the means?"

"That may be your morality, but it will never be mine. I repudiate all community of ideas with men of your stamp. I will not have you either as accomplice or partner."

The squatter darted a look at him laden with hatred and disappointment.

"In serving us," Don Miguel continued, "you can only have an interested object, which I will not take the trouble of guessing at. An Anglo-American will never frankly aid a Mexican to conquer his liberty; he would lose too much by doing it."

"Then?"

"I renounce forever the projects I had formed. I had, I grant, dreamed of restoring to my country the independence of which it was unjustly stripped: but it shall remain a dream."

"That is your last word?"

"The last."

"You refuse?"

"I do."

"Good; then I now know what is left me to do."

"Well, what is it? Let me hear," the hacendero said, as he crossed his arms on his breast, and looked him boldly in the face.

"I will tell you."

"I am waiting for you to do so."

"I hold your secret."

"Entirely?"

"Hence you are in my power."

"Perhaps."

"Who will prevent me going to the Governor of the State and denouncing you?"

"He will not believe you."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Perhaps, I will say in my turn."

"Why so?"

"Oh! you shall easily see."

"I am curious to learn it."

"However rich you may be, Don Miguel Zarate, and perhaps because of those very riches, and in spite of the kindness you sow broadcast, the number of your enemies is very considerable."

"I know it."

"Very good. Those enemies will joyfully seize the first opportunity that presents itself to destroy you."

"It is probable."

"You see, then. When I go to the governor and tell him you are conspiring, and, in support of my denunciation, hand him not only these letters, but, several others written and signed by you, lying in that chest, do you believe that the governor will treat me as an impostor, and refuse to arrest you?"

"Then you have letters in my hand-writing?"

"I have three, which will be enough to have you shot."

"Ah!"

"Yes. Hang it all! you understand: that, in an affair so important as this, it is wise to take one's precautions, for no one knows what may happen; and men of my stamp," he added, with an ironical smile, "have more reasons than others for being prudent."

"Come, that is well played," the hacendero said, carelessly.

"Is it not?"

"Yes, and I compliment you on it: you are a better player than I gave you credit for."

"Oh! You do not know me yet."

"The little I do know suffices me."

"Then?"

"We will remain as we are, if you will permit me."

"You still refuse?"

"More than ever."

The squatter frowned.

"Take care, Don Miguel," he muttered, hoarsely. "I will do what I told you."

"Yes, if I allow you time."

"Eh?"

"Caspita! If you are a clever scamp, I am not altogether a fool. Do you believe, in your turn, that I will let myself be intimidated by your threats, and that I should not find means to keep you from acting, not for my own sake, as I care little personally for what you can do, but for my friends, who are men of honour, and whose lives I do not wish to be compromised by your treachery?"

"I am curious to know the means you will employ to obtain this result."

"You shall see," Don Miguel replied with perfect coolness.

"Well?"

"I shall kill you."

"Oh, oh!" the squatter said, as he looked complacently at his muscular limbs, "That is not easy."

"More so than you suppose, my master."

"Hum! and when do you reckon on killing me?"

"At once!"

The two men were seated in front of the hearth, each at the end of a bench: the table was between them, but a little back, so that while talking they only leaned an elbow on it. While uttering the last word, Don Miguel bounded like a tiger on the squatter, who did not at all expect the attack, seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. The two enemies rolled on the uneven flooring of the jacal.

The Mexican's attack had been so sudden and well directed that the half-strangled squatter, in spite of his Herculean strength, could not free himself from his enemy's iron clutch, which pressed his throat like a vice. Red Cedar could neither utter a cry nor offer the slightest resistance: the Mexican's knee crushed his chest, while his fingers pressed into his throat.

So soon as he had reduced the wretch to utter impotence, Don Miguel drew from his vaquera boot a long sharp knife, and buried the entire blade in his body. The bandit writhed convulsively for a few seconds; a livid pallor suffused his face; his eyes closed, and he then remained motionless. Don Miguel left the weapon in the wound, and slowly rose.

"Ah, ah!" he muttered as he gazed at him with a sardonic air, "I fancy that rogue will not denounce me now."

Without loss of time he seized the letters lying on the table, took from the box the few documents he found in it, hid them all in his bosom, opened the door of the cabin, which he carefully closed after him, and went off with long strides.

The squatter's sons had not quitted their post; but, so soon as they perceived the Mexican, they went up to him.

"Well," Shaw asked him, "have you come to an understanding with the old man?"

"Perfectly so," the Mexican answered.

"Then the affair is settled?"

"Yes, to our mutual satisfaction."

"All the better," the young men exclaimed joyously.

The hacendero unfastened his horse and mounted.

"Good-bye, gentlemen!" he said to them.

"Good-bye!" they replied, returning his bow.

The Mexican put his horse to a trot, but at the first turn in the road he dug his spurs into its flanks, and started at full speed.

"Now," Sutter observed, "I believe that we can proceed to the cabin without inconvenience."

And they gently walked toward the jacal, pleasantly conversing together.

Don Miguel, however, had not succeeded so fully as he imagined. Red Cedar was not dead, for the old bandit kept a firm hold on life. Attacked unawares, the squatter had not attempted a resistance, which he saw at the first glance was useless, and would only have exasperated his adversary. With marvellous sagacity, on feeling the knife blade enter his body, he stiffened himself against the pain, and resolved on "playing 'possum;" that is to say, feigning death. The success of his stratagem was complete. Don Miguel, persuaded that he had killed him, did not dream of repeating his thrust.

So long as his enemy remained in the jacal the squatter was careful not to make the slightest movement that might have betrayed him; but, so soon as he was alone, he opened his eyes, rose with an effort, drew the dagger from the wound, which emitted a jet of black blood, and looking at the door, through which his assassin had departed, with a glance so full of hatred that it is impossible to describe, he muttered, —

"Now we are quits, Don Miguel Zarate, since you have tried to take back the life of him you saved. Pray God never to bring us face to face again!"

He uttered a deep sigh, and rolled heavily on the ground in a fainting fit. At this moment his sons entered the cabin.

CHAPTER X
THE SACHEM OF THE CORAS

A few days after the events we have described in the previous chapter there was one of those lovely mornings which are not accorded to our cold climates to know. The sun poured down in profusion its warm beams, which caused the pebbles and sand to glisten in the walks of the garden of the Hacienda de la Noria. In a clump of flowering orange and lemon trees, whose sweet exhalations perfumed the air, and beneath a copse of cactus, nopals, and aloes, a maiden was asleep, carelessly reclining in a hammock made of the thread of the Phormium tenax, which hung between two orange trees.

With her head thrown back, her long black hair unfastened, and falling in disorder on her neck and bosom; with her coral lips parted, and displaying the dazzling pearl of her teeth, Doña Clara (for it was she who slept thus with an infantile slumber) was really charming. Her features breathed happiness, for not a cloud had yet arisen to perturb the azure horizon of her calm and tranquil life.

It was nearly midday: there was not a breath in the air. The sunbeams, pouring down vertically, rendered the heat so stifling and unsupportable, that everyone in the hacienda had yielded to sleep, and was enjoying what is generally called in hot countries the siesta. Still, at a short distance from the spot where Doña Clara reposed, calm and smiling, a sound of footsteps, at first almost imperceptible, but gradually heightening, was heard, and a man made his appearance. It was Shaw, the youngest of the squatter's sons. How was he at this spot?

The young man was panting, and the perspiration poured down his cheeks. On reaching the entrance of the clump he bent an anxious glance on the hammock.

"She is there," he murmured with a passionate accent. "She sleeps."

Then he fell on his knees upon the sand, and began admiring the maiden, dumb and trembling. He remained thus a long time, with his glance fixed on the slumberer with a strange expression. At length he uttered a sigh and tearing himself with an effort from this delicious contemplation, he rose sadly, muttering in a whisper, —

"I must go – if she were to wake – oh, she will never know how much I love her!"

He plucked an orange flower, and softly laid it on the maiden; then he walked a few steps from her, but almost immediately returning, he seized, with a nervous hand, Doña Clara's rebozo, which hung down from the hammock, and pressed it to his lips several times, saying, in a voice broken by the emotion he felt, —

"It has touched her hair."

And rushing from the thicket, he crossed the garden and disappeared. He had heard footsteps approaching. In fact, a few seconds after his departure, Don Miguel, in his turn, entered the copse.

"Come, come," he said gaily, as he shook the hammock, "sleeper, will you not have finished your siesta soon?"

Doña Clara opened her eyes, with a smile.

"I am no longer asleep, father," she said.

"Very good. That is the answer I like."

And he stepped forward to kiss her; but, with sudden movement, the maiden drew herself back as if she had seen some frightful vision, and her face was covered with a livid pallor.

"What is the matter with you?" the hacendero exclaimed with terror.

The girl showed him the orange flower.

"Well," her father continued, "what is there so terrific in that flower? It must have fallen from the tree during your sleep."

Doña Clara shook her head sadly.

"No," she said: "for some days past I have always noticed, on waking a similar flower thrown on me."

"You are absurd; chance alone is to blame for it all. Come, think no more about it; you are pale as death, child. Why frighten yourself thus about a trifle? Besides the remedy may be easily found. If so afraid of flowers now, why not take your siesta in your bedroom, instead of burying yourself in this thicket?"

"That is true, father," the girl said, all joyous, and no longer thinking of the fear she had undergone. "I will follow your advice."

"Come, that is settled, so say no more about it. Now give me a kiss."

The maiden threw herself into her father's arms, whom she stifled with kisses. Both sat down on a grassy mound, and commenced one of those delicious chit-chats whose charm only those who are parents can properly appreciate. Presently a peon came up.

"What has brought you?" Don Miguel asked.

"Excellency," the peon answered, "a redskin warrior has just arrived at the hacienda, who desires speech with you."

"Do you know him?" Don Miguel asked.

"Yes, Excellency; it is Eagle-wing, the sachem of the Coras of the Rio San Pedro."

"Mookapec! (Flying Eagle)" the hacendero repeated with surprise. "What can have brought him to me? Lead him here."

The peon retired and in a few minutes returned, preceding Eagle-wing.

The chief had donned the great war-dress of the sachems of his nation. His hair, plaited with the skin of a rattlesnake, was drawn up on the top of his head; in the centre an eagle plume was affixed. A blouse of striped calico, adorned with a profusion of bells, descended to his thighs, which were defended from the stings of mosquitoes by drawers of the same stuff. He wore moccasins made of peccary skin, adorned with glass beads and porcupine quills. To his heels were fastened several wolves' tails, the distinguishing mark of renowned warriors. Round his loins was a belt of elk hide, through which passed his knife, his pipe and his medicine bag. His neck was adorned by a collar of grizzly bear claws and buffalo teeth. Finally, a magnificent robe of a white female buffalo hide, painted red inside, was fastened to his shoulders, and fell down behind him like a cloak. In his right hand he held a fan formed of a single eagle's wing, and in his left hand an American rifle. There was something imposing and singularly martial in the appearance and demeanor of this savage child of the forest.

On entering the thicket, he bowed gracefully to Doña Clara, and then stood motionless and dumb before Don Miguel. The Mexican regarded him attentively, and saw an expression of gloomy melancholy spread over the Indian chief's features.

"My brother is welcome," the hacendero said to him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing him?"

The chief cast a side glance at the maiden. Don Miguel understood what he desired, and made Doña Clara a sign to withdraw. They remained alone.

"My brother can speak," the hacendero then said; "the ears of a friend are open."

"Yes, my father is good," the chief replied in his guttural voice. "He loves the Indians: unhappily all the palefaces do not resemble him."

"What does my brother mean? Has he cause to complain of anyone?"

The Indian smiled sadly.

"Where is there justice for the redskins?" he said. "The Indians are animals: the Great Spirit has not given them a soul, as He has done for the palefaces, and it is not a crime to kill them."

"Come, chief, pray do not speak longer in riddles, but explain why you have quitted your tribe. It is far from Rio San Pedro to this place."

"Mookapec is alone: his tribe no longer exists."

"How?"

"The palefaces came in the night, like jaguars without courage. They burned the village, and massacred all the inhabitants, even to the women and little children."

"Oh, that is frightful!" the hacendero murmured, in horror.

"Ah!" the chief continued with an accent full of terrible irony, "The scalps of the redskins are sold dearly."

"And do you know the men who committed this atrocious crime?"

"Mookapec knows them, and will avenge himself."

"Tell me their chief, if you know his name."

"I know it. The palefaces call him Red Cedar, the Indians the Maneater."

"Oh! As for him, chief, you are avenged, for he is dead."

"My father is mistaken."

"How so? Why, I killed him myself."

The Indian shook his head.

"Red Cedar has a hard life," he said: "the blade of the knife my father used was too short. Red Cedar is wounded, but in a few days he will be about again, ready to kill and scalp the Indians."

This news startled the hacendero: the enemy he fancied he had got rid of still lived, and he would have to begin a fresh struggle.

"My father must take care," the chief continued. "Red Cedar has sworn to be avenged."

"Oh! I will not leave him the time. This man is a demon, of whom the earth must be purged at all hazards, before his strength has returned, and he begins his assassinations again."

"I will aid my father in his vengeance."

"Thanks, chief. I do not refuse your offer: perhaps I shall soon need the help of all my friends. And now, what do you purpose doing?"

"Since the palefaces reject him, Eagle-wing will retire to the desert. He has friends among the Comanches. They are redskins, and will welcome him gladly."

"I will not strive to combat your determination, chief, for it is just; and if, at a later date, you take terrible reprisals on the white men, they will have no cause of complaint, for they have brought it on themselves. When does my brother start?"

"At sunset."

"Rest here today: tomorrow will be soon enough to set out."

"Mookapec must depart this day."

"Act as you think proper. Have you a horse?"

"No; but at the first manada I come to I will lasso one."

"I do not wish you to set out thus, but will give you a horse."

"Thanks; my father is good. The Indian chief will remember – "

"Come, you shall choose for yourself."

"I have still a few words to say to my father."

"Speak, chief; I am listening to you."

"Koutonepi, the pale hunter, begged me to give my father an important warning."

"What is it?"

"A great danger threatens my father. Koutonepi wishes to see him as soon as possible, in order himself to tell him its nature."

"Good! My brother will tell the hunter that I shall be tomorrow at the 'clearing of the shattered oak,' and await him there till night."

"I will faithfully repeat my father's words to the hunter."

The two men then quitted the garden, and hurriedly proceeded toward the hacienda. Don Miguel let the chief choose his own horse, and while the sachem was harnessing his steed in the Indian fashion, he withdrew to his bedroom, and sent for his son to join him. The young man had perfectly recovered from his wound. His father told him that he was obliged to absent himself for some days: he intrusted to him the management of the hacienda, while recommending him on no consideration to leave the farm, and to watch attentively over his sister. The young man promised him all he wished, happy at enjoying perfect liberty for a few days.

After embracing his son and daughter for the last time Don Miguel proceeded to the patio, where in the meanwhile, the chief had been amusing himself by making the magnificent horse he had chosen curvet. Don Miguel admired for several moments the Indian's skill and grace, for he managed a horse as well as the first Mexican jinete; then mounted, and the two men proceeded together toward the Paso del Norte, which they must cross in order to enter the desert, and reach the clearing of the shattered oak.

The journey passed in silence, for the two men were deeply reflecting. At the moment they entered Paso the sun was setting on the horizon in a bed of red mist, which foreboded a storm for the night. At the entrance of the village they separated; and on the morrow, as we have seen in our first chapter, Don Miguel set out at daybreak, and galloped to the clearing.

We will now end this lengthy parenthesis, which was, however, indispensable for the due comprehension of the facts that are about to follow, and take up our story again at the point where we left it.