The Trapper's Daughter: A Story of the Rocky Mountains

CHAPTER XIII
RETURN TO LIFE

Charity is a virtue loudly preached in our age, but unfortunately practised by few. The story of the good Samaritan finds but scanty application in the Old World, and if we would discover charity exercised sacredly and simply, as the gospel teaches, we must obtain our examples from the deserts of the New World.

This is sad to say, even more sad to prove, but mankind is not to blame for it; the age alone must be held responsible for this egotism, which has for some years past been planted in the heart of man, and reigns there supreme. To two causes must be attributed the personalism and egotism which crown the actions of the great human family in Europe; the discovery of gold in California, Australia, and on Frazer River, and, above all, the Stock Exchange.

The Bourse is the scourge of the Old World; so soon as everybody fancied that he was enabled to enrich himself between today and tomorrow, no one thought any longer of his neighbour, who remained poor, save as being incapable of ameliorating his position. The result is, that the men who have the courage to leave the intoxicating maëlstrom that surrounds them, to despise those riches which flash around them, and go under the impulse of Christian Charity, the holiest and least rewarded of all the virtues, to bury themselves among savages, amid hordes most hostile to every good and honourable feeling, in the most deadly countries – such men, we say, who, impelled solely by a divine feeling, abandon all earthly enjoyments, are chosen vessels, and in every respect deserve well of humanity.

Their number is much larger than might be supposed at the first blush, and that is very logical; the passion for devotion must go side by side with the thirst for gold, in order that the eternal balance of good and evil which governs the world should remain in those equal proportions which are conditions of its vitality and prosperity.

Red Cedar's condition was serious; the moral commotion he underwent in recognising the man whom he had once attempted to assassinate, had brought on a frightful attack of delirium. The wretch, a prey to the most gnawing remorse, was tortured by the hideous phantoms of his victim, evoked by his diseased imagination, and which stalked round his bed like a legion of demons. The night he passed was terrible. Father Seraphin, Ellen, and Valentine's mother did not leave him for a second, watching over him anxiously, and frequently compelled to struggle with him in order to prevent him dashing his head against the trees, in the paroxysms of the crisis that tortured him.

Strange coincidence! The bandit had a similar wound in his shoulder to the one he had formerly dealt the missionary, which had compelled the latter to go and seek a cure in Europe, a voyage from which he had only returned a few days, when Providence permitted him to find the man who wished to assassinate him, lying almost dead at the foot of a tree.

Towards day the crisis grew calmer, and the squatter fell into a species of slumber, which deprived him of the faculties of feeling and perception. No one else slept during this long and mournful night, spent in the heart of the forest; and when Father Seraphin saw that Red Cedar was calmer, he ordered the Indians to prepare a litter to receive him. They were much disinclined to the task; they had known the squatter for a lengthened period, and these primitive men could not understand why, instead of killing him when chance threw him into his power, the missionary lavished his assistance on such a villain, who had committed so many crimes, and whose death would have been a blessing to the prairie. It required all the devotion they had vowed to Father Seraphin for them to consent to do, very unwillingly we allow, what he ordered them.

When the litter was, ready, dry leaves and grass were spread over it, and the squatter was laid on this couch in an almost complete state of insensibility. Before leaving the forest the missionary, who knew how necessary it was to rekindle the drooping faith of the redskins, for the sake of the patient, resolved to offer the holy sacrifice of mass. An altar was improvised on a grassy mound, covered with a rag of white cloth, and the mass was read, served by one of the Indians, who offered his services spontaneously.

Assuredly, in the large European cathedrals, beneath the splendid arches of stone, blackened by time, to the imposing murmur of the organ re-echoing through the aisles, the ceremonies of the faith are performed with greater pomp; but I doubt whether they be so with more magnificent simplicity, or are listened to with greater fervour than this mass, said in the heart of a forest, accompanied by the striking melodies of the desert, by the pale-browed priest, whose eyes glistened with a holy enthusiasm, and who prayed for his assassin groaning at his feet.

When mass was over, Father Seraphin gave a signal, four Indians raised the litter on their shoulders, and the party set out, Ellen being mounted on the horse of one of the bearers. The journey was long; the missionary had left Galveston to go in search of Valentine, but a hunter accustomed to traverse great distances, and whose life is made up of incessant excursions, is very difficult to discover in the desert; the missionary, therefore, decided on going to the winter village of the Comanches, where he was certain to obtain precise information about the man he wished to see.

But his meeting with Red Cedar prevented him from carrying out this plan; Unicorn and Valentine were too inveterate against the squatter for the missionary to hope that they would consent to resign their vengeance. The conjuncture was difficult; Red Cedar was a proscript in the fullest sense of the term; one of those outlaws, whose number is fortunately very limited, who have the whole human race as their foe, and to whom every country is hostile.

And yet this man must be saved; and after ripe reflection, Father Seraphin's resolution was formed. He proceeded, followed by his whole party, to the grotto where we have met him before, a grotto which often served as the Trail-hunter's abode, but where, in all probability, he would not be at this moment. Through an extraordinary chance, the missionary passed unseen within a pistol shot of the spot where Valentine and his friends were encamped.

At sunset they prepared for passing the night; Father Seraphin removed the bandage he had placed on Red Cedar's wounds, and dressed them: the latter allowed it to be done, not seeming to notice that any attention was being paid him; his prostration was extreme. The wounds were all healthy; that on the shoulder was the worst, but all foreboded a speedy recovery.

When supper was over, prayers said, and the Indians, wrapped in their blankets, were lying on the grass to rest from the fatigues of the day, the missionary, after assuring himself that Red Cedar was quietly sleeping, made a sign to the two women to come and sit by his side, near the fire lit to keep off wild beasts. Father Seraphin was slightly acquainted with Ellen; he remembered to have frequently met the girl, and even conversed with her in the forest, at the period when her father had so audaciously installed himself on Don Miguel Zarate's estates.

Ellen's character had pleased him; he had found in her such simplicity of heart and innate honour, that he frequently asked himself how so charming a creature could be the daughter of so hardened a villain as Red Cedar: this seemed to him the more incomprehensible, because the girl must have needed a powerful character to resist the influence of the evil examples she constantly had before her. Hence he had taken a lively interest in her, and urged her to persevere in her good sentiments. He had let her see that one day God would reward her by removing her from the perverse medium in which fate had cast her, to restore her to that great human family of which she was ignorant.

When the two women were seated at his side, the missionary gave them, in his gentle, sympathising way, a paternal admonition to support with patience and resignation the tribulations Heaven sent on them; then he begged Ellen to tell him in detail all that had occurred in the prairie since his departure for France. The girl's narrative was long and sad, and frequently interrupted by tears which she could not repress. Valentine's mother shuddered on hearing things so extraordinary to her described; heavy tears ran down her wrinkled cheek, and she crossed herself, muttering compassionately —

"Poor child! What a horrible life."

For, in truth Ellen was describing, her life; she had witnessed and suffered from all these terrors, all these atrocities, whose sinister and bloody images she unrolled before her hearers. When the story was ended she buried her face in her hands and wept silently, crushed by the revival of such poignant sorrows and the re-opening of still bleeding wounds. The missionary gave her a long look, stamped with gentle pity. He took her hand, pressed it, and bending over her, said with an accent of kindness which went straight to her heart —

"Weep, poor girl, for you have suffered terribly; weep, but be strong; God, who tries you, doubtless reserves for you other blows more terrible than those which have fallen on you; do not try to repulse the cup which is brought to your lips; the more you suffer in this life, the more happy and glorified you will be in another. If God chastise you, a poor stainless lamb, it is because He loves you; happy those whom He thus chastises! Derive your strength from prayer, for that elevates the soul, and renders it better; do not yield to despair, for that is a suggestion of the demon who renders man rebellious to the teaching of Providence. Think of your divine Master, remember all He suffered for us; thus you will recognise how little your sorrows are when compared with His, and you will hope; for Providence is not blind; when it weighs heavily on a creature, it is preparing to reward her a hundredfold for past sufferings."

"Alas, father," Ellen replied, sorrowfully, "I am only a miserable child, without strength or courage; the burden laid on me is very heavy; still, if it be the will of the Lord that it should be so, may His holy name be blessed! I will try to stifle the feelings of revolt which are at times a wound in my heart, and struggle without complaining against the fate that overwhelms me."

"Good, my sister, good," the priest said; "the great God, who searches all hearts, will have pity on you."

He then made her rise, and led her a short distance to a spot where a bed of dry leaves had been prepared by his care.

"Try and sleep, my child," he said; "fatigue is crushing you; a few hours' rest is indispensable for you."

"I will strive to obey you, father."

"May the angels watch over your slumbers, my child," the priest replied; "and may the Almighty bless you, as I do."

Then he returned slowly and thoughtfully to Valentine's mother. There was a long silence, during which the missionary reflected deeply; at length he said —

"Madam, you have heard this poor girl's narrative; her father was wounded when fighting with your son. Valentine, I feel assured, is not far from us; still, the man we have saved claims all our care, and we must watch that he does not fall into the hands of his enemies, I therefore ask you to delay awhile in rejoining your son, for Red Cedar must be placed in safety. Above all, I implore you to maintain the deepest silence as to the events of which you have been and will be a witness. Forgive me, but I implore you to delay the time of your meeting."

"Father," she said, spontaneously, "for ten years, without despairing for a day or a moment, I have been patiently awaiting the hour which will rejoin me to my beloved son. Now that I am certain of seeing him again, that no doubt as to his existence dwells in my heart, I can wait a few days longer. I should be ungrateful to God and to you, who have done so much for me, if I insisted on the contrary course. Act as your charity and your devotion impel you to do; fulfil your duty without troubling yourself about me; God has willed it that we should come across this man. The ways of Providence are often incomprehensible; obey it by saving him, however unworthy he may be of pardon."

"I expected your answer: still, I am pleased to see that you confirm me in what I intend to do."

The next morning, at daybreak, they started again, after saying prayers together, according to the custom established by the missionary. Red Cedar was still in the same state of prostration, and the two following days passed without any incident worthy of recording. At the evening of the third day they entered the defile, in the centre of which, on one of the mountain sides facing it; the cavern was. Red Cedar was carried up to it cautiously, and placed in one of the distant compartments, far from all external sounds, and so as to be concealed from the sight of any strangers whom accident might lead to the cavern while he was in it.

It was with a feeling of indescribable joy that Valentine's mother entered the grotto which served as an abode to that son whom she had been so long afraid she should never see again, and her emotion was extreme on finding a few valueless articles used by Valentine. The worthy woman, so truly a mother, shut herself up alone in the compartment which the hunter had made his sleeping room, and there, face to face with her reminiscences; she remained for several hours absorbed in herself.

The missionary pointed to each the room they would occupy; he left his comrades to their repose, and sat down by the side of the wounded man, where Ellen already was installed as nurse.

"Why do you not sleep, my child?" he asked her.

Ellen pointed to the sufferer with a gesture full of nobility.

"Let me watch over him," she said; "he is my father."

The missionary smiled softly and withdrew. At daybreak he returned. Red Cedar, on hearing him come, gave vent to a sigh, and rose with difficulty on his bed.

"How are you, brother?" the missionary asked, in his gentle voice.

A febrile flush covered the bandit's face, a cold perspiration beaded on his temples, his eyes flashed, and he said in a low voice, broken by the extreme emotion that oppressed him —

"Father, I am a wretch unworthy of your pity."

"My son," the priest answered gently, "you are a poor straying creature, on whom I doubt not God will have pity, if your repentance be sincere."

Red Cedar let his eyes sink; a convulsive movement agitated his limbs.

"Father," he muttered, "would you teach me how to make the sign of the cross?"

At this strange request in the mouth of such a man, Father Seraphin clasped his hands fervently, and raised his eyes to Heaven with an expression of sublime gratitude. Was the evil angel defeated? Or was it a farce played by this perverse man to deceive his saviour, and by these means escape the numerous enemies that sought his death?

Alas! Man is so extraordinary a composite of good and evil, that perhaps at this moment, and in spite of himself, Red Cedar was acting in good faith.

CHAPTER XIV
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER

After the fight, when Black Cat's Apaches had retired on one side, and Unicorn's Comanches on the other, each detachment proceeding in the direction of the village, and the hunters were alone on the prairie, Valentine perceived White Gazelle leaning pensively against a tree, and absently holding the bridle of her horse, which was nibbling the grass. The hunter understood that he and his comrades owed a reparation to this girl, whose incomprehensible devotion had been so useful to them during the moving incidents of the tragedy which had just ended. He therefore went up to her, and bowing courteously, said in a gentle voice —

"Why remain thus aloof? Your place is by our side; hobble your horse with ours, and come to our fireside."

White Gazelle blushed with pleasure at Valentine's words, but after a moment's reflection, she shook her head, and gave him a sorrowful look, as she said:

"Thanks, caballero, for the offer you deign to make me, but I cannot accept it; if you and your friends are generous enough to forget all that there was reprehensible in my conduct towards you, my memory is less complaisant; I must, I will requite by other services more effectual than those I have rendered you today, the faults I have committed."

"Madam," the hunter replied, "the feelings you express do you only more harm in our eyes; hence do not refuse our invitation. As you know, we have no right to be very strict on the prairie; it is rare to meet persons who repair so nobly as you have done any error they may commit."

"Do not press me, caballero, for my resolve is unchangeable," she said with an effort, as she looked in the direction of Don Pablo. "I must depart, leave you at once, so permit me to do so."

Valentine bowed.

"Your wish is to me an order," he said; "you are free; I only desired to express my gratitude to you."

"Alas! We have done nothing as yet, since our most cruel enemy, Red Cedar, has escaped."

"What?" the hunter asked in astonishment; "is Red Cedar your enemy?"

"A mortal one," she said, with an expression of terrible hatred. "Oh! I can understand that you, who have hitherto seen me aid him in his designs, cannot conceive such a change. Listen: at the period when I tried to serve that villain, I only believed him to be one of the bandits so common in the Far West."

"While now?"

"Now," she went on, "I know something I was ignorant of then, and have a terrible account to settle with him."

"Far from me be any wish to pry into your secrets; still, permit me to make one observation."

"Pray do so."

"Red Cedar is no common enemy – one of those men who can be easily overcome. You know that as well as I do, I think?"

"Yes, what then?"

"Would you hope to succeed in what men like myself and my friends, and aided by numerous warriors, could not achieve?"

White Gazelle smiled.

"Perhaps so," she said; "I too have allies, and I will tell you who they are, if you wish to know, caballero."

"Pray tell me, for really your calmness and confidence startle me."

"Thanks, caballero, for the interest you feel for me; the first ally on whom I build is yourself."

"That is true," the hunter said with a bow; "if my feelings toward you did not promote the alliance, my duty and self-interest would command it. And can you tell me the name of the other?"

"Certainly, the more so as you know him: the other is Bloodson."

Valentine gave a start of surprise, which he immediately checked.

"Pardon me," he said politely; "but you really have the privilege of surprising me inordinately."

"How so, caballero?"

"Because I fancied that Bloodson was one of your most bitter enemies."

"He was so," she said, with a smile.

"And now?"

"Now, he is my dearest friend."

"This goes beyond me. And when was this extraordinary change effected?"

"Since the day," the girl cleverly replied, "when Red Cedar, instead of being my friend, suddenly became my enemy."

Valentine let his arms fall, like a man who gives up in despair attempting to solve a riddle.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"You will soon do so," she answered.

She bounded into her saddle, and leaning over to Valentine said —

"Good bye, caballero; I am going to join Bloodson; we shall meet again soon."

She dug her spurs into her horse's flanks, waved her hand once again, and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Valentine thoughtfully rejoined his friends.

"Well?" Don Miguel said.

"Well!" he replied, "that woman is the most extraordinary creature I ever met."

On getting out of sight of the hunters, White Gazelle checked her horse, and let it assume a pace better suited for those precautions every traveller must take on the prairie. The girl was happy at this moment; she had succeeded not only in saving the man she loved from a terrible danger, but had also restored her character in Valentine's sight. Red Cedar, it was true, had escaped; but this time the lesson had been rude, and the bandit, everywhere tracked like a wild beast, must speedily fall into the hands of those who had an interest in killing him.

She rode along carelessly, admiring the calmness of the prairie and the play of the sunshine on the foliage. Never had the desert appeared to her so glorious – never had greater tranquillity reigned in her mind. The sun, now declining, exaggerated the shadow thrown by the tall trees; the birds, hidden beneath the dense verdure, were singing their evening hymn to the Almighty; when she fancied she saw a man half reclining on the slope of one of those numberless ditches dug by the heavy winter rain. This man, by whose side a horse was standing, was apparently absorbed in an occupation which the girl could not understand, but which puzzled her extremely. Although she rode up quickly, the individual did not put himself out of the way, but calmly continued his incomprehensible task.

At length she was opposite him, and could not restrain a cry of astonishment as she stopped to look at him. The man was playing alone at monte (the Mexican lansquenet) with a pack of greasy cards. This appeared to her so extraordinary that she burst into a loud laugh, and at the sound the man raised his head.

"Aha!" he said, not appearing at all surprised, "I felt certain someone would arrive; that is infallible in this blessed land."

"Nonsense," the girl said, with a laugh; "do you believe it?"

"Canarios! I am sure of it," the other answered; "and you are a proof of it, since here you are."

"Explain yourself, my master, I beg, for I confess that I do not understand you the least in the world."

"I thought so," the stranger said, with a toss of his head, "but for all that, I stick to my assertion."

"Very well; but be good enough to explain yourself more clearly."

"Nothing is easier, señor caballero. I come from Jalapa, a town you must know."

"Yes, through the medicinal productions that owe their name to it."

"Very good," the other said, with a laugh; "but that does not prevent Jalapa being a very nice town."

"On the contrary; but go on."

"I will. You will be aware then that we have a proverb at Jalapa."

"May be so; in fact, there is nothing surprising about the fact."

"True again; but you do not know the proverb, eh?"

"No, I am waiting for you to quote it."

"Here it is; 'If you wish for your company, deal the cards.'"

"I do not understand."

"Why, nothing is easier, as you shall see."

"I wish for nothing better," the girl said, who was extraordinary amused by this conversation.

The stranger rose, placed the cards in his pocket with the respect every professional gambler shews to this operation, and, carelessly leaning on the neck of the girl's horse, he said:

"Owing to reasons too long to narrate, I find myself alone, lost in this immense prairie which I do not know, I an honest inhabitant of towns, not at all conversant with the manners and habits of the desert, and consequently exposed to die of hunger."

"Pardon me for interrupting you; I would merely observe that as we are some three hundred miles from the nearest town, you, the civilised man, must have been wandering about the desert for a considerable length of time."

"That is true: what you say could not be more correct, comrade, but that results from what I mentioned just now, and which would take too long to tell you."

"Very good; go on."

"Well, finding myself lost, I remembered the proverb of my country, and taking the cards from my alforjas, though I was alone, I began playing, feeling certain that an adversary would soon arrive, not to take a hand, but to get me out of my trouble."

White Gazelle suddenly reassumed her seriousness, and drew herself up in her saddle.

"You have won the game," she said; "for, as you see, Don Andrés Garote, I have come."

On hearing his name pronounced, the ranchero, for it was really our old acquaintance, suddenly raised his head, and looked the speaker in the face.

"Who are you, then," he said, "who know me so well, and yet I do not remember ever having met you?"

"Come, come," the girl said with a laugh, "your memory is short, master: what, do you not remember White Gazelle?"

At this name the ranchero started back.

"Oh, I am a fool: it is true; but I was so far from supposing – pardon me, señorita."

"How is it," White Gazelle interrupted him, "that you have thus deserted Red Cedar?"

"Caramba!" the ranchero exclaimed; "say that Red Cedar has deserted me; but it is not that which troubles me; I have an old grudge against another of my comrades."

"Ah?"

"Yes, and I should like to avenge myself, the more so, because I believe that I have the means in my hands at this moment."

"And who is that friend?"

"You know him as well as I do, señorita?"

"That is possible; but, unless his name be a secret – "

"Oh, no," the ranchero quickly interrupted her, "the man I mean is Fray Ambrosio."

The girl, at this name, began to take a great interest in the conversation.

"Fray Ambrosio!" she said, "What charge have you to bring against that worthy man?"

The ranchero looked the girl in the face to see if she were speaking seriously; but White Gazelle's face was cold and stern; he tossed his head.

"It is an account between him and me," he said, "which heaven will decide."

"Very good; I ask for no explanation, but, as your affairs interest me very slightly, and I have important matters of my own to attend to, you will permit me to retire."

"Why so?" the ranchero asked quickly; "we are comfortable together, then why should we separate?"

"Because, in all probability, we are not going the same road."

"Who knows, Niña, whether we are not destined to travel in company since I have met you?"

"I am not of that opinion. I am about to join a man whom I fancy you would not at all like to meet face to face."

"I don't know, Niña," the ranchero answered, with considerable animation; "I want to revenge myself on that accursed monk called Fray Ambrosio; I am too weak to do so by myself, or, to speak more correctly, too great a coward."

"Very good," the girl exclaimed, with a smile; "then how will you manage that your vengeance does not slip from you?"

"Oh, very simply; I know a man in the desert who detests him mortally, and would give a great deal to have sufficient proofs against him, for, unfortunately, that man has the failing of being honest."

"Indeed."

"Yes, what would you have? No man is perfect."

"And who is this man?"

"Oh, you never heard of him, Niña."

"How do you know? At any rate you can tell me his name."

"As you please; he is called Bloodson."

"Bloodson?" she exclaimed, with a start of surprise.

"Yes – do you know him?"

"Slightly; but go on."

"That is all; I am looking for this man."

"And you have, you say, in your possession the means of destroying Fray Ambrosio?"

"I believe so."

"What makes you suppose it?"

The ranchero shrugged his shoulders significantly; White Gazelle gave him one of those profound glances which read the heart.

"Listen," she said to him, as she laid her hand on his shoulder; "I can help you to find the man you seek."

"Bloodson?"

"Yes."

"Are you speaking seriously?" the gambusino asked, with a start of surprise.

"I could not be more serious; still, I must be sure that your statement is true."

Andrés Garote looked at her.

"Do you also owe Fray Ambrosio a grudge?" he asked her.

"That does not concern you," she answered; "we are not talking of myself, but of you. Have you these proofs? Yes, or no."

"I have them."

"Truly?"

"On my honour."

"Follow me, then, and within two hours you shall see Bloodson."

The ranchero quivered, and a smile of joy lit up his bronzed countenance as he leaped on his horse.

"Let us be off," he said.

In the meanwhile, day had surrendered to night, the sun had long been set, and an immense number of stars studded the heavenly vault; the travellers rode on silently side by side.

"Shall we soon arrive?" Andrés Garote asked.

White Gazelle stretched out her arm in the direction they were following, and pointed at a light flashing a short distance off through the trees.

"There it is," she said.