The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West. Gustave Aimard

sunrise, Don Miguel, mounted on an excellent horse, left the Paso, and proceeded toward the hacienda where he resided with his family. It was situated a few miles from the Presidio of San Elezario, in a delicious position, and was known as the Hacienda de la Noria (the Farm of the Well). The estate inhabited by Don Miguel stood in the centre of the vast delta formed by the Del Norte and the Rio San Pedro, or Devil's River. It was one of those strong and massive buildings which the Spaniards alone knew how to erect when they were absolute masters of Mexico.

      The hacienda formed a vast parallelogram, supported at regular distances by enormous cross walls of carved stone. Like all the frontier habitations, which are rather fortresses than houses, it was only pierced on the side of the plain with a few narrow windows resembling loopholes, and protected by solid iron bars. This abode was begirt by a thick wall of circumvallation, defended on the top by that fretwork called almenas, which indicated the nobility of the owner. Within this wall, but separated from the chief apartments, were the stables, outhouses, barns and cabins for the peons.

      At the extremity of the courtyard, in an angle of the hacienda, was the tall square belfry of the chapel, rising above its terraced roof. This chapel was served by a monk called Fray Ambrosio. A magnificent plain closed in this splendid farm. At the end of a valley more than fifty miles in length were cactus trees of a conical shape, loaded with fruit and flowers, and whose stems were as much as six feet in diameter.

      Don Miguel employed a considerable number of peons in the cultivation of the sugar cane, which he carried on upon a very large scale. As everybody knows, the cane is planted by laying it horizontally in furrows half a foot deep. From each knot springs a shoot which reaches a height of about three yards, and which is cut at the end of a year to extract the juice.

      Nothing can be more picturesque than the sight of a field of sugar canes. It was one of those superb American mornings during which nature seems to be holding a festival. The centzontle (American nightingale) frequently poured forth its harmonious notes; the red throstled cardinals, the blue birds, the parakeets, chattered gaily beneath the foliage; far away on the plain galloped flocks of light antelopes and timid ashatas, while on the extreme verge of the horizon rushed startled manadas of wild horses, which raised clouds of impalpable dust beneath the vibration of their rapid hoofs. A few alligators, carelessly stretched out on the river mud, were drying their scales in the sun, and in mid air the grand eagles of the Sierra Madre hovered majestically above the valley.

      Don Miguel advanced rapidly at the favourite pace of the Mexican jinetes, and which consists in making the horse raise its front legs, while the hind ones almost graze the ground—a peculiar sort of amble which is very gentle and rapid. The hacendero only employed four hours in traversing the distance separating him from the hacienda, where he arrived about nine in the morning. He was received on the threshold of the house by his daughter, who, warned of his arrival, had hastened to meet him.

      Don Miguel had been absent from home a fortnight; hence, he received his daughter's caresses with the greatest pleasure. When he had embraced her several times, while continuing to hold her tightly clasped in his arms, he regarded her attentively during several seconds.

      "What is the matter, mi querida Clara?" he asked with sympathy. "You seem very sad. Can you feel vexed at the sight of me?" he added, with a smile.

      "Oh, you cannot believe that, father!" she answered quickly; "for you know how happy your presence must render me."

      "Thanks, my child! But whence, in that case, comes the sorrow I see spread over your features?"

      The maiden let her eyes sink, but made no reply.

      Don Miguel threw a searching glance around.

      "Where is Don Pablo?" he said. "Why has he not come to greet me? Can he be away from the hacienda?"

      "No, father, he is here."

      "Well, then, what is the reason he is not by your side?"

      "Because—" the girl said, with hesitation.

      "Well?"

      "He is ill."

      "My son ill!" Don Miguel exclaimed.

      "I am wrong," Doña Clara corrected herself.

      "Explain yourself, in Heaven's name!"

      "My father, the fact is that Pablo is wounded."

      "Wounded!" the hacendero sharply said; and thrusting his daughter aside, he rushed toward the house, bounded up the few steps leading to the porch, crossed several rooms without stopping, and reached his son's chamber. The young man was lying, weak and faint, on his bed; but on perceiving his parent he smiled, and held his hand to him. Don Miguel was fondly attached to his son, his sole heir, and walked up to him.

      "What is this wound of which I have heard?" he asked him in great agitation.

      "Less than nothing, father," the young man replied, exchanging a meaning glance with his sister, who entered at the moment. "Clara is a foolish girl, who, in her tenderness, wrongly alarmed you."

      "But, after all, you are wounded?" the father continued.

      "But I repeat that it is a mere nothing."

      "Come, explain yourself. How and when did you receive this wound?"

      The young man blushed, and maintained silence.

      "I insist on knowing," Don Miguel continued pressingly.

      "Good heavens, father!" Don Pablo replied with an air of ill-humour, "I do not understand why you are alarmed for so futile a cause. I am not a child, whom a scratch should make frightened; and many times have I been wounded previously, and you have not disturbed yourself so much."

      "That is possible; but the mode in which you answer me, the care you seem trying to take to keep me ignorant of the cause of this wound—in a word, everything tells me that this time you are trying to hide something grave from me."

      "You are mistaken, father, and shall convince yourself."

      "I wish nothing more: speak. Clara, my child, go and give orders to have breakfast prepared, for I am dying of hunger."

      The girl went out.

      "Now it is our turn," Don Miguel continued. "In the first place, where are you wounded?"

      "Oh! I have merely a slight scratch on my shoulder: if I went to bed it was more through indolence than any other motive."

      "Hum! and what scratched your shoulder?"

      "A bullet."

      "What! A bullet! Then you must have fought a duel, unhappy boy!" Don Miguel exclaimed with a shudder.

      The young man smiled, pressed his father's hand, and bending toward him, said—

      "This is what has happened."

      "I am listening to you," Don Miguel replied, making an effort to calm himself.

      "Two days after your departure, father," Don Pablo continued, "I was superintending, as you wished me to do, the cutting of the cane crop, when a hunter whom you will probably remember having seen prowling about the estate, a man of the name of Andrés Garote, accosted me at the moment I was about to return home after giving my orders to the majordomo. After saluting me obsequiously as his wont, the scamp smiled cunningly, and lowering his voice so as not to be overheard by those around us, said, 'Don Pablo, I fancy you would give half an ounce to the man who brought you important news?' 'That depends,' I answered; for, having known the man a long time, I was aware much confidence could not be placed in him. 'Bah! Your grace is so rich,' he continued insidiously, 'that a miserable sum like that is less than nothing in his pocket, while in mine it would do me a deal of good.'

      "Apart from his defects, this scamp had at times done us a few small services; and then, as he said, a half-ounce is but a trifle, so I gave it to him. He stowed it away in his pockets, and then bent down to my ear. 'Thanks, Don Pablo,' he said to me. 'I shall not cheat you of your money.