The Red Track: A Story of Social Life in Mexico. Gustave Aimard

of Don Sylva de Torrés and his daughter, I had sought a refuge in the cavern, our horses had been abandoned with all the remaining forage in an adjacent clearing, and I was too well acquainted with the instinct of these noble animals to apprehend that they had fled. On the contrary, I knew that, if the hunters had not taken them away, I should find them at the very spot where I had left them. A horse was indispensable for use, for a dismounted man is lost in the desert, and hence I resolved to seek them. Rested by the long halt I had made, and feeling that my strength had almost returned, I proceeded without hesitation towards the forest. At my second call I heard a rather loud noise in a clump of trees; the shrubs parted, and my horse galloped up and gladly rubbed its intelligent head against my shoulder. I amply returned the caresses the faithful companion of my adventures bestowed on me, and then returned to the cavern, where my saddle was. An hour later, mounted on my good horse, I bent my steps toward houses. My journey was a long one, owing to my state of weakness and prostration, and when I reached Sonora the news I heard almost drove me mad. Don Sylva de Torrés had been killed in the fight with the Apaches, as was probably his daughter, for no one could tell me anything about her. For a month I hovered between life and death; but God in His wisdom, doubtless, had decided that I should escape once again. When hardly convalescent, I dragged myself to the house of the only man competent of giving me precise and positive information about what I wanted to learn. This man refused to recognize me, although I had kept up intimate relations with him for many years. When I told him my name he laughed in my face, and when I insisted, he had me expelled by his peons, telling me that I was mad, that Don Martial was dead, and I an impostor. I went away with rage and despair in my heart. As if they had formed an agreement, all my friends to whom I presented myself refused to recognize me, so thoroughly was the report of my death believed, and it had been accepted by them as a certainty. All the efforts I attempted to dissipate this alarming mistake, and prove the falsehood of the rumour were in vain, for too many persons were interested in it being true, on account of the large estates I possessed; and also, I suppose, through a fear of injuring the man to whom I first applied – the only living relation of the Torrés family, who, through his high position, has immense influence in Sonora. What more need I tell you, my friend? Disgusted in every way, heartbroken with grief, and recognising the inutility of the efforts I made against the ingratitude and systematic bad faith of those with whom I had to deal, I left the town, and, mounting my horse, returned to the desert, seeking the most unknown spots and the most desolate regions in which to hide myself and die whenever God decrees that I have suffered sufficiently, and recalls me to Him."

      After saying this the Tigrero was silent, and his head sunk gloomily on his chest.

      "Brother," Valentine said gently to him, slightly touching his shoulder to attract his attention, "you have forgotten to tell me the name of that influential person who had you turned out of his house, and treated you as an impostor."

      "That is true," Don Martial answered; "his name is Don Sebastian Guerrero, and he is military governor of the province of Sonora."

      The hunter quickly started to his feet with an exclamation of joy.

      "Don Martial," he said, "you may thank God for decreeing that we should meet in the desert, in order that the punishment of this man should be complete."

      CHAPTER III.

      THE COMPACT

      Don Martial gazed at the hunter in amazement.

      "What do you mean?" he asked him. "I don't understand you."

      "You will soon do so, my friend," Valentine answered. "How long have you been roaming about this neighbourhood?"

      "Nearly two months."

      "In that case you are well acquainted, I presume, with the mountains among which we are at this moment?"

      "There is not a tree or a rock whose exact position I cannot tell, nor a wild beast trail which I have not followed."

      "Good: are we far from a spot called the 'Fort of the Chichimèques?'"

      The Tigrero reflected for a moment.

      "Do you know by what Indians these mountains are inhabited?" he at length asked.

      "Yes, by poor wretches who call themselves the Root-Eaters, and whom the hunters and trappers designate by the name of the 'Worthy of Pity.' They are, I believe, timid, harmless creatures, a species of incomplete men, in whom brutal instincts have stifled the intellect; however, I only speak of them from hearsay, for I never saw one of the poor devils."

      "You are perfectly well informed about them, and they are what you depict them. I have often had opportunities of meeting them, and have lamented the degree of brutalization into which this hapless race has fallen."

      "Permit me to remark that I do not see what connection can exist between this unhappy tribe and the information I ask of you."

      "There is a very great one. Since I have been roaming about these mountains you are the first man of my own colour with whom I have consented to enter into relations. The Root-Eaters have neither history nor traditions. Their life is restricted to eating, drinking, and sleeping, and I have not learned from them any of the names given to the majestic peaks that surround us. Hence, though I perfectly well know the spot to which you refer, unless you describe it differently, it will be impossible for me to tell you its exact position."

      "That is true; but what you ask of me is very awkward, for this is the first time I have visited these parts, and it will be rather difficult for me to describe a place I am not acquainted with. Still, I will try. There is, not far from here, I believe, a road which traverses the Rocky Mountains obliquely, and runs from the United States to Santa Fe; at a certain spot this road must intersect another which leads to California."

      "I am perfectly well acquainted with the roads to which you refer, and the caravans of emigrants, hunters, and miners follow them in going to California, or returning thence."

      "Good! At the spot where these two roads cross they form a species of large square, surrounded on all sides by rocks that rise to a considerable height. Do you know the place I mean?"

      "Yes," the Tigrero answered.

      "Well, about two gunshots from this square is a track winding nearly in an east-south-east course, along the side of the mountains. This track, at first so narrow that a horse even passes with difficulty, gradually widens till it reaches a species of esplanade, or terrace, if you like it better, which commands an extensive prospect, while on its edge are the remains of barbarous erections, which can, however, be easily recognized as an ancient parapet. This terrace is called the 'Fort of the Chichimèques,' though for what reason I cannot tell you."

      "I know no more than you do on that head, although I can now assure you that I am perfectly acquainted with the place to which you refer, and have often camped there on stormy nights, because there is a deep cavern, excavated by human hands, and divided into several passages, every turning of which I know, and which has offered me a precious shelter during those frightful tempests which, at intervals, overthrow the face of nature in these regions."

      "I was not aware of the existence of this grotto," the hunter said, with a glad start, "and I thank you for having told me of it; it will be very useful for the execution of the plans I have formed. Are we any great distance from this terrace?"

      "In a straight line, not more than five or six miles, and, if it were day, I could show it to you; but as we must ride round to reach the caravan road, which we are obliged to follow in order to reach the tracks, we have about three hours' ride before us."

      "That is a trifle, for I was afraid I had lost my way in these mountains, which are strange to me. I am delighted to find that my old experience has not failed me this time, and that my hunter's instincts have not deceived me."

      While saying this, Valentine had risen to explore the clearing. The storm had ceased, the wind had swept away the clouds, the deep blue sky was studded with brilliant stars, and the moon profusely shed its rays, which imparted a fantastic appearance to the landscape by casting the shadows of the lofty trees athwart the snow, whose pallid carpet spread far as eye could see.

      "'Tis a magnificent night," the hunter said, after carefully examining the sky for some moments. "It is