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

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

PREFACE

      In the present volume another series of Indian adventures is concluded, and the further career of the hero is described in the series beginning with the "Tiger-slayer." It must be understood, however, that the stories are not arbitrarily connected – each is complete in itself; but those who have read one volume will, I hope, be sufficiently interested in the hero to desire to know more of his career. The following, therefore, is the order in which the volumes should be read: —

1. TRAIL HUNTER2. PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES3. THE TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER4. TIGER SLAYER6. GOLD SEEKERS7. INDIAN CHIEF

      In all probability, M. Aimard will favour us with other volumes; but, in the mean time, the above can be read collectively or separately, with equal interest.

LASCELLES WRAXALL

      CHAPTER I

      THE JACAL

      About three in the afternoon, a horseman, dressed in the Mexican costume, was galloping along the banks of a stream, an affluent of the Gila, whose capricious windings compelled him to make countless detours. This man, while constantly keeping his hand on his weapons, and watching for every event, urged his horse on by shouts and spur, as if anxious to reach his journey's end.

      The wind blew fiercely, the heat was oppressive, the grasshoppers uttered their discordant cries under the herbage that sheltered them; the birds slowly described wide circles in the air, uttering shrill notes at intervals: coppery clouds were incessantly passing athwart the sun, whose pale, sickly beams possessed no strength; in short, all presaged a terrible storm.

      The traveller seemed to notice nought of this; bowed over his horse's neck, with his eyes fixed ahead, he increased his speed, without noticing the heavy drops of rain that already fell, and the hoarse rolling of distant thunder which began to be heard.

      Still this man, had he wished it, could easily have sheltered himself under the thick shade of the aged trees in the virgin forest which he had been skirting for more than an hour, and thus let the heaviest part of the storm pass; but a weightier interest, doubtless, urged him on, for, while increasing his speed, he did not think of drawing his zarapé over his shoulders to protect him from the rain, but contented himself, as each gust of wind howled past him, with drawing his hat a little tighter on his head, while repeating to his horse, in a sharp tone:

      "Forward! Forward!"

      In the meanwhile, the stream, whose banks the traveller was following, grew gradually narrower, and at a certain spot the bank was completely obstructed by an undergrowth of shrubs and interlaced creepers, which completely prevented any approach. On reaching this point the traveller stopped; he dismounted, carefully inspected the vicinity, took his horse by the bridle, and led it into a copse, where he concealed it; attaching it with his lasso to the trunk of a large tree, after removing the bozal to let it browse at liberty.

      "Rest here, Negro," he said, as he softly patted it; "do not neigh, for the enemy is at hand – I shall soon return."

      The intelligent animal seemed to comprehend the words its master addressed to it, for it stretched out his head and rubbed it against his chest.

      "Good, good, Negro! Wait awhile!"

      The stranger then took from his holsters a brace of pistols, which he placed in his girdle, threw his rifle on his shoulder, and started hurriedly in the direction of the river. He buried himself without hesitation in the shrubs that bordered the stream, carefully separating the branches which at each step barred his progress. On reaching the edge of the water he stopped for a moment, bent forward, seemed to be listening, and then drew himself up, muttering:

      "There is no one; all is safe."

      He then stepped on a mass of intertwined lianas, which extended from one bank to the other, and formed a natural bridge. This bridge, apparently so slight, was firm, and though it oscillated under the traveller's footsteps, he crossed it in a few seconds. He had scarce reached the other bank, when a girl emerged from a clump of trees which concealed her.

      "At last!" she said, as she ran up to him: "oh! I was afraid you would not come, Don Pablo."

      "Ellen," the young man answered, with his whole soul in his glance, "death alone would keep me away."

      The traveller was Don Pablo Zarate; the girl, Ellen, Red Cedar's daughter.1

      "Come," she said.

      The Mexican followed her, and they walked on for some time without exchanging a word. When they had passed the chaparral which bordered the river, they saw a short distance before them a wretched jacal, which leant solitary and silent against a rock.

      "There is my home," the maiden said, with a sad smile.

      Don Pablo sighed, but made no reply, and they continued to walk in the direction of the jacal, which they soon reached.

      "Sit down, Don Pablo," the maiden went on, as she offered her comrade a stool, on which he sank. "I am alone; my father and two brothers went off this morning at sunrise."

      "Are you not afraid," Don Pablo answered, "of remaining thus alone in the desert, exposed to innumerable dangers, so far from all help?"

      "What can I do? Has not this life been ever mine?"

      "Does your father go away often?"

      "Only during the last few days. I know not what he fears, but he and my brothers seem sad and preoccupied, they go on long journeys, and when they return quite worn out, the words they address to me are harsh and snappish."

      "Poor child!" said Don Pablo, "I can tell you the cause of these long journeys."

      "Do you fancy I have not guessed it?" she replied; "No, no, the horizon is too gloomy around us for me not to perceive the gathering storm which will soon burst over us; but," she added, with an effort, "let us speak of ourselves, the moments are precious; what have you done?"

      "Nothing," the young man said, mournfully; "all my researches have been in vain."

      "That is strange," Ellen muttered; "and yet the coffer cannot be lost."

      "I am as convinced of that as you are; but into whose hands has it fallen? That is what I cannot say."

      The maiden reflected.

      "When did you notice its disappearance?" Don Pablo went on a moment after.

      "Only a few minutes after Harry's death; frightened by the sounds of the fight and the fearful uproar of the earthquake, I was half mad. Still, I can remember a circumstance which will doubtless put us on the right track."

      "Speak, Ellen, speak, and whatever is to be done I will do."

      The girl looked at him for a moment with an indefinable expression. She bent over to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said, in a voice soft as a bird's song:

      "Don Pablo, a frank and loyal explanation between us is indispensable."

      "I do not understand you," the young man stammered, as he let his eyes fall.

      "Yes you do," she replied, with a sad smile; "you understand me, Don Pablo; but no matter, as you pretend to be ignorant of what I wish to say to you, I will explain myself in such a way that any further misconception will be impossible."

      "Speak! Ellen; though I do not suspect your meaning, I have a foreboding of misfortune."

      "Yes," she continued, "you are right; a misfortune is really concealed under what I have to say to you, if you do not consent to grant me the favour I implore of you."

      Don Pablo rose.

      "Why feign longer? Since I cannot induce you to give up your plan, Ellen, the explanation you ask of me is needless. Do you believe," he went on, as he walked in great agitation up and down the jacal, "that I have not already regarded the strange position in which we find ourselves from every side? Fatality has impelled us toward each other by one of those accidents which human wisdom cannot foresee. I love you, Ellen, I love you with all the strength

1

See the Trail Hunter and Pirates of the Prairies.