The Red Track: A Story of Social Life in Mexico Read online

  CHAPTER I.

  THE SIERRA OF THE WIND RIVER.

  The Rocky Mountains form an almost impassable barrier between Californiaand the United States, properly so called; their formidable defiles,their rude valleys, and the vast western plains, watered by rapidstreams, are even to the present day almost unknown to the Americanadventurers, and are rarely visited by the intrepid and daring Canadiantrappers.

  The majestic mountain range called the Sierra of the Wind River,especially offers a grand and striking picture, as it raises to theskies its white and snow-clad peaks, which extend indefinitely in anorth-western direction, until they appear on the horizon like a whitecloud, although the experienced eye of the trapper recognizes in thiscloud the scarped outline of the Yellowstone Mountains.

  The Sierra of the Wind River is one of the most remarkable of the RockyMountain range; it forms, so to speak, an immense plateau, thirtyleagues long, by ten or twelve in width, commanded by scarped peaks,crowned with eternal snows, and having at their base narrow and deepvalleys filled with springs, streams, and rock-bound lakes. Thesemagnificent reservoirs give rise to some of the mighty rivers which,after running for hundreds of miles through a picturesque territory,become on one side the affluents of the Missouri, on the other of theColumbia, and bear the tribute of their waters to the two oceans.

  In the stories of the wood rangers and trappers, the Sierra of theWind River is justly renowned for its frightful gorges, and the wildcountry in its vicinity frequently serves as a refuge to the pirates ofthe prairie, and has been, many a time and oft, the scene of obstinatestruggles between the white men and the Indians.

  Toward the end of June, 1854, a well-mounted traveller, carefullywrapped up in the thick folds of a zarape, raised to his eyes, wasfollowing one of the most precipitous slopes of the Sierra of theWind River, at no great distance from the source of the Green River,that great western Colorado which pours its waters into the Gulf ofCalifornia.

  It was about seven in the evening: the traveller rode along, shiveringfrom the effects of an icy wind which whistled mournfully through thecanyons. All around had assumed a saddening aspect in the vacillatingmoonbeams. He rode on without hearing the footfall of his horse, as itfell on the winding sheet of snow that covered the landscape; at timesthe capricious windings of the track he was following compelled him topass through thickets, whose branches, bent by the weight of snow, stoodout before him like gigantic skeletons, and struck each other after hehad passed with a sullen snap.

  The traveller continued his journey, looking anxiously on both sidesof him. His horse, fatigued by a long ride, hobbled at every step, andin spite of the repeated encouragement of its rider seemed determinedto stop short, when, after suddenly turning an angle in the track, itsuddenly entered a large clearing, where the close-growing grass formeda circle about forty yards in diameter, and the verdure formed a cheerycontrast with the whiteness that surrounded it.

  "Heaven be praised!" the traveller exclaimed in excellent French, andgiving a start of pleasure; "Here is a spot at last where I can camp fortonight night, without any excessive inconvenience. I almost despairedof finding one."

  While thus congratulating himself, the traveller had stopped his horseand dismounted. His first attention was paid to his horse, from whichhe removed saddle and bridle, and which he covered with his zarape,appearing to attach no importance to the cold, which was, however,extremely severe in these elevated regions. So soon as it was free, theanimal, in spite of its fatigue, began browsing heartily on the grass,and thus reassured about his companion, the traveller began thinkingabout making the best arrangements possible for the night.

  Tall, thin, active, with a lofty and capacious forehead, an intelligentblue eye, sparkling with boldness, the stranger appeared to have beenlong accustomed to desert life, and to find nothing extraordinary orpeculiarly disagreeable in the somewhat precarious position in which hefound himself at this moment.

  He was a man who had reached about middle life, on whose brow griefrather than the fatigue of the adventurous life of the desert had formeddeep wrinkles, and sown numerous silver threads in his thick lighthair; his dress was a medium between that of the white trappers andthe Mexican gambusinos; but it was easy to recognize, in spite of hiscomplexion, bronzed by the seasons, that he was a stranger to the groundhe trod, and that Europe had witnessed his birth.

  After giving a final glance of satisfaction at his horse, which atintervals interrupted its repast to raise its delicate and intelligenthead to him with an expression of pleasure, he carried his weapons andhorse trappings to the foot of a rather lofty rock, which offered himbut a poor protection against the gusts of the night breeze, and thenbegan collecting dry wood to light a watch fire.

  It was no easy task to find dry firewood at a spot almost denuded oftrees, and whose soil, covered with snow, except in the clearing,allowed nothing to be distinguished; but the traveller was patient, hewould not be beaten, and within an hour he had collected sufficientwood to feed through the night two such fires as he proposed kindling.The branches soon crackled, and a bright flame rose joyously in a longspiral to the sky.

  "Ah!" said the traveller, who, like all men constrained to live alone,seemed to have contracted the habit of soliloquizing aloud, "the firewill do, so now for supper."

  Then, fumbling in the alforjas, or double pockets which travellersalways carry fastened to the saddle, he took from them all the requisiteelements of a frugal meal; that is to say, cecina, pemmican, and severalvaras of tasajo, or meat dried in the sun. At the moment when, aftershutting up his alforjas, the traveller raised his head to lay his meaton the embers to broil, he stopped motionless, with widely-opened mouth,and it was only through a mighty strength of will that he suppressed acry of surprise and possibly of terror. Although no sound had revealedhis presence, a man, leaning on a long rifle, was standing motionlessbefore him, and gazing at him with profound attention.

  At once mastering the emotion he felt, the traveller carefully laidthe tasajo on the embers, and then, without removing his eye from thisstrange visitor, he stretched out his arm to grasp his rifle, whilesaying, in a tone of the most perfect indifference--

  "Whether friend or foe, you are welcome, mate. 'Tis a bitter night, so,if you are cold, warm yourself, and if you are hungry, eat. When yournerves have regained their elasticity, and your body its usual strength,we will have a frank explanation, such as men of honour ought to have."

  The stranger remained silent for some seconds; then, after shaking hishead several times, he commenced in a low and melancholy voice, as itwere speaking to himself rather than replying to the question asked him--

  "Can any human being really exist in whose heart a feeling of pity stillremains?"

  "Make the trial, mate," the traveller answered quickly, "by accepting,without hesitation, my hearty offer. Two men who meet in the desert mustbe friends at first sight, unless private reasons make them implacableenemies. Sit down by my side and eat."

  This dialogue had been held in Spanish, a language the stranger spokewith a facility that proved his Mexican origin. He seemed to reflect fora moment, and then instantly made up his mind.

  "I accept," he said, "for your voice is too sympathizing and your glancetoo frank to deceive."

  "That is the way to speak," the traveller said, gaily. "Sit down and eatwithout further delay, for I confess to you that I am dying of hunger."

  The stranger smiled sadly, and sat down on the ground by the traveller'sside. The two men, thus strangely brought together by accident, thenattacked with no ordinary vigour, which evidenced a long fast, theprovisions placed before them. Still, while eating, the traveller didnot fail to examine his singular companion; and the following was theresult of his observations.

  The general appearance of the stranger was most wretched, and hisragged clothes scarce covered his bony, fleshless body; while his paleand sickly features were rendered more sad and gloomy by a thick,disordered beard that fell on his chest. His eyes, inflamed by fev
er,and surrounded by black circles, glistened with a sombre fire, and attimes emitted flashes of magnetic radiance. His weapons were in as bada condition as his clothes, and in the event of a fight this man, withthe exception of his bodily strength, which must once have been great,but which privations of every description, and probably endured fora lengthened period, had exhausted, would not have been a formidableadversary for the traveller. Still, beneath this truly wretchedappearance could be traced an organization crushed by grief. There wasin this man something grand and sympathetic, which appeared to emanatefrom his person, and aroused not only pity but also respect for tortureso proudly hidden and so nobly endured. This man, in short, ere he fellso low, must have been great, either in virtue or in vice; but assuredlythere was nothing common about him, and a mighty heart beat in his bosom.

  Such was the impression the stranger produced on his host, while both,without the interchange of a word, appeased an appetite sharpened bylong hours of abstinence. Hunters' meals are short, and the present onelasted hardly a quarter of an hour. When it was over, the travellerrolled a cigarette, and, handing it to the stranger, said--

  "Do you smoke?"

  On this apparently so simple question being asked, a strange thinghappened which will only be understood by smokers who, long accustomedto the weed, have for some reason or other been deprived of it fora lengthened period. The stranger's face was suddenly lit up by theeffect of some internal emotion; his dull eye flashed, and, seizing thecigarette with a nervous tremor, he exclaimed, in a voice choked by anoutburst of joy impossible to render--

  "Yes, yes; I used to smoke."

  There was a rather long silence, during which the two men slowly inhaledthe smoke of their cigarettes, and indulged in thought. The wind howledfiercely Over their heads, the eddying snow was piling up around them,and the echoes of the canyons seemed to utter notes of complaint. It wasa horrible night. Beyond the circle of light produced by the flickeringflame of the watch fire all was buried in dense gloom. The picturepresented by these two men, seated in the desert, strangely illuminedby the bluish flame, fend smoking calmly while suspended above anunfathomable abyss, had something striking and awe-inspiring about it.When the traveller had finished his cigarette, he rolled another, andlaid his tobacco-pouch between himself and his guest.

  "Now that the ice is broken between us," he said in a friendly voice,"and that we have nearly formed an acquaintance--for we have beensitting at the same fire, and have eaten and smoked together--the momenthas arrived, I fancy, for us to become thoroughly acquainted."

  The stranger nodded his head silently. It was a gesture that could beinterpreted affirmatively or negatively, at pleasure. The travellercontinued, with a good-humoured smile--

  "I make not the slightest pretence to compel you to reveal your secrets,and you are at liberty to maintain your incognito without in any wayoffending me. Still, whatever may be the result, let me give you anexample of frankness by telling you who I am. My story will not be long,and only consists of a very few words. France is my country, and I wasborn at Paris--which city, doubtless," he remarked, with a stifled sigh,"I shall never see again. Reasons too lengthy to trouble you with, andwhich would interest you but very slightly, led me to America. Chance,or Providence, perhaps, by guiding me to the desert, and arousing myinstincts and aspirations for liberty, wished to make a wood ranger ofme, and I obeyed. For twenty years I have been traversing the prairiesand great savannahs in every direction, and I shall probably continueto do so, till an Indian bullet comes from some thicket to stop mywanderings for ever. Towns are hateful to me; passionately fond of thegrand spectacles of nature, which elevate the thought, and draw thecreature nearer to his Creator, I shall only mix myself up once again inthe chaos of civilization in order to fulfil a vow made on the tomb of afriend. When I have done that, I shall fly to the most, unknown deserts,in order to end a life henceforth useless, far from those men whosepaltry passions and base and ignoble hatred have robbed me of the smallamount of happiness to which I fancied I had a claim. And now, mate, youknow me as well as I do myself. I will merely add, in conclusion, thatmy name among the white men, my countrymen, is Valentine Guillois, andamong the redskins, my adopted fathers, Koutonepi--that is to say, 'TheValiant One.' I believe myself to be as honest and as brave as a man ispermitted to be with his imperfect organization. I never did harm withthe intention of doing so, and I have done services to my fellow men asoften as I had it in my power, without expecting from them thanks orgratitude."

  The speech, which the hunter had commenced in that clear voice and withthat careless accent habitual to him, terminated involuntarily, underthe pressure of the flood of saddened memories that rose from his heartto his lips, in a low and inarticulate voice, and when he concluded,he let his head fall sadly on his chest, with a sigh that resembled asob. The stranger regarded him for a moment with an expression of gentlecommiseration.

  "You have suffered," he said; "suffered in your love, suffered in yourfriendship. Your history is that of all men in this world: who of us,but at a given hour, has felt his courage yield beneath the weight ofgrief? You are alone, friendless, abandoned by all, a voluntary exile,far from the men who only inspire you with hatred and contempt; youprefer the society of wild beasts, less ferocious than they; but, at anyrate, you live, while I am a dead man!"

  The hunter started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.

  "I suppose you think me mad?" he continued, with a melancholy smile;"reassure yourself, it is not so. I am in full possession of my senses,my head is cool, and my thoughts are clear and lucid. For all thatthough, I repeat to you, I am dead, dead in the sight of my relationsand friends, dead to the whole world in fine, and condemned to lead thiswretched existence for an indefinite period. Mine is a strange story,and that you would recognize through one word, were you a Mexican, orhad you travelled in certain regions of Mexico."

  "Did I not tell you that, for twenty years, I have been travelling overevery part of America?" the traveller replied, his curiosity beingaroused to the highest pitch. "What is the word? Can you tell it me?"

  "Why not? I am alluding to the name I bore while I was still a livingman."

  "What is that name?"

  "It had acquired a certain celebrity, but I doubt whether, even if youhave heard it mentioned, it has remained in your memory."

  "Who knows? Perhaps you are mistaken."

  "Well, since you insist, learn, then, that I was called Martial elTigrero."

  "You?" the hunter exclaimed, under the influence of the uttermostsurprise; "why that is impossible!"

  "Of course so, since I am dead," the stranger answered, bitterly.