Майн Рид
Scalp Hunters
Chapter Fifty Six. El Paso Del Norte
I will not describe the recrossing of the desert plains, nor will I detail the incidents of our homeward journey. With all its hardships and weariness, to me it was a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to attend upon her we love, and that along the route was my chief duty. The smiles I received far more than repaid me for the labour I underwent in its discharge. But it was not labour. It was no labour to fill her xuages with fresh water at every spring or runlet, to spread the blanket softly over her saddle, to weave her a quitasol out of the broad leaves of the palmilla, to assist her in mounting and dismounting. No; that was not labour to me.
We were happy as we journeyed. I was happy, for I knew that I had fulfilled my contract and won my bride; and the very remembrance of the perils through which we had so lately passed heightened the happiness of both. But one thing cast an occasional gloom over our thoughts — the queen, Adèle.
She was returning to the home of her childhood, not voluntarily, but as a captive — captive to her own kindred, her father and mother!
Throughout the journey both these waited upon her with tender assiduity, almost constantly gazing at her with sad and silent looks. There was woe in their hearts.
We were not pursued; or, if so, our pursuers never came up. Perhaps we were not followed at all. The foe had been crippled and cowed by the terrible chastisement, and we knew it would be some time before they could muster force enough to take our trail. Still we lost not a moment, but travelled as fast as the ganados could be pushed forward.
In five days we reached the Barranca del Oro, and passed the old mine, the scene of our bloody conflict. During our halt among the ruined ranches, I strayed away from the rest, impelled by a painful curiosity to see if aught remained of my late follower or his fellow-victim. I went to the spot where I had last seen their bodies. Yes; two skeletons lay in front of the shaft, as cleanly picked by the wolves as if they had been dressed for the studio of an anatomist. It was all that remained of the unfortunate men.
After leaving the Barranca del Oro, we struck the head waters of the Rio Mimbres; and, keeping on the banks of that stream, followed it down to the Del Norte. Next day we entered the pueblo of El Paso.
A scene of singular interest greeted us on our arrival. As we neared the town, the whole population flocked out to meet us. Some had come forth from curiosity, some to welcome us and take part in the ceremony that hailed our triumphant return, but not a few impelled by far different motives. We had brought with us a large number of rescued captives — nearly fifty in all — and these were soon surrounded by a crowd of citizens. In that crowd were yearning mothers and fond sisters, lovers newly awakened from despair, and husbands who had not yet ceased to mourn. There were hurried inquiries, and quick glances, that betokened keen anxiety. There were “scenes” and shouts of joy, as each one recognised some long-lost object of a dear affection. But there were other scenes of a diverse character, scenes of woe and wailing; for of many of those who had gone forth, but a few days before, in the pride of health and the panoply of war, many came not back.
I was particularly struck with one episode — a painful one to witness. Two women of the poblana class had laid hold upon one of the captives, a girl of, I should think, about ten years of age. Each claimed the girl for her daughter, and each of them held one of her arms, not rudely, but to hinder the other from carrying her off. A crowd had encircled them, and both the women were urging their claims in loud and plaintive voice.
One stated the age of the girl, hastily narrated the history of her capture by the savages, and pointed to certain marks upon her person, to which she declared she was ready at any moment to make juramento. The other appealed to the spectators to look at the colour of the child’s hair and eyes, which slightly differed from that of the other claimant, and called upon them to note the resemblance she bore to another, who stood by, and who, she alleged, was the child’s eldest sister. Both talked at the same time, and kissed the girl repeatedly as they talked.
The little wild captive stood between the two, receiving their alternate embraces with a wondering and puzzled expression. She was, in truth, a most interesting child, habited in the Indian costume, and browned by the sun of the desert. Whichever might have been the mother, it was evident she had no remembrance of either of them; for here there was no mother! In her infancy she had been carried off to the desert, and, like the daughter of Seguin, had forgotten the scenes of her childhood. She had forgotten father — mother — all!
It was, as I have said, a scene painful to witness; the women’s looks of anguish, their passionate appeals, their wild but affectionate embraces lavished upon the girl, their plaintive cries mingled with sobs and weeping. It was indeed a painful scene.
It was soon brought to a close, at least as far as I witnessed it. The alcalde came upon the ground; and the girl was given in charge to the policia, until the true mother should bring forward more definite proofs of maternity. I never heard the finale of this little romance.
The return of the expedition to El Paso was celebrated by a triumphant ovation. Cannon boomed, bells rang, fireworks hissed and sputtered, masses were sung, and music filled the streets. Feasting and merriment followed, and the night was turned into a blazing illumination of wax candles, and un gran funcion de balle — a fandango.
Next morning, Seguin, with his wife and daughters, made preparations to journey on to the old hacienda on the Del Norte. The house was still standing; so we had heard. It had not been plundered. The savages, on taking possession of it, had been closely pressed by a body of Pasenos, and had hurried off with their captives, leaving everything else as they had found it.
Saint Vrain and I were to accompany the party to their home.
The chief had plans for the future, in which both I and my friend were interested. There we were to mature them.
I found the returns of my trading speculation even greater than Saint Vrain had promised. My ten thousand dollars had been trebled. Saint Vrain, too, was master of a large amount; and we were enabled to bestow our bounty on those of our late comrades who had proved themselves worthy.
But most of them had received “bounty” from another source. As we rode out from El Paso, I chanced to look back. There was a long string of dark objects waving over the gates. There was no mistaking what they were, for they were unlike anything else. They were scalps!
Chapter Fifty Seven. Touching the Chords of Memory
It is the second evening after our arrival at the old house on the Del Norte. We have gone up to the azotea — Seguin, Saint Vrain, and myself; I know not why, but guided thither by our host. Perhaps he wishes to look once more over that wild land, the theatre of so many scenes in his eventful life; once more, for upon the morrow he leaves it for ever. Our plans have been formed; we journey upon the morrow; we are going over the broad plains to the waters of the Mississippi. They go with us.
It is a lovely evening, and warm. The atmosphere is elastic; such an atmosphere as you can find only on the high tables of the western world. It seems to act upon all animated nature, judging from its voices. There is joy in the songs of the birds, in the humming of the homeward bees. There is a softness, too, in those sounds that reach us from the farther forest; those sounds usually harsh; the voices of the wilder and fiercer creatures of the wilderness. All seem attuned to peace and love.
The song of the arriero is joyous; for many of these are below, packing for our departure.
I, too, am joyous. I have been so for days; but the light atmosphere around, and the bright prospect before me, have heightened the pulsations of my happiness.
Not so my companions on the azotea. Both seem sad.
Seguin is silent. I thought he had climbed up here to take a last look of the fair valley. Not so. He paces backward and forward with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the cemented roof. They see no farther; they see not at all. The eye of his mind only is active, and that is looking inward. His air is abstracted; his brow is clouded; his thoughts are gloomy and painful. I know the cause of all this. She is still a stranger!
But Saint Vrain — the witty, the buoyant, the sparkling Saint Vrain — what misfortune has befallen him? What cloud is crossing the rose-coloured field of his horoscope? What reptile is gnawing at his heart, that not even the sparkling wine of El Paso can drown? Saint Vrain is speechless; Saint Vrain is sighing; Saint Vrain is sad! I half divine the cause. Saint Vrain is —
The tread of light feet upon the stone stairway — the rustling of female dresses!
They are ascending. They are Madame Seguin, Adèle, Zoe.
I look at the mother — at her features. They, too, are shaded by a melancholy expression. Why is not she happy? Why not joyous, having recovered her long-lost, much-loved child? Ah! she has not yet recovered her!
I turn my eyes on the daughter — the elder one — the queen. That is the strangest expression of all.
Have you seen the captive ocelot? Have you seen the wild bird that refuses to be tamed, but against the bars of its cage-prison still beats its bleeding wings? If so, it may help you to fancy that expression. I cannot depict it.
She is no longer in the Indian costume. That has been put aside. She wears the dress of civilised life, but she wears it reluctantly. She has shown this, for the skirt is torn in several places, and the bodice, plucked open, displays her bosom, half-nude, heaving under the wild thoughts which agitate it.
She accompanies them, but not us a companion. She has the air of a prisoner, the air of the eagle whose wings have been clipped. She regards neither mother nor sister. Their constant kindness has failed to impress her.
The mother has led her to the azotea, and let go her hand. She walks no longer with them, but crouching, and in starts, from place to place, obedient to the impulse of strong emotions.
She has reached the western wing of the azotea, and stands close up against the parapet, gazing over — gazing upon the Mimbres. She knows them well, those peaks of sparkling selenite, those watch-towers of the desert land: she knows them well. Her heart is with her eyes.
We stand watching her, all of us. She is the object of common solicitude. She it is who keeps between all hearts and the light. The father looks sadly on; the mother looks sadly on; Zoe looks sadly on; Saint Vrain, too. No! that is a different expression. His gaze is the gaze of —
She has turned suddenly. She perceives that we are all regarding her with attention. Her eyes wander from one to the other. They are fixed upon the glance of Saint Vrain!
A change comes over her countenance — a sudden change, from dark to bright, like the cloud passing from the sun. Her eye is fired by a new expression. I know it well. I have seen it before; not in her eyes, but in those that resemble them: the eyes of her sister. I know it well. It is the light of love!
Saint Vrain! His, too, are lit by a similar emotion! Happy Saint Vrain! Happy that it is mutual. As yet he knows not that, but I do. I could bless him with a single word.
Moments pass. Their eyes mingle in fiery communion. They gaze into each other. Neither can avert their glance. A god rules them: the god of love!
The proud and energetic attitude of the girl gradually forsakes her; her features relax; her eye swims with a softer expression; and her whole bearing seems to have undergone a change.
She sinks down upon a bench. She leans against the parapet. She no longer turns to the west. She no longer gazes upon the Mimbres. Her heart is no longer in the desert land!
No; it is with her eyes, and these rest almost continuously on Saint Vrain. They wander at intervals over the stones of the azotea; then her thoughts do not go with them; but they ever return to the same object, to gaze upon it tenderly, more tenderly at each new glance.
The anguish of captivity is over. She no longer desires to escape. There is no prison where he dwells. It is now a paradise. Henceforth the doors may be thrown freely open. That little bird will make no further effort to fly from its cage. It is tamed.
What memory, friendship, entreaties, had tailed to effect, love had accomplished in a single instant. Love, mysterious power, in one pulsation had transformed that wild heart; had drawn it from the desert.
I fancied that Seguin had noticed all this, for he was observing her movements with attention. I fancied that such thoughts were passing in his mind, and that they were not unpleasing to him, for he looked less afflicted than before. But I did not continue to watch the scene. A deeper interest summoned me aside; and, obedient to the sweet impulse, I strayed towards the southern angle of the azotea.
I was not alone. My betrothed was by my side; and our hands, like our hearts, were locked in each other.
There was no secrecy about our love; with Zoe there never had been.
Nature had prompted the passion. She knew not the conventionalities of the world, of society, of circles refined, soi-disant. She knew not that love was a passion for one to be ashamed of.
Hitherto no presence had restrained her in its expression — not even that, to lovers of less pure design, awe-inspiring above all others — the presence of the parents. Alone or in their company, there was no difference in her conduct. She knew not the hypocrisies of artificial natures; the restraints, the intrigues, the agonies of atoms that act.
She knew not the terror of guilty minds. She obeyed only the impulse her Creator had kindled within her.
With me it was otherwise. I had shouldered society; though not much then, enough to make me less proud of love’s purity — enough to render me slightly sceptical of its sincerity. But through her I had now escaped from that scepticism. I had become a faithful believer in the nobility of the passion.
Our love was sanctioned by those who alone possessed the right to sanction it. It was sanctified by its own purity.
We are gazing upon a fair scene: fairer now, at the sunset hour. The sun is no longer upon the stream, but his rays slant through the foliage of the cotton-wood trees that fringe it, and here and there a yellow beam is flung transversely on the water. The forest is dappled by the high tints of autumn. There are green leaves and red ones; some of a golden colour and others of dark maroon. Under this bright mosaic the river winds away like a giant serpent, hiding its head in the darker woods around El Paso.
We command a view of all this, for we are above the landscape. We see the brown houses of the village, with the shining vane of its church. Our eyes have often rested upon that vane in happy hours, but none happier than now, for our hearts are full of happiness.
We talk of the past as well as the present; for Zoe has now seen something of life, its darker pictures it is true; but these are often the most pleasant to be remembered; and her desert experience has furnished her with many a new thought — the cue to many an inquiry.
The future becomes the subject of our converse. It is all bright, though a long and even perilous journey is before us. We think not of that. We look beyond it to that promised hour when I am to teach, and she is to learn, what is “to marry.”
Someone is touching the strings of a bandolin. We look around. Madame Seguin is seated upon a bench, holding the instrument in her hands. She is tuning it. As yet she has not played. There has been no music since our return.
It is by Seguin’s request that the instrument has been brought up, with the music, to chase away heavy memories; or, perhaps, from a hope that it may soothe those savage ones still dwelling in the bosom of his child.
Madame Seguin is about to play, and my companion and I go nearer to listen.
Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adèle is still seated where we left her, silent and abstracted.
The music commences. It is a merry air — a fandango: one of those to which the Andalusian foot delights to keep time.
Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face of Adèle. We endeavour to read its expression.
The first notes have startled her from her attitude of abstraction. Her eyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player, with looks of wonder — of inquiry.
The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically, approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down by the feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, and listens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face.
I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixed upon the girl’s, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet he seems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaning forward as if to read the thoughts that are passing within her.
He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some sudden resolution.
“Oh, Adèle! Adèle!” he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; “oh, sing that song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her — often, often. You remember it, Adèle! Look at her. Quick! quick! O God! Perhaps she may — ”
He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, and with the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune to one of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanish hymn, “La madre a su hija” (The mother to her child). She sings it, accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energy into the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words with full and passionate effect —
“Tu duermes, cara niña!
Tu duertnes en la paz.
Los angeles del cielo —
Los angeles guardan, guardan,
Niña mia! — Ca — ra — mi — ”
The song was interrupted by a cry — a cry of singular import — uttered by the girl. The first words of the hymn had caused her to start, and then to listen, if possible, more attentively than ever. As the song proceeded, the singular expression we had noted seemed to become every moment more marked and intense. When the voice had reached the burden of the melody, a strange exclamation escaped her lips; and, springing to her feet, she stood gazing wildly in the face of the singer. Only for a moment. The next moment she cried in loud, passionate accents, “Mamma! mamma!” and fell forward upon the bosom of her mother!
Seguin spoke truly when he said, “Perhaps in God’s mercy she may yet remember.” She had remembered — not only her mother, but in a short time she remembered him. The chords of memory had been touched, its gates thrown open. She remembered the history of her childhood. She remembered all!
I will not essay to describe the scene that followed. I will not attempt to picture the expression of the actors; to speak of their joyous exclamations, mingled with sobs and tears; but they were tears of joy.
All of us were happy — happy to exultation; but for Seguin himself, I knew it was the hour of his life.
The End.
