Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ Señor Don Estevan,” cried Cuchillo, “you surely mistake my character. I am the most humane of mortals—that is,” continued he in an undertone, “when it is my interest to be so. You may ride forward then; and it will not be my fault, if I don’t bring this poor fellow safe to our halting-place at La Poza.”

      In saying these words Cuchillo dismounted, and laying his hands upon the neck of his horse, cried out:

      “Now, good Tordilla, don’t budge an inch from this spot till I call for you.”

      The animal, pawing the sand, and champing his bit, appeared to comprehend the words of his master, and remained in the place where he had been left.

      “Shall we leave one of the servants to assist you?” inquired the Senator, as they were riding off.

      “No, thank you, Señor Don Vicente,” responded Cuchillo, fearing that if any one was left he might expect some share in the promised demi-onza; “it will not be necessary.”

      And the cavalcade riding off, left the outlaw alone with the recumbent body.

Chapter Twelve.

       Table of Contents

      Tiburcio Arellanos.

      Cuchillo approaching the body, bent down to examine the features, and see if there were any signs of life. At the first glance of that face the outlaw trembled.

      “Tiburcio Arellanos, as I live!” he involuntarily muttered.

      It was, in truth, the adopted son of his victim whom he saw before him.

      “Yes—there is no mistake—it is he! Santa Virgen! if not dead he’s not far off it,” continued he, observing the mortal paleness of the young man’s countenance.

      A hellish thought at this moment arose in the mind of the outlaw. Perhaps the only man in all the world who shared with him that secret, which he himself had purchased by the crime of murder, was there before him—completely in his power. It only needed to finish him, if not already dead, and to report that he could not be saved. He was in the middle of the desert, under the shadow of night, where no eye could see, and no hand could hinder; why then should he not make his secret secure against every contingency of the future?

      All the ferocious instincts of the villain were re-awakened; mechanically he drew the long knife from his boot, and held its point over the heart of the unconscious Tiburcio.

      At that moment, a slight quivering of the limbs told that the latter still lived. The outlaw raised his arm, but still hesitated to strike the blow.

      “It was just thus,” reflected he, “that I stabbed the man he called his father—just in the same way, as he slept beside me, in full confidence of security. I see him now contesting with me for the life of this young fellow more than half gone. I feel at this moment the weight of his body upon my shoulders, just as I felt it when I carried him down to the river.”

      And the murderer, at these thoughts, in the middle of the darkness and solitude, cast around him a look that betrayed the terror with which the souvenir still inspired him.

      That terror saved the life of Tiburcio; for the knife was thrust back into its singular scabbard, and the villain, seating himself beside the recumbent form, thrust his hand under the vest of the young man, and held it over his heart to try whether it was still beating.

      In this attitude he remained for a short while—until satisfied that Tiburcio was yet alive. Then a bright thought seemed to startle him; for a voice had spoken to him from within, stronger than the voice of conscience. It was that of personal interest. Cuchillo knew the rare qualities of Tiburcio—his talents as a rastreador, or tracker—his daring prowess in Indian warfare; and after some consideration, he resolved to enrol him in the expedition of Don Estevan, to which he would no doubt prove of great value.

      “That will be the best plan,” said the outlaw, speaking in soliloquy. “What would his life be worth to me now?—Nothing; and if I wish to have it hereafter—why, then there will be no lack of opportunities. He cannot be otherwise than grateful for what I am going to do for him. But let me see how matters stand—of course it is thirst that is killing him—how lucky I have kept a little water in my canteen!”

      He now opened the mouth of the dying man, and holding the neck of the leathern bottle to his lips, poured some drops down his throat. The water produced an almost instantaneous reanimation, and the young man opened his eyes, but soon closed them again.

      “That shows he is coming round,” muttered Cuchillo.

      Twice or thrice he repeated the operation, each time doubling the dose of water. Finally, at the end of half an hour or so, Tiburcio was sufficiently recovered to be able to raise himself up, and to answer the questions put to him by the man who was, in reality, the preserver of his life.

      Tiburcio Arellanos was still but a young man; but the sort of life he had led—solitary, and dependent on his own resources—had given to his judgment a precocious maturity. He therefore observed a degree of prudence in recounting to Cuchillo the death of his adopted mother, to which subject the outlaw had guided the conversation.

      “During the twenty-four hours that I passed by the death-bed of my mother,” said Tiburcio, “I quite forgot to attend to my horse; and after all was over I closed the door of the cottage, where I never wished to return, and I set out upon this journey. The poor animal, so long neglected, became feeble on the second day, and fell dead under me: and, to my misfortune, my water-bottle was broken in the fall, and the water spilled upon the sand. I remained on the spot till thirst brought on fever, and then I strayed away; and after wandering about, I know not how long, I fell, as my horse had done, expecting never more to rise.”

      “I comprehend all that,” responded Cuchillo. “Well! it is astonishing how people will regret the death of parents, who do not leave them the slightest inheritance!”

      Tiburcio could have told him, that on her death-bed his adopted mother had left him a royal, as well as a terrible legacy—the secret of the Golden Valley, and the vengeance of the murder of Marcos Arellanos. Both had been, confided to him—the golden secret upon the especial conditions that Tiburcio would, if necessary, spend the whole of his life in searching for the assassin.

      Tiburcio appeared to take no notice of Cuchillo’s last reflection, and perhaps his discretion proved the saving of his life: for had the outlaw been made sure that he was in possession of the secret of the Golden Valley, it is not likely he would have made any further efforts to save him, but the reverse.

      “And is that a fact,” continued Cuchillo, interrogatively, “that with the exception of a hut which you have abandoned, a horse which has dropped dead between your legs, and the garments you carry on your back, that Arellanos and his widow have left you nothing?”

      “Nothing but the memory of their goodness to me, and a reverence for their name.”

      “Poor Arellanos! I was very sorry for him,” said Cuchillo, whose hypocrisy had here committed him to an unguarded act of imprudence.

      “You knew him then?” hastily inquired Tiburcio, with some show of surprise. СКАЧАТЬ