The Comanches had entrenched themselves with their squaws in the great square of the village, where the flames did not affect them greatly. Indeed, the wretched callis had not taken long to burn; the fire was already expiring for lack of nourishment, and they were fighting on a heap of cinders.

Valentine, while fighting in the first ranks of his allies, contented himself with holding the positions he had succeeded in occupying, and did not attempt to repulse the Apaches. All at once the war cry of the Comanches, mingled with a formidable hurrah, sounded in the rear of the Apaches, who were attacked with incredible fury.

"Bloodson! Bloodson!" the Apaches shouted, attacked with extraordinary terror.

It was, in truth, the stranger, who, followed by Don Miguel, General Ibañez, Unicorn, and all his comrades, rushed like a whirlwind on the Apaches. Valentine gave vent to a shout of joy in response to the hurrah of his friends, and rushed forward at the head of his warriors. From this moment the medley became horrible: it was no longer a combat, but a butchery, an atrocious carnage!

CHAPTER XXI
THE AVENGER

In order fully to comprehend the ensuing facts, we are constrained to relate here an event which occurred about twenty years before our story commences.

At that remote period Texas belonged, if not de facto, still de jure, to Mexico. Marvellously situated on the Mexican Gulf, endowed with a temperate climate and a fertile soil, which, if tickled with a spade, laughs with a harvest, Texas is assuredly one of the richest countries in the New World. Hence, the Government, foreseeing the future of this province, did all in its power to populate it.

Unfortunately, it effected very little, incapable as it was of populating even Mexico. Still, a considerable number of Mexicans went across and settled in Texas.

Among the men who let themselves be tempted by the magic promises of this virgin soil were two brothers, Don Stefano and Don Pacheco de Irala, of the best families in the province of Nuevo-León. The active part they played in the war of independence had ruined them, and not obtaining from the liberals, after the triumph of their cause, the reward they had a right to expect for the services they had rendered – Don Gregorio, their father, having even paid with his life for his attachment to the party – they had no other resource but settling in Texas, a new country, in which they had hopes of speedily re-establishing their fortunes.

Owing to their thorough knowledge of agriculture, and their intelligence, they soon gave a considerable extension to their settlement, which they had the pleasure of seeing daily grow more prosperous, in defiance of Indians, buffaloes, tempests, and illness. The Hacienda del Papagallo (Parrot farm), inhabited by the two brothers, was, like all the houses in this country, which are continually exposed to the inrods of the savages, a species of fortress built of carved stone and surrounded by a thick and embrasured wall, with a gun at each corner: it stood on the top of a rather lofty hill, and commanded the plain for a considerable distance.

Don Pacheco, the elder of the two brothers, was married and had two daughters, little creatures scarce three years of age, whose joyous cries and ravishing smiles filled the interior of the hacienda with gaiety. Hardly three leagues from the farm was another, occupied by Northern Americans, adventurers of more than dubious conduct, who had come to the country no one knew how, and who, since they inhabited it, led a mysteriously problematical existence, which gave birth to the strangest and most contradictory reports about them.

It was whispered that, under the guise of peaceful farmers, these men maintained relations with the bandits who flocked into the country from every side, and that they were the secret chiefs of a dangerous association of malefactors, who had ravaged the country for several years past with impunity. On several occasions the two brothers had disputes with these unpleasant neighbours about cattle that had disappeared and other pecadillos of the same nature. In a word, they lived with them on the footing of an armed peace.

A few days previous to the period to which this chapter refers, Don Pacheco had a sharp altercation with one of these Americans of the name of Wilkes, about several slaves the fellow tried to seduce from hacienda, and the result was, that Don Pacheco, naturally hot-tempered, gave him a tremendous horsewhipping. The other swallowed the insult without making any attempt to revenge himself; but he had withdrawn, muttering the most terrible threats against Don Pacheco.

Still, as we have said, the affair had no further consequences. Nearly a month had passed, and the brothers had heard nothing from their neighbours. On the evening of the day which we take up our narrative, Don Stefano, mounted on a mustang, was preparing to leave the hacienda, to ride to Nacogdoches, where important business called him.

"Then, you are really going?" Don Pacheco said.

"At once: you know that I put off the journey as long as I could."

"How long do you expect to be absent?"

"Four days, at the most."

"Good: we shall not expect you, then, before."

"Oh, it is very possible I may return sooner."

"Why so?"

"Shall I tell you? Well, I do not feel easy in mind."

"What do you mean?"

"I am anxious, I know not why. Many times I have left you, brother, for longer journeys than this – "

"Well!" Don Pacheco interrupted him.

"I never felt before as I do at this moment."

"You startle me, brother. What is the matter with you?"

"I could not explain it to you. I have a foreboding of evil. In spite of myself, my heart is contracted on leaving you."

"That is strange," Don Pacheco muttered, suddenly becoming thoughtful. "I do not dare confess it to you, brother; but I have just the same feeling as yourself, and am afraid I know not why."

"Brother," Don Stefano replied in a gloomy voice, "you know how we love each other. Since our father's death, we have constantly shared everything – joy and sorrow, fortune or reverses. Brother, this foreboding is sent us from Heaven. A great danger threatens us."

"Perhaps so," Don Pacheco said sadly.

"Listen, brother," Don Stefano remarked, resolutely. "I will not go."

And he made a movement to dismount, but his brother checked him.

"No," he said, "we are men. We must not, then, let ourselves be conquered by foolish thoughts, which are only chimeras produced by a diseased imagination."

"No. I prefer to remain here a few days longer."

"You told me yourself that your interests claim your presence at Nacogdoches. Go, but return as soon as possible."

There was a silence, during which the brothers reflected deeply. The moon rose pallid and mournful on the horizon.

"That Wilkes is a villain," Don Stefano went on; "who knows whether he is not waiting my departure to attempt on the hacienda one of those terrible expeditions of which he is accused by the public voice?"

Don Pacheco began laughing, and, stretching out his hand in the direction of the farm, whose white walls stood out clearly on the dark blue sky, he said: —

"The Papagallo has too hard sides for those bandits. Go in peace, brother, they will not venture it."

"May Heaven grant it!" Don Stefano murmured.

"Oh, those men are cowards, and I inflicted a well-merited punishment on the scoundrel."

"Agreed."

"Well?"

"It's precisely because those men are cowards that I fear them. Canarios! I know as well as you that they will not dare openly to attack you."

"What have I to fear, then?" Don Pacheco interrupted him.

"Treachery, brother."

"Why, have I not five hundred devoted peons on the hacienda? Go without fear, I tell you."

"You wish it?"

"I insist on it."

"Good-bye, then," Don Stefano said, stifling a sigh. "Good-bye, brother, till we meet again."

Don Stefano dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and started at full speed. For a long time his brother followed the rider's outline on the sandy road, till he turned a corner, and Don Pacheco re-entered the hacienda with an anxious heart.

Don Stefano, stimulated by the vague alarm that oppressed him, only stopped the absolutely necessary period at Nacogdoches to finish his business, and hurried back scarce two days after his departure. Strangely enough, the nearer he drew to the farm, the greater his anxiety grew, though it was impossible for him to explain the causes of the feeling.

Around home all was tranquil – the sky, studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, spread over his head its dome of azure; at intervals, the howling of the coyote was mingled with the hoarse lowing of the buffaloes, or the roars of the jaguars in quest of prey.

Don Stefano still advanced, bowed over his horse's neck, with pale forehead and heaving chest, listening to the numerous sounds of the solitude, and trying to pierce with vivid glance the darkness that hid from him the point to which he was hurrying with the speed of a tornado.

After a ride of six hours, the Mexican suddenly uttered a yell of agony, as he violently pulled up his panting steed. Before him the Hacienda del Papagallo appeared, surrounded by a belt of flames. The magnificent building was now only a shapeless pile of smoking ruins, reflecting its ruddy flames on the sky for a considerable distance.

"My brother! My brother!" Don Stefano shrieked in his despair.

And he rushed into the furnace.

A mournful silence brooded over the hacienda. At every step the Mexican stumbled over corpses half-consumed by the flames and horribly mutilated. Mad with grief and rage, with his hair and clothes burned by the flames that enveloped him, Don Stefano continued his researches.

What was he seeking in this accursed charnel house? He did not himself know, but still he sought. Not a shriek, not a sigh! On all sides the silence of death! – that terrible silence which makes the heart leap, and ices the bravest man with fear!

What had taken place during Don Stefano's absence? – What enemy had produced these ruins in a few short hours?

The first beams of dawn were beginning to tinge the horizon with their fugitive opaline tints, and the sky gradually assumed that ruddy hue which announces sunrise. Don Stefano had passed the whole night in vain and sterile researches, and though he had constantly interrogated the ruins, they remained dumb.

The Mexican, overcome by grief, and compelled to acknowledge his own impotence, gave Heaven a glance of reproach and despair, and throwing himself on the calcined ground, he hid his face in his hands, and wept! The sight of this young, handsome, brave man weeping silently over the ruins whose secret he had been unable to discover must have been heartrending.

Suddenly, Don Stefano started up, with flashing eye, and a face on which indomitable energy was imprinted.

"Oh!" he shouted, in a voice that resembled the howl of a wild beast, "vengeance! Vengeance!"

A voice that seemed to issue from the tomb answered his, and Don Stefano turned round with a shudder. Two yards from him, his brother, pale, mutilated, and bleeding, was leaning against a fallen wall, like a spectre.

"Ah!" the Mexican exclaimed, as he rushed toward him.

"You come too late, brother," the wounded man murmured, in a voice choking with the death rattle.

"Oh! I will save you, brother," Don Stefano said, desperately.

"No," Don Pacheco replied sadly, shaking his head, "I am dying, brother; your foreboding did not deceive you."

"Hope!"

And, raising his brother in his powerful arms, he prepared to pay him that attention which his condition seemed to demand.

"I am dying, I tell you – all is useless," Don Pacheco continued, in a voice that momentarily grew weaker. "Listen to me."

"Speak!"

"Say that you will avenge me, brother?" the dying man asked, his eye emitting a fierce flash.

"I will avenge you," Don Stefano answered; "I swear it by our Saviour!"

"Good! I have been assassinated by men dressed as Apache Indians, but among them I fancied I recognised – "

"Whom?"

"Wilkes the squatter, and Samuel, his accomplice."

"Enough! Where is your wife?"

"Dead! My daughters, save them!" Don Pacheco murmured.

"Where are they?"

"Carried off by the bandits."

"Oh! I will discover them, even if hidden in the bowels of the earth! Did you not recognise anyone else?"

"Yes, yes, one more," the dying man said, in an almost unintelligible voice.

Don Stefano bent over his brother in order to hear more distinctly.

"Who? Tell me – brother, speak in Heaven's name!"

The wounded man made a supreme effort.

"There was another man, formerly a peon of ours."

"His name?" Don Stefano asked eagerly.

Don Pacheco was growing weaker, his face had assumed an earthy hue, and his eyes could no longer distinguish objects.

"I cannot remember," he sighed rather than said.

"One word, only one, brother."

"Yes, listen – it is Sand – ah!"

He suddenly fell back, uttering a terrible cry, and clutching at his brother's arm; he writhed in a final convulsion, and all was over.

Don Stefano knelt by his brother's corpse, embraced it tenderly, piously closed its eyes, and then got up. He dug a grave with his machete among the smoking ruins of the hacienda, in which he laid his brother's body. When this sacred duty was performed, he addressed an ardent prayer to the Deity in behalf of the sinful man who was about to appear before His judgment seat, and then, stretching out his arms over the grave, he said in a loud, distinct voice —

"Sleep in peace, brother, sleep in peace. I promise you a glorious revenge."

Don Stefano slowly descended the hill, found his horse, which had spent the night in nibbling the young tree shoots, and started at a gallop, after giving a parting glance to these ruins, under which all his happiness lay buried.

No one ever heard of Don Stefano again in Texas: was he dead too, without taking that vengeance which he had sworn to achieve? No one could say. The Americans had also disappeared since that awful night and left no sign. In these primitive countries things are soon forgotten: life passes away there so rapidly, and is so full of strange incidents, that the events of the morrow obliterate the remembrances of those of the eve. Ere long the population of Texas had completely forgotten this terrible catastrophe.

Every year, however, a man appeared on the hill where the hacienda once stood, whose ruins the luxuriant vegetation of the country had long ago overgrown; this man seated himself on the silent ruins, and passed the whole night with his face buried in his hands.

"What did he there?"

"Whence did he come?"

"Who was he?"

These three questions ever remained unanswered, for at daybreak the stranger rode off again, not to return till the following year on the anniversary of the frightful tragedy. One strange fact was proved however, after every visit paid by this man – one, two, or even sometimes three horribly mutilated human heads were found lying on the hill.

What demoniac task was this incomprehensible being performing? Was it Don Stefano pursuing his vengeance?

We shall probably see presently.

CHAPTER XXII
EXPLANATORY

We are compelled to retrograde a short distance in our story, in order to explain to the reader the arrival of that help which in an instant altered the face of the fight, and saved Valentine and his friends from captivity, probably from death.

Unicorn carefully watched the movements of Red Cedar and his band; since the Pirate's arrival on the desert he had not once let him out of sight. Hidden in the chaparral on the riverbank, he had been an unseen spectator of the bandit's fight with the hunters; but, with that caution which forms the basis of the Indian character, he had left his friends perfect liberty to act as they thought proper, with the design of interfering when necessary.

When he saw the Pirates disarmed, and reduced to his last shifts, he considered it useless to follow him longer, and proceeded in the direction of his village, to assemble his warriors, and go at their head to attack the camp of the scalp hunters.

The Comanche chief was alone with his squaw, from whom he scarcely ever separated; they were both galloping along the bank of the Gila, being careful to hide themselves among the brushwood, when suddenly deafening cries, mingled with shots, and the hasty gallop of a horse, struck his ears.

Unicorn made his companion a signal to halt, and dismounted; then, cautiously crawling among the trees, he glided like a serpent through the tall grass to the skirt of the chaparral which sheltered him. On reaching this point he cautiously rose on his knees and looked out.

A man, bearing a fainting woman across his saddle-bow, was coming up at full speed; in the distance several Indian warriors, doubtless wearied of an useless pursuit, were slowly retiring, while the fugitive rapidly drew nearer Unicorn.

The chief perceived at the first glance that he was a white. On arriving within a short distance of the spot where he lay in ambush, the newcomer looked round several times nervously; then he dismounted, took the female in his arms, laid her tenderly on the grass, and ran to the river to fill his hat with water. It was Harry, the Canadian hunter, and the female was Ellen.

So soon as he had gone off, Unicorn started from his hiding place, giving his wife a sign to follow him, and both approached the maiden, who was lying senseless on the ground. Sunbeam knelt by the side of the American girl, gently raised her head, and began paying her those delicate attentions of which women alone possess the secret. Almost immediately after, Harry ran up; but at the sight of the Indian he hurriedly dropped his hat, and drew a pistol from his girdle.

"Wah!" Unicorn said quickly, "My pale brother need not pull out his weapons – I am a friend."

"A friend?" Harry replied, ill-humouredly; "Can a redskin warrior be the friend of a white man?"

The chief crossed his arms on his broad chest, and boldly walked up to the hunter.

"I was hidden ten paces from you," he said; "had I been an enemy, the paleface would have been dead ere now."

The Canadian shook his head.

"That is possible," he said; "may heaven grant that you speak frankly, for the struggle I have gone through in saving this poor girl has so exhausted me that I could not defend her against you."

"Good!" the Indian continued, "She has nothing to fear; Unicorn is chief of his nation, when he gives his word he must be believed."

And he honestly offered his hand to the hunter. The latter hesitated for a moment, then suddenly forming a resolution, he cordially pressed the hand, saying —

"I believe you, chief; your name is known to me; you have the reputation of a wise man and brave warrior, so I trust to you; but I implore you to help me in recovering this unhappy girl."

Sunbeam gently raised her head, and gave the hunter a glance of tender sympathy, as she said in her harmonious voice —

"The pale virgin runs no danger, in a few minutes she will come to herself again; my brother may be at his ease."

"Thanks, thanks, young woman," the Canadian said, warmly; "the hope you give me fills me with joy; I can now think about avenging my poor Dick."

"What does my brother mean?" the chief asked, surprised at the flash of fury from the hunter's dark eye.

The latter, reassured as to the state of his companion, and attracted by the open and honest reception the Indian gave him, did not hesitate to confide to him not only what had occurred to himself, but also the causes which had brought him into this deserted country.

"Now," he said in the close, "I have only one desire – to place this girl in security, and then avenge my friend."

The Indian has listened unmoved and without interruption to the hunter's long story. When he had finished he seemed to reflect for some minutes, and then answered the Canadian, as he laid his hand on his shoulder —

"Then my brother wishes to take vengeance on the Apaches?"

"Yes!" the hunter exclaimed; "So soon as this girl is in a safe place I will go on their trail."

"Ah!" the Indian said, as he shook his head, "One man cannot fight with fifty."

"I do not care for the number of my enemies so long as I can come up with them."

Unicorn gave the daring young man an admiring glance.

"Good!" he said, "My brother is brave – I will help him to his vengeance."

At this moment Ellen partly opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" she murmured.

"Reassure yourself, Ellen," the hunter replied; "for the moment at least you have nothing to fear as you are surrounded by friends."

"Where is Doña Clara? I do not see her," she continued, in a weak voice.

"I will tell you presently, Ellen, what has happened to her," the hunter remarked.

Ellen sighed and was silent; she understood that Harry would not tell her fresh misfortune in her present state of weakness. Owing to Sunbeam's increasing attentions she, however, soon completely regained her senses.

"Does my sister feel her strength returned?" the squaw asked her anxiously.

"Oh," she said, "I am quite well now."

Unicorn looked fixedly at her.

"Yes," he said, "my sister is at present in a condition to travel. It is time to start, our road is long; Sunbeam will give her horse to the pale virgin, that she may be able to follow us."

"Where do you intend taking us, chief?" the hunter asked, with badly-veiled anxiety.

"Did not my brother say that he wished to avenge himself?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, he can follow me, and I will lead him to those who will help him."

"Hum!" the Canadian muttered, "I require nobody for that."

"My brother is mistaken; he requires allies, for the enemy he will have to fight is powerful."

"That is possible. But I should like to know these allies, at any rate; I am not inclined to league myself with the villainous bandits, who flock to the desert and dishonour our colour. I am a frank and honest hunter, for my part."

"My brother has spoken well," the chief answered, with a smile; "he can be at rest, and place entire confidence in those to whom I am about to lead him."

"Who are they, then?"

"One is the father of the maiden the Apaches have carried off, the others – "

"Stay, chief," the hunter quickly exclaimed, "that is sufficient, I do not want to know the rest. We will start when you please, and I will follow you anywhere."

"Good; my brother will get the horses ready, while I give some indispensable orders to my squaw."

Harry bowed in sign of acquiescence, and deftly accomplished the task, while the Comanche took his wife aside, and conversed with her in a whisper.

"Now we will go," the Comanche said, as he returned to the hunter.

"Does not Sunbeam accompany us?" Ellen asked.

"No," the chief answered laconically.

The young Indian woman smiled pleasantly on the squatter's daughter and gliding swiftly among the trees, disappeared almost instantaneously. The others mounted and started at a gallop in the opposite direction.

The Comanche warrior fancied he knew where to find Valentine and his comrades, and hence went in a direct line to the Teocali.

After the Trail-hunter's departure, Don Miguel and the other characters of our story, who remained in Bloodson's fortress, continued to sleep peaceably for several hours, and when they awoke the sun was already high on the horizon. The hacendero and the general, fatigued by the emotions of the preceding day, and but little accustomed to desert life, had yielded to sleep like men who require to regain their strength; when they opened their eyes, a plentiful meal awaited them.

Several days passed without any incident. The stranger, in spite of the cordiality of his reception, maintained a certain degree of reserve with his guests, only speaking to them when it was absolutely necessary, but never seeking to begin with them one of those conversations in which people gradually forget themselves, and insensibly glide into confidential talk. There was something frigid about the manner of this strange man, which could not be explained, but which prevented any friendly relations.

One evening, at the moment when Don Miguel and the general were preparing to lie down on the skins of wild beasts, which served as their bed, their host approached them. Through the day the two gentlemen had noticed a certain agitation among the denizens in the Teocali. An unusual excitement had prevailed, and it was plain that Bloodson was about to attempt one of those daring expeditions to which he was accustomed.

Although the two Mexicans eagerly desired to know their host's projects, they were too much men of the world to question him, and restrained their curiosity while patiently awaiting an explanation which he would not fail soon to give them.

"Good news, caballeros," he said, as he joined them.

"Oh, oh!" the general muttered, "That's novel fruit here."

Don Miguel awaited their host's explanation.

"One of my friends," Bloodson continued, "arrived here this morning, accompanied by a Canadian hunter and Red Cedar's daughter."

At this unexpected good news the Mexicans started with joy and surprise.

"Ah," Don Miguel said, "she will be a precious hostage for us."

"That is what I thought," Bloodson continued; "however, the poor child is perfectly innocent of her father's crimes; and if she is at this moment in our power, it is only because she wished to save your daughter, Don Miguel."

"What do you mean?" the hacendero asked, with an internal tremor.

"You shall understand it," Bloodson answered.

And without any further preamble, he told his listeners all the details connected with the flight of the girls, which the reader already knows.

When he had finished his narrative there was a moment's silence.

"The position is a serious one," the general said, shaking his head.

"We must save our friends, at all risks," Don Miguel exclaimed, impetuously.

"That is my intention," said Bloodson; "at present the position of affairs is improved."

"How so?" the hacendero asked.

"Because it is better for Doña Clara to be a prisoner with the Apaches than with Red Cedar."

"That is true," Don Miguel observed.

"How can we get her out of their clutches?" asked the general.

"That does not embarrass me," Bloodson said; "tomorrow, at daybreak, we will start with all our people, and go to Unicorn's village, who will join his warriors to ours, and then we will attack the Apaches in their village."

"Very good; but shall we be sure of finding my daughter at the village?"

"In the desert everything is seen and known. Do you fancy that Don Valentine has remained inactive since he left us? You may feel assured that he has long been on the trail of the young lady, if he has not already liberated her."

"May heaven grant it," the father remarked with a mournful sigh; "but who will advise us of what he has done?"

"Himself, you may be convinced of that. Still, as we are a very long distance from the village where your daughter is probably confined, we must hasten to get nearer to her; hence, my guests, get up your strength, for tomorrow will be a tiring day, I warn you. Now, permit me to wish you good night, and leave you, in order to give my final orders."

"One word more, I beg of you."

"Speak."

"What do you intend doing with the girl whom a strange accident has thrown into your power?"

"I do not know; events will decide her fate; I shall regulate my conduct by that of our common enemy."

"You said yourself," Don Miguel continued, "that the girl is innocent of her father's crimes."

Bloodson gave him a peculiar glance

"Do you not know, Don Miguel," he answered, in a hollow voice, "that in this world the innocent always suffer for the guilty?"

And, not adding a word further, he gave the Mexicans a profound bow, and slowly retired.

The two gentlemen looked after him, as he gradually disappeared in the gloom of the Teocali; then they fell back on their beds despondingly, not daring to impart to each other the sorrowful thoughts that oppressed them.