The Tiger-Slayer: A Tale of the Indian Desert. Gustave Aimard

prostrated by grief, I felt hope failing me. 'Courage,' he would say to me in his rough voice, laying his hand on my shoulders; and I would feel galvanised by the touch, and draw myself up at the sound of that cherished voice, ready to recommence the struggle, for I felt myself stronger. Several years passed in the midst of a felicity which nothing came to trouble. I had a wife I adored, charming children for whom I formed dreams of the future; in short, I wanted for nothing save my poor comrade, about whom I could discover nothing from the moment he left me, in spite of my constant inquiries. Now, my happiness has faded away never to return. My wife, my children are dead—cruelly murdered in their sleep by Indians, who carried my hacienda by storm. I alone remained alive amid the smoking ruins of that abode where I had spent so many happy days. All I loved was eternally buried beneath the ashes. My heart was broken, and I did not wish to survive all that was dear to me; but a friend, the only one that remained to me, saved me. He carried me off by main force to his tribe, for he was an Indian. By his care and devotion he recalled me to life, and restored to me, if not the hope of a happiness henceforth impossible for me, at least the courage to struggle against that destiny whose blows had been so rude. He died only a few months back. Before closing his eyes for ever he made me swear to do all he asked of me. I promised him. 'Brother,' he said, 'every man must proceed in life toward a certain object. So soon as I am dead, go in search of that friend from whom you have so long been separated. You will find him, I feel convinced. He will trace your line of conduct.' Two hours later the worthy chief died in my arms. So soon as his body was committed to the earth I set out. This very day, as I told you, I reached Guaymas. My intention is to bury myself immediately in the wilderness; for if my poor friend be still alive, I can only find him there."

      There was a lengthened silence, at length broken by Belhumeur.

      "Hum! All that is very sad, mate, I must allow," he said, tossing his head. "You are rushing upon a desperate enterprise, in which the chances of success are almost null. A man is a grain of sand lost in the desert. Who knows, even supposing he still lives, at what place he may be at this moment; and if, while you are seeking him on one side, he may not be on the other? Still, I have a proposition to make to you, which, I believe, can only prove advantageous."

      "I know it, my friend, before you tell it me. I thank you, and accept it," the Frenchman replied quickly.

      "It is agreed then. We start together. You will come with me into Apacheria?"

      "Yes."

      "By Jove! I am in luck. I have hardly separated from Loyal Heart ere Heaven brings me together with a friend as precious as he is."

      "Who is that Loyal Heart you mention?"

      "The friend with whom I lived so long, and whom you shall know some day. But come, we will start at daybreak."

      "Whenever you please."

      "I have the meeting with Eagle-head two days' journey from here. I am much mistaken, or he is waiting for me by this time."

      "What are you going to do in Apacheria?"

      "I do not know. Eagle-head asked me to accompany him, and I am going. It is my rule never to ask my friends more of their secrets than they are willing to tell me. In that way we are more free."

      "Excellent reasoning, my dear Belhumeur; but, as we shall be together for a long time, I hope, at least—"

      "I, too."

      "It is right," the Frenchman continued, "that you should know my name, which I have hitherto forgotten to tell you."

      "That need not trouble you; for I could easily give you one if you had reasons for preserving your incognito."

      "None at all: my name is Count Louis de Prébois Crancé."

      Belhumeur rose as if moved by a spring, took off his fur cap, and bowing before his new friend, said—

      "Pardon me, sir count, for the free manner in which I have addressed you. Had I known in whose company I had the honour of being, I should certainly not have taken so great a liberty."

      "Belhumeur, Belhumeur," the count said with a mournful smile, and seizing his hand quickly, "is our friendship to commence in that way? There are here only two men ready to share the same life, run the same dangers, and confront the same foes. Let us leave to the foolish inhabitants of cities those vain distinctions which possess no significance for us; let us be frankly and loyally brothers. I only wish to be to you Louis, your good comrade, your devoted friend, in the same way as you are to me only Belhumeur, the rough wood ranger."

      The Canadian's face shone with pleasure at these words.

      "Well spoken," he said gaily, "well spoken, on my soul! I am but a poor ignorant hunter; and, by my faith, why should I conceal it? What you have just said to me has gone straight to my heart. I am yours, Louis, for life and death; and I hope to prove to you soon, comrade, that I have a certain value."

      "I am convinced of it; but we understand each other now, do we not?"

      "By Jove—!"

      At this moment there was such a tremendous disturbance in the street, that it drowned that in the room. As always happens under such circumstances, the adventurers assembled in the pulquería were silent of a common accord, in order to listen. Shouts, the clashing of sabres, the stamping of horses, drowned at intervals by the discharge of fire arms, could be clearly distinguished.

      "Caray!" Belhumeur exclaimed, "there's fighting going on in the street."

      "I am afraid so," the pulquero laconically answered, who was more than half drunk, as he swallowed a glass of refino.

      Suddenly from sabre hilts and pistol butts resounded vigorously on the badly-joined plank of the door, and a powerful voice shouted angrily—

      "Open, in the devil's name, or I'll smash in your miserable door!"

      CHAPTER IV.

      COUNT MAXIME GAËTAN DE LHORAILLES.

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      Before explaining to the reader the cause of the infernal noise which suddenly rose to disturb the tranquility of the people assembled in the pulquería, we are obliged to go back a little distance.

      About three years before the period in which our story opens, on a cold and rainy December night, eight men, whose costumes and manners showed them to belong to the highest Parisian society, were assembled in an elegant private room of the Café Anglais.

      The night was far advanced; the wax candles, two-thirds consumed, only spread a mournful light; the rain lashed the windows, and the wind howled lugubriously. The guests, seated round the table and the relics of a splendid supper, seemed, in spite of themselves, to have been infected by the gloomy melancholy that brooded over nature, and, lying back on their chairs, some slept, while others, lost in thought, paid no attention to what was going on around them.

      The clock on the mantelpiece slowly struck three, and the last sound had scarcely died away ere the repeated cracking of a postilion's whip could be heard beneath the windows of the room.

      The door opened and a waiter came in.

      "The post-chaise the Count de Lhorailles ordered is waiting," he said.

      "Thanks," one of the guests said, dismissing the waiter by a sign.

      The latter went out, and closed the door after him. The few words he had uttered had broken the charm which enchained the guests; all sat up, as if aroused from sleep suddenly; and turning to a young man of thirty, they said—

      "It is really true that you are going?"

      "I am," he answered, with a nod of affirmation.

      "Where to, though? People do not usually part in this mysterious way," one of the guests continued.

      The gentleman to whom the remark was addressed smiled sorrowfully.