The Trapper's Daughter: A Story of the Rocky Mountains. Gustave Aimard
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frankly than try to deceive me for a purpose I cannot divine. Alas!" she continued, with a sigh, "Am I not your daughter, and must undergo the consequences of the life you have chosen?"
The squatter frowned.
"I believe that your words contain a reproach," he replied. "Life is scarce opening for you; then how do you dare to judge the actions of a man?"
"I judge nothing, father. As you say, life is scarce opening for me; still, however short my existence may have been, it has been one long suffering."
"That is true, poor girl," the squatter said, gently; "pardon me, I should be so glad to see you happy. Alas! Heaven has not blessed my efforts, though all I have done has been for your sake."
"Do not say that, father," she quickly exclaimed; "do not thus make me morally your accomplice, or render me responsible for your crimes, which I execrate, else you would impel me to desire death."
"Ellen, Ellen! you misunderstood what I said to you; I never had the intention," he said, much embarrassed.
"No more of this," she went on; "we are going, you said, I think, father? Our retreat is discovered, we must fly; that is what you wish to tell me?"
"Yes," he said, "it is that, though I cannot imagine how you have learned it."
"No matter, father. And in what direction shall we proceed?"
"Temporarily we shall conceal ourselves in the Sierra de los Comanches."
"In order that our pursuers may lose our trail?"
"Yes, for that reason, and for another," he added, in a low voice.
But, however low he spoke, Ellen heard him.
"What other?"
"It does not concern you, child, but myself alone."
"You are mistaken, father," she said, with considerable resolution; "from the moment that I am your accomplice, I must know all. Perhaps," she added, with a sad smile, "I may be able to give you good advice."
"I will do without it."
"One word more. You have numerous enemies, father."
"Alas! Yes," he said, carelessly.
"Who are those who compel you to fly today?"
"The most implacable of all, Don Miguel Zarate."
"The man whose daughter you assassinated in so cowardly a way."
Red Cedar struck the table passionately.
"Ellen!" he shouted.
"Do you know any other appellation more correct than that?" she asked, coldly.
The bandit looked down.
"Then," she continued, "you are about to fly – fly forever?"
"What is to be done?" he muttered.
Ellen bent over him, laid her white hand on his arm, and regarded him fixedly.
"Who are the men about to join you in a few hours?" she asked.
"Fray Ambrosio, Andrés Garote – our old friends, in short."
"That is just," the girl murmured, with a gesture of disgust, "a common danger brings you together. Well, my father, you and your friends are all cowards."
At this violent insult which his daughter coldly hurled in his teeth, the squatter turned pale, and rose suddenly.
"Silence!" he shouted, furiously.
"The tiger, when attacked in its lair, turns on the hunters," the girl went on, without displaying any emotion; "why do you not follow their example?"
A sinister smile played round the corners of the bandit's mouth.
"I have something better in my pocket," he said, with an accent impossible to describe.
The maiden looked at him for a moment.
"Take care," she at length said to him in a deep voice; "take care! The hand of God is on you, and His vengeance will be terrible."
After uttering these words, she slowly withdrew and entered the room set apart for her. The bandit stood for a moment, crushed by this anathema; but he soon threw up his head, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and lay down by the side of his sons, muttering in a hoarse and ironical voice:
"God! Does He exist?"
Soon, no other sound was audible in the jacal saving that produced by the breathing of the three men. Ellen was praying fervently, while the storm redoubled its fury outside.
CHAPTER III
A CONVERSATION
On leaving the cabin, Don Pablo recrossed the river, and found his way back to the thicket where he had tied his horse up. The poor animal, terrified by the lightning and the hoarse rolling of the thunder, uttered a snort of pleasure at seeing its master again. Without loss of a moment, the young man leaped into the saddle and started at a gallop.
The rain fell in torrents, the wind whistled violently, the young man feared at each moment losing his way, and groped through the immense solitude which stretched out before him, and which the darkness prevented him from sounding. Like all well-gifted men habituated to an adventurous life, Don Pablo de Zarate was well fitted for struggling. His will grew in proportion to the difficulties that rose before him, and instead of discouraging him, obstacles only confirmed him in his resolution. So soon as he had chosen an object, he reached it in spite of all.
His love for Ellen, born, as it were, through a thunderclap – as, in fact, most true loves spring into life, where the unexpected always plays the chief part – this love, we say, for which he was in no way prepared, and which surprised him at the moment which he least dreamed of it, had assumed, without his will, gigantic proportions, which all the reasons which should have rendered it impossible, only augmented.
Although he bore the deepest hatred for Red Cedar, and, had the opportunity presented itself, would have killed him without hesitation like a dog, his love for Ellen had become a worship, an adoration about which he no longer reasoned, but which he endured with that intoxication and that delight felt in forbidden things. This girl, who had remained so pure and chaste amid this family of bandits, possessed an irresistible attraction for him. He had said in his conversation with her he was intimately convinced that she could not be Red Cedar's daughter. It would have been impossible for him to give his reasons; but with that tenacity of purpose which only some few men possess he necessarily sought the proofs of this conviction which nothing supported, and, even more, he sought these proofs with the certainty of finding them.
For a month past, he had discovered, by an inexplicable chance, Red Cedar's retreat, which Valentine, the skilful trail-hunter, had been unable to detect. Don Pablo had immediately profited by his good fortune to see again the girl he had believed lost for ever. This unexpected success appeared to him a good omen; and every morning, without saying anything to his friends, he mounted his horse upon the first excuse that offered, and rode thirty miles to speak with her he loved for a few moments.
Every consideration was silent in presence of his love: he allowed his friends to exhaust themselves in vain researches, preciously keeping his secret in order to be happy, at least, for a few days; for he perfectly foresaw that the moment must arrive when Red Cedar would be discovered. But, in the meanwhile, he enjoyed the present. With all those who love in this way, the future is nothing, the present is all in all.
Don Pablo galloped on by the glare of the flashes, feeling neither the rain that inundated him, nor the wind that howled round his head. Absorbed in his love, he thought of the conversation he had held with Ellen, and pleased himself with recalling all the words that had been exchanged during the hour, which slipped away almost too rapidly.
All at once, his horse, to which he paid no attention, neighed, and Don Pablo raised his head intuitively. Ten paces ahead of him, a horseman was standing motionless across his path.
"Ah, ah!" said Don Pablo, as he drew himself up on the saddle, and cocked his pistols; "You are very late on the road, comrade. Let me pass, if you please."
"I am no later than yourself, Don Pablo,"