CHAPTER VI.
THE MISSIONARY.
With time the relations existing between the hunters and the Indianswere drawn closer, and became more friendly. In the desert physicalstrength is the quality most highly esteemed. Man, compelled to struggleincessantly against the dangers of every description that rise eachmoment before him, is bound to look only to himself for the means tosurmount them. Hence the Indians profess a profound contempt, for sicklypeople, and weak and timid nerves.
Valentine easily induced Unicorn to seize, during the hunt of the wildhorses, the Mexican magistrates, in order to make hostages of them ifthe conspiracy were unsuccessful. What the hunter foresaw happened. RedCedar had opposed stratagem to stratagem; and, as we have seen, DonMiguel was arrested in the midst of his triumph, at the very moment whenhe fancied himself master of the Paso del Norte.
After Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo had seen, from their hidingplace in the bushes, the mournful escort pass that was taking Don Miguelas a prisoner to Santa Fe, they held a council. Moments were precious;for in Mexico conspirators have the sad privilege over every otherprisoner of being tried quickly, and not left to pine. The prisoner mustbe saved. Valentine, with that promptitude of decision which formed thesalient point of his character, soon arranged in his head one of thosebold schemes which only he could discover.
"Courage!" he said to Don Pablo. "As long as the heart beats in thebreast there is hope, thank Heaven! The first hand is lost, I allow; butnow for the second game."
Don Pablo had entire faith in Valentine: he had often been in theposition to try his friend. If these words did not completely reassurehim, they at least almost restored his hope, and gave him back thatcourage so necessary to him at this supreme moment, and which hadabandoned him.
"Speak, my friend," he said. "What is to be done?"
"Let us attend to the most important thing first, and save FatherSeraphin, who devoted himself for us."
The three men started. The night was a gloomy one. The moon onlyappeared at intervals: incessantly veiled by thick clouds which passedover its disc, it seemed to shed its sickly rays regretfully on theearth. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, whichuttered mysterious murmurs as they came into collision. The coyoteshowled in the plain, and at times their sinister form shot athwart theskyline. After a march of about an hour the three men approached thespot where the missionary had fallen from the effect of Red Cedar'sbullet; but he had disappeared. An alarm mingled with a frightful agonycontracted the hunter's hearts. Valentine took a despairing glancearound; but the darkness was too dense for him possibly to distinguishanything.
"What is to be done?" Don Pablo asked sadly.
"Seek," Valentine replied sharply: "he cannot be far."
Curumilla had already taken up the trail, and had disappeared in thegloom. The Araucano had never been a great speaker naturally: with agehe had grown almost dumb, and never uttered a word save when absolutelynecessary. But if the Indian did not talk, he acted; and in criticalsituations his determination was often worth long harangues. Don Pablo,obedient to Valentine's orders, threw his rifle over his shoulder, andprepared to execute them.
"Where are you going?" the hunter asked him, as he seized his arm.
"To look for Father Seraphin."
"Wait."
The two men stood motionless, listening to the mysterious sounds of thedesert, that nameless melody which plunges the soul into a soft reverie.Nearly an hour passed thus, nothing revealing to the hunters thatCurumilla's search had proved successful. Valentine, growing impatientat this long delay, was also preparing to go on, at once the weak,snapping cry of the walkon rose in the air.
"What's that?" Don Pablo asked in surprise.
"Silence!" Valentine muttered.
A second time the walkon sang, but this time stronger, and much nearer.Valentine raised his fingers to his lips, and imitated the sharp, shrillyell of the ocelot twice, with such perfection that Don Pablo startedinvoluntarily, and looked round for the wild beast, whose eyes hefancied he could see flashing behind a thicket. Almost immediately thenote of the walkon was heard a third time. Valentine rested the butt ofhis rifle on the ground.
"Good!" he said. "Do not be alarmed, Don Pablo. Curumilla has foundFather Seraphin."
The young man looked at him in amazement. The hunter smiled.
"They will both arrive directly," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Child!" Valentine interrupted him, "In the desert the human voice ismore injurious than useful. The song of birds, the cry of wild beasts,serve us as a language."
"Yes," the young man answered simply, "that is true. I have often heardit stated; but I was not aware you could understand one another soeasily."
"That is nothing," the hunter answered good-humouredly: "you will seemuch more if you only pass a month in our company."
In a few moments the sound of footsteps became audible, at first faint,then gradually coming nearer, and two shadows were dimly drawn on thenight.
"Halloa!" Valentine shouted as he Raised and cocked his rifle, "friendor foe?"
"_Pennis_ (brothers)," a voice answered.
"It is Curumilla," said Valentine. "Let us go to meet him."
Don Pablo followed him, and they soon reached the Indian, who walkedslowly, obliged as he was to support, almost carry, the missionary.
When Father Seraphin fell off his horse he almost immediately lost hissenses. He remained for a long time lying in the ditch, but by degreesthe night cold had brought him round again. At the first moment the poorpriest, whose ideas were still confused, had cast anxious glances aroundhim, while asking himself how he came there. He tried to rise; but thena poignant pain he felt in his shoulder reminded him of what hadoccurred. Still he did not despair. Alone, by night in the desert,exposed to a thousand unknown dangers, of which the least was beingdevoured by wild beasts, without weapons to defend himself, too weak,indeed, to attempt it, even if he had them, he resolved not to remain inthis terrible position, but make the greatest efforts to rise, and draghimself as well as he could to the Paso, which was three leagues distantat the most, where he was sure of finding that care his conditiondemanded.
Father Seraphin, like the majority of the missionaries who generouslydevote themselves to the welfare of humanity, was a man who, under aWeak and almost feminine appearance, concealed an indomitable energy,and a resolution that would withstand all trials. So soon as he hadformed his plan he began carrying it out. With extreme difficulty andatrocious pain he succeeded in fastening his handkerchief round hisshoulder, so as to check the hemorrhage. It took more than an hourbefore he could stand on his legs: often he felt himself fainting, acold perspiration beaded at the root of his hair, he had a buzzing inhis ears, and everything seemed to be turning round him; but he wrestledwith the pain, clasped his hands with an effort, raised his tear ladeneyes to heaven, and murmured from the bottom of his heart,--
"O God! Deign to support thy servant, for he has set on thee all hishopes and confidence."
Prayer, when made with faith, produces in a man an effect whoseconsequences are immediate; it consoles him, gives him courage, andalmost restores him the strength that has deserted him. This was whathappened to Father Seraphin. After uttering these few words he set outboldly, supporting his tottering footsteps with a stick, which aprovidential chance had placed in his way. He walked thus for nearlyhalf a league stopping at every instant to draw breath; but humanendurance has limits beyond which it cannot go. In spite of the effortshe made, the missionary at length felt his legs give way under, him; heunderstood that he could not go further; and he sank at the foot of atree, certain that he had attempted impossibilities, and henceforthresigning to Providence the care of saving him.
It was at this moment Curumilla arrived near him. The Indian aided himto rise, and then warned his comrades of the success of his search.Father Seraphin, though the chief offered to carry him, refused, andwished to walk to join his friends; but his strength desert
ed him asecond time, he lost his senses, and fell into the arms of the Indian,who watched him attentively; for he noticed his increasing weakness, andforesaw his fall. Valentine and Curumilla hastily constructed a litterof tree branches, on which they laid the poor wounded man, and raisinghim on their shoulders, went off rapidly. The night passed away, and thesun was already high on the horizon, and yet the hunters--were marching.At length, at about eleven o'clock, they reached the cavern which servedValentine as a shelter, and to which he had resolved to carry hispatient, that he might himself nurse him.
Father Seraphin was in a raging fever; his face was red, his eyesflashing. As nearly always happens with gunshot wounds, a suppuratingfever had declared itself. The missionary was laid on a bed of furs, andValentine immediately prepared to probe the wound. By a singular chancethe ball had lodged in the shoulder without fracturing the blade bone.Valentine drew it; and then helped by Curumilla, who had quietly poundedoregano leaves, he formed a cataplasm, which he laid on the wound, afterfirst carefully washing it. Scarcely had this been done ere themissionary fell into a deep sleep, which lasted till nightfall.
Valentine's treatment had effected wonders. The fever had disappeared,the priest's features were calmed, the flush that purpled his cheeks hadgiven place to a pallor caused by the loss of blood; in short, he was aswell as could be expected. On opening his eyes he perceived the threehunters watching him anxiously. He smiled, and said in a weak voice,--
"Thanks, my brothers, thanks for the help you have afforded me. Heavenwill reward you. I feel much better."
"The Lord be praised!" Valentine answered. "You will escape, my father,more cheaply than I had dared to hope."
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes, your wound, though serious, is not dangerous, and in a few daysyou can, if you think necessary, resume your avocations."
"I thank you for this new good, my dear Valentine. I no longer count thetimes I have owed my life to you. Heaven, in its infinite goodness, hasplaced you near me to support me in my tribulations, and succour me indays of danger."
The hunter blushed.
"Do not speak so, my father," he said; "I have only performed a sacredduty. Do you feel strong enough to talk for a few minutes with me?"
"Yes. Speak, my friend."
"I wished to ask your advice."
"My talents are very slight: still you know how I love you, Valentine.Tell me what vexes you, and perhaps I may be able to be useful to you."
"I believe it, my father."
"Speak, then, in Heaven's name, my friend; for, if you have recourse tome, the affair must be very serious."
"It cannot be more so."
"Go on: I am listening."
And the missionary settled himself on his bed to hear as comfortably ashe could the confession the hunter wished to make to him.
The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West Page 30
