Gustave Aimard - The Indian Chief - The Story of a Revolution

The bandit looked after him for a moment.

"Miserable dog!" he muttered, "so soon as I can do without you I will settle your account, be assured."

The Indian had disappeared.

"Hum! what shall I be after now?" El Buitre continued.

Suddenly a man bounded like a jaguar, and, before the bandit could even understand what was happening, he was firmly garotted, and reduced to a state of complete powerlessness.

"You do not know what to be after? Well, I will tell you," Valentine remarked, as he sat down quietly by his side.

The first moment of surprise past, the bandit regained all his coolness and audacity, and looked impudently at the hunter.

"By God! I do not know you, comrade," he said; "but I must confess you managed that cleverly."

"You are a connoisseur."

"Slightly so."

"Yes, I am aware of it."

"But you have tied me a little too tightly. Your confounded reata cuts into my flesh."

"Bah! you will grow used to it."

"Hum!" the bandit remarked. "Did you hear all we said?"

"Nearly all."

"Deuce take me if people can now talk in the desert without having listeners!"

"What would you? It is a melancholy fact."

"Well, I must put up with it, I suppose. You were saying – "

"I! I did not say a word."

"Ah! I beg your pardon in that case; but I fancied you were cross-questioning me. You probably did not tie me up like a plug of tobacco for the mere fun of the thing."

"There is some truth in your observation. I had, I allow, another object."

"What is it?"

"To enjoy your conversation for a moment."

"You are a thousand times too kind."

"Opportunities for conversing are so rare in the desert."

"That is true."

"So you are on an expedition?"

"Yes, I am: a man must be doing something."

"That is true also. Be good enough to give me a few details."

"About what?"

"Why, this expedition."

"Ah, ah! I should like to do so, but unfortunately that is impossible."

"Only think of that! Why so?"

"I know very little."

"Ah!"

"Yes; and then I am of a very crooked temper. A person need only ask me to do a thing for me to refuse."

Valentine smiled, and drew his knife, whose dazzling blade emitted a bluish flash.

"Even if convincing reasons are offered you?"

"I do not know any," the bandit answered with a grin.

"Oh, oh!" Valentine remarked. "Still I hope I shall alter your opinion."

"Try it. Stay!" he added, suddenly changing his tone. "Enough of that sort of farce. I am in your power – nothing can save me. Kill me – no matter, I shall not say a word."

The two men exchanged glances of strange expressiveness.

"You are an idiot," Valentine answered coldly; "you understand nothing."

"I understand that you want to know the secrets of the expedition."

"You are a fool, my dear friend. Did I not tell you that I knew all?"

The bandit seemed to reflect for a minute.

"What do you want, then?" he said.

"Merely to buy you."

"Hum! that will be dear."

"You do not say no?"

"I never say no to anything."

"I see you are becoming reasonable."

"Who knows?"

"At how much do you estimate your share of this night's booty?"

El Buitre looked at him as if wishful to read the thoughts in his heart.

"Hang it! that will mount high."

"Yes, especially if you are hung!"

"Oh!"

"Everything must be foreseen in such a business."

"You are right."

"The more so as, if you refuse the bargain I offer you, I will kill you like a dog."

"That's a chance."

"It is very probable. So take my word, let us bargain. Give me your figure."

"Fifteen thousand piastres," the bandit exclaimed; "not an ochavo less."

"Pooh!" Valentine said, "that is little."

"Eh?" he remarked in amazement.

"I will give you twenty thousand."

In spite of the bonds that held him the bandit gave a start.

"Done!" he exclaimed; but in a moment added, "Where is the sum?"

"Do you fancy me such a fool as to pay you beforehand?"

"Hang it! I fancy – "

"Nonsense! You are mad, compadre. Now that we understand one another, let me undo you – that will freshen up your ideas."

He took off the reata. El Buitre rose at once, stamped his foot to restore the circulation, and then turning to the hunter, who stood watching him laughingly, with his hands crossed on the muzzle of his rifle, said, —

"At least you have some security to give me?"

"Yes, and an excellent one."

"What?"

"The word of an honest man."

The bandit made a gesture; but Valentine continued, not seeming to notice it, —

"I am the man whom the whites and Indians have surnamed the 'Trail-hunter.' My name is Valentine Guillois."

"What!" El Buitre exclaimed with strange emotion, "are you really the Trail-hunter?"

"I am," Valentine answered simply.

El Buitre walked up and down the platform hastily, muttering in a low voice broken sentences, and evidently a prey to intense emotion. Suddenly he stopped before the hunter.

"I accept," he said hurriedly.

"Tomorrow you shall receive your money."

"I will none of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Valentine, allow me to remain master of my secret for a few days; I will then explain my conduct to you. Though I am a bandit, every feeling is not yet dead in my heart; there is one which has remained pure, and that is gratitude. Trust to me. Henceforth you will not have a more devoted slave, either for good or evil."

"Your accent is not that of a man who has the intention of deceiving. I trust to you, asking no explanation of your sudden change of feeling."

"At a later date you shall know all, I tell you; and now that we are alone, explain to me your plan in all its details, in order that I may help you effectively."

"Yes," Valentine said, "time presses."

The two men remained alone for about two hours discussing the hunter's plan, and when all was settled they separated – Valentine to return to the mission, and El Buitre to rejoin his companions, who were concealed a short distance off.

During Valentine's absence facts of extreme gravity had occurred at the mission. The Count de Prébois Crancé had finished his correspondence, and held in his hand the letters he had just written, while he gave a peon, already mounted, his final instructions. At this moment the advanced posts uttered the cry of "Who goes there?" which was immediately taken up along the whole line. Louis felt his heart contracted by this shout, to which he was, however, accustomed; a cold perspiration beaded on his temples; a mortal pallor covered his face; and he was forced to lean against a wall lest he should fall, so weak did he feel.

"Good heavens!" he stammered in a low voice, "what can be the matter with me?"

Let who can explain the cause of this strange emotion, this inner presentiment which warned the count of a misfortune; for our part, we confess our inability, and content ourselves with recording the fact.

The count, however, wrestled with this extraordinary emotion, for which there was no plausible reason. Owing to a supreme effort of the will, a perfect reaction took place in him, and he became once more cold, calm, and stoical, ready to sustain, without weakness as without bravado, the blow by which he instinctively felt himself menaced.

In the meanwhile an answer had been returned to the sentries' challenge, and words exchanged. Don Cornelio came up to the count, his face quite discomposed by astonishment, and himself a prey to the most lively emotion.

"Señor conde – " he said in a panting voice, and then stopped.

"Well," the count asked, "what is the meaning of those challenges I heard?"