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

With this volume terminates the series in which Gustave Aimard has described the sad fate of the Count de Raousset-Boulbon, who fell a victim to Mexican treachery. In the next volume to be published, under the title of the "Trail Hunter," will be found the earlier history of some of the characters whose acquaintance the reader has formed, I trust with pleasure, in the present series.

The Jesuits founded in Mexico missions round which, with the patience that constantly distinguished them, an unbounded charity, and a perseverance which nothing could discourage, they succeeded in collecting a large number of Indians, whom they instructed in the principal and most touching dogmas of their faith – whom they baptized, instructed, and induced to till the soil.

These missions, at first insignificant and a great distance apart, insensibly increased. The Indians, attracted by the gentle amenity of the good fathers, placed themselves under their protection; and there is no doubt that if the Jesuits, victims to the jealousy of the Spanish viceroys, had not been shamefully plundered and expelled from Mexico, they would have brought around them the majority of the fiercest Indios Bravos , have civilised them, and made them give up their nomadic life.

It is to one of these missions we purpose conducting the reader, a month after the events we have narrated in a preceding work. 1 1 See "Gold-Seekers." Same publishers.

The mission of Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles was built on the right bank of the Rio San Pedro, about sixty leagues from Pitic. Nothing can equal the grandeur and originality of its position. Nothing can compare, in wild grandeur and imposing severity, with the majestically terrible landscape which presents itself to the vision, and fills the heart with terror and a melancholy joy, at the sight of the frightful and gloomy rocks which tower over the river like colossal walls and gigantic parapets, apparently formed by some convulsion of nature; while in the midst of this chaos, at the foot of these astounding precipices, past which the river rushes in impetuous cascades, and in a delicious valley covered with verdure, stands the house, commanded on three sides by immense mountains, which raise their distant peaks almost to the heavens.

Alas! this house, formerly so smiling, so animated, so gay and happy – this remote corner of the world, which seemed a counterpart of Eden, where, morning and night, hymns of gratitude, mingling with the cascade, rose to the Omnipotent – this mission is now dead and desolate, the houses are deserted and in ruins, the church roof has fallen in, the grass has invaded the choir. The terrified members of this simple and innocent community, scattered by persecution, sought refuge in the desert, and returned to that savage life from which they were rescued with so much difficulty. Wild beasts dwell in the house of God, and nothing is heard save the voice of solitude murmuring unceasingly through the deserted houses and crumbling walls, which parasitic plants are rapidly invading, and will soon level with the ground, covering them with a winding sheet of verdure.

It was evening. The wind roared hoarsely through the trees. The sky, like a dome of diamond, flashed with those millions of stars which are also worlds; the moon spread around a vague and mysterious light; and the atmosphere, refreshed by a gusty breeze, was embalmed with those desert odours which it is so healthy to respire.

Still the night was somewhat fresh, and three travellers, crouching round a large brasero kindled amid the ruins, seemed to appreciate its kindly warmth. These travellers, on whose hard features the changing flashes of light were reflected, would have supplied a splendid subject for an artist, with their strange costumes, as they were encamped there in the midst of the wild and startling landscape.

A little distance behind the principal group four hobbled horses were munching their provender, while their riders, for their part, were concluding a scanty meal, composed of a slice of venison, a few pieces of tasajo , and maize tortillas, the whole washed down with water slightly dashed with refino to take off its hardness.

These three men were Count Louis, Valentine, and Don Cornelio. Although they ate like true hunters – that is to say, with good appetite, and not losing a mouthful – it was easy to guess that our friends were engaged with serious matters for thought. Their eyes wandered incessantly around, consulting the shadows, and striving to pierce the darkness. At times the hand stopped half way to the mouth – the lump of tasajo remained in suspense: with their left hand they instinctively sought the rifle that lay on the ground near them. They stretched forth their necks, and listened attentively, analysing those thousand nameless noises of the great American deserts, which all have a cause, and are an infallible warning to the man who knows how to understand them.

Still the meal drew to an end. Don Cornelio had seized his jarana ; but at a sign from Don Louis he laid it again by his side, wrapped himself in his zarapé , and stretched himself out on the ground. Valentine was in deep reflection. Louis had risen, and, leaning against a wall, looked cautiously out into the desert. A long period elapsed ere a word was exchanged, until Louis seated himself again by the hunter's side.

"'Tis strange," he said.

"What?" Valentine replied abstractedly.

"Curumilla's prolonged absence. He has left us for nearly three hours without telling us the reason, and has not returned yet."

"Have you any suspicion of him?" the hunter said with a certain degree of bitterness.

"Brother," Louis replied, "you are unjust at this moment. I do not suspect; I am restless, that is all. Like yourself, I feel a too lively and sincere friendship for the chief not to fear some accident."

"Curumilla is prudent; no one is so well acquainted as he with Indian tricks. If he has not returned, there are important reasons for it, be assured."

"I am convinced of it; but the delay his absence causes us may prove injurious."

"How do you know, brother? Perhaps our safety depends on this very absence. Believe me, Louis, I know Curumilla much better than you do. I have slept too long side by side with him not to place the utmost confidence in him. Thus, you see, I patiently await his return."

"But supposing he has fallen into a snare, or has been killed?"

Valentine regarded his foster brother with a most peculiar look; then he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, and an air of supreme contempt, —

"He fallen into a snare! Curumilla dead! Nonsense, brother, you must be jesting! You know perfectly well that is impossible."

Louis had no objection to offer to this simple profession of faith.

"At any rate," he continued presently, "you must allow that he has kept us waiting a long time."

"Why so? What do we want of him at this moment? You do not intend to leave this bivouac, I fancy? Well, what consequence is it if he return an hour sooner or later?"

Louis made a sign of impatience, wrapped himself up in his zarapé, and lay down by Don Cornelio's side, after growling, —

"Good night."

"Good night, brother," Valentine answered with a smile.

Ten minutes later, Don Louis, despite his ill temper, overcome by fatigue, slept as if he were never to wake up again. Valentine allowed a quarter of an hour to elapse ere he made a move; then he rose gently, crept up to his foster brother, bent over him, and examined him attentively for two or three minutes.

"At length," he said, drawing himself up. "I was afraid he would insist on sitting up and keeping me company."