The adventurers

Front matter

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Contents

I. Introductory, n. Clearing ground, in. Of method.

IV. Protection as a universal need.

V. The protective unit.

Preface

With the publication of the present and the succeeding volumes '{he most important series of Aimard’s Tales of Indian Life and Adventure will be perfected. To preserve continuity, the volumes of tiiis series should be read in the following order

1. Thb Adventurers.

2. The Pearl of the And**.

3. The Trail-Hunter.

4. Pirates of the Prairie.

3 . The Trapper’s Daughter.

6. The Tiger Slayer.

7. The Gold Seekers.

8. The Indian Chiep.

9. The Red Track.

Gustave Aimard has a precedent in Fenimore Cooper for introducing the same hero in a long range of volumes, and, like his great predecessor, he has so arranged that each work should be complete in itself, and not necessitate the perusal or purchase of another. But Aimard has one marked advantage over Cooper; for, whiie “Leather- Stocking*' »s but a creation of the fancy, or, at the most, the type of the Backwoodsman, the Count Louis who figures as the hero of Aimard’s series is a real man. Count de Kaousset Boulbon, had he iv succeeded in his daring attempt of founding an independent kingdom in Mexico, would, in all probability, have become the Napoleon of the West. A gallant adventurer and thorough gentleman, he staked his life upon the issue, and ended his career the victim of unparalleled treachery, as our Author has faithfully recorded. Hence Aimard ‘s romances have the great merit of being founded on an historic basis, and but little fiction was required to heighten the startling interest of each narrative.

Valentine Guillois, there is very little doubt, is intended for the Author himself, with all his qualities and defects. When Aimard first reached the New World he was the true, reckless Parisian ; but constant intercourse with nature rendered him a generous and thoughtful friend of humanity. So soon as he returned to civiiisa* tion, he began recording the history of his past life ; not so much for a livelihood, as for the pleasure he felt in living once again the life of excitement and adventure which he had known among the Indians. Aimard’s books are written without an effort ; they flow spontaneously from his pen ; and the absence of artistic effect is the best guarantee of their truthfulness.

It is not surprising, therefore, that Gustave Aimard’s books have attained an extensive popularity. They have been translated into nearly every modern language. The reception given to them in this country has been most flattering, and each day heightens their popularity. Hence it is not too much to assume that Aimard ’s Indian Tales have become recognised as standard works with young readers, for whom they are especially adapted; because Gustave Aimard has never yet written a line which couid prove offensive to the most delicate mind j or which, dying, he would wish to erase.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE CHAPARRAL . , ,

II. THE FOSTER-BROTHERS . .

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III. THE RESOLUTION

IV. THE EXECUTION

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V. THE PASSAGE ....

VI. THE LINDA ....

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VII. HUSBAND AND WIFE . . .

VIII. THE DARK HEARTS . .

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IX. IN THE STREET ....

X. SWORD-THRUSTS

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XI. GENERAL BUSTAMENTE

XII. THE SPY

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XIII. LOVE

XIV. THE QUINTA VERDE. .

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XV. THE DEPARTURE ....

XVI. THE MEETING ....

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XVII. THE PUEICHES . . . .

XVIII. THE BLACK JACKAL . . .

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XIX. TWO OLD FRIENDS. .

XX. THE SORCERER.

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XXI. THE OBSEQUIES OF AN APO-ULMEN XXII. EXPLANATIONS.

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XXIII. HOW TO COOK AN EGG .

XXIV. THE SUN-TIGER

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XXV. THE MATRICIDE ....

XXVI. THE JUSTICE OF THE DARK HEARTS XXVII. THE TREATY OF PEACE

XXVIIi. THE ABDUCTION

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XXIX. THE PROTEST ....

XXX. SPANIARD AND INDIAN

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XXXI. IN THE MOUNTAIN

XXXII. ON THE WATCH

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XXXIII. FACE TO FACE ....

XXXIV. THE REVOLT ....

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XXXV. THE LION AT BAY ....

XXXVI. THE TRUCE ....

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XXXVII. TWO ROGUISH PROFILES . .

XXXVIII. THE WOUNDED MAN

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XXXIX. A R A U CAN I A N DIPLOMACY . .

XL. THE COUNCIL ....

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XLI. TWO HATREDS ....

XLII. THE RETURN TO VALDIVIA.

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XLIII. THE FATHER REVEALS HIMSELF

XLI V. CURUMILLA ....

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PAOB

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Chapter I. The Chaparral

During my last sojourn in America, chance, or rather my good star, led me to form an acquaintance with one of those hunters the type of whom has been immortalised by Cooper.

The strange circumstance by which we were brought together was as follows. Towards the end of July, 1855, I had left Galveston, terrified at the fevers prevalent there, which are so fatal to Europeans, with the intention of visiting the north-west portion of Texas, a country I was then unacquainted with.

I carelessly wandered here and ther^, living that nomadic life which is so full of attractions; at times stopping at a tolderia, at others encamping in the desert, hunting wild animals. 1 had, in this fashion, passed through, without any untoward accident, Fredericksburgh, the Liana Braunfels, and had just left Castroville, on mv wav to Quichi. Castroville is nothing but a miserable agglomeration of ruined cabins, cut at right angles by streets choked with weeds, growing undisturbed, and concealing multitudes of ants, reptiles, and even rabbits of a very small breed, which spring up beneath the feet of the few passengers.

At Gaiveston I had undertaken to deliver a letter to an inhabitant of Castroville. Charmed by the arrival of a stranger who, no doubt, brought him news for which he had been long anxious, he received mein the most cordial manner. Unfortunately, the little I had seen of Castroville had sufficed to completely disgust me with it, and my only wish was to get out of it as quickly as possible.

“ Adieu, then," said my host, warmly pressing my hand, with a sigh of regret; ‘‘since you are determined to go, may God protect you I You are wrong in setting out so late ; the road you have to travel is dangerous.”

I smiled at this warning, which I took for a last effort of a worthy man to detain me.

“ Bah 1 ” I replied gaily ; “ the Indians and I are too old acquaintances for me to fear anything.”

My host shook his head and retreated into his hut, making me a last farewell greeting. 1 again set forward. I soon began to reflect that it was full late, and pressed my horse, in order to pass, before nightfall, a chaparral, or large thicket of underwood, of at least two miles in length, against which my host had particularly warned me. This ill-famed spot had a very sinister aspect. The mezquite, the acacia, and the cactus constituted its sole vegetation, while here and there whitened bones and planted crosses plainly designated places where murders had been committed. Beyond that extended a vast plain, called the Leona, covered by gr.ass at least two feet in height, and dotted at intervals with thickets of trees, upon which warbled thousands of golden-throated starlings, cardinals, and blue-birds.

The Adventurers.

I was beginning to hope I should reach the Leona l safe and sound, when, all at once, my horse made a violent bound on one side, pricking up its ears, and snorting loudly. The sudden shock almost threw me out of the saddle. As always happens in such cases, I instinctively looked round me for the cause of this panic, and soon the truth was revealed to me. A cold perspiration bedewed my brow, and a shudder of terror ran through my whole frame, at the horrible spectacle which met my eyes. Five dead bodies lay stretched beneath the trees within ten paces of me. Among them was one of a woman and one of a girl about fourteen years of age. They all belonged to the white race. They appeared to have fought long and obstinately before they fell ; they were literally covered with wounds ; and long arrows, with jagged barbs, and painted red, stood out from the bodies, which were pierced through and through. The victims had all been scalped. It was evidently the work of Indians, marked with their sanguinary rage and their inveterate hatred for the white race.

At the aspect of this heart-breaking spectacle I cannot express the pity and grief which weighed upon my spirits ; high in the air urubus and vultures hovered with lazy wings over the bodies, uttering lugubrious cries of joy, whilst in the depths of the chaparral the wolves and jaguars began to growl portentously.

I cast a melancholy glance around : all immediately near to me was quiet. The Apaches had, according to all appearances, surprised the emigrants during a halt. Gutted bales were still ranged in a symmetrical circle, and a fire was not yet extinguished.

“ No ! ” said I to myself, “ whatever may happen, I will not leave Christians without burial.”

My resolution, once formed, was soon carried into execution. Springing to the ground, I hobbled my horse, gave it some provender, and cast some branches of wood upon the fire, which soon sparkled and sent into the air a column of bright flame. Among the necessaries of the emigrants were spades and pickaxes, which, being of no use to the Indians, they had disdainfully left behind them. I at once seized a spade, and set to work to dig a grave.

Except two or three alarms, caused by the rustling of the leaves in the bushes, nothing occurred to interrupt my melancholy duty. In less than three-quarters of an hour I had dug a grave large enough to contain the five bodies. After extracting the arrows, by which they were transfixed, I raised them one after the other in my arms, and laid them gently side by side at the bottom of the grave. I then hastened to throw in the mould again till it was level with the sod; and that being done, I dragged upon the surface all the large stones I could find, to keep wild beasts from profaning the dead. This duty accomplished, I bowed my head towards the ground, mentally addressing a short prayer to the Almighty for the unfortunate beings I had buried.

Upon raising my head I uttered a cry of surprise and terror, while at the same time mechanically feeling for my revolver ; fo without the least noise having given me warning of his approach, a man was standing within four paces of me, watching me earnestly, and leaning- on his long rifle. Two magnificent Newfoundland dogs were lying carelessly but quietly at his feet.

” Fear nothing 1 ” he said. “ I am a friend. You have buried these poor people ; l have avenged them — their assassins are dead.”

I silently pressed the hand that was so frankly extended to me.

The companion I had fallen in with in so curious a manner was a man of about forty-five years of age, although he did not appear to be more than thirty-two. He was tall and well made ; his broad shoulders and muscular

The Foster-Brothers.

limbs denoting extraordinary strength and agility. He wore the picturesque hunter’s costume in all its purity, that is to say, the capote or surtout (which is nothing but a kind of blanket worn as a robe, fastened to the shoulders, and falling in long folds behind), a shirt of striped cotton, large mitasses (drawers of doeskin, stitched with hair, fastened at distances, and ornamented with little beds), leather gaiters, mocassins of elk-skin, braided with beads and porcupinequills, and a checked woollen belt, from which hung his knife, tobacco-pouch, powder-horn, pistols, and medicine-bag. His head-dress consisted of a cap made of the skin of a benver, the tail of which fell between his snoulders. This man was a type of a hardy race of adventurers who traverse America in all directions — a primitive race, longing for open a : r, space, and liberty, opposed to our ideas of civilisation, and consequently destined to disappear before the immigration of the laborious races, whose powerful agents of conquest are steam and the application of mechanical inventions of all kinds.

This hunter was a Frenchman, and his frank, manly countenance, his picturesque language, his open and engaging manners, notwithstanding his long abode in America, had preserved a reflex of the mother country which awakened sympathy and created interest.

All the countries of the New World were familiar to him ; he. had lived more than twenty years in the depths of the woods, and had been engaged in dangerous and distant excursions among the Indian tribes. Hence, although myself well initiated in the customs of the red-skins, and though a great part of my existence had been passed in the desert, I have felt myself often shudder involuntarily at the recital of his adventures. When seated beside him on the banks of the Rio Gila, during an excursion we had undertaken into the prairies, he would at times allow himself to be carried away by his remembrances, and relate to me, as he smoked his Indian pipe, the strange history of the early days of his abode in the New Worid. It is one of these recitals I am about to lay before my readers — the first in order of date, since it is the history of the events which led him to become a woodranger.

Chapter II. The Foster-brothers

On the 31st of December, 1834, at eleven o’clock in the evening, a man of about twenty-five years of age, of handsome person and countenance and aristocratic appearance, was reclining, in a luxurious easy-chair, near a massive grate within wmch sparkled a bright fire. This p rsonage was the Count Maxime Edouard Louis de Prebois-Crance. His countenance, of a cadaverous paleness, formed a striking contrast with his black curly hair, which fell in disorder upon his shoulders. His brows were knit, and his eyes were fixed with feverish impatience upon the dial of a clock, whilst his left hand, hanging carelessly by his side, played with the silky ears of a magnificent Newfoundland dog. The room in which the count was sitting was furnished w.th all the refinement of comfort invented by modern luxury. A fourbranched chandelier, with rose-coloured wax candles, placed upon a table, was scarcely sufficient to enliven the room. Without, the rain was dashing against the windows violently, and the wind sighe 1 in mysterious murmurs, which disposed the mind to melancholy. When the clock struck the hour the count started up, as if aioused from a dream.

“ He will not come I ” he said.

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The Adventurers.

But at that moment the dog, which had been so motionless, sprang up and bounded towards the door, which opened, and a man appeared.

“ Here you are at last ! ’’ the c mot exclaime I. advancing towards the new-comer. ** I had begun to be afraid that vou, like the rest, had forgotten me.”

“ 1 do not understand you, biother, but trust you will explain yourself,” the other replied.

And drawing an easy-chair towards the fire, he s t down at the other side of the fire, in front of the count. The dog lay down between them.

The personage so anxiously expected by the count formed a strange contrast with him; for, just as M. de Prebois-Crance united in himself all the qualities which physically distinguish nobility of race, the other displayed all the lively, energetic strength of a true child of the people. He was a man of twenty-six years of age ; tall, thin, and peifec-’ly well proportioned; while his face, bronzed by the sun, and his marked features, lit up by blue eyes, sparkling with inte.ligence, wore an expression of bravery, mildness, and loyalty of character that created sym >athy at first sight. He was dressed in the degant uniform of a quartermaster-sergeant of the Spahis, and the Cross of the Legion of Honour glitteiel on his breast. With his head leaning on his right hand, a pensive brow and a thoughtful eye, he examined his friend attentively, whilst twisting his long, silky, light-coloured moustache with the other hand.

The count, shrinking before his earnest look, which appeared trying to read his most secret thoughts, broke the silence abruptly.

“ You have been a long time coming,’’ he said.

“ This is the second time you have addressed that reproach to me, Louis,” the soldier replied, taking a paper from his brea-T; “you forget the terms of the note which your groom brought yesterday to my quarters.”

“ It is useless to read it,” said the count, with a melancholy smile. “ I acknowledge 1 am in the wrong.”

“ Well, then, let us see,’’ said the Spahi gaily, “ what this serious aff lir is which makes you stand in need of me. Explain : is there a woman to be carried off ? '*

“ Nothing that you can possibly imagine,” the count interi up ted him bitterly; “ therefore, do not waste time in useless suimises.”

“ What the devil is it, then ? ”

‘‘1 am going to blow out my brains.”

The young man uttered these wotds with so firm and resolute an accent that the soldier started.

“You believe me mad, do you not ? ” the count continued. “ No, I am not mad, Valentine; I am only at the bottom of an abyss from vvnich I can only escape by death or infamy.”

The soldier made no rep’y. With an energetic gesture he pushed back his chair, and began to walk about the roam with hurried steps. The count had allowed Ins head to sink upon his breast in a state of perfect prostration of mind.

“ A very strong reason must have obliged you to take such a determination,” Val mine said, coolly; “ I will not endeavour to combat it; but I command you, by our friendship, to tell me fully what has le i you to form it. ’

*' To what purpose ? ” cried the count, impatiently ; “ my sorrows are of a nature which none but lie who experiences them can comprehend.”

“ A bad pretext, brother,” replied the solder, in a rough tone; “the sorrows we dare not avow are of a kind that make us blush.”

“Valentine,” said the count, with a flashing eye, “it is ill-judged to speak so.”

“On the contrary, it is quite right,” replied the young man, warmly. “I love you; i ted you t ; c u tan ; way snou ! i deceive you? You great gentlemen.

The Foster-Brothers.

II who have only known the trouble of coming into the world, know nothing of life but its joys ; at the first rose-leaf which chance happens to ruffle in your bed of happiness you think yourselves lost, and appeal to that greatest of all cowardices — suicide.”

“ Valentine ! ” the count cried, angrily.

“ Yes,’’ continued the young man, with increased energy, “I repeat, that supreme cowardice! Your sorrows, indeed! I know well what they are.”

“ You know ? ” demanded the count.

“ L sten to me ; and when I have told you my thoughts, why, kill yourself if you like. Pardieu 1 do you think when I came here I did not know why you summoned me? A gladiator, far too weak to fight the good fight, you have cast yourself defencelessly among the wild beasts of this terrible arena called Paris, and you have fallen, as was sure to be the case. But, remember, the death you contemplate will complete your dishonour.”

“Valentine — Valentine !” cried the count, “what gives you a right to speak to me thus ? ”

“ My friendship,” the soldier replied, energetically, “ and the position you have yourself placed me in by sending for me. Two causes reduce you to despair. These two causes are, in the first place, your love for a Creole, who has played with your heart as the panther of her own savannahs plays with the inoffensive animals she is preparing to devour. Is that true ? ”

The young man made no reply. With his elbows on the table, his face buried in his ^ands, he remained motionless.

Valentine continued —

“ Secondly, when, in order to win favour in her eyes, you have compromised your fortune, this worn. in flits away as she came, rejoicing over the mischief she has done, over the victims she has left on the path she has trod, leaving to you and to so many others the despair and the shame of having been the sport of a coquette. I defy you to contradict me.”

“ Well, I adm t all that is true. It is that alone which kills me. But what care I for the loss of fortune ? She alone is the object of my ambit on ! I love her — I love her — I tell you, so that I could struggle against the whole world to obtain her ! Do vou not plainly see the truth of what I say? There is nothing left me but to die ! ”

“ ] s this, then, more than a caprice ? Do you really love this woman ? ” said Valentine, presently.

“ Have I not told you that I am ready to die for her ? ”

“ Ay ; and you told me at the same time that you would struggle with the whole world to obtain her.”

“ I did — and would. **

“ Well, then,” continued Valentine, “ I can help you to find this woman again — I can.”

“ Oh ! you are mad ! She has left Paris, and no one knows into what region of America she has retreated.”

“ Of what consequence is that ? ”

“And then, besides, I am ruined l”

“ So much the better.”

“ Valentine, be careful of what vou say,” the young man remarked.

“ Hope, man ! — hope, I tell you.”

“ Oh, no; no. that is impossible ! ”

“Nothing is impossible; that is a word invented by the impotent and the cowardly. I repeat that I not only will find this woman for you again, but that she yhail be afraid lest you despise her love.”

The Adventurers .

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** Who knows? You yourself may then reject it. *

“ Valentine ! Valentine ! ’

“ Well, to obtain this glorious result, I only ask two years.”

“ So long ? ”

“ Oh, such is man ! ” cried the soldier, with a faint, pitying laugh. “ But an instant ago and you were anxious to die, because the world had never stood in its true light before you; and now you have not the courage to look forward two years ! ”

“Yes, but ”

“ Be satisfied, brother — be satisfied! If in two years I have not fulfilled^my promise, I myself will load your pistols, and then you shail not die alone, he said Cuollv.

The count looked at him. Va'entine seemed transfigured : his countenance wore an express on of indomitable energy, which his foster-brother had never observed in it before ; his eyes sparkled with unwonted brilliancy.

“ I agree,” be said warmlv.

“ You now, then, belong to ms ? ”

“ I give myself entirely up t.j you.”

“ That’s well ! ”

“ But what wdl you do ? ”

44 Listen to me attentively,*’ the soldier said, sinking back into his chair, and motioning to his friend to resume his seat. At this moment the clock struck the hour of midnight.

Chapter III. The Resolution

“ I am listening,” said Louis, leaning forward as if to hear the better.

Valentine resumed with a melancholy smile.

44 We have now reached the ist of January, 1835,” said he ; “ with the last vibration of midnight your existence as a gentleman has come to an end. From this time you are about to commence a life of trial.

The count gave him an inquiring glance.

44 I will explain myself,” Valentine continued ; “ but, in order to do that, you must, in the first place, allow me, in a few words, to recal your history to you.”

“ Surely, I am well enough acquainted with that,” interrupted the count.

“ Well, perhaps you are ; but, at all events, listen to my version of it ; if I err put me right.”

44 Follow your own humour,” the count replied, sinking back in his chair.

44 Your history is that of almost every m .n of your rank,” began Valentine. “Your ancestors, whose name can be traced to the crusades, left you at your birth a noble title and a hundred thousand francs a year. Rich, without having had occasion to employ your faculties to gain your fortune, and consequently ignorant of the real value of money, you spent it heedlessly, believing it to be inexhaustible. Only, on 1 day, the hideous spectre of ruin suddenly rose up before you, and then you drew back terrified, declaring there was no refuge b .t in 'death.”

“ Ail that is perfectly true,” the count interrupted ; “ but you forget to

The Resolution.

J 3 mention, that before forming this last resolution, I took care to put my affairs in order.”

“ But your life is not your own ; it is a loan which God has made you. Every man who wastes the faculties which he holds from God in orgies and debaucheries commits a robbery upon the great human family. Remember that we are all mutually responsible for one another.”

“ For Heaven’s sake, brother, a truce to your sermons ! Such theories may succeed with some people, but ”

“Brother,” Valentine interrupted, “do not speak so. In spite of yourself, your pride of race dictates words which you will ere long regret. Certain people ! Oh, Louis, Louis ! how many things you have vet to learn ! But that we may know what we are about, reckoning all your resources, how much have you left ? ”

“ About some forty thousand francs, I suppose, at most, which may amount to sixty thousand by the sale of these luxurious trifles,” the count said carelessly.

“ Sixty thousand francs 1 ” cried Valentine ; “ and you are in despair, and have made up your mind to die. Why, sixty thousand francs well employed is a fortune 1 ”

“ What do you mean to do, then ? ”

“ You shall see. What is the name of the lady you are in love with ? ”

“ Dona Rosario del Valle.”

“ Very well. She has, you say, gone to America ? ”

“Ten days ago ; but I, in justice, must observe to you, that Dona Rosario, whom you do not know, is a noble and amiable girl.”

“ Ah, that is very possible! Why. then, should I seek to rob you of this sweet illusion ? Only it makes me the more puzzled to perceive how, under these circumstances, you could manage to melt your fortune.”

“ Here 1 read this note from my broker.”

“ Oh ! ” said Valentine, pushing back the paper ; “you have been dabbling on the Stock Exchange, have you ? Everything is now easily explained, my poor pigeon 1 Well, brother, you must take your revenge.”

“Oh, I ask nothing better ! ” said the young man.

“We are of the same age ; my mother’s milk nourished us both ; in the eyes of God we are brothers 1 I will make a man of you 1 Whilst you, protected by your name and your fortune, allowed life to glide luxuriously away, I, a poor wretch wandering over the rough pavement of Paris, carried on a gigantic struggle to obtain a mere existence ; a struggle of every hour and every minute, where the victory for me was a morsel of bread and experience most dearly bought. But courage, Louis ! Henceforth there will be two of us to fight the battfe ! You shall be the head to conceive, I the arm to execute ; you the intelligence, I the strength 1 Now the struggle will be equal, for we will sustain one another.”

“ I can fully appreciate your devotion, and I accept it. Am I not, at present, your oioperty ? Entertain no fear of my resisting you. But I cannot help telling von that I fear all my attempts will be in vain.”

“ Oh, thou man of little faith ! ” Valentine said cheerfully ; “ on the road which we are about to take fortune will be our slave 1 ”

Louis could not repress a smile.