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Gustave Aimard was the pen name of Olivier Aimard, a French author and adventurer who lived from 1818 to 1883. Aimard was known for his popular adventure novels set in the American West and Latin America during the 19th century. He drew inspiration from his own experiences as a traveler and explorer, incorporating vivid descriptions of landscapes, Native American cultures, and frontier life into his works.

Aimard's novels were characterized by their fast-paced action, thrilling escapades, and romanticized portrayal of the Wild West. His stories often featured brave and noble protagonists, conflict with indigenous peoples, and encounters with outlaws and bandits. Aimard's works captured the imaginations of readers with their exotic settings, daring exploits, and elements of frontier mythology.

Although his novels were initially well-received, Aimard's reputation later suffered criticism for his portrayal of Native American characters and cultures, which were often based on stereotypes prevalent during his time. Nonetheless, his adventure novels remained popular and influential, contributing to the mythos of the American West and inspiring generations of readers and writers.
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CHAPTER I.
SYMPATHY.

Sympathy is a feeling admitting neither analyzation nor discussion. It masters us, whether we will or no. Persons we meet unconsciously attract or repel us at first sight. And why? It is a question impossible to answer, but the fact is indubitable. An irresistible magnetic influence draws us towards people whom, if we listened to the promptings of self-interest, we ought to shun; while, on the other hand, the same influence compels us to avoid others, in whom this very interest should induce us to confide.
And it is an extraordinary fact, well worthy of remark, that this intuition, acting in opposition to our reasoning powers, seldom if ever misleads us. Sooner or later we are forced to acknowledge as right what to the prejudiced eyes of the world appeared erroneous, and find that our sympathy, far from deceiving, has only led us to the truth.
The result of this sympathy and antipathy are so palpable, so many persons have experienced the effects of this mysterious influence, that it would be superfluous for us to linger longer over the topic.
Don Estevan and Stoneheart had become acquainted under circumstances which might have induced enmity between them, or, at all events, made them indifferent to each other: the reputation of the bee-hunter, and the singular life he led, were ample reasons why the young and straightforward mayor domo of Don Pedro de Luna should feel himself repelled by them; and yet a diametrically opposite effect was produced without the two young men knowing why, and they suddenly felt themselves friends, bound together, not by one of those vapid sentimentalities so common in civilised life in Europe, where the word "friend" means no more than a mere acquaintance, and is one of the titles most easily and constantly profaned, but by the strong, true feeling, admitting neither limit nor reasoning, which shoots up so strongly in a few hours that it engrosses an immense part of the existence of those of whom it has taken possession.
They had never seen each other before their casual encounter in the road to San Lucar, and yet they seemed to have known each other for ages, and now only to have met again after a long parting.
Singular to say, the same effect was produced on both at the same moment, without calculation or reservation.
What we have asserted is so true, that Don Estevan, notwithstanding the innate prudence of his character, had not hesitated to confide to Stoneheart, on the spur of the moment, the history of his master, or, to speak more correctly, his benefactor. He had recounted this history in all its details, without disguising anything, or omitting a title, induced to act as he did by the secret presentiment which apprised him that he had found a man worthy of sharing the burden of this important secret.
The course of this tale will furnish us with still stronger proofs of the singular confidence these two men had instantly felt for each other.
The sun was setting in a flood of purple and gold behind the snowy crests of the lofty and jagged mountains of the Sierra Madre, when Don Estevan ceased speaking.
The landscape assumed that garb of placid melancholy in which it clothes itself at the approach of eve; the birds came flying in countless flocks, to nestle, twittering, under the leafy boughs of the grand old trees. Vaqueros and peones, galloping in all directions, mustered the cattle, and drove them towards the hacienda; and in the distance appeared a camp of arrieros, whose watch fires already began to tinge the rapidly darkening sky with a ruddy glow.
"And now," resumed Don Estevan, "having acquired as intimate a knowledge as my own of the secrets of the family with whom chance has brought you into contact, what do you intend to do?"
"First, and before all a single word," answered Stoneheart.
"Say on; you must indeed have many things to confide to me in your turn."
"Not so many as you think. You already know as much of my life as I do myself; that is to say, almost nothing. But that is not the question between us at present."
"What can it be, then?" said Don Estevan, unable to repress his curiosity.
"I am about to tell you. Surely you have not told me this long and interesting tale with the sole purpose of satisfying a curiosity I never exhibited; there must be some other motive in your thoughts, and I think I have guessed it. Don Estevan Diaz, two bold men, bound to each other as closely as the ivy and the oak, with thoughts running in the same channel, with but one will between them,-two such men are mighty; for the one forms the complement to the other, and what each alone would not dare to essay, the two will undertake without hesitation, and be almost certain to succeed, however hazardous and rash their projects may seem. Are you of the same way of thinking?"
"Most surely, Don Fernando; I am entirely of the same opinion."

A flash of joy illumined the face of the bee-hunter. "Good!" said he, stretching out his arm; "Here is my hand, Don Estevan; it belongs to a man who, with his hand, offers you a loyal and honest heart, whatever may be said to the contrary: will you accept them?"
"Vive Dios!" eagerly exclaimed the mayor domo, heartily pressing in his own the hand so frankly tendered; "I accept both one and the other. Thanks, brother! I was on the point of making the same offer to you; we are now one for life or death. I am yours, as the handle is to the blade."
"Ah!" said Don Fernando, with a sigh of pleasure, "At last I have a friend. I shall no longer wander through life alone: joy and sorrow, grief and happiness,-I shall have one to whom I can confide them all."
"You shall have more than one to sympathise with you, brother; you shall have a mother too. Mine shall be yours also. Come, let us mount; it grows late. We have still many things to talk of."
"Let us go," was all the hunter answered.
The horses had not strayed from the neighbourhood of the rancho, near which they found abundant pasturage: the men easily lassoed them, and five minutes later the friends rode side by side in the direction of Don Estevan's dwelling.
a Manuela was awaiting them at the entrance. She was smiling.
"Make haste!" she cried, as soon as she perceived them; "the angelus has rung an hour ago. It is supper time."
"Which means to say, mother, that we are dying with hunger," replied her son, dismounting; "so, if you have not prepared an ample meal, you run great risk of leaving our appetites unappeased."
"No fear of that, Estevan. I thought you would arrive in some such condition; so I took my precautions."
"Can you forgive me, madam," said the bee-hunter, "for making this fresh inroad on your hospitality?"
The mistress of the house smiled kindly.
"I am so ready to forgive you, seior," said she, "that, feeling convinced we should have you a long time with us, I have myself arranged your cuarto (quarters)."
Don Fernando did not reply at once: a lively blush overspread his features; he dismounted, and approaching the old lady:
"Seiora," said he, much affected, "I know not how to thank you; you have guessed the dearest wish of my heart. Your son calls me brother: would you deign to permit me to call you mother? How happy it would make me!"
ia Manuela fixed upon him a long and steadfast gaze: her face exhibited tokens of vivid emotion; two tears coursed slowly down her pallid cheeks. Then, stretching out her hand to the hunter, she said:
"Be it so! Instead of one, I have now two children. Come, my sons, supper is waiting."
"My name is Fernando, mother."
"I will not forget it," was her smiling answer. They entered the dwelling, while some peones led away the horses to the corral.
Don Fernando had not deceived his friend; he had in truth given him a mother.
The meal proceeded with the cheerfulness to be expected from three persons who, although strangers three days before, had suddenly understood and appreciated each other: that is to say, it was gay and cordial. No allusion was made to the impromptu band which had linked them together so intimately and unexpectedly.
As soon as the peones had retired, and their masters found themselves alone, they left the table, and betook themselves, as on the previous day, to an inner room, where, sheltered from prying eyes and ears, they ran no risk of having their conversation overheard, commented on, and perhaps reported.
"Shut the door," said Don Estevan to Don Fernando, who was the last to enter.
"Not so," replied the latter; "we will leave it open: by this means we shall both see and hear anyone who may come near us. Take this as a general rule: never close the door when you have secrets to tell."
Don Estevan drew forward some butacas (seats), sat down, lit his cigarette, and turning to the hunter, said:
"Now for our talk!"
There are certain situations in life where the most insignificant word becomes of the greatest importance. So, when Don Estevan said, "Now for our talk!" each of the three felt that the conversation to ensue would not be confined to the limits of pleasant chat, but would almost assume the proportions of a congress with closed doors, so extremely grave were the matters which would be propounded.
It was Don Fernando who first commenced the conversation in the decided and clear manner which was habitual to him.
"My friend, I have pondered deeply on what you told me today: you would never have intrusted such an important secret to me, if grave reasons had not induced you. I think I have divined your reasons; they are these: the tranquillity which Don Pedro has enjoyed since he lived here is menaced; you dread evil to Doia Hermosa. Are these your motives, or am I mistaken?"

"You are not. In fact, I have for some time past been oppressed by a vague fear, a secret apprehension, I cannot subdue; I feel, as it were, the approach of some misfortune, without knowing whence or how it will come. Doubtless you know better than I can tell you, that in all men's lives certain dark hours occur, in which the brave man trembles without apparent cause, like a child afraid of its own shadow. All things alarm, all things excite suspicion. Well, my friend, for the last two months I have lived these dark hours: an invincible sadness overpowers me. In a word, I am living in fear, without knowing why; for all around me takes its usual course: Don Pedro is as calm, Doia Hermosa as gay, as lively, and as free from care as ever; we live in this out-of-the-way corner of the world entirely ignorant of its doings; the rumours of society die without an echo on our threshold. What have we, then, to fear? Who is the enemy that lies in wait for us, and whose savage eye watches us night and day? I know not; but I repeat, I feel him; I see him, as it were, without being really able to discover him."
"You know your enemy now, as well as I do. It is the Tigercat. The conversation you overheard last night between him and myself must have enlightened you as to his intention, if not as to his plans."
"True; but, nevertheless, my mind refuses to admit that this man can really be our enemy. As there can be no effects without causes, so there can be no hate without a reason. Since Don Pedro's arrival in this country, he has never come in contact with this man at home or abroad, for good or for evil. Why, then, should he wish ill to my master?"
"Why! Why!" repeated the hunter, with feverish impatience. "Why does day follow night? Why are there good and bad men? Why rascals and honest people? The inquiry would lead you too far, my good friend. I know as well as you that none of you have ever come in contact with the Tigercat. It is impossible to doubt it; but what does that signify? This man is a gloomy miscreant, the greater portion of whose life is spent in doing evil for mere evil's sake. Don Pedro is loved and honoured by all who know him; Doia Hermosa is respected even by the Apaches,-the most ferocious redskins of the prairie; hence, most likely, the hatred he bears to the family of the hacendero. In such a man's eyes, no one has the right to be good and honest with impunity; it is an obvious necessity that all loyal hearts should be his natural enemies. A man, however low he may have fallen, can never forget his frightful downfall, or the position from which his crimes have hurled him; he cannot forgive the world his own abasement; but as he cannot avenge himself upon it in the mass, he wages war upon it in detail, attacking all those within his reach, and taking his revenge on them for fault she has himself committed. Here lies the sole cause of Tigercat's hatred of Don Pedro; seek no further reason; no other exists."
"Yes; you are right," answered Don Estevan uneasily; "it must be as you say."
"Of course it is! Trust in me, who have known the monster so long, as it is he who brought me up. But enough of this: what do you intend to do, now we have clearly ascertained our position?"
"I confess I find myself greatly embarrassed, and know not how to extricate myself from the dilemma--how to upset plans the aim of which is beyond my ken; how to thwart projects tending to an unknown end. There lies the difficulty for me."
"I think it would be by far the best course to leave the family in complete ignorance of our suspicions," said ia Manuela.
"Say rather our conviction, seiora," replied Don Fernando. "But in this matter I am quite of your opinion: it will be easy for us to guard Don Pedro and his daughter so secretly that they shall not dream of the danger which threatens them. Then, if the position grows too complicated, we shall not be in want of pretexts to oblige them to keep watch over their own safety."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Don Estevan excitedly;
"It is most important that they should entertain no suspicion, particularly Doia Hermosa, who is so sensitive. Poor child; if our fears prove true, she will learn to know misfortune too soon. Come, Fernando, counsel us; you are the only one who can aid us in this trying emergency."
"I will do all a man can do to save those you love."
"Thanks. But why not save those whom you love yourself? You have already rendered them an inestimable service."
"Alas, my friend!" said the hunter, with a sigh; "What am I, the miserable adventurer, that I should lift my thoughts so high? I am nothing more; and can only play the part of the honest watchdog, who saves his master and dies at his feet."
He spoke these words in accents of so much sadness and humility, that Don Estevan and his mother, moved to tears, with one accord seized his hands, and pressed them affectionately.

"Do not speak thus, brother," exclaimed the mayor domo; "you do not know Doia Hermosa as we do: a more upright heart, a purer or nobler soul, does not exist: she loves you."
"Ah," said Don Fernando with emotion, "do not utter the word. Doia Hermosa--love me--me! It is impossible."
"Doia Hermosa is a woman, my good friend; you saved her life. I do not positively know the nature of her sentiments towards you,-it is very likely they are inexplicable to herself,-but I am convinced of her gratitude to you; and in a young girl gratitude soon merges into love."
"Silence, Estevan!" cried the old lady, interrupting him; "Such words must not be used when speaking of your master's daughter."
"Very true, mother; forgive me; I was wrong. But had you heard Doia Hermosa speaking of our friend as I did, and exacting from me a promise to search for and bring him to her,ivive Dios! you would not know what to think."
"Perhaps so; but, at all events, I should not have poured oil upon the flame, and, for my own sake and that of my friend, should have prudently locked up my thoughts at the bottom of my heart."
"Do not think me so mad, seiora," exclaimed Don Fernando, "as to attach more importance than they deserve to your son's words. I know too well what I am--I have too complete a conviction of my inferiority--to dare to raise my venturous eyes to her whom honour compels me to respect as one of the angels."
"Well said, Don Fernando, and spoken as a man should speak," broke in ia Manuela; "but let us drop the subject, and occupy ourselves in finding the means of escape from the dilemma we are in."
"I think," replied the hunter, with some hesitation-"I think I can show you the means, if you cannot contrive something better."
Mother and son eagerly drew their butacas nearer to him, in order to listen more attentively.
"Speak, brother, speak," cried Don Estevan; "let us have no further delay. These means, what are they?"
"You must excuse me," resumed Don Fernando, "if the plan I am about to submit to you should not be exactly compatible with the strict laws of honour as they are understood in the civilised world; but I entreat you to recollect that I have been brought up as a redskin; that the man with whom we are about to enter into mortal strife is more than half an Indian; and the war he intends to wage with you will be an Apache war, full of treachery and ambuscades; that, in order to meet him with advantage, we too, whatever repugnance we may feel, must employ the same measures,-must turn his own weapons against himself; must repel treachery by treachery, and knavery by knavery; for if, adhering to a false idea of honour, we persist in an open and honest warfare, we shall play the part of fools indeed, and he will outwit us."
"What you say, Fernando," replied the mayor domo, "is unfortunately but too true. The proverb is right, 'Cap a knave with a knave.' I perfectly understand the bearing and the justice of your reasoning, yet I confess that it is hard for an honest man, accustomed to look his enemies in the face, to be forced to wrap himself in a fox's hide, and condescend to stratagem when his heart leads him to attack openly."
"But what can we do? This is one of the sad necessities of our position. If we do not act in this wise, we may as well submit to our foe as attempt to thwart his measures; for we should fail."
"Let it be as you wish, since there is no other method; but now for your plan."
"It is this: notwithstanding the disagreement between myself and the Tigercat, he has allowed me to dive too deep into his confidence--too many of his secrets are known to me--for him to exhibit any rancour against me, whatever anger he may feel. Accustomed for a number of years to mould me to his will, and rule over me as he pleased, he thinks he knows my character thoroughly, and is persuaded that my dispute with him was only an outbreak of temper, and that nothing would please me more than to place myself once again under his guidance. Finally, like all men who have through long years cherished a chimera, the Tigercat--who, I am convinced, has only fostered me and suffered me in his presence for the sake of making me useful in one of his infernal plots--will allow himself, shrewd as he is, to be overreached by me, if I choose to take the trouble."
"All this sounds plausible enough," observed Don Estevan.

"I think it does. Well, then, listen to my proposal. At daybreak tomorrow you and I will leave for the presidio, where I will put you into communication with a certain rogue of my acquaintance, who is as much devoted to me as people of his sort can be. This picaro will serve you as an agent: through him we shall learn all the Tigercat is doing at San Lucar with the leperos he is enrolling for some sinister purpose. We will then part: you to return quietly to this place; I to rejoin the Tigercat in the prairies. In this way, whatever happens will reach our ears. This is my project; what do you think of it?"
"It is capital, Fernando; you have thought of everything."
"But remember three things: first of all, whatever I may do or say, whatever measures you may see me try, do not take offence at them; leave me complete master of my actions, and never for a moment suspect that I intend to betray you."
"Have no uneasiness on that score; I will put no faith in the testimony of my eyes or ears: my confidence in you shall be unalterable. And now for your next remark."
"You will instantly comprehend its importance. As soon as we have left the presidio, we must be as strangers; we must know nothing of each other."
"It is indeed an important piece of advice, and I will take care to follow it; the consequences of a single mistake would be incalculably disastrous to us."
"Lastly, be ready to act at the first signal, be it by night or day. Never mind what you may be doing; leave everything instantly to assume the offensive the moment the signal is given."
"Good. After tomorrow, on the pretence of having certain urgent work to be carried out at the hacienda, I will quietly enlist a score of leperos,-hairbrained fellows,-who for gold will obey me blindly and recoil before no danger."
"The very thing! You can easily employ them here in doing nothing till the time comes for the use of knife and rifle."
"I will be answerable that no one shall make a single inquiry concerning them. But what sort of token will you send me, and through whom will you send it?"
"The token will be a white eagle's plume broken into three pieces, and with the quill painted red. He who brings the plume will only say the words, 'My two piastres.' You will give them to him without remark, and send him away again."
"But who is the man, Fernando?"
"He will be a stranger; most likely the first man I happen to meet. It is requisite that the messenger should not suspect the importance of the message he conveys, should he chance to fall into the enemy's hands."
"Well reasoned! Come, come, I think we shall get through this business successfully."
"As for me, I am sure of it," exclaimed Don Fernando, "if you will only follow my instructions to the letter."
"Do not be anxious on that score, brother; I will answer for my accuracy."
Everything having been thus arranged and decided on by our three personages, they separated and retired to rest, for it was already late, and the two men were to mount at daybreak to take the road to the presidio of San Lucar.

CHAPTER II.
THE VIRGIN FOREST.

Don Torribio Quiroga, with whom we have now to do, was a young man of twenty-eight, with a refined and intellectual countenance, an elegant figure, and possessing in the highest degree the manners of the best society.
He belonged to one of the richest and most considerable families in the province of Chihuahua: the death of his parents had put him in possession of an income of more than five hundred thousand piastres, or about ninety thousand pounds sterling; for money is plentiful in that country.
A man in this position, and gifted with all the mental and physical advantages enjoyed by Don Torribio, had a right to very high pretensions; for, a certain amount of fortune once reached, obstacles no longer exist, or, at least, are only an excitement instead of an impediment.
Don Torribio had succeeded in all his undertakings, with one exception: his struggle against Don Fernando,-a struggle in which the latter had always come off victorious.
Thus the hatred the rich hacendero felt for the bee-hunter, and which was originally based upon puerile motives, had insensibly increased with each successive mortification, and ended at last by assuming the alarming proportions of real Mexican hate, which only the death of its object can appease.
After the meeting with Don Fernando Carril, which resulted so unfavourably for him, Don Torribio Quiroga remained a prey to that cold and concentrated rage which slowly eats into the soul till it explodes with terrific violence.
As soon as he lost sight of his lucky adversary, he had started at full speed. His spurs mangled the flanks of his luckless horse, who snorted with pain, and redoubled his furious pace.
Now, where was Don Torribio going, with distorted features and hair streaming to the wind?
He did not know himself; moreover, he did not care.

He saw nothing, heard nothing. Revolving sinister projects in his brain, he crossed torrents and ravines without checking his horse's career.
Hatred was crying aloud in his heart; nothing cooled his burning forehead; his temples beat as if they would burst, and nervous agitation shook him in every limb.
This state of overexcitement lasted many hours. His steed still continued to fly. At last the noble animal, worn out with fatigue, suddenly stopped and dropped upon the sand.
Don Torribio rose, and looked around him with a bewildered air.
A shock like this rude fall was necessary to restore order to his ideas, and recall him to reality. Another hour of such continued anguish would have made him raving mad, or ended in sudden apoplexy.
It was night. Thick darkness covered the earth; a mournful silence reigned over the wilderness to which chance had brought him.
"Where am I?" he exclaimed, endeavouring to make out his position.
But the moon, hidden by clouds, gave forth no ray; the wind began to roar like thunder; the branches of the trees crashed against each other, and, from the depths of the wilderness, the growlings of the wild beast began to mingle their deep notes with the sharper howling of the wild cats.
Don Torribio strained his eyes in vain efforts to penetrate the darkness around him. At last he approached his horse, which was stretched on the ground, and drawing its breath with difficulty. Moved with pity for the faithful companion of so many adventures, he stooped down, removed his pistols from the holsters to his belt, and taking from the saddle, where it was slung, a gourd filled with rum, began to wash the eyes, nostrils, and mouth of the panting animal. Half an hour's persistence seemed to restore life to the horse. He got on his legs, and, with his natural instinct, soon discovered a neighbouring rill, at which he slaked his thirst.
"All is not yet lost," muttered Don Torribio; "after all, I may make my escape hence."
But a deep roar resounded at a short distance, repeated immediately afterwards in four different directions.
The horse's coat stood on end; and Don Torribio felt a cold shudder run through his veins.
"Curse upon it!" he exclaimed; "I have stumbled upon a drinking place for panthers! What is to be done?"
He stooped, and found the confirmation of his fears in the footprints stamped in the muddy borders of the rill.
Just at this moment he saw, at ten paces from him, two eyes, glimmering like burning coals, fixed upon him with strange intensity.
Don Torribio was a man of well-tried courage. Many a time, before the eyes of his comrades, he had performed deeds of wonderful temerity; but now, alone in the darkness, and surrounded by savage animals, he felt himself overcome by deadly terror: his chest heaved, and his breath came and went with difficulty through his set teeth; a cold sweat broke out on his limbs, and he was on the point of dropping.
But this fit of terror did not last above a minute. By a violent effort of his will, he collected himself, and calling all his energy to his aid, prepared for a desperate struggle, in which he knew he must succumb; yet, preserving that instinct of self-preservation and hope which is seldom utterly extinguished in man, he determined to defend his life to the last moment.
Just then his horse, with a snort of horrible fear, bounded away, and made his escape on to the plain.
"So much the better," muttered Don Torribio; "perhaps the poor brute's speed may save him."
A frightful concert of yells and howling broke out in all parts of the forest at the flight of the horse, and mighty shadows, indistinguishable in the darkness, bounded past Don Torribio.
He smiled bitterly.
"Aha!" said he; "Shall I stand here to be devoured, without attempting to escape? iVive Dios! It would be the act of a fool! Come, I am not eaten yet: I will go."
A violent gust of wind here cleared the heaven of clouds, and for some minutes the wan light of the moon lit up the wild spot, in which Don Torribio found himself.
A few paces off, the Rio del Norte ran between two steep banks; on all sides, and far away in the distance, the dense masses of the virgin forest extended themselves. A chaos of rocks piled on each other in inextricable confusion, from whose fissures rose clumps of trees overgrown with entangled creepers drooping in fantastic garlands, pushed its ramifications to the verge of the river; the soil, composed of sand and the detritus always abounding in the forests of America, crumbled under the footstep.
Then Don Torribio knew where he was: at least fifteen leagues from the nearest inhabited spot. He was entangled in the first spurs of an immense forest--the only one throughout the country of the Apaches which the hardy pioneers of civilization had not yet dared to explore, such mysterious horrors seemed concealed in its dark recesses.

Don Torribio took no pains to inquire how his headlong course had brought him to this dreaded region. Danger so frightful that it claimed the exertion of all his powers, hung too directly over his head for him to waste time in speculating on anything save the manner of extricating himself.
At this side, the limpid steam we have mentioned issued from a rock; its banks, impressed with numberless footprints of wild beasts, clearly indicating that the spot was a favourite drinking place, when, at sunset, they left their lairs to seek their food and quench their thirst. And as a further living proof of the fact, two magnificent jaguars, male and female, had at that very moment stopped at its border, and were watching with restless eyes the gambols of their young.
"So," said Don Torribio to himself, "here are pleasant neighbours;" and he mechanically cast his eyes on the other side.
An immense panther, crouched on a rock in the attitude of a cat on the watch, had fixed on him two eyeballs glowing like carbuncle.
Don Torribio, according to the custom in South America, never left home without his weapons. His carbine, of great price, was of remarkable accuracy, and by a providential chance, had not been broken when he fell with his horse. He had placed it as he rose against a rock beside him: he stretched out his arm, and seized it.
"Good!" said he, with a grim smile; "The struggle will cost them dear, at all events."
He shouldered the weapon; but at the moment he was about to fire, a plaintive caterwauling causing him to raise his eyes, he saw a dozen of catamounts and tiger cats of immense size perched in the branches above him, while a number of wolves crept stealthily up and dropped down in the bushes behind him. Poised on the summits of the surrounding rocks, a tribe of vultures, bald buzzards, and urubus, with half closed eyes, seemed to be expecting the moment to seize their share of the quarry.
With one bound, Don Torribio threw himself on to an angle of the rock, and from thence, by aid of his hands and knees, he contrived, in the course of a minute or two, to drag himself with enormous difficulty, to a kind of terrace, about twenty feet above the ground. Here he felt himself in comparative security for a time.
The horrible concert performed by the denizens of the forest, attracted one after another by the keenness of their scent, increased in volume with every minute, and had now reached such a pitch, that it drowned the roar of the wind which was raging through the ravines and clearings.
The moon had disappeared behind the clouds, and Don Torribio was once more enveloped in darkness. But if he could no longer distinguish the wild beasts, he knew they were there: he smelt their odour; he saw their eyes flashing through the obscurity; and their yells, nearing him more and more, made him feel that the last spark of hope would soon be extinguished for ever.
Firmly planting his feet on the ground and leaning a little forward to secure his aim, he drew a revolver, and fired six shots in rapid succession at the tiger cats. Six howls of agony, and the noise produced by falling from branch to branch, immediately followed. Six of the beasts were killed or wounded.
Nothing more horrible can be conceived than the uproar caused by this unexpected onslaught. The wolves threw themselves yelling on the victims, which they began to devour eagerly, disputing their booty with the vultures and zopilotes, who also claimed their share.
Suddenly there was a strange rustling amongst the leaves and branches of the trees. A body, of indistinguishable shape, shot through the air, and alighted growling on the platform. Don Torribio, clutching his rifle, dealt the animal a terrific blow with the butt on the skull, and the brute rolled howling from the top of the rock to the bottom.
And now his ears were stunned by the uproar arising from a dreadful combat, a few feet below him, between the jaguars and tiger cats on one side, and the panther which had attacked them. Fascinated by the terrible danger to which he was exposed, Don Torribio, forgetful of the evil consequences to him that might ensue, fired two pistol shots into the mass of foes tearing and rushing at each other's throats at his feet.
Thereupon a strange thing occurred: all these animals, natural enemies to each other, seemed to comprehend that it would be better to unite against man, their common foe, than waste their strength in strife among themselves. Suddenly ceasing from the terrible combat in which they were engaged, and abandoning, with one accord, the bloody and half-devoured bodies of the victims, they turned their rage in the direction of the rock on which Don Torribio seemed to set them at defiance, and attacked it in concert with terrific energy--leaping upon its excrescences, striving to hold on to them, and trying to escalade it on all sides at once.

The situation grew more and more critical. Several tiger cats had already bounded on to the platform. As fast as Don Torribio knocked them over, others took their place. The number of his enemies increased with every minute; his own strength and energy were gradually deserting him.
This strife of one man against a host of ferocious brutes had something grand and striking about it. Don Torribio, like one with the nightmare, strove in vain to beat back the constantly renewed crowds of his assailants: he felt close to him the hot and fetid breath of the tiger cats and panthers; the roaring of the jaguars, and mocking moans of the panthers, poured into his ears a frightful song, that deafened and made him giddy; the eyes of thousands of his invisible foes flashed through the obscurity, and fascinated his own gaze; and sometimes the heavy wing of the vulture or zopilote brushed his cheek, from which the cold sweat exuded.
An accurate perception of his own existence had vanished from his soul; he no longer thought: his life, if we may still use the expression, had grown mechanical; his motions and gestures were those of a machine, and his arm rose and fell with the dull regularity of a pendulum.
Talons had already torn his flesh; several catamounts, rushing upon him, had fastened on his throat, and he had been obliged to seize them bodily to force them to quit their hold. His blood was streaming from twenty wounds, superficial, it is true; but the moment was close at hand when the energy which alone sustained him would be worn out, and he would fall from the rock, to be torn in pieces by the brutes who were ever pressing more madly upon him.
At this solemn moment, when strength and courage were alike failing, a last cry issued from his breast--a cry of agony, a cry of horrible expression, which was repeated far and wide by the echoes: the last, the final protest of a bold man, who owns himself vanquished, and instinctively calls on his kind for succour before he falls.
Wonderful to relate, a cry answered his own!
Don Torribio, astonished, and not daring to believe that a miracle was to take place in a wilderness where none before himself had dared to penetrate, fancied his ears had deceived him; yet, confessing to himself how little strength was still left him, and feeling hope faintly reviving in his soul, he uttered a second cry, more poignant, more help-seeking than the former.
As soon as the echoes of the forest were silent after their repetition of the cry, a single word, weak as a sigh, was borne to his listening ears on the wings of the breeze: "Hope!"
Don Torribio recovered himself. Electrified by the word, he seemed to regain new life and strength, and redoubled his strokes on his numberless assailants.
Suddenly the gallop of many horses was heard in the distance, several discharges of firearms illumined the darkness with their transient splendour, and some men, or rather demons, rushed unexpectedly into the thickest crowd of wild beasts, making a horrible slaughter.
At this moment Don Torribio, attacked by two tiger cats, rolled upon the platform struggling with both.
In a very short time the brutes were put to flight by the newcomers, who hastened to light fires to keep them at bay for the rest of the night.
Two of the men armed with burning torches of ocote wood, set themselves to search for the man whose cries of distress had brought them to his aid.
They were not long in finding him stretched out on the platform, surrounded by ten or twelve dead tiger cats, and clutching in his stiffened hands the throat of a strangled catamount.
"Well, Carlocho," exclaimed a voice, "have you found him?"
"Yes," replied the other; "but he seems dead."
"iCaray!" resumed Pablito; "It would be a pity; for he was a bold fellow. Where is he?"
"There; on the rock opposite you."
"Can you let him down with the verado's help?"
"Nothing easier; he is as still as a log."
"Make haste, then, in the name of heaven!" said Pablito; "Every minute's delay may be a year's life stolen from him!"
Carlocho and the verado lifted Don Torribio by the feet and shoulders, and with infinite precaution carried him from the improvised fortress he had defended so bravely to one of the fires, and laid him on a bed of leaves prepared by El Zapote; for the four vaqueros were, by a strange chance, reunited in this spot.
"iCanarios!" cried Pablito, at sight of the miserable man; "Poor devil! How they have mauled him! It was high time for help."
"Do you think he will recover?" asked Carlocho, with great interest.
"There is always hope," said Pablito dogmatically, "when the vital organs are uninjured. Let us look at him."
He bent over the body of Don Torribio, unsheathed his poniard, and put the blade to his lips.
"Not a sign of breath!". and he shook his head.
"Are his wounds serious?" asked the verado.
"I think not: he has fallen from fatigue and overexcitement."

"But in that case he may come round again?"
"Perhaps he may; perhaps he may not: all depends upon the greater or less violence of the shock to his nervous system."
"Ha!" exclaimed the verado joyfully; "Look here! He breathes. iVive Dios! He has tried to open his eyes!"
"Then he is saved!" replied Pablito; "He will soon come to his senses. This man has a constitution of iron. He will be able to be in the saddle in a quarter of an hour, if he likes; but we must attend to his wounds."
The vaqueros, like the backwoodsmen, live far from inhabited places; and are obliged to be their own doctors; hence they acquire a certain practical knowledge of surgery, and are adepts in the collection and application of the herbs in use among the Indians.
Pablito, aided by Carlocho and the verado, bathed the wounds of Don Torribio, first with water, then with rum, and blew tobacco smoke into his nostrils.
The latter, after some minutes of this strange treatment, uttered a scarcely perceptible sigh, moved his lips slightly, and at last opened his eyes, which as yet had no consciousness in them.
"He is saved!" repeated Pablito; "Now let us leave nature to work: she is the best doctor I know."
Don Torribio raised himself up, supporting himself on one elbow, and passed his hand across his forehead, as if to recall his thoughts.
"Who are you?" he said in a feeble tone.
"Friends, seior; fear nothing."
"I am killed; my limbs are all broken."
"It is nothing to signify, seior; it is only fatigue: you are as well as we are?"
Don Torribio sat up and looked attentively at the men who surrounded him.
"I must be mistaken," said he; "I never expected to find you here. By what miracle did you reach me in time to save me?-you, whom I promised to meet at a rendezvous so far from the spot where we are?"
"It was your horse performed the miracle, seior," said the verado.
"How is that?" asked Don Torribio, whose voice grew stronger every moment, and who had already managed to stand up.
"The case is very simple. We were skirting the forest, on our road to the place you had pointed out to us, when suddenly a horse passed across us at a giddy speed, a pack of wolves at his heels. We soon relieved him from his incarnate foes. Then, as we thought it unlikely for a saddled horse to be all alone in a forest into which none dare venture, we set out in search of his rider. Your cry was our pilot."
"Thanks!" replied Don Torribio; "I shall know how to repay the debt I have contracted with you."
"Nonsense! That is not worth speaking of. Come! here is your horse; we can go as soon as you like."
Don Torribio held up his hand.
"Stay here," said he; "we shall find no more suitable place than this to discuss what we have got to say to each other."