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<h3>Chapter Sixteen.</h3> <h4>An Autobiography.</h4> I was alone with my host in the apartment I had hitherto occupied. The females had retired to another part of the house; and I noticed that Seguin, on entering, had looked to the door, turning the bolt. What terrible proof was he going to exact of my faith, of my love? Was he about to take my life, or bind me by some fearful oath, this man of cruel deeds? Dark suspicions shot across my mind, and I sat silent, but not without emotions of fear. A bottle of wine was placed between us, and Seguin, pouring out two glasses, asked me to drink. This courtesy assured me. “But how if the wine be poi—?” He swallowed his own glass before the thought had fairly shaped itself. “I am wronging him,” thought I. “This man, with all, is incapable of an act of treachery like that.” I drank up the wine. It made me feel more composed and tranquil. After a moment’s silence he opened the conversation with the abrupt interrogatory, “What do you know of me?” “Your name and calling; nothing more.” “More than is guessed at here;” and he pointed significantly to the door. “Who told you thus much of me?” “A friend, whom you saw at Santa Fé.” “Ah! Saint Vrain; a brave, bold man. I met him once in Chihuahua. Did he tell you no more of me than this?” “No. He promised to enter into particulars concerning you, but the subject was forgotten, the caravan moved on, and we were separated.” “You heard, then, that I was Seguin the Scalp-hunter? That I was employed by the citizens of El Paso to hunt the Apache and Navajo, and that I was paid a stated sum for every Indian scalp I could hang upon their gates? You heard all this?” “I did.” “It is true.” I remained silent. “Now, sir,” he continued, after a pause, “would you marry my daughter, the child of a wholesale murderer?” “Your crimes are not hers. She is innocent even of the knowledge of them, as you have said. You may be a demon; she is an angel.” There was a sad expression on his countenance as I said this. “Crimes! demon!” he muttered, half in soliloquy. “Ay, you may well think this; so judges the world. You have heard the stories of the mountain men in all their red exaggeration. You have heard that, during a treaty, I invited a village of the Apaches to a banquet, and poisoned the viands—poisoned the guests, man, woman, and child, and then scalped them! You have heard that I induced to pull upon the drag rope of a cannon two hundred savages, who know not its use; and then fired the piece, loaded with grape, mowing down the row of unsuspecting wretches! These, and other inhuman acts, you have no doubt heard of?” “It is true. I have heard these stories among the mountain hunters; but I knew not whether to believe them.” “Monsieur, they are false; all false and unfounded.” “I am glad to hear you say this. I could not now believe you capable of such barbarities.” “And yet, if they were true in all their horrid details, they would fall far short of the cruelties that have been dealt out by the savage foe to the inhabitants of this defenceless frontier. If you knew the history of this land for the last ten years; its massacres and its murders; its tears and its burnings; its spoliations; whole provinces depopulated; villages given to the flames; men butchered on their own hearths; women, beautiful women, carried into captivity by the desert robber! Oh, God! and I too have shared wrongs that will acquit me in your eyes, perhaps in the eyes of Heaven!” The speaker buried his face in his hands, and leant forward upon the table. He was evidently suffering from some painful recollection. After a moment he resumed—“I would have you listen to a short history of my life.” I signified my assent; and after filling and drinking another glass of wine, he proceeded. “I am not a Frenchman, as men suppose. I am a Creole, a native of New Orleans. My parents were refugees from Saint Domingo, where, after the black revolution, the bulk of their fortune was confiscated by the bloody Christophe. “I was educated for a civil engineer; and, in this capacity, I was brought out to the mines of Mexico, by the owner of one of them, who knew my father. I was young at the time, and I spent several years employed in the mines of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi. “I had saved some money out of my pay, and I began to think of opening upon my own account. “Rumours had long been current that rich veins of gold existed upon the Gila and its tributaries. The washings had been seen and gathered in these rivers; and the mother of gold, the milky quartz rock, cropped out everywhere in the desert mountains of this wild region. “I started for this country with a select party; and, after traversing it for weeks, in the Mimbres mountains, near the head waters of the Gila, I found the precious ore in its bed. I established a mine, and in five years was a rich man. “I remembered the companion of my youth, the gentle, the beautiful cousin who had shared my confidence, and inspired me with my first passion. With me it was first and last; it was not, as is often the case under similar circumstances, a transient thing. Through all my wanderings I had remembered and loved her. Had she been as true to me? “I determined to assure myself; and leaving my affairs in the hands of my mayoral, I set out for my native city. “Adèle had been true; and I returned, bringing her with me. “I built a house in Valverde, the nearest inhabited district to my mine. “Valverde was then a thriving place; it is now a ruin, which you may have seen in your journey down. “In this place we lived for years, in the enjoyment of wealth and happiness. I look back upon those days as so many ages of bliss. Our love was mutual and ardent; and we were blessed with two children, both girls. The youngest resembled her mother; the other, I have been told, was more like myself. We doted, I fear, too much on these pledges. We were too happy in their possession. “At this time a new Governor was sent to Santa Fé, a man who, by his wantonness and tyranny, has since then ruined the province. There has been no act too vile, no crime too dark, for this human monster. “He offered fair enough at first, and was feasted in the houses of the ricos through the valley. As I was classed among these, I was honoured with his visits, and frequently. He resided principally at Albuquerque; and grand fêtes were given at his palace, to which my wife and I were invited as special guests. He in return often came to our house in Valverde, under pretence of visiting the different parts of the province. “I discovered, at length, that his visits were solely intended for my wife, to whom he had paid some flattering attentions. “I will not dwell on the beauty of Adèle, at this time. You may imagine that for yourself; and, monsieur, you may assist your imagination by allowing it to dwell on those graces you appear to have discovered in her daughter, for the little Zoe is a type of what her mother was. “At the time I speak of she was still in the bloom of her beauty. The fame of that beauty was on every tongue, and had piqued the vanity of the wanton tyrant. For this reason I became the object of his friendly assiduities. “I had divined this; but confiding in the virtue of my wife, I took no notice of his conduct. No overt act of insult as yet claimed my attention. “Returning on one occasion from a long absence at the mines, Adèle informed me what, through delicacy, she had hitherto concealed—of insults received from his excellency at various times, but particularly in a visit he had paid her during my absence. “This was enough for Creole blood. I repaired to Albuquerque; and on the public plaza, in presence of the multitude, I chastised the insulter. “I was seized and thrown into a prison, where I lay for several weeks. When I was freed, and sought my home again, it was plundered and desolate. The wild Navajo had been there; my household gods were scattered and broken, and my child, oh, God! my little Adèle, was carried captive to the mountains!” “And your wife? your other child?” I inquired, eager to know the rest. “They had escaped. In the terrible conflict—for my poor peons battled bravely—my wife, with Zoe in her arms, had rushed out and hidden in a cave that was in the garden. I found them in the ranche of a vaquero in the woods, whither they had wandered.” “And your daughter Adèle—have you heard aught of her since?” “Yes, yes, I will come to that in a moment. “My mine, at the same time, was plundered and destroyed; many of the workmen were slaughtered before they could escape; and the work itself, with my fortune, became a ruin. “With some of the miners, who had fled, and others of Valverde, who, like me, had suffered, I organised a band, and followed the savage foe; but our pursuit was vain, and we turned back, many of us broken in health and heart. “Oh, monsieur, you cannot know what it is to have thus lost a favourite child! you cannot understand the agony of the bereaved father!” The speaker pressed his head between his hands, and remained for a moment silent. His countenance bore the indications of heartrending sorrow. “My story will soon be told—up to the present time. Who knows the end? “For years I hung upon the frontiers of the Indian country, hunting for my child. I was aided by a small band, most of them unfortunates like myself, who had lost wife or daughter in a similar manner. But our means became exhausted, and despair wore us out. The sympathies of my companions grew old and cold. One after another gave up. The Governor of New Mexico offered us no aid. On the contrary, it was suspected then—it is now known—that the Governor himself was in secret league with the Navajo chiefs. He had engaged to leave them unmolested; while they, on their side, promised to plunder only his enemies! “On learning this terrible secret, I saw the hand that had dealt me the blow. Stung by the disgrace I had put upon him, as well as by my wife’s scorn, the villain was not slow to avenge himself. “Since then his life has been twice in my power, but the taking of it would, most probably, have forfeited my own, and I had objects for which to live. I may yet find a reckoning day for him. “I have said that my band melted away. Sick at heart, and conscious of danger in New Mexico, I left the province, and crossed the Jornada to El Paso. Here for a while I lived, grieving for my lost child. “I was not long inactive. The frequent forays made by the Apaches into Sonora and Chihuahua had rendered the government more energetic in the defence of the frontier. The presidios were repaired and garrisoned with more efficient troops, and a band of rangers organised, whose pay was proportioned to the number of scalps they might send back to the settlements. “I was offered the command of this strange guerilla; and in the hope that I might yet recover my child, I accepted it—I became a scalp-hunter. “It was a terrible commission; and had revenge alone been my object, it would long since have been gratified. Many a deed of blood have we enacted; many a scene of retaliatory vengeance have we passed through. “I knew that my captive daughter was in the hands of the Navajoes. I had heard so at various times from prisoners whom I had taken; but I was always crippled for want of strength in men and means. Revolution after revolution kept the states in poverty and civil warfare, and our interests were neglected or forgotten. With all my exertions, I could never raise a force sufficient to penetrate that desert country north of the Gila, in which lie the towns of the savage Navajoes.” “And you think—” “Patience! I shall soon finish. My band is now stronger than ever. I have received certain information, by one just escaped from a captivity among the Navajoes, that the warriors of both tribes are about to proceed southward. They are mustering all their strength, with the intention of making a grand foray; even, as we have heard, to the gates of Durango. It is my design, then, to enter their country while they are absent, and search for my daughter.” “And you think she still lives?” “I know it. The same man who brought me this news, and who, poor fellow, has left his scalp and ears behind him, saw her often. She is grown up, and is, he says, a sort of queen among them, possessed of strange powers and privileges. Yes, she still lives; and if it be my fortune to recover her, then will this tragic scene be at an end. I will go far hence.” I had listened with deep attention to the strange recital. All the disgust with which my previous knowledge of this man’s character had inspired me vanished from my mind, and I felt for him compassion—ay, admiration. He had suffered much. Suffering atones for crime, and in my sight he was justified. Perhaps I was too lenient in my judgment. It was natural I should be so. When the revelation was ended, I was filled with emotions of pleasure. I felt a vivid joy to know that she was not the offspring of the demon I had deemed him. He seemed to divine my thoughts; for there was a smile of satisfaction, I might say triumph, on his countenance, as he leaned across the table to refill the wine. “Monsieur, my story must have wearied you. Drink!” There was a moment’s silence as we emptied the glasses. “And now, sir, you know the father of your betrothed, at least somewhat better than before. Are you still in the mind to marry her?” “Oh, sir! she is now, more than ever, to me a sacred object.” “But you must win her, as I have said, from me.” “Then, sir, tell me how. I am ready for any sacrifice that may be within my power to make.” “You must help me to recover her sister.” “Willingly.” “You must go with me to the desert.” “I will.” “Enough. We start to-morrow.” And he rose, and began to pace the room. “At an early hour?” I inquired, half fearing that I was about to be denied an interview with her whom I now more than ever longed to embrace. “By daybreak,” he replied, not seeming to heed my anxious manner. “I must look to my horse and arms,” said I, rising, and going towards the door, in hopes of meeting her without. “They have been attended to; Gode is there. Come, boy! She is not in the hall. Stay where you are. I will get the arms you want. Adèle! Zoe! Oh, doctor, you are returned with your weeds! It is well. We journey to-morrow. Adèle, some coffee, love! and then let us have some music. Your guest leaves you to-morrow.” The bright form rushed between us with a scream. “No, no, no, no!” she exclaimed, turning from one to the other, with the wild appeal of a passionate heart. “Come, little dove!” said the father, taking her by the hands; “do not be so easily fluttered. It is but for a short time. He will return again.” “How long, papa? How long, Enrique?” “But a very short while. It will be longer to me than to you, Zoe.” “Oh! no, no; an hour will be a long time. How many hours do you think, Enrique?” “Oh! we shall be gone days, I fear.” “Days! Oh, papa! Oh, Enrique! Days!” “Come, little chit; they will soon pass. Go! Help your mamma to make the coffee.” “Oh, papa! Days; long days. They will not soon pass when I am alone.” “But you will not be alone. Your mamma will be with you.” “Ah!” And with a sigh, and an air of abstraction, she departed to obey the command of her father. As she passed out at the door, she again sighed audibly. The doctor was a silent and wondering spectator of this last scene; and as her figure vanished into the hall, I could hear him muttering to himself— “Oh ja! Poor leetle fraulein! I thought as mosh.” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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