La fièvre d'or. English

  CHAPTER I.

  THE NIGHT HALT.

  Before the discovery of the rich placers in the neighbourhood of SanFrancisco, California was completely wild and almost unknown. The portof San Francisco, the finest and largest in the world, destined tobecome very shortly the commercial _entrepot_ of the Pacific, was atthat time only frequented by whalers, who, at the period when the whalesretire to the shallow water, came to fish there, cut them up, and meltdown their blubber.

  A few Flat-head Indians wandered haphazard through the vast forests thatcovered the seaboard; and in this country, which trade has now seizedon, and which is entering, with all sail set, into the movement ofprogress, wild beasts lorded it as masters.

  An old officer of Charles X.'s Swiss Guard had founded a poor colony onthe territory of San Francisco, and cut down trees, which he convertedinto planks by the aid of a few watermills.

  Such was the condition in which this magnificent country languished,when suddenly the news of the discovery of rich placers in Californiaburst on the world like a shell. Then the country, as if touched by themagic wand of some powerful enchanter, became all at once transformed.From all parts of the world adventurers flocked in, bearing with themthat feverish activity and boundless audacity which ignore alldifficulties, and surmount every obstacle.

  At a spot where, a few days previously, gloomy and mysterious forests,old as the world, stretched out, a city was created, improvised, andwithin a few months counted its inhabitants by tens of thousands. Theport, so long deserted, was crammed with vessels of every sort and everysize, and the gold fever renewed the Saturnalia of the Spanishconquistadors of the Middle Ages.

  For some time after, this country offered to the eye of the observer asight the most hideous, the most grand, the most heart-rending, and moststriking that can be imagined. All was mingled, confounded, andupturned. It was a confusion, a hurly-burly impossible to describe,where nothing existed any longer--where every tie was broken, everysocial idea annihilated; and in this terrible pell-mell, in thisfrightful race to the placers, rogues and gentlemen, soldiers andpriests, diplomatists and physicians, jostled each other, all running,howling, wielding the dagger or the revolver, possessed by only oneidea, instinct, or passion--that of gold. For gold these men would havesold everything--conscience, honour, probity, everything, even tothemselves!

  We will not enter into fuller details of this wondrous period, duringwhich California emerged from her nothingness, to take her place, afterten years of desperate struggling, among the civilised peoples. Otherpens, far more eloquent than ours, have undertaken the rude task oftelling us the history of these striking incidents. We will confineourselves to stating that, at the period of our story, gold had onlyjust been discovered, and California was struggling against the firstraging attack of _delirium tremens_.

  It was about three years after the events we narrated in our prologue.

  In the Sierra Nevada, upon the picturesque slopes that descend graduallyto the sea, in the heart of an immense virgin forest a hundred leaguesfrom San Francisco, between that city and Los Angeles, the heat had beenstifling during the day. At sunset the sea breeze had risen, andslightly refreshed the atmosphere; but it sank again almost immediately,and the temperature had again become heavy and oppressive.

  The motionless trees concealed beneath their dense foliage birds ofevery description, which only revealed their presence at intervals byshrill and discordant cries. Hideous alligators wallowing in the mud ofthe swamps, or holding on to the trunks of dead trees scattered here andthere, were the only living beings that animated the landscape, whichwas rendered even more gloomy and mournful by the pale, uncertain, andtremulous flickering of the moonbeams that filtered with greatdifficulty through the rare openings in the verdurous forest dome, andsported capriciously and fantastically about the trees and branches,though unable to lessen the mysterious obscurity that reigned in theleafy covert.

  A noise of horses' hoofs was heard on one of the innumerable tracks madeby the wild beasts as they proceed in search of water, and two mendebouched into a clearing formed by the fall of several trees that haddied of old age, and whose mossy trunks were already in a state ofdecomposition.

  These men were both dressed in the costume of hunters or wood rangers,and were armed with American rifles, long knives, and _machetes_. A_reata_, rolled up and fastened to the saddle-bow, allowed them to berecognised as partisans from the Mexican frontiers.

  Both had passed middle life; but there the resemblance between themended. At the first glance it was easy to guess that one belonged to theNorthern European race; while his comrade, on the contrary, by the olivetint of his complexion, and his angular features, offered a perfect typeof the Indian aborigines of Chili, so eloquently celebrated by Ercilla,and known in South America by the name of Araucanos--a powerful,intelligent, and energetic race, the only one of all the native tribesof the New World which has managed to retain its nationality, and causedits independence to be respected to the present day.

  These two men were Valentine Guillois, better known as the"Trail-hunter," and Curumilla, his silent and devoted companion eversince the day that chance so many years previously had led Valentineinto Araucania.[1]

  Years, while accumulating on the heads of the two men, had produced buta slight change in their external appearance. They were still quiteupright, and seemed equally vigorous. A few more wrinkles had formed onthe Frenchman's pensive brow, and some silvery threads were added to hislocks; his features, more angular than before, had assumed those firmand distinct lines, alone produced by reflection and long contestsvaliantly sustained; his eye was still equally frank, but the flash wasmore incisive; and his face wore that melancholy impression whichdeceptions of every description, and great grief, stamp indelibly on thecountenance of powerful men, whom the fearful storms of life have bowed,though not broken.

  The Indian was still morose and concentrated. Age, which had laid even asmaller hold on his organisation than on that of his comrade, had merelyincreased the worthy Araucanian's habitual taciturnity, and drawn overhis gloomy face a thicker veil of that stoical fatalism peculiar to theaboriginal race of America.

  The two men advanced slowly side by side, apparently plunged in deepthought. At times Valentine stopped, looked cautiously around him, andthen resumed his march, shaking his head dubiously. Each time that thehunter reined in his horse Curumilla imitated him, though not evidencingby the slightest sign that he took any interest in his companion'soperations.

  The forest grew with each step denser, the paths became narrower, andall appeared to forebode that the horses would soon be unable toadvance, impeded as they were by the creepers that were intertwined intoa thick trellis-work in front of them.

  The two horsemen at length reached the clearing to which we havealready alluded, after intense difficulty. On arriving there, Valentinestopped, and heaving a sigh of relief,--

  "By Jove!" he said, "Curumilla, my good friend, I was mad to believe youand follow you so far; it is evident that we are lost."

  The Indian shook his head in denial.

  "Hem! I am aware that you fellows have a marvellous talent for followinga trail, and that you rarely lose your way, even in a place you havenever visited before. Still the darkness is so intense here, that I canhardly distinguish objects only two paces ahead of me. Come, allow thatwe have lost ourselves. Hang it! That may happen to anybody. I proposethat we stop here and await sunrise before we renew our search, the moreso because, for nearly two hours, it has been impossible to discover theslightest trace proving to us that we are still on the right road."

  Curumilla, without replying, dismounted, and explored the clearing onall sides; then, at the expiration of a few minutes, he returned to hisfriend's side, and gave him a sign to mount again. Valentine hadcarefully followed his movements.

  "Well," he said, checking him, "are you not convinced yet?"

  "One hour more," the Indian replied, liberating himself gently, andgetting into his saddle.

&n
bsp; "Hang, it all!" Valentine said, "I confess I am growing tired of playingat hide and seek in this inextricable forest, and if you do not give mea positive proof of what you assert, I will not stir from this spot."

  Curumilla bent toward him, and, showing him a small object, said,--

  "Look!"

  "Eh?" Valentine remarked in surprise, after carefully examining theobject his comrade handed him. "What the deuce is it? Why," he addedalmost immediately, "I ought to have recognised it at once: it is acigar-case, and a handsome one too. There is a cigar still in it, if Iam not mistaken."

  He remained for an instant in thought.

  "It is true," he went on, "that I have not seen these luxurious productsof civilisation for a long time; indeed, since I gave them up to leadthe life of a free hunter. Where did you find it, Curumilla?"

  "There," he answered, stretching out his arm.

  "Good! The owner of that case cannot be far from us, so let us push on."

  He pocketed the case, and the two horsemen set out once more.

  After crossing the clearing, the path on which they entered begangradually to widen, and soon they noticed, by the moonbeams that lightedthem at intervals, that the path had been trodden by a large number ofcloven-footed animals, which had cropped the leaves and broken down thebranches on both sides. These traces were still quite fresh.

  "Come," Valentine said gaily, "I was wrong just now, Curumilla. We werereally on the right track, and I believe we shall soon catch up thepersons we have so long been seeking."

  Something like a smile attempted to contract the Indian's features; butthe attempt was not a happy one, and stopped at a grimace. All at onceCurumilla laid his hand on his comrade's bridle, and bending forward,--

  "Listen," he said.

  Valentine listened attentively; but, for all that, several momentspassed ere he could distinguish aught else than those confused andmysterious sounds which never expire in the desert: at length somethingresembling a musical note borne on the breeze gently died away on hisear. The hunter started back in surprise.

  "Ah, by Jupiter!" he exclaimed, "that musician has chosen a strange timeto give a concert. I am curious to see such an original a little nearer.Let us push on."

  After marching for about a quarter of a mile further they began to see afire flashing through the trees, and distinctly heard a masculine andsonorous voice singing to the accompaniment of a jarana. The huntersstopped in surprise, and listened.

  "By heaven!" the Frenchman muttered, "it is the romancero of KingRodrigo, sung by an unknown voice at night in the heart of a virginforest. Never has that powerful poetry affected me so deeply. In truth,everything here harmonises with that song, which is so thoroughlysorrowful and despairing. Whoever he may be, I must see the man who hasunconsciously caused me a few moments of such gentle emotion. Were itthe demon in person, I would shake his hand ere the last strains hadceased vibrating on the strings of his jarana."

  And without further deliberation, Valentine, after giving Curumilla asign to follow him, resolutely entered the circle of light. At the soundof horses' hoofs, the stranger, with a movement swift as thought, threwthe guitar across his back, and leaped up with a sabre in his right handand a revolver in the other.

  "Hold!" he shouted boldly; "stop, if you please, caballero, or I shallfire."

  "Pray do not do so, senor," Valentine answered, who considered itprudent to obey the order given him, "for you would run the risk ofkilling a friend, and they are too rare in the desert to be received,when met, by a pistol shot."

  "Hum! I trust what you say is true," the other answered, still on thedefensive; "still I should feel obliged by your explaining to me, in twowords, who you are, and what you are seeking after the acquaintancebecomes more intimate between us."

  "Of course, caballero; I see no inconvenience in satisfying your wishes,especially as prudence is one of the theological virtues recommended inthe regions where we now are."

  "On my soul, you appear to me to be a jolly fellow! I hope we shallbecome friends ere long; and to prove to you that I sincerely desire it,and at the same time to arouse your confidence, I will begin by tellingyou who I am, which will not take long."

  "Pray do so."

  The stranger then thrust his revolver into his belt, took three pacesforward, removed his wide-brimmed hat, whose long feather swept theground, and saluted his new acquaintance ceremoniously.

  "Senor caballero," he said with infinite grace and politeness, "my nameis Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, gentleman of the Asturias, nobleas the king, and poor at this moment as Job of Bohemian memory. The few_novillos_ lying around me are my property, and that of my partner,absent at this moment in search of a few strayed members of the herd,but whom I expect at any moment. These animals were purchased by us atLos Angeles, and we are taking them to San Francisco, with the purposeof selling them at the best price to the gold-seekers and otheradventurers collected in that curious city."

  After uttering this short speech the young man bowed again, put his haton his head, placed the point of his sabre on his boot, and waited, footforward, and his hand on his hip.

  Valentine had listened attentively, and when he spoke of his partner aflash of joy sparkled in the hunter's eyes.

  "Caballero," he answered, uncovering in his turn, "my friend and myselfare two wood rangers, hunters, or trail-seekers, whichever you mayplease to term us. Attracted by the light of your fire, and theharmonious song that reached our ears, we came toward you for thepurpose of claiming from you that hospitality which is never refused inthe desert, offering to share our provisions with you, and to be hailfellows well met so long as we may remain in your agreeable company."

  "You are welcome, caballeros," Don Cornelio replied nobly. "Prayconsider the little we possess as your own."

  The hunters bowed and dismounted.

  [1] These two characters have been introduced in another work by ourauthor, and are old friends to French readers.