The Red Track. Gustave AimardЧитать онлайн книгу.
a condition as his clothes, and in the event of a fight this man, with the exception of his bodily strength, which must once have been great, but which privations of every description, and probably endured for a lengthened period, had exhausted, would not have been a formidable adversary for the traveller. Still, beneath this truly wretched appearance could be traced an organization crushed by grief. There was in this man something grand and sympathetic, which appeared to emanate from his person, and aroused not only pity but also respect for torture so proudly hidden and so nobly endured. This man, in short, ere he fell so low, must have been great, either in virtue or in vice; but assuredly there was nothing common about him, and a mighty heart beat in his bosom.
Such was the impression the stranger produced on his host, while both, without the interchange of a word, appeased an appetite sharpened by long hours of abstinence. Hunters' meals are short, and the present one lasted hardly a quarter of an hour. When it was over, the traveller rolled a cigarette, and, handing it to the stranger, said—
"Do you smoke?"
On this apparently so simple question being asked, a strange thing happened which will only be understood by smokers who, long accustomed to the weed, have for some reason or other been deprived of it for a lengthened period. The stranger's face was suddenly lit up by the effect of some internal emotion; his dull eye flashed, and, seizing the cigarette with a nervous tremor, he exclaimed, in a voice choked by an outburst of joy impossible to render—
"Yes, yes; I used to smoke."
There was a rather long silence, during which the two men slowly inhaled the smoke of their cigarettes, and indulged in thought. The wind howled fiercely Over their heads, the eddying snow was piling up around them, and the echoes of the canyons seemed to utter notes of complaint. It was a horrible night. Beyond the circle of light produced by the flickering flame of the watch fire all was buried in dense gloom. The picture presented by these two men, seated in the desert, strangely illumined by the bluish flame, fend smoking calmly while suspended above an unfathomable abyss, had something striking and awe-inspiring about it. When the traveller had finished his cigarette, he rolled another, and laid his tobacco-pouch between himself and his guest.
"Now that the ice is broken between us," he said in a friendly voice, "and that we have nearly formed an acquaintance—for we have been sitting at the same fire, and have eaten and smoked together—the moment has arrived, I fancy, for us to become thoroughly acquainted."
The stranger nodded his head silently. It was a gesture that could be interpreted affirmatively or negatively, at pleasure. The traveller continued, with a good-humoured smile—
"I make not the slightest pretence to compel you to reveal your secrets, and you are at liberty to maintain your incognito without in any way offending me. Still, whatever may be the result, let me give you an example of frankness by telling you who I am. My story will not be long, and only consists of a very few words. France is my country, and I was born at Paris—which city, doubtless," he remarked, with a stifled sigh, "I shall never see again. Reasons too lengthy to trouble you with, and which would interest you but very slightly, led me to America. Chance, or Providence, perhaps, by guiding me to the desert, and arousing my instincts and aspirations for liberty, wished to make a wood ranger of me, and I obeyed. For twenty years I have been traversing the prairies and great savannahs in every direction, and I shall probably continue to do so, till an Indian bullet comes from some thicket to stop my wanderings for ever. Towns are hateful to me; passionately fond of the grand spectacles of nature, which elevate the thought, and draw the creature nearer to his Creator, I shall only mix myself up once again in the chaos of civilization in order to fulfil a vow made on the tomb of a friend. When I have done that, I shall fly to the most, unknown deserts, in order to end a life henceforth useless, far from those men whose paltry passions and base and ignoble hatred have robbed me of the small amount of happiness to which I fancied I had a claim. And now, mate, you know me as well as I do myself. I will merely add, in conclusion, that my name among the white men, my countrymen, is Valentine Guillois, and among the redskins, my adopted fathers, Koutonepi—that is to say, 'The Valiant One.' I believe myself to be as honest and as brave as a man is permitted to be with his imperfect organization. I never did harm with the intention of doing so, and I have done services to my fellow men as often as I had it in my power, without expecting from them thanks or gratitude."
The speech, which the hunter had commenced in that clear voice and with that careless accent habitual to him, terminated involuntarily, under the pressure of the flood of saddened memories that rose from his heart to his lips, in a low and inarticulate voice, and when he concluded, he let his head fall sadly on his chest, with a sigh that resembled a sob. The stranger regarded him for a moment with an expression of gentle commiseration.
"You have suffered," he said; "suffered in your love, suffered in your friendship. Your history is that of all men in this world: who of us, but at a given hour, has felt his courage yield beneath the weight of grief? You are alone, friendless, abandoned by all, a voluntary exile, far from the men who only inspire you with hatred and contempt; you prefer the society of wild beasts, less ferocious than they; but, at any rate, you live, while I am a dead man!"
The hunter started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.
"I suppose you think me mad?" he continued, with a melancholy smile; "reassure yourself, it is not so. I am in full possession of my senses, my head is cool, and my thoughts are clear and lucid. For all that though, I repeat to you, I am dead, dead in the sight of my relations and friends, dead to the whole world in fine, and condemned to lead this wretched existence for an indefinite period. Mine is a strange story, and that you would recognize through one word, were you a Mexican, or had you travelled in certain regions of Mexico."
"Did I not tell you that, for twenty years, I have been travelling over every part of America?" the traveller replied, his curiosity being aroused to the highest pitch. "What is the word? Can you tell it me?"
"Why not? I am alluding to the name I bore while I was still a living man."
"What is that name?"
"It had acquired a certain celebrity, but I doubt whether, even if you have heard it mentioned, it has remained in your memory."
"Who knows? Perhaps you are mistaken."
"Well, since you insist, learn, then, that I was called Martial el Tigrero."
"You?" the hunter exclaimed, under the influence of the uttermost surprise; "why that is impossible!"
"Of course so, since I am dead," the stranger answered, bitterly.
CHAPTER II.
THE DEAD ALIVE.
The Tigrero had let his head fall on his chest again, and seemed engaged with gloomy thoughts. The hunter, somewhat embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken, and anxious to continue it, mechanically stirred up the fire with the blade of his navaja, while his eyes wandered around, and were at times fixed on his companion with an expression of deep sympathy.
"Stay," he said, presently, as he thrust back with his foot a few embers that had rolled out; "pardon me, sir, any insult which my exclamation may seem to have contained. You have mistaken, I assure you, the meaning of my remarks; although, as we have never met, we are not such strangers as you suppose. I have known you for a long time."
The Tigrero raised his head, and looked at the hunter incredulously.
"You?" he muttered.
"Yes, I, caballero, and it will not be difficult to prove it to you."
"What good will it do?" he murmured; "what interest can I have in the fact of your knowing me?"
"My dear sir," the Frenchman continued, with several shakes of his head, "nothing happens in this world by the effect of chance. Above us, an intellect superior to ours directs everything here below; and if we have been permitted to meet in a manner so strange and unexpected in these