CHAPTER VIII
THE WOUNDED MAN

A profound calm brooded over the country: the night breeze had died away; no other sound but the continual buzzing of the infinitely little creatures, that toil incessantly at the unknown task for which they were created by Providence, disturbed the silence of the night: the deep blue sky had not a cloud: a gentle, penetrating brilliancy fell from the stars and the moonbeams flooded the landscape with gleams that gave a fantastic appearance to the trees and mounts whose shadows they immoderately elongated: bluish reflections seemed to pervade the atmosphere whose dearness was such, that the heavy flight of the coleoptera buzzing round the branches could be easily distinguished: here and there fireflies darted like will-o'-the-wisps through the tall grass, which they lit up with phosphorescent gleams as they passed.

It was, in a word, one of those limpid and pure American nights, unknown in our cold climates less favoured by heaven, and which plunge the mind into gentle and melancholy reverie.

All at once a shadow rose on the horizon, rapidly increased and soon revealed the black and still undecided outline of a horseman; the sound of horses' hoofs striking the hardened ground hurried blows, soon left no doubt in this respect.

A horseman was really approaching and going in the direction of Puebla; half asleep on his steed, he held the bridle rather loose, and allowed it to go much as it pleased, until the animal, on reaching some cross roads, in the middle of which a cross stood, gave a sudden start and leaped on one side, cocking its ears and pulling back forcibly.

The rider, suddenly aroused from his sleep or, as is more probable, from his reflections, would have been thrown, had he not, by an instinctive movement, gathered up his horse by pulling at the bridle.

"Holah," he exclaimed, drawing himself up sharply and laying his hand on his machete, while he looked anxiously around, "what is going on here? Come, Moreno, my good horse, why this terror? There, calm yourself, my good boy, no one is thinking of us."

But though the master patted it as he spoke, and both seemed to be on good terms, the animal still continued to pull back and display signs of the most lively terror.

"This is not natural, by Heaven! You are not accustomed to be thus frightened for nothing: come, my good Moreno, what is it?"

And the traveller again looked around him, but this time more attentively and peering at the ground, "Ah!" he said all at once, on noticing a corpse stretched out on the road, "Moreno is right; there is something there, the body of some hacendero without doubt, whom the salteadores have killed to plunder him more at their ease, and whom they left, without paying further heed to him: let me have a look."

While speaking thus to himself in a low voice, the horseman had dismounted.

But, as our man was prudent, and, in all probability, long accustomed to traverse the roads of the Mexican confederation, he cocked his gun, and held himself in readiness either for attack or defence, in the event of the individual whom he proposed to succour suddenly rising to ask him for his money or his life, an eventuality quite in accordance with the manners of the country, and against which he must place himself on his guard.

He therefore approached the corpse and gazed at it for an instant with the most serious attention.

It only required one glance to attain for certainty that there was nothing to be feared from the unhappy man lying at his feet.

"Hum!" he continued, shaking his head several times, "This poor fellow seems to be very bad: if he is not dead, he is not worth much more, well, I suppose I must try to succour him, though I am afraid it will be lost trouble."

After this fresh aside, the traveller, who was no other than Dominique, the ranchero's son, to whom we just now alluded, uncocked his gun which he leant against the road side, so as to have it within reach in case of need, fastened his horse to a tree, and took off his zarapé, so as to be less impeded in his movements.

After taking all these precautions quietly and methodically, for he was a very careful man in everything, Dominique took off the alforjas or double pockets carried on the back of the saddle, put them on his shoulder, and kneeling down by the side of the out-stretched corpse, he opened the wounded man's clothes and put his ear to his chest, in which was a gaping wound.

Dominique was a man of tall stature, powerful and perfectly proportioned: his supple limbs were garnished with muscles thick as cords and hard as marble: he was evidently endowed with remarkable strength, joined to great skill in all his movements, which were not without a certain manly grace: he was, in a word, one of those powerful men uncommon in all countries, but who are most frequently found among those nations where the exigencies of a life of combat develop the personal faculties of the individual in frequently extreme proportions.

Although he was only two and twenty years of age, Dominique appeared at least eight and twenty. His features were handsome, masculine and intelligent, his black open eyes looked you boldly in the face, his ample forehead, his auburn hair that curled naturally, his large mouth with rather thick lips, his fiercely curled moustache, his well designed and squarely cut chin gave his face an expression of frankness, boldness and kindness, which was really attractive, while at the same time rendering him most distinguished looking. A singular thing in this man, who belonged to the humble class of vaqueros, his hands and feet were wonderfully small, and his hands more especially were exquisitely shaped.

Such physically was the new personage whom we introduce to the reader, and who is intended to play an important part in the course of this narration. "Well, he will have a job, to recover, if he does recover," Dominique continued as he rose, after vainly trying to feel the beating of his heart. Still he did not let himself be discouraged, he opened his alforjas and took out linen, a surgical case and a small locked box.

"Luckily I have kept up my Indian habits," he said with a smile, "and always carry my medicine bag about with me."

Without loss of time he probed the wound and washed it carefully. The blood dripped drop by drop from the violet edges of the wound, he uncorked a vial, poured on the wound a few drops of reddish liquor, and the blood at once ceased flowing as if by enchantment. Then with a skill that evidenced much practice he bandaged the wound, on which he delicately laid some herbs pounded and moistened with the red fluid he had before employed.

The unhappy man gave no sign of life, his body continued to retain the inert rigidity of a corpse; still a certain moistness existed at the extremities, a diagnostic which made Dominique suppose that life was not completely extinct in this poor body. After dressing the wound with care, he gently raised the man and leaned him against a tree: then he began rubbing his chest, temples and wrists with rum and water, only stopping from time to time to examine with an anxious eye his pale contracted face. Everything appeared to be useless: no contraction, no nervous quiver indicated the return of life. But there is nothing so persistent as the will of a man who desires to save his fellow man. Although he began seriously to doubt the success of his efforts, far from being discouraged, Dominique felt his ardor redoubled, and resolved not to give up his exertions, till he had attained the certainty that they were wasted. A striking picture was offered by the group formed on this deserted road upon this calm and luminous night, at the foot of the cross – the symbol of redemption – by these two men, one of whom impelled by the holy love of humanity lavished on the other the most paternal care.

Dominique ceased his frictions for a moment and smote his forehead, as if a sudden thought had risen to his brain.

"Where the deuce can my head be?" he muttered; and feeling in his alforjas, which seemed inexhaustible, so many things did they contain, he brought out a carefully stoppered gourd.

He opened the wounded man's clenched teeth with his knife blade, thrust the gourd between his lips, and poured into his mouth a portion of the contents, while examining his face anxiously. At the end of two or three minutes, the wounded man gave a slight shiver, and his eyelids moved, as if he were trying to open them.

"Ah!" said Dominique with joy, "This time I believe I shall win the day."

And, laying the gourd by his side, he recommenced his frictions with renewed ardour. A sigh faint as a breath issued from the wounded man's lips, his limbs began ere long to lose a little of their rigidity, life was returning by inches. The young man redoubled his efforts; by degrees the breathing, though faint and broken, became more distinct, the features relaxed and the cheek bones displayed two red spots, although the eyes remained closed, the lips moved as if the wounded man were trying to utter some words.

"Come," said Dominique with delight, "all is not over yet, but he will have had a very narrow squeak for it; bravo! I have not lost my time! But who on earth can have given him so tremendous a sword thrust? People do not fight duels in Mexico. On my soul! If I were not afraid of insulting him. I could almost swear I know the man who so nearly slit up this poor wretch; but patience, he must speak ere long, and then he will be very clever if I do not learn with whom he has had the row."

In the meanwhile life, after long hesitating to return to this body which it had almost abandoned, had commenced an earnest struggle with death, which it drove further and further away. The movements of the wounded man became more distinct and decidedly more intelligent. Twice already his eyes had opened, although they closed again immediately; but the improvement in him was sensible: he would soon recover his senses, it was now but a question of time. Dominique poured a little water into a cup, mixed with it a few drops of the liquid contained in the gourd, and put it to the patient's mouth: the latter opened his lips, drank and then gave a gasp of relief.

"How do you feel?" the young man asked him with interest.

At the sound of this unknown voice, a convulsive quiver agitated the whole of the wounded man's body; he made a gesture as if repulsing a terrifying image, and muttered in a low voice, "Kill me!"

"Certainly not!" Dominique exclaimed joyfully.

"I had too much trouble in recovering you for that."

The wounded man partly opened his eyes, glanced wildly around, and at length gazed at the young man with an expression of indescribable horror.

"The mask!" he exclaimed, "The mask! Oh! Back, back!"

"The brain has suffered a very severe shock," the young man muttered, "he is suffering from a feverish hallucination which, if it continued, might produce madness. Hum! The case is serious! What is to be done to remedy this?"

"Murderer!" the wounded man continued feebly; "Kill me."

"He insists on that as it seems; this man has fallen into some frightful snare, his troubled mind only recalls the last scene of murder, in which he acted so unfortunate a part. I must cut this short and restore him the calmness necessary for his cure, if not, he is lost."

"Do I not know perfectly well I am lost?" the wounded man who overheard the last word said; "Kill me, therefore, without making me suffer more."

"You hear me, señor," the young man answered "very good then, listen to me without interruption: I am not one of the men who brought you into your present state. I am a traveller, whom accident or rather Providence brought on this road, to come to your assistance and, as I hope, to save you: you understand me, do you not? Hence cease to invent chimeras; forget, if it be possible, for the present at any rate, what passed between you and your assassins. I have no other desire but that of being useful to you: without me you would be dead: do not render more difficult the hard task I have taken on myself: your recovery henceforth depends on yourself."

The wounded man made a sudden effort to rise, but his strength betrayed him, and he fell back with a sigh of discouragement; "I cannot," he murmured.

"I should think not, wounded as you are. It is a miracle that the frightful sword thrust you received did not kill you on the spot: hence, do not any longer oppose what humanity orders me to do for you."

"But if you are not the assassin, who are you?" the wounded man asked, apprehensively.

"Who am I? A poor vaquero, who found you expiring here, and was fortunate enough to restore you to life."

"And you swear to me that your intentions are good?"

"I swear it, on my honour."

"Thanks!" the wounded man murmured.

There was a rather long silence.

"Oh! I wish to live;" the wounded man resumed, with concentrated energy.

"I can understand the desire – it is quite natural on your part."

"Yes; I wish to live, for I must avenge myself!"

"That sentiment is just, for vengeance is permitted."

"You promise that you will save me – do you not?"

"At least I will do all in my power."

"Oh! I am rich: I will reward you."

The ranchero shook his head.

"Why speak of reward?" he said. "Do you believe that devotedness can be bought? Keep your gold, caballero – it would be useless to me, for I have no wants to satisfy."

"Still, it is my duty."

"Not a word more on this subject, I must request, señor. Any pressure on your part would be a mortal insult to me. I am doing my duty in saving your life, and have no claim to any recompense."

"Act as you please, then."

"Promise me first not to raise any objection to what I may consider it proper to do on behalf of your health."

"I promise it."

"Good! In this way we shall always understand one another. Day will soon appear, and so we must not remain here any longer."

"But when can I go? I feel so faint, that I cannot possibly make the slightest movement."

"That need not disturb you. I will put you on my horse; and by making it go at a foot pace, it will carry you, without any dangerous jolts, to a safe place."

"I leave myself in your hands."

"That is the best thing you could do. Do you wish me to take you to your house?"

"My house!" the wounded man exclaimed, with ill-disguised terror, and making a movement as if he would try to fly. "You know me then, señor – know my residence?"

"I do not know you, and am ignorant where your house is situated. How could I know such details, when I never saw you before this night?"

"That is true," the wounded man muttered, speaking to himself. "I am mad! This man is honest." Then, addressing Dominique, he said in a broken and scarce distinct voice; "I am a traveller. I come from Veracruz, and was going to Mexico, when I was suddenly attacked, plundered of everything I possessed, and left for dead at the foot of this cross, when you so providentially discovered me. As for a home, I have no other at this moment but the one you may be pleased to offer me. This is my whole story: it is as simple as truth."

"Whether it be true or not does not concern me, señor. I have no right to interfere in your affairs against your will. Let me request you, therefore, to refrain from giving me information which I do not ask of you – which does not concern me, and which, in your present condition, can only be injurious to you, first, by causing you too great tension of mind, and then, by forcing you to speak."

In truth, it was only by a violent effort of the will, that the wounded man had succeeded in keeping up so long a conversation. The shock he had received was too powerful, his wound too severe, for him to talk any longer, without running the risk of falling into a fainting fit more dangerous than the one from which he had been so miraculously drawn by his generous saviour. Already he felt his arteries throbbing, a mist spread before his sight: there was a sinister buzzing in his ears; an icy sweat beaded on his temples; his thoughts, into which he had found it so difficult to introduce a little regularity and coherence, were beginning to desert him again: he understood that any lengthened resistance on his part would be madness, and he fell back in a state of discouragement, and heaving a sigh of resignation, —

"My friend," he murmured, in a faint voice, "do with me what you please; I feel as if I were dying."

Dominique watched his movements with an anxious eye: he hastened to make him drink a few drops of cordial, with which he had mixed a soporific. This help was efficacious, and the wounded man felt himself recalled to life. He tried to thank the young man.

"Silence!" the latter said to him, quickly; "You have talked too much already."

And he carefully wrapped him in his cloak, and laid him on the ground.

"There!" he continued; "So far you are all right; do not stir, and try to sleep, while I reflect on the means of removing you from here as quickly as possible."

The wounded man attempted no resistance; the opium he had swallowed was already acting upon him: he smiled softly, closed his eyes, and was soon plunged in a calm and strengthening sleep. Dominique watched him for a moment asleep with the most entire satisfaction.

"I like better to see him thus than as he was on my arrival," he said, gladly. "Ah! All is not over yet: now we must be off as rapidly as possible, if I do not wish to be impeded by the troublesome people who will soon flock along this road."

He unfastened his horse, put on the bridle again, and led it close to the wounded man. After making a species of seat on the animal's back with some blankets, to which he added his zarapé, pulling it off without the slightest hesitation, he raised the wounded man in his powerful arms, with as much ease as if he had been a child instead of a tall, rather corpulent man, and placed him softly on the seat, where he fastened him as well as he could, while carefully holding him to avoid a jolt, which might prove fatal.

When the young man felt assured that his patient was in a position as convenient as circumstances permitted, he started his horse, whose bridle he held, without leaving his place by the side of the wounded man, whom he supported, and proceeded straight to the rancho, where we preceded him about an hour, in order to introduce the adventurer there.