Were Mexico better governed, it would be, without contradiction, one of the richest countries on the face of the globe. Indeed the largest private fortunes must still be sought in that country. Since the United States Americans have revealed to the world, by seizing one-half of Mexico, whither their ambition tends, the inhabitants of that fine country have slightly emerged from the torpor they enjoyed, and have made great efforts to colonise their provinces, and summon to their soil, which is so rich and fertile, intelligent and industrious labourers, who might change the face of affairs, and cause abundance and wealth to abound at spots, where, prior to their arrival, there was naught save ruin, desolation, carelessness, and misery.

Unfortunately, the noble efforts made up to the present day have, through an inexplicable fatality, remained without result, either owing to the natural apathy of the inhabitants, or the fault of the Mexican Government itself. Still the large landowners, comprehending all the advantages of the proposed measure, and how much it is to their interest to combat the deadly influence of the American invasions, have generously devoted themselves to the realization of this great question of social economy, which, unluckily is growing more and more unrealisable.

In fact, in Northern America two hostile races – the Anglo-Saxon and the Spanish – stand face to face. The Anglo-Saxons are devoured by an ardour for conquest, and a rage for invasion, which nothing can arrest, or even retard. It is impossible to see without amazement the expansive tendencies of this active and singular people, a heterogeneous composite of all the races which misery or evil instincts expelled from Europe originally, and which feels restricted in the immense territory which its numerical weakness yet prevents it entirely occupying.

Imprisoned within its vast frontiers, making a right of strength, it is continually displacing its neighbours' landmarks, and encroaching on territory of which it can make no use. Daily, bands of emigrants abandon their dwellings, and with their rifles on their shoulders, their axes in their hand, they proceed south, as if impelled by a will stronger than themselves; and neither mountains, deserts, nor virgin forests are sufficient obstacles to make them halt even for an instant. The Yankees imagine themselves generally the instruments of Providence, and appointed by the decrees of the Omnipotent to people and civilise the New World. They count with feverish impatience the hours which must elapse ere the day (close at hand in their ideas) arrive in which their race and government system will occupy the entire space contained between Cape North and the Isthmus of Panama, to the exclusion of the Spanish republics on one side, and the English colonies on the other.

These projects, of which the Americans make no mystery, but, on the contrary, openly boast, are perfectly well known to the Mexicans, who cordially detest their neighbours, and employ all the means in their power to create difficulties for them, and impede their successive encroachments.

Among the New Mexican landowners who resolved to make sacrifices in order to stop, or at least check, the imminent invasion from North America, the richest, and possibly, first of all, through his intelligence and the influence he justly enjoyed in the country, was Don Miguel Acamarichtzin Zarate.

Whatever may be asserted, the Indian population of Mexico is nearly double in number to the white men, and possesses an enormous influence. Don Miguel descended in a straight line from Acamarichtzin, first king of Mexico, whose name had been preserved in the family as a precious relic. Possessed of an incalculable fortune, Don Miguel lived on his enormous estates like a king in his empire, beloved and respected by the Indians, whom he effectively protected whenever the occasion presented itself, and who felt for him a veneration carried almost to idolatry; for they saw in him the descendant from one of their most celebrated kings, and the born defender of their race.

In New Mexico the Indian population has very largely increased during the past fifty years. Some authors, indeed, assert that it is now more numerous than prior to the conquest, which is very probable, through the apathy of the Spaniards, and the carelessness they have ever displayed in their struggles against it. But the Indians have remained stationary amid the incessant progress of civilization, and still retain intact the principal traits of their old manners. Scattered here and there in miserable ranchos or villages, they live in separate tribes, governed by their caciques, and they have mingled but very few Spanish words with their idioms, which they speak as in the time of the Aztecs. The sole apparent change in them is their conversion to Catholicism – a conversion more than problematical, as they preserve with the utmost care all the recollections of their ancient religion, follow its rites in secret, and keep up all its superstitious practices.

The Indians – above all, in New Mexico – although called Indios fideles, are always ready on the first opportunity to ally themselves with their desert congeners; and in the incursions of the Apaches and Comanches it is rare for the faithful Indians not to serve them as scouts, guides, and spies.

The family of Don Miguel Zarate had retired to New Mexico, which country it did not leave again – a few years after the conquests of the adventurer Cortez. Don Miguel had closely followed the policy of his family by maintaining the bonds of friendship and good neighbourhood which, from time immemorial, attached it to the Indians, believers or not. This policy had borne its fruit. Annually, in September, when the terrible red warriors, preceded by murder and arson, rushed like a torrent on the wretched inhabitants, whom they massacred in the farms they plundered, without pity of age or sex, Don Miguel Zarate's estates were respected; and not merely was no damage inflicted on them, but even if at times a field were unwittingly trampled by the horses' hoofs, or a few trees destroyed by plunderers, the evil was immediately repaired ere the owner had opportunity for complaint.

This conduct of the Indians had not failed to arouse against Don Miguel extreme jealousy on the part of the inhabitants, who saw themselves periodically ruined by the Indios Bravos. Earnest complaints had been laid against him before the Mexican Government; but whatever might be the power of his enemies, and the means they employed to ruin him, the rich hacendero had never been seriously disturbed: in the first place, because New Mexico is too remote from the capital for the inhabitants to have anything to fear from the governing classes; and secondly, Don Miguel was too rich not to render it easy for him to impose silence on those who were most disposed to injure him.

Don Miguel, whose portrait we drew in a previous chapter, was left a widower after eight years' marriage, with two children, a boy and a girl, the son being twenty-four, the daughter seventeen, at the period when our story opens. Doña Clara – such was the daughter's name – was one of the most delicious maidens that can be imagined. She had one of those Murillo's virgin heads, whose black eyes, fringed with long silky lashes, pure mouth, and dreamy brow seem to promise divine joys. Her complexion, slightly bronzed by the warm sunbeams, wore that gilded reflection which so well becomes the women of these intertropical countries. She was short of stature, but exquisitely modelled. Gentle and simple, ignorant as a Creole, this delicious child was adored by her father, who saw in her the wife he had so loved living once more. The Indians looked after her when she at times passed pensively, plucking a flower before their wretched huts, and scarce bending the slants on which she placed her delicate foot. In their hearts they compared this frail maiden, with her soft and vaporous outline, to the "virgin of the first loves," that sublime creation of the Indian religion which holds so great a place in the Aztec mythology.

Don Pablo Zarate, the hacendero's son, was a powerfully built man, with harshly marked features, and a haughty glance, although at times it was imprinted with gentleness and kindness. Endowed with more than ordinary strength, skilled in all bodily exercises, Don Pablo was renowned through the whole country for his talent in taming the most spirited horses, and the correctness of his aim when on the chase. A determined hunter and daring wood ranger, this young man, when he had a good horse between his legs, and his rifle in his hand, knew none, man or animal, capable of barring his passage. The Indians, in their simple faith, yielded to the son the same respect and veneration they entertained for the father, and fancied they saw in him the personification of Huitzilopochtli, that terrible war god of the Aztecs, to whom 62,000 human victims were sacrificed in one day, upon the inauguration of his teocali.

The Zarates, then, at the period when our story opens, were real kings of New Mexico. The felicity they enjoyed was suddenly troubled by one of those vulgar incidents which, though unimportant in themselves, do not fail to cause a general perturbation, and a discomfort possessing no apparent cause, from the fact that it is impossible to foresee or prevent them. The circumstance was as follows: —

Don Miguel possessed, in the vicinity of the Paso, vast estates extending for a great distance, and consisting principally of haciendas, prairies, and forests. One day Don Miguel was returning from a visit to his haciendas. It was late, and he pressed on his horse in order to reach ere night the ford, when, at about three or four leagues at the most from the spot to which he was proceeding, and just as he was entering a dense forest of cottonwood trees, through which he must pass ere reaching the ford, his attention was attracted by cries mingled with growls emerging from the wood he was about to enter. The hacendero stopped in order to account for the unusual sounds he heard, and bent his head forward to detect what was happening. But it was impossible for him to distinguish anything through the chaos of creepers and shrubs which intercepted vision. In the meanwhile, the noise grew louder, and the shouts were redoubled, and mingled with oaths and passionate exclamations.

The Mexican's horse laid back its ears, neighed, and refused to advance. Still Don Miguel must make up his mind. Thinking that a man was probably attacked by wild beasts, he only consulted his heart; and, in spite of the visible repugnance of his steed, he compelled it to go forward and enter the wood. He had scarce gone a few yards ere he stopped in amazement at the strange spectacle that presented itself to him.

CHAPTER IV
THE PECCARIES

In the middle of the clearing lay a ripped up horse, which six or eight peccaries were rending, while a dozen others were attacking with their tusks the stem of an enormous tree, in the topmost branches of which a man had sought shelter.

Let us explain to our readers, who probably know little about them, what sort of animals the peccaries are. The peccaries hold the intermediate grade between the domestic pig and the wild boar. Although this animal does not exceed two feet in height, and is not more than three feet long from the end of the snout to the beginning of the tail, it is indubitably one of the most dangerous animals in North America. The animal's jaw is provided with tusks rather like those of the boar, but straight and sharp, their length varying between four and six inches. In the shape of the body it resembles a pig, but the bristles scattered over its warty hide are in colored strips; the part nearest the skin is white, and the point of a chocolate tinge. So soon as the animal is enraged, these bristles stand out like the quills of a porcupine.

The movements of the peccaries are as quick and sharp as those of a squirrel. They ordinarily live in herds of fifteen, thirty, and even fifty. The strength of the head, neck, and shoulders is so great when they charge, that nothing can resist the impetuosity of their attacks. A remarkable peculiarity of this genus is the clumsy wart they have on their backs, whence a musty fluid evaporates when the animal is in a fury.

The peccary lives in preference on acorns, roots, wheat, sugar cane, and reptiles of every description. It is a proved fact that the most venomous serpents are devoured by them without their feeling in the slightest degree incommoded.

The mode in which the peccary forms its lair is very singular. This lair is generally in the midst of tufted and impenetrable canes, found in marshy spots round the monarchs of the forest, which still stand like crushed giants, with their grappling lines of creepers and virgin vines. The trunks of these trees, which at times measure forty feet in circumference, are nearly all hollow, and thus afford a convenient shelter for the peccaries, which retire to them every night in herds of twenty to twenty-five, entering the cavity one after the other backwards; so that the last has the end of its snout placed just at the entrance of the hole, thus watching, as it were, over the rest of its companions.

The peccaries are unboundedly ferocious: they know not danger, or at least despise it completely. They always attack in herds, and fight with unequalled rage until the last succumbs, no matter the nature of their foe.

Hence men and animals all fly a meeting with these terrible beasts: the jaguar, so strong and redoubtable, will become their prey if it be so imprudent as to attack them. This is the way they set about conquering this wild beast: —

When a jaguar has wounded a peccary, the latter collect, chase it, and pursue until they can contrive to surround the common enemy. When every issue is closed, the jaguar, believing it can thus escape, seeks refuge up a tree. But the peccaries do not resign the vengeance; they establish themselves at the foot of the tree, being incessantly recruited by fresh allies, and patiently waiting till the jaguar, driven to extremities by hunger and thirst, decides on descending from its improvised fortress. This is almost always sure to happen at the end of two or three days at the most. The jaguar bounds into the midst of its enemies, which boldly await it, and attack it bravely; a terrible fight commences; and the tiger, after covering the ground with victims, at length succumbs beneath the efforts of its assailants, and is ripped up by their tusks.

After what we have said, it is easy to understand how precarious was the position of the man perched on the top of the tree, and surrounded by peccaries. His enemies seemed determined not to leave their ground; they craftily crept round the tree, attacked its base with their tusks, and then recognising the inutility of their onsets, they quietly lay down by the carcass of the horse, which they had already sacrificed to their fury. Don Miguel felt moved to pity for the poor fellow, whose position grew momentarily more critical; but in vain did he rack his brains how to help the unhappy man whose destruction was assured.

To attack the peccaries would have been extreme imprudence, and have produced no other result than that of turning on himself the fury of the animals, while not saving the man he wished to help. Still time pressed. What was to be done? How, without sacrificing himself, save the man who ran so great a risk?

The Mexican hesitated for a long period. It seemed to Don Miguel impossible to leave, without help, this man whose death was certain. This idea, which presented itself to his mind several times, he had energetically repulsed, so monstrous did it appear to him. At length he resolved at all risks to attempt impossibilities in favour of this stranger, of whose death he would have eventually accused himself had he left him to perish in the desert.

The stranger's position was the more critical because, in his haste to defend himself from the attacks of his enemies, he had left his rifle fall at the foot of the tree, and was consequently unable to reduce the number of the peccaries. In spite of their fineness of scent, the latter had not noticed Don Miguel's approach, who, by a providential accident, had entered the wood on the side opposite the wind. The Mexican dismounted with a sigh, patted his horse, and then took off its accoutrements. The noble animal, habituated to its master's caresses, shook his head joyously, and fixed its large intelligent eyes on him. Don Miguel could not repress another sigh: a tear fell down on his bronzed cheeks. On the point of accomplishing the sacrifice, he hesitated.

It was a faithful companion, almost a friend, he was about to separate from; but the life of a man was at stake. The Mexican drove back the feelings that agitated him, and his resolution was formed. He passed a lasso round his horse's neck, and, in spite of its obstinate resistance, compelled it to advance to the entrance of the clearing in which the peccaries were assembled. A frail curtain of creepers and leaves alone hid it from their sight. On arriving here Don Miguel stopped: he had one more moment's hesitation, but only one; for then seizing a piece of tinder, which he lighted, he thrust it into the poor animal's ear while caressing it.

The effect was sudden and terrible. The horse uttered a snort of pain; and rendered mad by the burning, bounded forward into the clearing, striving in vain to get rid of the tinder which caused it intolerable suffering. Don Miguel had smartly leaped aside, and now followed with an anxious glance the result of the terrible tentative he had just made to save the stranger. On seeing the horse appear suddenly in their midst, the peccaries rose, formed a compact group and rushed with their heads down in pursuit of the horse, thinking no longer of the man. The animal, spurred on still more by the sight of its ferocious enemies, shot ahead with the speed of an arrow, breaking down with its chest all the obstacles in its way, and followed closely by the peccaries.

The man saved; but at what a price! Don Miguel repressed a last sigh of regret, and leaped into the clearing. The stranger had already descended from the tree; but the emotion he had undergone was so extreme, that he remained seated on the ground, almost in a state of unconsciousness.

"Quick, quick!" Don Miguel said to him sharply. "We have not a moment to lose: the peccaries may alter their minds and return."

"That is true," the stranger muttered in a hollow voice, as he cast a terrified glance around. "Let us be off – off at once."

He made an effort over himself, seized his rifle, and rose. Through a presentiment for which he could not account to himself, Don Miguel experienced at the sight of this man, whom he had hitherto scarce looked at, a feeling of invincible doubt and disgust. Owing to the life he was obliged to lead on these frontiers, frequented by people of every description, the hacendero had been often brought into relation with trappers and hunters whose faces were no recommendation to them; but never ere now had chance brought him in contact with an individual of such sinister appearance as this one.

Still he did not allow his feelings to be seen through, and invited this man to follow him. The latter did not let the invitation be repeated; for he was anxious to escape from the spot where he had been so near death. Thanks to the Mexican's acquaintance with the country, the wood was speedily traversed, and the two men, after a walk of scarce an hour's duration, reached the banks of the Del Norte, just opposite the village. Their speed had been so great, their anxiety so serious, that they had not exchanged a syllable, so terrified were they of seeing the peccaries appear at any moment. Fortunately this was not the case, and they reached the ford without being again disturbed.

Don Miguel was burdened with his horse's trappings, which he now threw on the ground, and looked around him in the hope of finding someone who would help him in crossing the river. His expectations were not deceived; for just as they reached the ford an arriero was preparing to cross to the other side of the river with his recca of mules, and, with the generosity innate in all Mexicans, he offered to carry them both to the Paso. The two men eagerly accepted, each mounted a mule, and half an hour later they found themselves in safety at the village. After giving the arriero a few reals to requite him for his services, Don Miguel took up his horse's trappings again, and prepared to start. The stranger stopped.

"We are about to part here, caballero," he said in a rough voice, with a very marked English accent; "but before leaving, let me express to you my deep gratitude for the noble and generous manner in which you saved my life at the peril of your own."

"Sir," the Mexican simply answered, "I only did my duty in saving you. In the desert all men are brothers, and owe each other protection. Hence do not thank me, I beg, for a very simple action: any other in my place would have acted as I have done."

"Perhaps so," the stranger continued; "but be kind enough, pray, to tell me your name, so that I may know to whom I owe my life."

"That is needless," Don Miguel said with a smile. "Still, as I fancy you are a stranger in these parts, let me give you a piece of advice."

"What is it, sir?"

"Never in future to attack the peccaries. They are terrible enemies, only to be conquered by a strong body of men; and an individual in attacking them commits an unpardonable folly, to which he must fall a victim."

"Be assured, sir, that I shall profit by the lesson I have received this day, and shall never put myself in such a wasps' nest again. I was too near paying dearly for my imprudence. But I beg you, sir, do not let us separate ere I know the name of my preserver."

"As you insist, sir, you shall learn it. I am Don Miguel de Zarate."

The stranger took a peculiar glance at the speaker, while repressing a movement of surprise.

"Ah!" he said in a singular tone, "Thanks, Don Miguel Zarate. Without knowing you personally, I was already acquainted with your name."

"That is possible," the hacendero answered; "for I am well known in this country, where my family has been established for many a long year."

"I, sir, am the man whom the Indians call Witchasta Joute, the Maneater, and the hunters, my companions, Red Cedar."

And after lifting his hand to his cap in salute, this man threw his rifle on his shoulder, turned on his heel, and went off at full speed. Don Miguel looked after him for a while, and then walked pensively toward the house he inhabited at el Paso. The hacendero did not suspect that he had sacrificed his favourite horse to save the life of his most implacable enemy.