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<h3>Chapter Ninety Three.</h3> <h4>A Bloody Bridal.</h4> “Puez señor! what I am about to tell you happened full ten years ago, though it’s as fresh in my mind as if it was yesterday. You may have heard of the village of Valverde? It is about fifty leagues south of Santa Fé, on the Rio del Norte—that portion of the valley we call the Rio Abajo. It was at one time a settlement of some importance—rich and prospering as any in New Mexico—but, in consequence of the incursions of the Apachés, it fell into decay. Is now a complete ruin without a single inhabitant.” “Well, amigo; it was there I was born: and there lived I, till I was twenty-five years of age—up to the time when that calamity befell me, and mine—the same I am about to speak of. I may say two years after that time; for I did not leave the neighbourhood till I had taken revenge upon those who were the cause of my misfortunes. I have spoken of Gabriella Gonzales. I have told you that I loved her; but I could not find words to tell you how much I loved her. You, who have come all this way in pursuit of a sweetheart,—you, cavallero, can understand all that. Like you with yours, I too could have followed Gabriella to the end of the world! Puez amigo! Like you, I had the good fortune to be loved in return.” I could not divine the object of the Mexican in proclaiming this similitude. Perhaps it was done with the view of cheering me—for the quick-witted fellow had not failed to notice my despondency. It could only be a conjecture on his part: for how could he know ought of Lilian, beyond the fact of my preference for her, and that she was the object of our expedition? Of course he was aware, like all the others, of the purpose of our pursuit. From Sure-shot, or Wingrove, he might have learnt a little more; but neither he nor they could possibly have been acquainted with a sentiment of which, alas! I was myself in doubt—the very doubt which was producing my despondency. His incidental allusion could have been only conjecture. I would have joyed to believe it just; but whether just or not it had the effect of soothing me; and, silently accepting it, I permitted him to continue his narration. “I need not enter into the particulars of my wooing. Gabriella lived upon a hato some distance below Valverde, and nearer to the desert of the Dead Man’s Journey (Jornada del muerto)—of which no doubt you have heard mention. Her father was a hatero, and owned large flocks of sheep. He pastured them upon the great plains on the eastern side of the Sierra Blanca—where I was in the habit of going in my capacity of cibolero to hunt the buffaloes. The hatero and I became acquainted—became friends. He invited me to visit his house, and I went. I saw Gabriella for the first time; and ever afterwards was her beautiful face before my eyes. I went often, as you may believe, cavallero; but for a long time I was uncertain whether I was welcome—I mean to Gabriella: for her father still continued my friend. It was only after the incident I have mentioned—my saving her from the bear—that I felt certain my love was returned. “She had ventured too far into the mountains, where I had chanced to be at the time. I heard her voice calling for help. I ran through the rocks, and came up, just as a huge bear was springing upon her. I was a good shot, and my bullet brought down the monster—stretching him lifeless at her feet. Gabriella thanked me with sweet words—with smiles that were far sweeter, and told me still more. From that hour I knew that she was mine. Shortly after she consented to marry me.” “You were married, then?” “Married—but only for an hour.” “Only for an hour!” “Ah! señor; just so. One hour of wedded life, and then we were parted for ever. Death parted us. Death to her—to me worse than death; despair that has never left me—no—never will.” The voice of the speaker trembled in sorrowful tone. It was manifestly a sorrow that defied any efforts I might have made at consolation. I made none; but in silence and with eager attention awaited to hear the dénouement of a drama, whose prologue promised such a tragical ending. “Puez, señor,” proceeded the narrator, after a short silence, “Gabriella, as I have said, consented to marry me, and we were married. It was the day of our wedding. We had parted from the church; and with our friends had gone out into the country for a dia de campo. There were about twenty of us in all, young men and girls—about, an equal number of each—all in their holiday dresses, just as they had been to the church. Most of the girls were Gabriella’s bridesmaids, and still wore the flowers and jewels they had used at the ceremony. The place chosen for our dia de campo was a pretty spot, about a mile distant from the town. It was a glade in the midst of the chapparal, surrounded by beautiful trees, and sweet-smelling flowers. We went afoot: for the distance did not make it worth while for us to ride. Besides, we preferred enjoying the ramble, without being encumbered with horses. Well, señor; we had arrived on the ground, spread out the repast we had brought with us, uncorked the wine-bottles, and were in the full tide of enjoyment—talking and laughing gaily—when all of a sudden—we heard the trampling of horses. Not of one or two; but the hoof-strokes of a whole troop. At first we thought it might be the cavallada of some rich proprietor, galloping past the place. We knew that horses were pastured in that neighbourhood; and it was like enough to be one of the half-wild droves straying through the chapparal. Still we were not without apprehension: for it might also be a troop of Apachés—who in those times made frequent forays upon the defenceless settlements. Alas, cavallero! our apprehensions proved but too just. We had been seated on the grass, around our festive preparations. We had scarce time to spring to our feet, ere the yell of the savages sounded in our ears; and almost on the instant the glade was filled with dusky warriors. They were all upon horseback, brandishing their long lances, and winding their lazos around their heads. Fearfully painted, and whooping their wild cries, they resembled the very demonios! We could neither retreat nor defend ourselves. Against such odds it would have been idle to have attempted the latter: besides, we were all without weapons. On an occasion like that which had called us forth, one does not think of preparing for such an event. I own it was imprudent of us to go out unarmed—more especially when the country was filled with Indian novedades—but who could have dreamt that such was to be the fatal termination to our joyous dia de campo? Ay de mi! I may well call it fatal. Very few of our men survived that dreadful day. Two or three of the young fellows managed to retreat into the bushes; and afterwards got off. The others were killed upon the spot—most of them impaled upon the spears of the Apachés! The women were left untouched: for the Indians rarely kill our women. Them they reserve for a different destiny. Ah! cavallero! a destiny worse than death! Not one of them escaped. The poor niñas were all made captives; and each, borne off in the arms of a swarthy savage, was mounted upon his horse. Gabriella, the queen of all,—because by far the most beautiful—was chosen by the chief. I saw her struggling in his grasp, I saw him dragging her over the ground, and raising her to the withers of his steed. I saw him leap up behind her, and prepare to ride off—Gabriella, my beloved—my bride!” Here the speaker paused—as if overcome by the very remembrance of the incidents he was relating; and it was some time before he became sufficiently composed to resume his narrative. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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