Chapter Twenty Six.Circumstances were arising that would be likely to interrupt the Comandante and his captain in the execution of their design. At least so it might have been supposed. In less than twenty-four hours after the conversation described, a rumour of Indian incursions was carried to the town, and spread through every house in the valley. The rumour said that a band of “Indios bravos,”—whether Apache, Yuta, or Comanche, was not stated,—had made their appearance near the settlement, in fullwar-paint and costume!This of course denoted hostile intentions, and an attack might be expected in some part of the settlement. The first rumour was followed by one still more substantial,—that the Indians had attacked some shepherds in the upper plain, not far from the town itself. The shepherds had escaped, but their dogs had been killed, and a large number of sheep driven off to the mountain fastnesses of the marauders!This time the report was more definite. The Indians were Yutas, and belonged to a band of that tribe that had been hunting to the east of the Pecos, and who had no doubt resolved upon this plundering expedition before returning to theirhome, near the heads of the Del Norte. The shepherds had seen them distinctly, and knew theYuta paint.That the Indians were Yutas was probable enough. The same tribe had lately made a foray upon the settlements in the fine valley of Taos. They had heard of the prosperous condition of San Ildefonso, and hence their hostile visit. Besides, both Apaches and Comanches wereen pazwith the settlement, and had for some years confined themselves to ravaging the provinces of Coahuila and Chihuahua. No provocation had been given to these tribes to recommence hostilities, nor had they given any signs of such an intention.Upon the night of the same day in which the sheep were carried off, a more important robbery was committed. That took place in the settlement itself. A large number of cattle were driven off from a grazing-farm near the lower end of the valley. The Indians had been seen in the act, but the frightened vaqueros were but too glad to escape, and shut themselves up in the buildings of the farm.No murders had as yet been committed, but that was because no resistance had been made to the spoliations. Nor had any houses been yet attacked. Perhaps the Indians were only a small band; but there was no knowing how soon their numbers might be increased, and greater outrages attempted.The people of the valley, as well as those in the town, were now in a state of excitement. Consternation prevailed everywhere. Those who lived in the scattered ranchos forsook their homes during the night, and betook themselves to the town and the larger haciendas for shelter. These last were shut up as soon as darkness approached, and regular sentries posted upon their azoteas, who kept watch until morning. The terror of the inhabitants was great,—the greater because for a long period they had lived on good terms with the Indios bravos, and a visit from them was novel as unexpected.No wonder that they were alarmed. They had cause for it. They well knew that in these hostile incursions the savage enemy acts with the utmost barbarity,—murdering the men, and sparing only the younger women, whom they carry off to a cruel captivity. They well knew this, for at that very date there were thousands of their countrywomen in the hands of the wild Indians, lost to their families and friends for ever! No wonder that there was fear and trembling.The Comandante seemed particularly on the alert. At the head of his troops he scoured the neighbouring plains, and made incursions towards the spurs of the mountains. At night his patrols were in constant motion up and down the valley. The people were admonished to keep within their houses, and barricade their doors in case of attack. All admired the zeal and activity of their military protectors.The Comandante won golden opinions daily. This was the first real opportunity he had had of showing them his “pluck,” for there had been no alarm of Indians since he arrived. In the time of his predecessor several had taken place, and on these occasions it was remembered that the troops, instead of going abroad to search for the “barbaros,” shut themselves up in the garrison till the latter were gone clear out of the valley, after having carried off all the cattle they could collect! What a contrast in the new Comandante! What a brave officer was Colonel Vizcarra!This excitement continued for several days. As yet no murders had been committed, nor any women, carried off; and as the Indians had only appeared in the night, the probability was that they were in but small force,—some weak band of robbers. Had it been otherwise, they would have long since boldly shown themselves by daylight, and carried on their depredations on a much larger scale.During all this time the mother and sister of the cibolero lived in their lone rancho without any protection, and were, perhaps, less in dread of the Indians than any other family in the whole valley. This was to be attributed to several causes. First, their training, which had taught them to make light of dangers that terrified their less courageous neighbours. Secondly, their poor hut was not likely to tempt the cupidity of Indian robbers, whose design was evidently plunder. There were too many well-stocked ranchos a little farther up the valley. The Indians would not be likely to molest them.But there was still a better reason for this feeling, of confidence on their part, and that was somewhat of a family secret. Carlos, having traded with all the neighbouring tribes, was known to the Indians, and was on terms of friendship with nearly every one of their chiefs. One cause of this friendship was, that Carlos was known to them as anAmerican. Such was their feeling in regard to Americans that, at this time, and for a long period after, both the trappers and traders of that nation could pass through the whole Apache and Comanche range in the smallest parties without molestation, while large caravans of Mexicans would be attacked and robbed! It was only long after that these tribes assumed a fierce hostility against the Saxon whites; and this was brought about by several acts of barbarism committed by parties of the whites themselves.In his dealings with the Indios bravos, then, the cibolero had not forgotten his little rancho at home; and he had always counselled his mother and sister not to fear the Indians in his absence, assuring them that these would not molest them.The only tribe with which Carlos was not on friendly terms was the Jicarilla, a small and miserable band that lived among the mountains north-east of Santa Fé. They were a branch of the Apaches, but lived apart, and had little in common with the great freebooters of the south—theMezcalerosandWolf-eaters.For these reasons, then, the little Rosita and her mother, though not entirely without apprehension, were yet less frightened by the current rumours of the time than their neighbours.Every now and then Don Juan rode over to the rancho, and advised them to come and stay at his house—a large strong building well defended by himself and his numerous peons. But the mother of Rosita only laughed at the fears of Don Juan; and Rosita herself, from motives of delicacy, of course refused to accede to his proposal.It was the third night from the time the Indians had been first heard of. The mother and daughter had laid aside their spindle and loom, and were about to retire to their primitive couches on the earthen floor, when Cibolo was seen to spring from his petaté, and rush towards the door, growling fiercely.His growl increased to a bark—so earnest, that it was evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the old woman, without even inquiring who was there, pulled out the bar, and opened the door.She had scarcely shown herself when the wild whoop of Indians rang in her ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated her upon the threshold. Spite the terrible onset of the dog, several savages, in all the horrid glare of paint and feathers, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and brandishing their weapons; and in less than five minutes’ time, the young girl, screaming with terror, was borne in their arms to the outside of the rancho, and there tied upon the back of a mule.The few articles which the Indians deemed of any value were carried away with them; and the savages, after setting fire to the rancho, made off in haste.Rosita saw the blaze of the rancho as she sat tied upon the mule. She had seen her mother stretched upon the door-step, and was in fact dragged over her apparently lifeless form; and the roof was now in flames!“My poor mother!” she muttered in her agony; “O God! O God! what will become of my poor mother?”Almost simultaneously with this attack, or a little after it, the Indians appeared before the house of the ranchero, Don Juan; but, after yelling around it and firing several arrows over the azotea and against the door, they retired.Don Juan was apprehensive for his friends at the rancho. As soon as the Indians had gone away from about his own premises, he stole out; and, trusting to the darkness, made his way in that direction.He had not gone far before the blaze of the building came under his eyes, causing the blood to rush cold through his veins.He did not stop. He was afoot, but he was armed, and he dashed madly forward, resolved to defend Rosita, or die!In a few minutes he stood before the door of the rancho; and there, to his horror, lay the still senseless form of the mother, her wild and ghastly features illuminated by the blaze from the roof. The fire had not yet reached her, though in a few moments more she would have been buried in the flames!Don Juan drew her forth into the garden, and then rushed frantically around calling on Rosita.But there was no reply. The crackling blaze—the sighing of the night wind—the hooting of the cliff owl, and the howling of thecoyote, alone answered his anxious calls.After remaining until all hope had vanished, he turned towards the prostrate body, and knelt down to examine it. To his surprise there was still life, and, after her lips had been touched with water, the old woman showed symptoms of recovery. She had only been stunned by the heavy blow.Don Juan at length lifted her in his arms, and taking the well-known path returned with his burden, and with a heavy heart, to his own house.Next morning the news of the affair was carried through all the settlement, adding to the terror of the inhabitants. The Comandante with a large troop galloped conspicuously through the town; and after much loud talk and empty demonstrations, went off on the trail which the Indians were supposed to have taken.Long before night the troopers returned with their usual report, “los barbaros no pudimos alcanzar.” (We could not overtake the savages.)They said that they had followed the trail to the Pecos, where the Indians had crossed, and that the savages had continued on towards the Llano Estacado.This piece of news gave some relief, for it was conjectured, if the marauders had gone in that direction, their plundering would end. They had probably proceeded to join the rest of their tribe, known to be somewhere in that quarter.
Circumstances were arising that would be likely to interrupt the Comandante and his captain in the execution of their design. At least so it might have been supposed. In less than twenty-four hours after the conversation described, a rumour of Indian incursions was carried to the town, and spread through every house in the valley. The rumour said that a band of “Indios bravos,”—whether Apache, Yuta, or Comanche, was not stated,—had made their appearance near the settlement, in fullwar-paint and costume!
This of course denoted hostile intentions, and an attack might be expected in some part of the settlement. The first rumour was followed by one still more substantial,—that the Indians had attacked some shepherds in the upper plain, not far from the town itself. The shepherds had escaped, but their dogs had been killed, and a large number of sheep driven off to the mountain fastnesses of the marauders!
This time the report was more definite. The Indians were Yutas, and belonged to a band of that tribe that had been hunting to the east of the Pecos, and who had no doubt resolved upon this plundering expedition before returning to theirhome, near the heads of the Del Norte. The shepherds had seen them distinctly, and knew theYuta paint.
That the Indians were Yutas was probable enough. The same tribe had lately made a foray upon the settlements in the fine valley of Taos. They had heard of the prosperous condition of San Ildefonso, and hence their hostile visit. Besides, both Apaches and Comanches wereen pazwith the settlement, and had for some years confined themselves to ravaging the provinces of Coahuila and Chihuahua. No provocation had been given to these tribes to recommence hostilities, nor had they given any signs of such an intention.
Upon the night of the same day in which the sheep were carried off, a more important robbery was committed. That took place in the settlement itself. A large number of cattle were driven off from a grazing-farm near the lower end of the valley. The Indians had been seen in the act, but the frightened vaqueros were but too glad to escape, and shut themselves up in the buildings of the farm.
No murders had as yet been committed, but that was because no resistance had been made to the spoliations. Nor had any houses been yet attacked. Perhaps the Indians were only a small band; but there was no knowing how soon their numbers might be increased, and greater outrages attempted.
The people of the valley, as well as those in the town, were now in a state of excitement. Consternation prevailed everywhere. Those who lived in the scattered ranchos forsook their homes during the night, and betook themselves to the town and the larger haciendas for shelter. These last were shut up as soon as darkness approached, and regular sentries posted upon their azoteas, who kept watch until morning. The terror of the inhabitants was great,—the greater because for a long period they had lived on good terms with the Indios bravos, and a visit from them was novel as unexpected.
No wonder that they were alarmed. They had cause for it. They well knew that in these hostile incursions the savage enemy acts with the utmost barbarity,—murdering the men, and sparing only the younger women, whom they carry off to a cruel captivity. They well knew this, for at that very date there were thousands of their countrywomen in the hands of the wild Indians, lost to their families and friends for ever! No wonder that there was fear and trembling.
The Comandante seemed particularly on the alert. At the head of his troops he scoured the neighbouring plains, and made incursions towards the spurs of the mountains. At night his patrols were in constant motion up and down the valley. The people were admonished to keep within their houses, and barricade their doors in case of attack. All admired the zeal and activity of their military protectors.
The Comandante won golden opinions daily. This was the first real opportunity he had had of showing them his “pluck,” for there had been no alarm of Indians since he arrived. In the time of his predecessor several had taken place, and on these occasions it was remembered that the troops, instead of going abroad to search for the “barbaros,” shut themselves up in the garrison till the latter were gone clear out of the valley, after having carried off all the cattle they could collect! What a contrast in the new Comandante! What a brave officer was Colonel Vizcarra!
This excitement continued for several days. As yet no murders had been committed, nor any women, carried off; and as the Indians had only appeared in the night, the probability was that they were in but small force,—some weak band of robbers. Had it been otherwise, they would have long since boldly shown themselves by daylight, and carried on their depredations on a much larger scale.
During all this time the mother and sister of the cibolero lived in their lone rancho without any protection, and were, perhaps, less in dread of the Indians than any other family in the whole valley. This was to be attributed to several causes. First, their training, which had taught them to make light of dangers that terrified their less courageous neighbours. Secondly, their poor hut was not likely to tempt the cupidity of Indian robbers, whose design was evidently plunder. There were too many well-stocked ranchos a little farther up the valley. The Indians would not be likely to molest them.
But there was still a better reason for this feeling, of confidence on their part, and that was somewhat of a family secret. Carlos, having traded with all the neighbouring tribes, was known to the Indians, and was on terms of friendship with nearly every one of their chiefs. One cause of this friendship was, that Carlos was known to them as anAmerican. Such was their feeling in regard to Americans that, at this time, and for a long period after, both the trappers and traders of that nation could pass through the whole Apache and Comanche range in the smallest parties without molestation, while large caravans of Mexicans would be attacked and robbed! It was only long after that these tribes assumed a fierce hostility against the Saxon whites; and this was brought about by several acts of barbarism committed by parties of the whites themselves.
In his dealings with the Indios bravos, then, the cibolero had not forgotten his little rancho at home; and he had always counselled his mother and sister not to fear the Indians in his absence, assuring them that these would not molest them.
The only tribe with which Carlos was not on friendly terms was the Jicarilla, a small and miserable band that lived among the mountains north-east of Santa Fé. They were a branch of the Apaches, but lived apart, and had little in common with the great freebooters of the south—theMezcalerosandWolf-eaters.
For these reasons, then, the little Rosita and her mother, though not entirely without apprehension, were yet less frightened by the current rumours of the time than their neighbours.
Every now and then Don Juan rode over to the rancho, and advised them to come and stay at his house—a large strong building well defended by himself and his numerous peons. But the mother of Rosita only laughed at the fears of Don Juan; and Rosita herself, from motives of delicacy, of course refused to accede to his proposal.
It was the third night from the time the Indians had been first heard of. The mother and daughter had laid aside their spindle and loom, and were about to retire to their primitive couches on the earthen floor, when Cibolo was seen to spring from his petaté, and rush towards the door, growling fiercely.
His growl increased to a bark—so earnest, that it was evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the old woman, without even inquiring who was there, pulled out the bar, and opened the door.
She had scarcely shown herself when the wild whoop of Indians rang in her ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated her upon the threshold. Spite the terrible onset of the dog, several savages, in all the horrid glare of paint and feathers, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and brandishing their weapons; and in less than five minutes’ time, the young girl, screaming with terror, was borne in their arms to the outside of the rancho, and there tied upon the back of a mule.
The few articles which the Indians deemed of any value were carried away with them; and the savages, after setting fire to the rancho, made off in haste.
Rosita saw the blaze of the rancho as she sat tied upon the mule. She had seen her mother stretched upon the door-step, and was in fact dragged over her apparently lifeless form; and the roof was now in flames!
“My poor mother!” she muttered in her agony; “O God! O God! what will become of my poor mother?”
Almost simultaneously with this attack, or a little after it, the Indians appeared before the house of the ranchero, Don Juan; but, after yelling around it and firing several arrows over the azotea and against the door, they retired.
Don Juan was apprehensive for his friends at the rancho. As soon as the Indians had gone away from about his own premises, he stole out; and, trusting to the darkness, made his way in that direction.
He had not gone far before the blaze of the building came under his eyes, causing the blood to rush cold through his veins.
He did not stop. He was afoot, but he was armed, and he dashed madly forward, resolved to defend Rosita, or die!
In a few minutes he stood before the door of the rancho; and there, to his horror, lay the still senseless form of the mother, her wild and ghastly features illuminated by the blaze from the roof. The fire had not yet reached her, though in a few moments more she would have been buried in the flames!
Don Juan drew her forth into the garden, and then rushed frantically around calling on Rosita.
But there was no reply. The crackling blaze—the sighing of the night wind—the hooting of the cliff owl, and the howling of thecoyote, alone answered his anxious calls.
After remaining until all hope had vanished, he turned towards the prostrate body, and knelt down to examine it. To his surprise there was still life, and, after her lips had been touched with water, the old woman showed symptoms of recovery. She had only been stunned by the heavy blow.
Don Juan at length lifted her in his arms, and taking the well-known path returned with his burden, and with a heavy heart, to his own house.
Next morning the news of the affair was carried through all the settlement, adding to the terror of the inhabitants. The Comandante with a large troop galloped conspicuously through the town; and after much loud talk and empty demonstrations, went off on the trail which the Indians were supposed to have taken.
Long before night the troopers returned with their usual report, “los barbaros no pudimos alcanzar.” (We could not overtake the savages.)
They said that they had followed the trail to the Pecos, where the Indians had crossed, and that the savages had continued on towards the Llano Estacado.
This piece of news gave some relief, for it was conjectured, if the marauders had gone in that direction, their plundering would end. They had probably proceeded to join the rest of their tribe, known to be somewhere in that quarter.
Chapter Twenty Seven.Vizcarra and his gay lancers passed up the valley, on their return from the pursuit at an early hour of the evening.Scarcely had a short hour elapsed when another cavalcade, dusty and wayworn, was seen moving along the same road, and heading towards the settlements. It could hardly be termed a cavalcade, as it consisted of an atajo of pack-mules, with some carretas drawn by oxen. One man only was on horseback, who, by his dress and manner, could be recognised as the owner of the atajo.Despite the fatigue of a long march, despite the coating of dust which covered both horse and rider, it was not difficult to tell who the horseman was. Carlos the cibolero!Thus far had he reached on his homeward way. Another stretch of five miles along the dusty road, and it would halt before the door of his humble rancho. Another hour, and his aged mother, his fond sister, would fling themselves into his arms, and receive his affectionate embrace!What a surprise it would be! They would not be expecting him for weeks—long weeks.And what a surprise he had for them in another way! His wonderful luck! The superb mulada and cargo,—quite a little fortune indeed! Rosita should have a new dress,—not a coarse woollen nagua, but one of silk, real foreign silk, and a manta, and the prettiest pair of satin slippers—she should wear fine stockings on future fiesta days—she should be worthy of his friend Don Juan. His old mother, too—she should drink tea, coffee, or chocolate, which she preferred—no moreatolefor her!The rancho was rude and old—it should come down, and another and better one go up in its place—no—it would serve as a stable for the horse, and the new rancho should be built beside it. In fact, the sale of his mulada would enable him to buy a good strip of land, and stock it well too.What was to hinder him to turn ranchero, and farm or graze on his own account? It would be far more respectable, and would give him a higher standing in the settlement. Nothing to hinder him. He would do so; but first one more journey to the plains—one more visit to his Waco friends, who had promised him—Ha! it was this very promise that was the keystone of all his hopes.The silk dress for Rosita, the luxuries for his old mother, the new house, the farm, were all pleasant dreams to Carlos; but he indulged a dream of a still pleasanter nature—a dream that eclipsed them all; and his hopes of its realisation lay in that one more visit to the country of the Wacoes.Carlos believed that his poverty alone was the barrier that separated him from Catalina. He knew that her father was not, properly speaking, one of the “rico” class. True, he was a rico now: but only a few years ago he had been a poor “gambucino”—poor as Carlos himself. In fact, they had once been nearer neighbours; and in his earlier days Don Ambrosio had esteemed the boy Carlos fit company for the little Catalina.What objection, then, could he have to the cibolero—provided the latter could match him in fortune? “Certainly none,” thought Carlos. “If I can prove to him that I, too, am a ‘rico,’ he will consent to my marrying Catalina. And why not? The blood in my veins—so says my mother—is as good as that of any hidalgo. And, if the Wacoes have told me the truth, one more journey and Carlos the cibolero will be able to shew as much gold as Don Ambrosio the miner!”These thoughts had been running in his mind throughout the whole of his homeward journey. Every day—every hour—did he build his aery castles; every hour did he buy the silk dress for Rosita—the tea, coffee, and chocolate for his mother; every hour did he erect the new rancho, buy the farm, show a fortune in gold-dust, and demand Catalina from her father!Châteaux en Espagne!Now that he was close to his home, these pleasant visions grew brighter and seemed nearer; and the countenance of the cibolero was radiant with joy. What a fearful change was soon to pass over it!Several times he thought of spurring on in advance, the sooner to enjoy the luxury of his mother’s and sister’s welcome; and then he changed his mind again.“No,” muttered he to himself; “I will stay by the atajo. I will better enjoy the triumph. We shall all march up in line, and halt in front of the rancho. They will think I have some stranger with me, to whom belong the mules! When I announce them as my own they will fancy that I have turned Indian, and made araidon the southern provinces, with my stout retainers. Ha! ha! ha!” And Carlos laughed at the conceit.“Poor little Rosy!” he continued; “sheshallmarry Don Juan this time! I won’t withhold my consent any longer? It would be better, too. He’s a bold fellow, and can protect her while I’m off on the plains again: though one more journey, and I have done with the plains. One more journey, and I shall change my title from Carlos the cibolero to Señor Don Carlos R—, Ha! ha! ha!”Again he laughed at the prospect of becoming a “rico,” and being addressed as “Don Carlos.”“Very odd,” thought he, “I don’t meet anyone. I don’t see a soul upon the road up or down. Yet it’s not late—the sun’s above the bluff still. Where can the people be? And yet the road’s covered thick with fresh horse-tracks! Ha! the troops have been here! they have just passed up! But that’s no reason why the people are not abroad; and I don’t see even a straggler! Now I could have believed there was an alarm of Indians had I not seen these tracks; but I know very well that, were the Apaches on their war-trail, my Comandante and his Whiskerandos would never have ventured so far from the Presidio—that I know.“Well, there’s something extraordinary! I can’t make it out. Perhaps they’re all up to the town at some fiesta. Anton, my boy, you know all the feast-days! Is this one?”“No, master.”“And where are all the folks?”“Can’t guess, master! Strange we don’t see some!”“So I was thinking. You don’t suppose there have been wild Indians in the neighbourhood?”“No, master—mira! They’re the tracks of the ‘lanzeros’—only an hour ago. No Indians where they are!”As Antonio said this, both his accent and look had an expression which guided his master to the true meaning of his words, which might otherwise have been ambiguous. He did not mean that the fact of the lancers having been on the ground would prevent the Indians from occupying it, but exactly the reverse. It was, not “lancers no Indians,” but “Indians no lancers,” that Antonio meant.Carlos understood him; and, as this had been his own interpretation of the tracks, he burst out into a fit of laughter.Still no travellers appeared, and Carlos did not like it. As yet he had not thought of any misfortune to those he loved; but the unpeopled road had an air of loneliness about it, and did not seem to welcome him.As he passed on a feeling of sadness came stealing over him, which after it had fairly taken possession he could not get rid of.He had not yet passed a settlement. There were none before reaching his own rancho, which, as already stated, was the lowest in the valley. Still the inhabitants fed their flocks far below that; and it was usual, at such an hour, to see them driving their cattle home. He neither saw cattle nor vaqueros.The meadows on both sides, where cattle used to graze, were empty! What could it mean?As he noticed these things an indefinite sense of uneasiness and alarm began to creep over him; and this feeling increased until he had arrived at the turning which led to his own rancho.At length he headed around the forking angle of the road; and having passed the little coppices of evergreen oaks, came within sight of the house. With a mechanical jerk he drew his horse upon his haunches, and sat in the saddle with open jaw and eyes glaring and protruded.The rancho he could not see—for the covering interposal columns of the cacti—but through the openings along their tops a black line was visible that had an unnatural look, and a strange film of smoke hung over the azotea!“God of heaven! what can it mean?” cried he, with a choking voice; but, without waiting to answer himself, he lanced the flanks of his horse till the animal shot off like an arrow.The intervening ground was passed; and, flinging himself from the saddle, the cibolero rushed through the cactus-fence.The atajo soon after came up. Antonio hurried through: and there, inside the hot, smoke-blackened walls, half-seated, half-lying on the banqueta, was his master, his head hanging forward upon his breast, and both hands nervously twisted in the long curls of his hair.Antonio’s foot-fall caused him to look up—only for a moment.“O God! My mother—my sister!” And, as he repeated the words, his head once more fell forward, while his broad breast rose and fell in convulsed heaving. It was an hour of mortal agony; for some secret instinct had revealed to him the terrible truth.
Vizcarra and his gay lancers passed up the valley, on their return from the pursuit at an early hour of the evening.
Scarcely had a short hour elapsed when another cavalcade, dusty and wayworn, was seen moving along the same road, and heading towards the settlements. It could hardly be termed a cavalcade, as it consisted of an atajo of pack-mules, with some carretas drawn by oxen. One man only was on horseback, who, by his dress and manner, could be recognised as the owner of the atajo.
Despite the fatigue of a long march, despite the coating of dust which covered both horse and rider, it was not difficult to tell who the horseman was. Carlos the cibolero!
Thus far had he reached on his homeward way. Another stretch of five miles along the dusty road, and it would halt before the door of his humble rancho. Another hour, and his aged mother, his fond sister, would fling themselves into his arms, and receive his affectionate embrace!
What a surprise it would be! They would not be expecting him for weeks—long weeks.
And what a surprise he had for them in another way! His wonderful luck! The superb mulada and cargo,—quite a little fortune indeed! Rosita should have a new dress,—not a coarse woollen nagua, but one of silk, real foreign silk, and a manta, and the prettiest pair of satin slippers—she should wear fine stockings on future fiesta days—she should be worthy of his friend Don Juan. His old mother, too—she should drink tea, coffee, or chocolate, which she preferred—no moreatolefor her!
The rancho was rude and old—it should come down, and another and better one go up in its place—no—it would serve as a stable for the horse, and the new rancho should be built beside it. In fact, the sale of his mulada would enable him to buy a good strip of land, and stock it well too.
What was to hinder him to turn ranchero, and farm or graze on his own account? It would be far more respectable, and would give him a higher standing in the settlement. Nothing to hinder him. He would do so; but first one more journey to the plains—one more visit to his Waco friends, who had promised him—Ha! it was this very promise that was the keystone of all his hopes.
The silk dress for Rosita, the luxuries for his old mother, the new house, the farm, were all pleasant dreams to Carlos; but he indulged a dream of a still pleasanter nature—a dream that eclipsed them all; and his hopes of its realisation lay in that one more visit to the country of the Wacoes.
Carlos believed that his poverty alone was the barrier that separated him from Catalina. He knew that her father was not, properly speaking, one of the “rico” class. True, he was a rico now: but only a few years ago he had been a poor “gambucino”—poor as Carlos himself. In fact, they had once been nearer neighbours; and in his earlier days Don Ambrosio had esteemed the boy Carlos fit company for the little Catalina.
What objection, then, could he have to the cibolero—provided the latter could match him in fortune? “Certainly none,” thought Carlos. “If I can prove to him that I, too, am a ‘rico,’ he will consent to my marrying Catalina. And why not? The blood in my veins—so says my mother—is as good as that of any hidalgo. And, if the Wacoes have told me the truth, one more journey and Carlos the cibolero will be able to shew as much gold as Don Ambrosio the miner!”
These thoughts had been running in his mind throughout the whole of his homeward journey. Every day—every hour—did he build his aery castles; every hour did he buy the silk dress for Rosita—the tea, coffee, and chocolate for his mother; every hour did he erect the new rancho, buy the farm, show a fortune in gold-dust, and demand Catalina from her father!Châteaux en Espagne!
Now that he was close to his home, these pleasant visions grew brighter and seemed nearer; and the countenance of the cibolero was radiant with joy. What a fearful change was soon to pass over it!
Several times he thought of spurring on in advance, the sooner to enjoy the luxury of his mother’s and sister’s welcome; and then he changed his mind again.
“No,” muttered he to himself; “I will stay by the atajo. I will better enjoy the triumph. We shall all march up in line, and halt in front of the rancho. They will think I have some stranger with me, to whom belong the mules! When I announce them as my own they will fancy that I have turned Indian, and made araidon the southern provinces, with my stout retainers. Ha! ha! ha!” And Carlos laughed at the conceit.
“Poor little Rosy!” he continued; “sheshallmarry Don Juan this time! I won’t withhold my consent any longer? It would be better, too. He’s a bold fellow, and can protect her while I’m off on the plains again: though one more journey, and I have done with the plains. One more journey, and I shall change my title from Carlos the cibolero to Señor Don Carlos R—, Ha! ha! ha!”
Again he laughed at the prospect of becoming a “rico,” and being addressed as “Don Carlos.”
“Very odd,” thought he, “I don’t meet anyone. I don’t see a soul upon the road up or down. Yet it’s not late—the sun’s above the bluff still. Where can the people be? And yet the road’s covered thick with fresh horse-tracks! Ha! the troops have been here! they have just passed up! But that’s no reason why the people are not abroad; and I don’t see even a straggler! Now I could have believed there was an alarm of Indians had I not seen these tracks; but I know very well that, were the Apaches on their war-trail, my Comandante and his Whiskerandos would never have ventured so far from the Presidio—that I know.
“Well, there’s something extraordinary! I can’t make it out. Perhaps they’re all up to the town at some fiesta. Anton, my boy, you know all the feast-days! Is this one?”
“No, master.”
“And where are all the folks?”
“Can’t guess, master! Strange we don’t see some!”
“So I was thinking. You don’t suppose there have been wild Indians in the neighbourhood?”
“No, master—mira! They’re the tracks of the ‘lanzeros’—only an hour ago. No Indians where they are!”
As Antonio said this, both his accent and look had an expression which guided his master to the true meaning of his words, which might otherwise have been ambiguous. He did not mean that the fact of the lancers having been on the ground would prevent the Indians from occupying it, but exactly the reverse. It was, not “lancers no Indians,” but “Indians no lancers,” that Antonio meant.
Carlos understood him; and, as this had been his own interpretation of the tracks, he burst out into a fit of laughter.
Still no travellers appeared, and Carlos did not like it. As yet he had not thought of any misfortune to those he loved; but the unpeopled road had an air of loneliness about it, and did not seem to welcome him.
As he passed on a feeling of sadness came stealing over him, which after it had fairly taken possession he could not get rid of.
He had not yet passed a settlement. There were none before reaching his own rancho, which, as already stated, was the lowest in the valley. Still the inhabitants fed their flocks far below that; and it was usual, at such an hour, to see them driving their cattle home. He neither saw cattle nor vaqueros.
The meadows on both sides, where cattle used to graze, were empty! What could it mean?
As he noticed these things an indefinite sense of uneasiness and alarm began to creep over him; and this feeling increased until he had arrived at the turning which led to his own rancho.
At length he headed around the forking angle of the road; and having passed the little coppices of evergreen oaks, came within sight of the house. With a mechanical jerk he drew his horse upon his haunches, and sat in the saddle with open jaw and eyes glaring and protruded.
The rancho he could not see—for the covering interposal columns of the cacti—but through the openings along their tops a black line was visible that had an unnatural look, and a strange film of smoke hung over the azotea!
“God of heaven! what can it mean?” cried he, with a choking voice; but, without waiting to answer himself, he lanced the flanks of his horse till the animal shot off like an arrow.
The intervening ground was passed; and, flinging himself from the saddle, the cibolero rushed through the cactus-fence.
The atajo soon after came up. Antonio hurried through: and there, inside the hot, smoke-blackened walls, half-seated, half-lying on the banqueta, was his master, his head hanging forward upon his breast, and both hands nervously twisted in the long curls of his hair.
Antonio’s foot-fall caused him to look up—only for a moment.
“O God! My mother—my sister!” And, as he repeated the words, his head once more fell forward, while his broad breast rose and fell in convulsed heaving. It was an hour of mortal agony; for some secret instinct had revealed to him the terrible truth.
Chapter Twenty Eight.For some minutes Carlos remained stupefied with the shock, and made no effort to rouse himself.A friendly hand laid upon his shoulder caused him to look up; Don Juan the ranchero was bending over him.Don Juan’s face wore a look as wretched as his own. It gave him no hope; and it was almost mechanically the words escaped his lips—“My mother? my sister?”“Your mother is at my house,” replied Don Juan.“And Rosita?”Don Juan made no reply—the tears were rolling down his cheeks.“Come, man!” said Carlos, seeing the other in as much need of consolation as himself; “out with it—let me know the worst! Is she dead?”“No,—no,—no!—I hope notdead!”“Carried off?”“Alas, yes!”“By whom?”“The Indians.”“You are sure byIndians?”As Carlos asked this question, a look of strange meaning glanced from his eyes.“Quite sure—I saw them myself—your mother?”“My mother! What of her?”“She is safe. She met the savages in the doorway, was knocked senseless by a blow, and saw no more.”“But Rosita?”“No one saw her; but certainly she was taken away by the Indians.”“You are sure they wereIndians, Don Juan?”“Sure of it. They attacked my house almost at the same time. They had previously driven off my cattle, and for that, one of my people was on the look-out. He saw them approach; and, before they got near, we were shut up and ready to defend ourselves. Finding this, they soon went off. Fearing for your people, I stole out as soon as they were gone, and came here. When I arrived the roof was blazing, and your mother lying senseless in the doorway. Rosita was gone!Madre de Dios! she was gone!”And the young ranchero wept afresh.“Don Juan!” said Carlos, in a firm voice; “you have been a friend—a brother—to me and mine. I know you suffer as much as I do. Let there be no tears! See! mine are dried up! I weep no more—perhaps sleep not—till Rosita is rescued or revenged. Let us to business, then! Tell me all that is known about these Indians—and quick, Don Juan! I have a keen appetite for your news!”The ranchero detailed the various rumours that had been afloat for the three or four days preceding—as well as the actual occurrences,—how the Indians had been first seen upon the upper plain; their encounter with the shepherds and the driving off of the sheep; their appearance in the valley, and their raid upon his own cattle—for it was hisganaderiathat had suffered—and then the after circumstances already known to Carlos.He also informed the latter of the activity shown by the troops; how they had followed that morning upon the trail of the robbers; how he had desired to accompany them with some of his people; and how the request was refused by the Comandante.“Refused?” exclaimed Carlos, interrogatively.“Yes,” replied Don Juan; “he said we would only hinder the troops! I fancy his motive was his chagrin with me. He does not like me ever since the fiesta.”“Well! what then?”“The troops returned but an hour ago. They report that they followed the trail as far as the Pecos, where it crossed, striking direct for the Llano Estacado; and, as the Indians had evidently gone off to the great plains, it would have been useless to attempt pursuing them farther. So they alleged.“The people,” continued Don Juan, “will be only too glad that the savages have gone away, and will trouble themselves no farther about it. I have been trying to get up a party to follow them, but not one would venture. Hopeless as it was, I intended a pursuit with my own people; but, thank God!youhave come!”“Ay, pray God it may not be too late to follow their trail. But no; only last night at midnight, you say? There’s been neither rain nor high wind—it will be fresh as dew; and if ever hound—Ha! where’s Cibolo?”“At my house, the dog is. He was lost, this morning; we thought he had been killed or carried off; but at midday my people found him by the rancho here, covered with mud, and bleeding where he had received the prick of a spear. We think the Indians must have taken him along, and that he escaped from them on the road.”“It is strange enough—Oh! my poor Rosita!—poor lost sister!—where art thou at this moment?—where?—where?—Shall I ever see you again?—My God! my God!”And Carlos once more sunk back into his attitude of despair.Then suddenly springing to his feet, with clenched fist and flashing eyes, he cried out—“Wide though the prairie plains, and faint the trail of these dastardly robbers, yet keen is theeyeof Carlos the cibolero! I shall find thee yet—I shall find thee, though it cost me the search of a life. Fear not, Rosita! fear not, sweet sister! I come to your rescue! If thou art wronged, woe, woe, to the tribe that has done it!” Then turning to Don Juan, he continued,—“The night is on—we can do nothing to-night. Don Juan!—friend, brother!—bring me to her—to my mother.”There is a wild poetry in the language of grief, and there was poetry in the words of the cibolero; but these bursts of poetic utterance were brief, and he again returned to the serious reality of his situation. Every circumstance that could aid him in his purposed pursuit was considered and arranged in a sober and practical manner. His arms and accoutrements, his horse, all were cared for, so as to be ready by the earliest hour of light. His servants, and those of Don Juan, were to accompany him, and for these horses were also prepared.Pack-mules, too, with provisions and other necessaries for a long journey—for Carlos had no intention of returning without the accomplishment of his sworn purpose—rescue or revenge. His was no pursuit to be baffled by slight obstacles. He was not going to bring back the report “no los pudimos alcanzar” He was resolved to trail the robbers to the farthest point of the prairies—to follow them to their fastens, wherever that might be.Don Juan was with him heart and soul, for the ranchero’s interest in the result was equal to his own—his agony was the same.Their peons numbered a score—trusty Tagnos all, who loved their masters, and who, if not warriors by trade, were made so by sympathy and zeal.Should they overtake the robbers in time, there would be no fear of the result. From all circumstances known, the latter formed but a weak band. Had this not been the case, they would never have left the valley with so trifling a booty. Could they be overtaken before joining their tribe, all might yet be well. They would be compelled to give up both their plunder and their captive, and, perhaps, pay dearly for the distress they had occasioned. Time, therefore, was a most important consideration, and the pursuers had resolved to take the trail with the earliest light of the morning.Carlos slept not—and Don Juan only in short and feverish intervals. Both sat up in their dresses,—Carlos by the bedside of his mother, who, still suffering from the effects of the blow, appeared to rave in her sleep.The cibolero sat silent, and in deep thought. He was busied with plans and conjectures—conjectures as to what tribe of Indians the marauders could belong to. Apaches or Comanches they were not. He had met parties of both on his return. They treated him in a friendly manner, and they said nothing of hostilities against the people of San Ildefonso. Besides, no bands of these would have been in such small force as the late robbers evidently were. Carlos wished it had been they. He knew that in such a case, when it was known that the captive washissister, she would be restored to him. But no; they had nothing to do with it. Who then?—the Yutas? Such was the belief among the people of the valley, as he had been told by Don Juan. If so, there was still a hope—Carlos had traded with a branch of this powerful and warlike tribe. He was also on friendly terms with some of its chiefs, though these were now at war with the more northern settlements.But the Jicarillas still returned to his mind. These were Indians of a cowardly, brutal disposition, and his mortal foes. They would have scalped him on sight. If his sister wastheircaptive, her lot was hard indeed; and the very thought of such a fate caused the cibolero to start up with a shudder, and clench his hands in a convulsive effort of passion.It was near morning. The peons were astir and armed. The horses and mules were saddled in the patio, and Don Juan had announced that all were ready. Carlos stood by the bedside of his mother to take leave. She beckoned him near. She was still weak, for blood had flown freely from her, and her voice was low and feeble.“My son,” said she, as Carlos bent over her, “know you what Indians you are going to pursue?”“No, mother,” replied Carlos, “but I fear they are our enemies the Jicarillas.”“Have the Jicarillasbeards on their faces and jewels on their fingers?”“No mother; why do you ask such a question?—you know they have no beards! My poor mother!” added he, turning to Don Juan; “this terrible stroke has taken her senses!”“Follow the trail, then!” she continued, without noticing the last remark uttered by Carlos in a whisper; “follow the trail—perhaps it will guide thee to—” and she whispered the rest into his ear.“What, mother?” said he, starting, as if at some strange information. “Dost thou think so?”“I have some suspicion—onlysuspicion—but follow the trail—it will guide thee—follow it, and be satisfied!”“Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied ofthat.”“One promise before you go. Be not rash—be prudent.”“Fear not, mother! I will.”“If it be so—”“If it be so, mother, you’ll soon see me back. God bless you!—My blood’s on fire—I cannot stay!—God bless you, mother!—Farewell!”Next minute the train of mounted men, with Don Juan and Carlos at its head, passed out of the great gate, and took the road that led out from the valley.
For some minutes Carlos remained stupefied with the shock, and made no effort to rouse himself.
A friendly hand laid upon his shoulder caused him to look up; Don Juan the ranchero was bending over him.
Don Juan’s face wore a look as wretched as his own. It gave him no hope; and it was almost mechanically the words escaped his lips—
“My mother? my sister?”
“Your mother is at my house,” replied Don Juan.
“And Rosita?”
Don Juan made no reply—the tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Come, man!” said Carlos, seeing the other in as much need of consolation as himself; “out with it—let me know the worst! Is she dead?”
“No,—no,—no!—I hope notdead!”
“Carried off?”
“Alas, yes!”
“By whom?”
“The Indians.”
“You are sure byIndians?”
As Carlos asked this question, a look of strange meaning glanced from his eyes.
“Quite sure—I saw them myself—your mother?”
“My mother! What of her?”
“She is safe. She met the savages in the doorway, was knocked senseless by a blow, and saw no more.”
“But Rosita?”
“No one saw her; but certainly she was taken away by the Indians.”
“You are sure they wereIndians, Don Juan?”
“Sure of it. They attacked my house almost at the same time. They had previously driven off my cattle, and for that, one of my people was on the look-out. He saw them approach; and, before they got near, we were shut up and ready to defend ourselves. Finding this, they soon went off. Fearing for your people, I stole out as soon as they were gone, and came here. When I arrived the roof was blazing, and your mother lying senseless in the doorway. Rosita was gone!Madre de Dios! she was gone!”
And the young ranchero wept afresh.
“Don Juan!” said Carlos, in a firm voice; “you have been a friend—a brother—to me and mine. I know you suffer as much as I do. Let there be no tears! See! mine are dried up! I weep no more—perhaps sleep not—till Rosita is rescued or revenged. Let us to business, then! Tell me all that is known about these Indians—and quick, Don Juan! I have a keen appetite for your news!”
The ranchero detailed the various rumours that had been afloat for the three or four days preceding—as well as the actual occurrences,—how the Indians had been first seen upon the upper plain; their encounter with the shepherds and the driving off of the sheep; their appearance in the valley, and their raid upon his own cattle—for it was hisganaderiathat had suffered—and then the after circumstances already known to Carlos.
He also informed the latter of the activity shown by the troops; how they had followed that morning upon the trail of the robbers; how he had desired to accompany them with some of his people; and how the request was refused by the Comandante.
“Refused?” exclaimed Carlos, interrogatively.
“Yes,” replied Don Juan; “he said we would only hinder the troops! I fancy his motive was his chagrin with me. He does not like me ever since the fiesta.”
“Well! what then?”
“The troops returned but an hour ago. They report that they followed the trail as far as the Pecos, where it crossed, striking direct for the Llano Estacado; and, as the Indians had evidently gone off to the great plains, it would have been useless to attempt pursuing them farther. So they alleged.
“The people,” continued Don Juan, “will be only too glad that the savages have gone away, and will trouble themselves no farther about it. I have been trying to get up a party to follow them, but not one would venture. Hopeless as it was, I intended a pursuit with my own people; but, thank God!youhave come!”
“Ay, pray God it may not be too late to follow their trail. But no; only last night at midnight, you say? There’s been neither rain nor high wind—it will be fresh as dew; and if ever hound—Ha! where’s Cibolo?”
“At my house, the dog is. He was lost, this morning; we thought he had been killed or carried off; but at midday my people found him by the rancho here, covered with mud, and bleeding where he had received the prick of a spear. We think the Indians must have taken him along, and that he escaped from them on the road.”
“It is strange enough—Oh! my poor Rosita!—poor lost sister!—where art thou at this moment?—where?—where?—Shall I ever see you again?—My God! my God!”
And Carlos once more sunk back into his attitude of despair.
Then suddenly springing to his feet, with clenched fist and flashing eyes, he cried out—
“Wide though the prairie plains, and faint the trail of these dastardly robbers, yet keen is theeyeof Carlos the cibolero! I shall find thee yet—I shall find thee, though it cost me the search of a life. Fear not, Rosita! fear not, sweet sister! I come to your rescue! If thou art wronged, woe, woe, to the tribe that has done it!” Then turning to Don Juan, he continued,—“The night is on—we can do nothing to-night. Don Juan!—friend, brother!—bring me to her—to my mother.”
There is a wild poetry in the language of grief, and there was poetry in the words of the cibolero; but these bursts of poetic utterance were brief, and he again returned to the serious reality of his situation. Every circumstance that could aid him in his purposed pursuit was considered and arranged in a sober and practical manner. His arms and accoutrements, his horse, all were cared for, so as to be ready by the earliest hour of light. His servants, and those of Don Juan, were to accompany him, and for these horses were also prepared.
Pack-mules, too, with provisions and other necessaries for a long journey—for Carlos had no intention of returning without the accomplishment of his sworn purpose—rescue or revenge. His was no pursuit to be baffled by slight obstacles. He was not going to bring back the report “no los pudimos alcanzar” He was resolved to trail the robbers to the farthest point of the prairies—to follow them to their fastens, wherever that might be.
Don Juan was with him heart and soul, for the ranchero’s interest in the result was equal to his own—his agony was the same.
Their peons numbered a score—trusty Tagnos all, who loved their masters, and who, if not warriors by trade, were made so by sympathy and zeal.
Should they overtake the robbers in time, there would be no fear of the result. From all circumstances known, the latter formed but a weak band. Had this not been the case, they would never have left the valley with so trifling a booty. Could they be overtaken before joining their tribe, all might yet be well. They would be compelled to give up both their plunder and their captive, and, perhaps, pay dearly for the distress they had occasioned. Time, therefore, was a most important consideration, and the pursuers had resolved to take the trail with the earliest light of the morning.
Carlos slept not—and Don Juan only in short and feverish intervals. Both sat up in their dresses,—Carlos by the bedside of his mother, who, still suffering from the effects of the blow, appeared to rave in her sleep.
The cibolero sat silent, and in deep thought. He was busied with plans and conjectures—conjectures as to what tribe of Indians the marauders could belong to. Apaches or Comanches they were not. He had met parties of both on his return. They treated him in a friendly manner, and they said nothing of hostilities against the people of San Ildefonso. Besides, no bands of these would have been in such small force as the late robbers evidently were. Carlos wished it had been they. He knew that in such a case, when it was known that the captive washissister, she would be restored to him. But no; they had nothing to do with it. Who then?—the Yutas? Such was the belief among the people of the valley, as he had been told by Don Juan. If so, there was still a hope—Carlos had traded with a branch of this powerful and warlike tribe. He was also on friendly terms with some of its chiefs, though these were now at war with the more northern settlements.
But the Jicarillas still returned to his mind. These were Indians of a cowardly, brutal disposition, and his mortal foes. They would have scalped him on sight. If his sister wastheircaptive, her lot was hard indeed; and the very thought of such a fate caused the cibolero to start up with a shudder, and clench his hands in a convulsive effort of passion.
It was near morning. The peons were astir and armed. The horses and mules were saddled in the patio, and Don Juan had announced that all were ready. Carlos stood by the bedside of his mother to take leave. She beckoned him near. She was still weak, for blood had flown freely from her, and her voice was low and feeble.
“My son,” said she, as Carlos bent over her, “know you what Indians you are going to pursue?”
“No, mother,” replied Carlos, “but I fear they are our enemies the Jicarillas.”
“Have the Jicarillasbeards on their faces and jewels on their fingers?”
“No mother; why do you ask such a question?—you know they have no beards! My poor mother!” added he, turning to Don Juan; “this terrible stroke has taken her senses!”
“Follow the trail, then!” she continued, without noticing the last remark uttered by Carlos in a whisper; “follow the trail—perhaps it will guide thee to—” and she whispered the rest into his ear.
“What, mother?” said he, starting, as if at some strange information. “Dost thou think so?”
“I have some suspicion—onlysuspicion—but follow the trail—it will guide thee—follow it, and be satisfied!”
“Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied ofthat.”
“One promise before you go. Be not rash—be prudent.”
“Fear not, mother! I will.”
“If it be so—”
“If it be so, mother, you’ll soon see me back. God bless you!—My blood’s on fire—I cannot stay!—God bless you, mother!—Farewell!”
Next minute the train of mounted men, with Don Juan and Carlos at its head, passed out of the great gate, and took the road that led out from the valley.
Chapter Twenty Nine.It was not yet daybreak when the party left the house, but they had not started too early. Carlos knew that they could follow the road so far as the lancers had gone, in the darkness; and it would be light enough by the time they had got to the point where these had turned back.Five miles below the house of Don Juan the road forked—one, leading southward, was that by which Carlos had returned the evening before; the other, or left fork, led nearly in a direct line towards the Pecos, where there was a ford. The left fork had been that taken by the troopers, as their horse-tracks showed.It was now day. They could have followed the trail at a gallop, as it was a much-travelled and well-known path. But the eye of the cibolero was not bent upon this plain trail, but upon the ground on each side of it, and this double scrutiny caused him to ride more slowly.On both sides were cattle-tracks. These were, no doubt, made by the cattle stolen from Don Juan—in all numbering about fifty. The cibolero said they must have passed over the ground two days before. That would correspond with the time when they had been taken.The trackers soon passed the limits of the valley, and entered the plain through which runs the Pecos. They were about approaching that stream in a direct line, and were still two miles from its banks, when the dog Cibolo, who had been trotting in advance of the party, suddenly turned to the left, and ran on in that direction. The keen eye of Carlos detected a new trail upon which the dog was running, and which parted from the track of the troopers. It ran in a direction due north.What appeared singular both to Carlos and Don Juan was the fact of Cibolo having taken this new route, as it was not marked by a road or path of any kind, but merely by the footprints of some animals that had lately passed over it!Had Cibolo gone that way before?Carlos dismounted to examine the tracks.“Four horses and one mule!” he said, speaking to Don Juan. “Two of the horses shod on the fore feet only; the other two, with the mule, barefoot. All of them mounted—the mule led—perhaps with a pack.“No!” he added, after a little further examination, “it’s not a pack-mule!”It scarce cost the cibolero five minutes to arrive at these conclusions. How he did so was a mystery to most of his companions,—perhaps to all, except the half-blood, Antonio. And yet he was right in every particular.He continued to scrutinise the new trail for some moments longer.“The time corresponds,” said he, still addressing Don Juan. “They passed yesterday morning before the dew was dry. You are sure it was not midnight when they left your house?”“Quite sure,” replied the ranchero. “It was still only midnight when I returned with your mother from the rancho. I am quite sure of that.”“One more question, Don Juan: How many Indians, think you, were in the party that made their appearance at your house—few or many?”“Not many I think. Two or three only could be heard yelling at once; but the trees prevented us from seeing them. I fancy, from their traces left, that the band was a very small one. It might be the same that burned the rancho. They could have arrived at my house afterwards. There was time enough.”“I have reason to believe theywerethe same,” said Carlos, still bending over the hoof-prints, “andthis may be their trail.”“Think you so?” inquired Don Juan.“I do.—See—there! Is this not strange?”The speaker pointed to the dog, who, meanwhile, had returned to the spot, and stood whimpering, and showing an evident desire to proceed by the trace newly discovered!“Very strange,” replied Don Juan. “He must have travelled it before!”“Perhaps so,” said Carlos. “But it will not spoil by an hour’s keeping. Let us first see where these valiant troopers have been to. I want to know that before I leave this main path. Let us on, and briskly!”All spurred their animals into a gentle gallop, the cibolero leading as before. As before, also, his eyes swept the ground on both sides in search of any trail that might diverge from that on which they travelled.Now and then cross paths appeared, but these were old. No horses had passed recently upon them, and he did not slacken his pace to examine them.After a twenty minutes’ gallop the party halted upon the bank of the Pecos, at the ford. It was plain that the troopers had also halted there, and turned back without crossing! But cattle had crossed two days before—so said the cibolero—and mounted drivers. The tracks of both were visible in the mud. Carlos rode through the shallow water to examine the other side. At a glance he saw that no troops had crossed, but some forty or fifty head of cattle.After a long and careful examination, not only of the muddy bank, but of the plain above, he beckoned to Don Juan and the rest to ford the stream and join him.When Don Juan came up, the cibolero said to him, in a tone full of intelligence—“Amigo! you stand a fair chance to recover your cattle.”“Why do you think so?”“Because their drivers, four in number, have been near this spot not much over twenty-four hours ago. The animals, therefore, cannot be far off.”“But how know you this?”“Oh, that is plain enough,” coolly responded the cibolero. “The men who drove your beasts were mounted on the same horses that made yonder trail.” The speaker indicated the trail which he had halted to examine, and continued,—“Very probably we’ll find the herd among the spurs of the ceja yonder.”As Carlos said this, he pointed to a number of ragged ridges that from the brow of the Llano Estacado jutted out into the plain. They appeared to be at the distance of some ten miles from the crossing.“Shall we push on there?” asked Don Juan.The cibolero did not give an immediate answer. He had evidently not decided yet, and was debating in his own mind what course to pursue.“Yes,” he replied, at length, in a solemn and deliberate voice. “It is better to be sure. With all my terrible suspicions, I may be wrong.Shemay be wrong.The two trails may yet come together.”The latter part of this was spoken in soliloquy, and, though it reached the ears of Don Juan, he did not comprehend its meaning. He was about to ask his companion for an explanation, when the latter, suddenly collecting his energies, struck the spurs into his horse, and, calling to them to follow, galloped off upon the cattle-track.After a run of ten miles, which was made in less than an hour, the party entered a large ravine or point of the plain that protruded, like a deep bay, into the mountain-like side of the high steppe. As they entered this, a singular spectacle came under their eyes. The ravine, near its bottom, was covered with zopilotes, or black vultures. Hundreds of them were perched upon the rocks, or wheeling overhead in the air; and hundreds of others hopped about upon the plain, flapping their broad wings as if in full enjoyment. The coyote, the larger wolf, and the grizzly bear, were seen moving over the ground, or quarrelling with each other, though they need not have quarrelled—the repast was plenteous for all. Between forty and fifty carcases were strewed over the ground, which Don Juan and his vaqueros as they drew near recognised as the carcases of his own cattle.“I told you so, Don Juan,” said Carlos, in a voice now husky with emotion; “but I did not expect this. What a deep-laid plan! They might have strayed back! and that—oh! horrible villain! My mother was right—it is he! it is he!”“Who, Carlos! What mean you?” inquired Don Juan, wondering at these strange and incongruous phrases.“Ask me not now, Don Juan! Presently I shall tell you all—presently, but not now; my brain’s too hot—my heart is burning: presently—presently. The mystery is past—I know all—I had suspicion from the first—I saw him at the fiesta—I saw his bad ruffian gaze bent upon her. Oh, despot! I’ll tear your heart out! Come, Don Juan!—Antonio—comrades!—After me on the trail! It’s easily followed.I know where it will lead—well I know.—On!”And driving the spur into the flanks of his horse, the cibolero galloped off in the direction of the crossing.The wondering troop—Don Juan among the rest—set their animals in motion, and galloped after.There was no halt made at the ford. Carlos dashed his horse through the water, and the rest imitated his example. There was no halt either on arriving at the trace that led northward. The dog scampered along it, yelping at intervals; and the troop kept close after his heels.They had not followed it quite a mile when it suddenly turned at right angles, andtook the direction of the town!Don Juan and the rest expressed surprise, but there was nothing in all this to surprise the cibolero.Hewas expecting that. The expression on his face was not that of astonishment. It was far different—far more terrible to behold!His eyes were sunk in their sockets and gleaming with a lurid light, as if fire was burning within them. His teeth were firmly set—his lips white and tightly drawn, as if he was meditating, or had already made, some desperate resolve. He scarce looked at the tracks, he needed their guidance no longer.He knew there he was going!The trail crossed a muddy arroyo. The dog sweltered through, and the red clay adhered to his shaggy coat. It corresponded with that with which he had been already besmeared!Don Juan noticed the circumstance, and pointed it out.“He has been here before!” said he.“I know it,” replied Carlos; “I know it all—all. There is no mystery now. Patience, amigo! You shall know all, but now let methink. I have no time for aught else.”The trail still led in the direction of the town. It did not re-enter the valley, but passed over a sloping country to the upper plain, and then ran nearly parallel with the bluffs.“Master!” said Antonio, riding up by the side of Carlos, “these are not the tracks of Indian horses, unless they have stolen them. Two of them aretroophorses. I know theberradurawell. They areofficers’ horses, too—I can tell that from the shoeing.”The cibolero showed no signs of being astonished by this information, nor made he reply. He seemed engrossed with his thoughts.Antonio, thinking he had not been heard or understood, repeated what he had said.“Good Antonio!” said the cibolero, turning his eyes on his follower, “do you think me blind or stupid?”This was not said angrily. Antonio understood its meaning, and fell back among his companions.On moved the trackers—now at a gallop, now more slowly, for their animals were by this time somewhat jaded. On they moved, still keeping the trail, and still heading straight for the town!At length they reached a point where a road from the upper plain led by a zigzag path to the valley below. It was the same by which Carlos had ascended to perform his great feat on the day of the fiesta. At the top of the descent Carlos ordered the party to halt, and with Don Juan rode forward to the edge of the projecting cliff—at the very spot where he had exhibited his skill—the cliff ofNiña Perdida.Both drew up when near the edge. They commanded a full view of the valley and the town.“Do you see that building?” inquired the cibolero, pointing to the detached pile which lay between them and the town.“The Presidio?”“The Presidio.”“Yes—what of it?”“She is there!”
It was not yet daybreak when the party left the house, but they had not started too early. Carlos knew that they could follow the road so far as the lancers had gone, in the darkness; and it would be light enough by the time they had got to the point where these had turned back.
Five miles below the house of Don Juan the road forked—one, leading southward, was that by which Carlos had returned the evening before; the other, or left fork, led nearly in a direct line towards the Pecos, where there was a ford. The left fork had been that taken by the troopers, as their horse-tracks showed.
It was now day. They could have followed the trail at a gallop, as it was a much-travelled and well-known path. But the eye of the cibolero was not bent upon this plain trail, but upon the ground on each side of it, and this double scrutiny caused him to ride more slowly.
On both sides were cattle-tracks. These were, no doubt, made by the cattle stolen from Don Juan—in all numbering about fifty. The cibolero said they must have passed over the ground two days before. That would correspond with the time when they had been taken.
The trackers soon passed the limits of the valley, and entered the plain through which runs the Pecos. They were about approaching that stream in a direct line, and were still two miles from its banks, when the dog Cibolo, who had been trotting in advance of the party, suddenly turned to the left, and ran on in that direction. The keen eye of Carlos detected a new trail upon which the dog was running, and which parted from the track of the troopers. It ran in a direction due north.
What appeared singular both to Carlos and Don Juan was the fact of Cibolo having taken this new route, as it was not marked by a road or path of any kind, but merely by the footprints of some animals that had lately passed over it!
Had Cibolo gone that way before?
Carlos dismounted to examine the tracks.
“Four horses and one mule!” he said, speaking to Don Juan. “Two of the horses shod on the fore feet only; the other two, with the mule, barefoot. All of them mounted—the mule led—perhaps with a pack.
“No!” he added, after a little further examination, “it’s not a pack-mule!”
It scarce cost the cibolero five minutes to arrive at these conclusions. How he did so was a mystery to most of his companions,—perhaps to all, except the half-blood, Antonio. And yet he was right in every particular.
He continued to scrutinise the new trail for some moments longer.
“The time corresponds,” said he, still addressing Don Juan. “They passed yesterday morning before the dew was dry. You are sure it was not midnight when they left your house?”
“Quite sure,” replied the ranchero. “It was still only midnight when I returned with your mother from the rancho. I am quite sure of that.”
“One more question, Don Juan: How many Indians, think you, were in the party that made their appearance at your house—few or many?”
“Not many I think. Two or three only could be heard yelling at once; but the trees prevented us from seeing them. I fancy, from their traces left, that the band was a very small one. It might be the same that burned the rancho. They could have arrived at my house afterwards. There was time enough.”
“I have reason to believe theywerethe same,” said Carlos, still bending over the hoof-prints, “andthis may be their trail.”
“Think you so?” inquired Don Juan.
“I do.—See—there! Is this not strange?”
The speaker pointed to the dog, who, meanwhile, had returned to the spot, and stood whimpering, and showing an evident desire to proceed by the trace newly discovered!
“Very strange,” replied Don Juan. “He must have travelled it before!”
“Perhaps so,” said Carlos. “But it will not spoil by an hour’s keeping. Let us first see where these valiant troopers have been to. I want to know that before I leave this main path. Let us on, and briskly!”
All spurred their animals into a gentle gallop, the cibolero leading as before. As before, also, his eyes swept the ground on both sides in search of any trail that might diverge from that on which they travelled.
Now and then cross paths appeared, but these were old. No horses had passed recently upon them, and he did not slacken his pace to examine them.
After a twenty minutes’ gallop the party halted upon the bank of the Pecos, at the ford. It was plain that the troopers had also halted there, and turned back without crossing! But cattle had crossed two days before—so said the cibolero—and mounted drivers. The tracks of both were visible in the mud. Carlos rode through the shallow water to examine the other side. At a glance he saw that no troops had crossed, but some forty or fifty head of cattle.
After a long and careful examination, not only of the muddy bank, but of the plain above, he beckoned to Don Juan and the rest to ford the stream and join him.
When Don Juan came up, the cibolero said to him, in a tone full of intelligence—
“Amigo! you stand a fair chance to recover your cattle.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because their drivers, four in number, have been near this spot not much over twenty-four hours ago. The animals, therefore, cannot be far off.”
“But how know you this?”
“Oh, that is plain enough,” coolly responded the cibolero. “The men who drove your beasts were mounted on the same horses that made yonder trail.” The speaker indicated the trail which he had halted to examine, and continued,—“Very probably we’ll find the herd among the spurs of the ceja yonder.”
As Carlos said this, he pointed to a number of ragged ridges that from the brow of the Llano Estacado jutted out into the plain. They appeared to be at the distance of some ten miles from the crossing.
“Shall we push on there?” asked Don Juan.
The cibolero did not give an immediate answer. He had evidently not decided yet, and was debating in his own mind what course to pursue.
“Yes,” he replied, at length, in a solemn and deliberate voice. “It is better to be sure. With all my terrible suspicions, I may be wrong.Shemay be wrong.The two trails may yet come together.”
The latter part of this was spoken in soliloquy, and, though it reached the ears of Don Juan, he did not comprehend its meaning. He was about to ask his companion for an explanation, when the latter, suddenly collecting his energies, struck the spurs into his horse, and, calling to them to follow, galloped off upon the cattle-track.
After a run of ten miles, which was made in less than an hour, the party entered a large ravine or point of the plain that protruded, like a deep bay, into the mountain-like side of the high steppe. As they entered this, a singular spectacle came under their eyes. The ravine, near its bottom, was covered with zopilotes, or black vultures. Hundreds of them were perched upon the rocks, or wheeling overhead in the air; and hundreds of others hopped about upon the plain, flapping their broad wings as if in full enjoyment. The coyote, the larger wolf, and the grizzly bear, were seen moving over the ground, or quarrelling with each other, though they need not have quarrelled—the repast was plenteous for all. Between forty and fifty carcases were strewed over the ground, which Don Juan and his vaqueros as they drew near recognised as the carcases of his own cattle.
“I told you so, Don Juan,” said Carlos, in a voice now husky with emotion; “but I did not expect this. What a deep-laid plan! They might have strayed back! and that—oh! horrible villain! My mother was right—it is he! it is he!”
“Who, Carlos! What mean you?” inquired Don Juan, wondering at these strange and incongruous phrases.
“Ask me not now, Don Juan! Presently I shall tell you all—presently, but not now; my brain’s too hot—my heart is burning: presently—presently. The mystery is past—I know all—I had suspicion from the first—I saw him at the fiesta—I saw his bad ruffian gaze bent upon her. Oh, despot! I’ll tear your heart out! Come, Don Juan!—Antonio—comrades!—After me on the trail! It’s easily followed.I know where it will lead—well I know.—On!”
And driving the spur into the flanks of his horse, the cibolero galloped off in the direction of the crossing.
The wondering troop—Don Juan among the rest—set their animals in motion, and galloped after.
There was no halt made at the ford. Carlos dashed his horse through the water, and the rest imitated his example. There was no halt either on arriving at the trace that led northward. The dog scampered along it, yelping at intervals; and the troop kept close after his heels.
They had not followed it quite a mile when it suddenly turned at right angles, andtook the direction of the town!
Don Juan and the rest expressed surprise, but there was nothing in all this to surprise the cibolero.Hewas expecting that. The expression on his face was not that of astonishment. It was far different—far more terrible to behold!
His eyes were sunk in their sockets and gleaming with a lurid light, as if fire was burning within them. His teeth were firmly set—his lips white and tightly drawn, as if he was meditating, or had already made, some desperate resolve. He scarce looked at the tracks, he needed their guidance no longer.He knew there he was going!
The trail crossed a muddy arroyo. The dog sweltered through, and the red clay adhered to his shaggy coat. It corresponded with that with which he had been already besmeared!
Don Juan noticed the circumstance, and pointed it out.
“He has been here before!” said he.
“I know it,” replied Carlos; “I know it all—all. There is no mystery now. Patience, amigo! You shall know all, but now let methink. I have no time for aught else.”
The trail still led in the direction of the town. It did not re-enter the valley, but passed over a sloping country to the upper plain, and then ran nearly parallel with the bluffs.
“Master!” said Antonio, riding up by the side of Carlos, “these are not the tracks of Indian horses, unless they have stolen them. Two of them aretroophorses. I know theberradurawell. They areofficers’ horses, too—I can tell that from the shoeing.”
The cibolero showed no signs of being astonished by this information, nor made he reply. He seemed engrossed with his thoughts.
Antonio, thinking he had not been heard or understood, repeated what he had said.
“Good Antonio!” said the cibolero, turning his eyes on his follower, “do you think me blind or stupid?”
This was not said angrily. Antonio understood its meaning, and fell back among his companions.
On moved the trackers—now at a gallop, now more slowly, for their animals were by this time somewhat jaded. On they moved, still keeping the trail, and still heading straight for the town!
At length they reached a point where a road from the upper plain led by a zigzag path to the valley below. It was the same by which Carlos had ascended to perform his great feat on the day of the fiesta. At the top of the descent Carlos ordered the party to halt, and with Don Juan rode forward to the edge of the projecting cliff—at the very spot where he had exhibited his skill—the cliff ofNiña Perdida.
Both drew up when near the edge. They commanded a full view of the valley and the town.
“Do you see that building?” inquired the cibolero, pointing to the detached pile which lay between them and the town.
“The Presidio?”
“The Presidio.”
“Yes—what of it?”
“She is there!”
Chapter Thirty.At that moment upon theazoteaa man was pacing to and fro. He was not a sentinel, though at opposite angles of the building two of these could be seen who carried carbines—their heads and shoulders just appearing above the crenated top of the battlement towers.The manen promenadewas an officer, and the part of the azoteauponwhich he moved was the roof of the officers’ quarter, separated from the rest by a wall of equal height with the parapet. It was, moreover, a sacred precinct—not to be disturbed by the tread of common troopers on ordinary occasions. It was the “quarterdeck” of the Presidio.The officer was in full dress, though not on any duty; but a single glance at the style and cut of his uniform would convince any one that he was a “dandy soldier,” and loved to appear at all times in fine feathers. The gold-lace and bright-coloured broad-cloth seemed to affect him as his rich plumage does the peacock. Every now and again he paused in his promenade, glanced down at his lacquered boots, examined the tournure of his limbs, or feasted his eyes upon the jewels that studded his delicate white fingers.He was no beauty withal nor hero either; but that did not prevent him from indulging in the fancy that he was both—a combination of Mars and Apollo.He was a colonel in the Spanish army, however, and Comandante of the Presidio—for the promenader in question was Vizcarra himself.Though satisfied with his own appearance, he was evidently not satisfied about something else. There was a cloud upon his features that not even the contemplation of the lacquered boots or lily-white hands could banish. Some disagreeable thought was pressing upon his mind, causing him at intervals to make fitful starts, and look nervously around him.“Bah! ’twas but a dream!” he muttered to himself. “Why should I think of it? ’twas only a dream!”His eyes were bent downward as he gave expression to these abrupt phrases, and as he raised them again chance guided his look in the direction of “La Niña Perdida.” No, it was not chance, for La Niña had figured in his dream, and his eyes were but following his thoughts.The moment they rested on the cliff he started back as if some terrible spectre were before him, and mechanically caught hold of the parapet. His cheeks suddenly blanched, his jaws fell, and his chest heaved, in hurried and convulsive breathing!What can cause these symptoms of strong emotion? Is it the sight of yonder horseman standing upon the very pinnacle of the bluff, and outlined against the pale sky? What is there in such an appearance to terrify the Comandante—for terrified he is? Hear him!“My God! my God!—it ishe! The form of his horse—of himself—just as he appeared—it is he! I fear to look at him! I cannot—”And the officer averted his face for a moment, covering it with his hands.It was but a moment, and again he looked upwards. Not curiosity, but the fascination of fear, caused him to look again. The horseman had disappeared. Neither horse nor man—no object of any sort—broke the line of the bluffs!“Surely I have been dreaming again?” muttered the still trembling caitiff. “Surely I have? There was no one there, least of all—. How could he? He is hundreds of miles off! It was an illusion! Ha! ha! ha! What the devil is the matter with my senses, I wonder? That horrid dream of last night has bewitched them!Carrambo! I’ll think no more of it?”As he said this he resumed his pace more briskly, believing that that might rid him of his unpleasant reflections. At every turn, however, his eyes again sought the bluff, and swept along its edge with a glance that betokened fear. But they saw no more of the spectre horseman, and their owner began to feel at ease again.A footstep was heard upon the stone steps of the “escalera.” Some one was ascending to the roof.The next moment the head and shoulders of a man were visible; and Captain Roblado stepped out upon the azotea.The “buenos dias” that passed between him and Vizcarra showed that it was their first meeting for that day. In fact, neither had been long up; for the hour was not yet too late for fashionable sleepers. Roblado had just breakfasted, and come out on the azotea to enjoy his Havannah.“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he, as he lighted the cigar, “what a droll masquerade it has been! ’Pon my soul! I can scarce get the paint off; and my voice, after such yelling, won’t recover for a week! Ha! ha! Never was maiden wooed and won in such a romantic, roundabout way. Shepherds attacked—sheep driven off and scattered to the winds—cattle carried away and killed in regularbattue—old woman knocked over, and rancho given to the flames—besides three days of marching and countermarching, travestying Indian, and whooping till one is hoarse; and all this trouble for a poorpaisana—daughter of a reputed witch! Ha! ha! ha! It would read like a chapter in some Eastern romance—Aladdin, for instance—only that the maiden was not rescued by some process of magic or knight-errantry. Ha! ha ha!”This speech of Roblado will disclose what is, perhaps, guessed at already—that the late incursion of “los barbaros” was neither more nor less than an affair got up by Vizcarra and himself to cover the abduction of the cibolero’s sister. The Indians who had harried the sheep and cattle—who had attacked the hacienda of Don Juan—who had fired the rancho and carried off Rosita—were Colonel Vizcarra, his officer Captain Roblado, his sergeant Gomez, and a soldier named José—another minion of his confidence and will.There were but the four, as that number was deemed sufficient for the accomplishment of the atrocious deed; and rumour, backed by fear, gave them the strength of four hundred. Besides, the fewer in the secret the better. This was the prudence or cunning of Roblado.Most cunningly, too, had they taken their measures. The game, from beginning to end, was played with design and execution worthy of a better cause. The shepherds were first attacked on the upper plain, to give certainty to the report that hostile Indians were near. The scouting-parties were sent out from the Presidio, and proclamations issued to the inhabitants to be on their guard—all for effect; and the further swoop upon the cattle was clear proof of the presence of “los barbaros” in the valley. In this foray the fiendish masquers took an opportunity of “killing two birds with one stone;” for, in addition to carrying out their general design, they gratified the mean revenge which they held against the young ranchero.Their slaughtering his cattle in the ravine had a double object. First, the loss it would be to him gave them satisfaction; but their principal motive was that the animals might not stray back to the settlement. Had they done so, after having been captured by Indians, it would have looked suspicious. As it was, they hoped that, long before any one should discover thebattue, the wolves and buzzard would do their work; and the bones would only supply food for conjecture. This was the more probable, as it was not likely, while the Indian alarm lasted, that any one would be bold enough to venture that way. There was no settlement or road, except Indian trails, leading in that direction.Even when the final step was taken, and the victim carried off, she was not broughtdirectlyto the Presidio; for evenshewas to be hoodwinked. On the contrary, she was tied upon a mule, led by one of the ruffians, and permitted to see the way they were going, until they had reached the point where their trail turned back. She was then blinded by a leathern “tapado,” and in that state carried to the Presidio, and within its walls—utterly ignorant of the distance she had travelled, and the place where she was finally permitted to rest.Every act in the diabolical drama was conceived with astuteness, and enacted with a precision which must do credit to the head of Captain Roblado, if not to his heart. He was the principal actor in the whole affair.Vizcarra had, at first, some scruples about the affair—not on the score of conscience, but of impracticability and fear of detection. This would indeed have done him a serious injury. The discovery of such a villainous scheme would have spread like wildfire over the whole country. It would have been ruin to him.Roblado’s eloquence, combined with his own vile desires, overruled the slight opposition of his superior; and, once entered on the affair, the latter found himself highly amused in carrying it out. The burlesque proclamations, the exaggerated stories of Indians, the terror of the citizens, their encomiums on his own energetic and valorous conduct—all these were a pleasant relief to theennuiof a barrack life and, during the several days’ visit of “los barbaros,” the Comandante and his captain were never without a theme for mirth and laughter.So adroitly had they managed the whole matter that, upon the morning after the finalcoupof the robbers—the abduction of Rosita—there was not a soul in the settlement, themselves and their two aides excepted, that had the slightest suspicion but that real hostile Indians were the actors!Yes, there was one other who had a suspicion—only a suspicion—Rosita’s mother. Even the girl believed herself in the hands of Indians—if belief she had.
At that moment upon theazoteaa man was pacing to and fro. He was not a sentinel, though at opposite angles of the building two of these could be seen who carried carbines—their heads and shoulders just appearing above the crenated top of the battlement towers.
The manen promenadewas an officer, and the part of the azoteauponwhich he moved was the roof of the officers’ quarter, separated from the rest by a wall of equal height with the parapet. It was, moreover, a sacred precinct—not to be disturbed by the tread of common troopers on ordinary occasions. It was the “quarterdeck” of the Presidio.
The officer was in full dress, though not on any duty; but a single glance at the style and cut of his uniform would convince any one that he was a “dandy soldier,” and loved to appear at all times in fine feathers. The gold-lace and bright-coloured broad-cloth seemed to affect him as his rich plumage does the peacock. Every now and again he paused in his promenade, glanced down at his lacquered boots, examined the tournure of his limbs, or feasted his eyes upon the jewels that studded his delicate white fingers.
He was no beauty withal nor hero either; but that did not prevent him from indulging in the fancy that he was both—a combination of Mars and Apollo.
He was a colonel in the Spanish army, however, and Comandante of the Presidio—for the promenader in question was Vizcarra himself.
Though satisfied with his own appearance, he was evidently not satisfied about something else. There was a cloud upon his features that not even the contemplation of the lacquered boots or lily-white hands could banish. Some disagreeable thought was pressing upon his mind, causing him at intervals to make fitful starts, and look nervously around him.
“Bah! ’twas but a dream!” he muttered to himself. “Why should I think of it? ’twas only a dream!”
His eyes were bent downward as he gave expression to these abrupt phrases, and as he raised them again chance guided his look in the direction of “La Niña Perdida.” No, it was not chance, for La Niña had figured in his dream, and his eyes were but following his thoughts.
The moment they rested on the cliff he started back as if some terrible spectre were before him, and mechanically caught hold of the parapet. His cheeks suddenly blanched, his jaws fell, and his chest heaved, in hurried and convulsive breathing!
What can cause these symptoms of strong emotion? Is it the sight of yonder horseman standing upon the very pinnacle of the bluff, and outlined against the pale sky? What is there in such an appearance to terrify the Comandante—for terrified he is? Hear him!
“My God! my God!—it ishe! The form of his horse—of himself—just as he appeared—it is he! I fear to look at him! I cannot—”
And the officer averted his face for a moment, covering it with his hands.
It was but a moment, and again he looked upwards. Not curiosity, but the fascination of fear, caused him to look again. The horseman had disappeared. Neither horse nor man—no object of any sort—broke the line of the bluffs!
“Surely I have been dreaming again?” muttered the still trembling caitiff. “Surely I have? There was no one there, least of all—. How could he? He is hundreds of miles off! It was an illusion! Ha! ha! ha! What the devil is the matter with my senses, I wonder? That horrid dream of last night has bewitched them!Carrambo! I’ll think no more of it?”
As he said this he resumed his pace more briskly, believing that that might rid him of his unpleasant reflections. At every turn, however, his eyes again sought the bluff, and swept along its edge with a glance that betokened fear. But they saw no more of the spectre horseman, and their owner began to feel at ease again.
A footstep was heard upon the stone steps of the “escalera.” Some one was ascending to the roof.
The next moment the head and shoulders of a man were visible; and Captain Roblado stepped out upon the azotea.
The “buenos dias” that passed between him and Vizcarra showed that it was their first meeting for that day. In fact, neither had been long up; for the hour was not yet too late for fashionable sleepers. Roblado had just breakfasted, and come out on the azotea to enjoy his Havannah.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he, as he lighted the cigar, “what a droll masquerade it has been! ’Pon my soul! I can scarce get the paint off; and my voice, after such yelling, won’t recover for a week! Ha! ha! Never was maiden wooed and won in such a romantic, roundabout way. Shepherds attacked—sheep driven off and scattered to the winds—cattle carried away and killed in regularbattue—old woman knocked over, and rancho given to the flames—besides three days of marching and countermarching, travestying Indian, and whooping till one is hoarse; and all this trouble for a poorpaisana—daughter of a reputed witch! Ha! ha! ha! It would read like a chapter in some Eastern romance—Aladdin, for instance—only that the maiden was not rescued by some process of magic or knight-errantry. Ha! ha ha!”
This speech of Roblado will disclose what is, perhaps, guessed at already—that the late incursion of “los barbaros” was neither more nor less than an affair got up by Vizcarra and himself to cover the abduction of the cibolero’s sister. The Indians who had harried the sheep and cattle—who had attacked the hacienda of Don Juan—who had fired the rancho and carried off Rosita—were Colonel Vizcarra, his officer Captain Roblado, his sergeant Gomez, and a soldier named José—another minion of his confidence and will.
There were but the four, as that number was deemed sufficient for the accomplishment of the atrocious deed; and rumour, backed by fear, gave them the strength of four hundred. Besides, the fewer in the secret the better. This was the prudence or cunning of Roblado.
Most cunningly, too, had they taken their measures. The game, from beginning to end, was played with design and execution worthy of a better cause. The shepherds were first attacked on the upper plain, to give certainty to the report that hostile Indians were near. The scouting-parties were sent out from the Presidio, and proclamations issued to the inhabitants to be on their guard—all for effect; and the further swoop upon the cattle was clear proof of the presence of “los barbaros” in the valley. In this foray the fiendish masquers took an opportunity of “killing two birds with one stone;” for, in addition to carrying out their general design, they gratified the mean revenge which they held against the young ranchero.
Their slaughtering his cattle in the ravine had a double object. First, the loss it would be to him gave them satisfaction; but their principal motive was that the animals might not stray back to the settlement. Had they done so, after having been captured by Indians, it would have looked suspicious. As it was, they hoped that, long before any one should discover thebattue, the wolves and buzzard would do their work; and the bones would only supply food for conjecture. This was the more probable, as it was not likely, while the Indian alarm lasted, that any one would be bold enough to venture that way. There was no settlement or road, except Indian trails, leading in that direction.
Even when the final step was taken, and the victim carried off, she was not broughtdirectlyto the Presidio; for evenshewas to be hoodwinked. On the contrary, she was tied upon a mule, led by one of the ruffians, and permitted to see the way they were going, until they had reached the point where their trail turned back. She was then blinded by a leathern “tapado,” and in that state carried to the Presidio, and within its walls—utterly ignorant of the distance she had travelled, and the place where she was finally permitted to rest.
Every act in the diabolical drama was conceived with astuteness, and enacted with a precision which must do credit to the head of Captain Roblado, if not to his heart. He was the principal actor in the whole affair.
Vizcarra had, at first, some scruples about the affair—not on the score of conscience, but of impracticability and fear of detection. This would indeed have done him a serious injury. The discovery of such a villainous scheme would have spread like wildfire over the whole country. It would have been ruin to him.
Roblado’s eloquence, combined with his own vile desires, overruled the slight opposition of his superior; and, once entered on the affair, the latter found himself highly amused in carrying it out. The burlesque proclamations, the exaggerated stories of Indians, the terror of the citizens, their encomiums on his own energetic and valorous conduct—all these were a pleasant relief to theennuiof a barrack life and, during the several days’ visit of “los barbaros,” the Comandante and his captain were never without a theme for mirth and laughter.
So adroitly had they managed the whole matter that, upon the morning after the finalcoupof the robbers—the abduction of Rosita—there was not a soul in the settlement, themselves and their two aides excepted, that had the slightest suspicion but that real hostile Indians were the actors!
Yes, there was one other who had a suspicion—only a suspicion—Rosita’s mother. Even the girl believed herself in the hands of Indians—if belief she had.