The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

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 the coyote, 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 more atole for 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 a raid on the southern provinces, with my stout retainers. Ha! ha! ha!” And Carlos laughed at the conceit.

“Poor little Rosy!” he continued; “she shall marry 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 not dead!”

“Carried off?”

“Alas, yes!”

“By whom?”

“The Indians.”

“You are sure by Indians?”

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 were Indians, 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 his ganaderia that 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! you have 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 the eye of 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 was his sister, 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 was their captive, 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 Jicarillas beards 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 – only suspicion– but follow the trail – it will guide thee – follow it, and be satisfied!”

“Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied of that.”

“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.