The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

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 they were the same,” said Carlos, still bending over the hoof-prints, “and this 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. She may 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, and took the direction of the town!

Don Juan and the rest expressed surprise, but there was nothing in all this to surprise the cibolero. He was 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 me think. 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 are troop horses. I know the berradura well. They are officers’ 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 of Niña 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 the azotea a 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 man en promenade was an officer, and the part of the azotea upon which 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 is he! 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 regular battue– 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 poor paisana– 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 the battue, 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 brought directly to the Presidio; for even she was 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 the ennui of 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 final coup of 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.

Chapter Thirty One

“Ha! ha! ha! A capital joke, by my honour!” continued Roblado, laughing as he puffed his cigar. “It’s the only piece of fun I’ve enjoyed since we came to this stupid place. Even in a frontier post I find that one may have a little amusement if he know how to make it. Ha! ha! ha! After all, there was a devilish deal of trouble. But come, tell me, my dear Comandante – for you know by this time – in confidence, was it worth the trouble?”

“I am sorry we have taken it,” was the reply, delivered in a serious tone.

Roblado looked straight in the other’s face, and now for the first time noticed its gloomy expression. Busied with his cigar, he had not observed this before.

“Hola!” exclaimed he; “what’s the matter, my colonel? This is not the look a man should wear who has spent the last twelve hours as pleasantly as you must have done. Something amiss?”

“Everything amiss.”

“Pray what? Surely you were with her?”

“But a moment, and that was enough.”

“Explain, my dear colonel.”

“She is mad!”

“Mad!”

“Having mad! Her talk terrified me. I was but too glad to come away, and leave her to the care of José, who waits upon her. I could not bear to listen to her strange jabberings. I assure you, camarado, it robbed me of all desire to remain.”

“Oh,” said Roblado, “that’s nothing – she’ll get over it in a day or so. She still thinks herself in the hands of the savages who are going to murder and scalp her! It may be as well for you to undeceive her of this as soon as she comes to her senses. I don’t see any harm in letting her know. You must do so in the end, and the sooner the better – you will have the longer time to get her reconciled to it. Now that you have her snug within earless and eyeless walls, you can manage the thing at your leisure. No one suspects – no one can suspect. They are full of the Indians to-day – ha! ha! ha! and ’tis said her inamorato, Don Juan, talks of getting up a party to pursue them! Ha! ha! He’ll not do that – the fellow hasn’t influence enough, and nobody cares either about his cattle or the witch’s daughter. Had it been some one else the case might have been different. As it is, there’s no fear of discovery, even were the cibolero himself to make his appearance – ”

“Roblado!” cried the Comandante, interrupting him, and speaking in a deep earnest voice.

“Well?” inquired the captain, regarding Vizcarra with astonishment.

“I have had a dream – a fearful dream; and that – not the ravings of the girl – it is that is now troubling me. Diablos! a fearful dream!”

“You, Comandante – a valiant soldier – to let a silly dream trouble you! But come! what was it? I’m a good interpreter of dreams. I warrant I read it to your bettor satisfaction.”

“Simple enough it is, then. I thought myself upon the cliff of La Niña. I thought that I was alone with Carlos the cibolero! I thought that he knew all, and that he had brought me there to punish me – to avenge her. I had no power to resist, but was led forward to the brink. I thought that we closed and struggled for a while; but at length I was shaken from his grasp, and pushed over the precipice! I felt myself falling – falling! I could see above me the cibolero, with his sister by his side, and on the extremest point the hideous witch their mother, who laughed a wild maniac laugh, and clapped her long bony hands! I felt myself falling – falling – yet still not reaching the ground; and this horrible feeling continued for a long, long time – in fact, until the fearful thought awoke me. Even then I could scarce believe I had been dreaming, so palpable was the impression that remained. Oh, comrade, it was a dreadful dream!”

“And but a dream; and what signifies – ”

“Stay, Roblado! I have not told you all. Within the hour – ay, within the quarter of that time – while I was on this spot thinking over it, I chanced to look up to the cliff; and yonder, upon the extreme point, was a horseman clearly outlined against the sky – and that horseman the very image of the cibolero! I noted the horse and the seat of the rider, which I well remember. I could not trust my eyes to look at him. I averted them for a moment – only a moment; and when I looked again he was gone! So quickly had he retired, that I was inclined to think it was only a fancy – that there had been none – and that my dream had produced the illusion!”