The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

“That is likely enough,” said Roblado, desirous of comforting his companion; “likely enough – nothing more natural. In the first place, from where we stand to the top of La Niña is a good five thousand varas as the crow flies; and for you, at that distance, to distinguish Carlos the cibolero from any other horseman is a plain impossibility. In the second place, Carlos the cibolero is at this moment full five hundred miles from the tip of my cigar, risking his precious carcase for a cartload of stinking hides and a few bultos of dried buffalo-beef. Let us hope that some of his copper-coloured friends will raise his hay-coloured hair, which some of our poblanas so much admire. And now, my dear Comandante, as to your dream, that is as natural as may be. It could hardly be otherwise than that you should have such a dream. The remembrance of the cibolero’s feat of horsemanship on that very cliff, and the later affair with the sister, together with the suspicion you may naturally entertain that Señor Carlos wouldn’t be too kind to you if he knew all and had you in his power – all these things, being in your thoughts at one time, must come together incongruously in a dream. The old woman, too – if she wasn’t in your thoughts, she has been in mine ever since I gave her that knock in the doorway. Who could forget such a picture as she then presented? Ha! ha! ha!”

The brutal villain laughed – not so much from any ludicrous recollection, as to make the whole thing appear light and trivial in the eyes of his companion.

“What does it all amount to?” he continued. “A dream! a simple, everyday dream! Come, my dear friend, don’t let it remain on your mind for another instant!”

“I cannot help it, Roblado. It clings to me like my shadow. It feels like a presentiment. I wish I had left this paisana in her mud hut. By Heaven! I wish she were back there. I shall not be myself till I have got rid of her. I seem to loathe as much as I loved the jabbering idiot.”

“Tut, tut, man! you’ll soon change your way of thinking – you’ll soon take a fresh liking – ”

“No, Roblado, no! I’m disgusted – I can’t tell why but I am. Would to God she were off my hands!”

“Oh! that’s easy enough, and without hurting anybody. She can go the way she came. It will only be another scene in the masquerade, and no one will be the wiser. If you are really in earnest – ”

“Roblado!” cried the Comandante, grasping his captain by the arm, “I never was more in earnest in my life. Tell me the plan to get her back without making a noise about it. Tell me quick, for I cannot bear this horrid feeling any longer.”

“Why, then,” began Roblado, “we must have another travestie of Indians – we must – ”

He was suddenly interrupted. A short, sharp groan escaped from Vizcarra. His eyes looked as though about to start from his head. His lips grow white, and the perspiration leaped into drops on his forehead!

What could it mean? Vizcarra stood by the outer edge of the azotea that commanded a view of the road leading up to the gate of the Presidio. He was gazing over the parapet, and pointing with outstretched arm.

Roblado was farther back, near the centre of the azotea. He sprang forward, and looked in the direction indicated. A horseman, covered with sweat and dust, was galloping up the road. He was near enough for Roblado to distinguish his features. Vizcarra had already distinguished them. It was Carlos the cibolero!

Chapter Thirty Two

The announcement made by the cibolero on the bluff startled Don Juan, as if a shot had passed through him. Up to this time the simple ranchero had no thought but that they were on the trail of Indians. Even the singular fact of the trail leading back to the valley had not undeceived him. He supposed the Indians had made some other and later foray in that quarter, and that they would hear of them as soon as they should descend the cliffs.

When Carlos pointed to the Presidio, and said, “She is there!” he received the announcement at first with surprise, then with incredulity.

Another word from the cibolero, and a few moments’ reflection, and his incredulity vanished. The terrible truth flashed upon his mind, for he, too, remembered the conduct of Vizcarra on the day of the fiesta. His visit to the rancho and other circumstances now rushed before him, aiding the conviction that Carlos spoke the truth.

For some moments the lover could scarce give utterance to his thoughts, so painful were they. More painful than ever! Even while under the belief that his mistress was in the hands of wild Indians he suffered less. There was still some hope that, by their strange code in relation to female captives, she might escape that dreaded fate, until he and Carlos might come up and rescue her. But now the time that had elapsed – Vizcarra’s character – O God! it was a terrible thought; and the young man reeled in his saddle as it crossed his mind.

He rode back a few paces, flung himself from his horse, and staggered to the ground in the bitterness of his anguish.

Carlos remained on the bluff, still gazing down on the Presidio. He seemed to be maturing some plan. He could see the sentries on the battlements, the troopers lounging around the walls in their dark blue and crimson uniforms. He could even hear the call of the cavalry bugle, as its clear echoes came dancing along the cliffs. He could see the figure of a man – an officer – pacing to and fro on the azotea, and he could perceive that the latter had halted, and was observing him.

It was at this very moment that Vizcarra had caught sight of the horseman on the bluff – the sight that had so terrified him, and which indeed was no illusion.

“Can it be that fiend himself?” thought Carlos, regarding the officer for a moment. “Quite likely it is he. Oh! that he were within range of my rifle! Patience – patience! I will yet have my revenge!”

And as the speaker muttered these words, he reined back from the bluff and rejoined his companion.

A consultation was now held as to what would be the best mode of proceeding. Antonio was called to their council, and to him Carlos declared his belief that his sister was a captive within the Presidio. It was telling Antonio what he had already divined. The mestizo had been to the fiesta as well as his master, and his keen eyes had been busy on that day. He, too, had observed the conduct of Vizcarra; and long before their halt he had arrived at an elucidation of the many mysteries that marked the late Indian incursion. He knew all – his master might have saved words in telling him.

Neither words nor time were wasted. The hearts of both brother and lover were beating too hurriedly for that. Perhaps at that moment the object of their affection was in peril, – perhaps struggling with her ruffian abductor! Their timely arrival might save her!

These considerations took precedence of all plans; in fact, there was no plan they could adopt, to remain concealed – to skulk about the place – to wait for opportunity – what opportunity? They might spend days in fruitless waiting. Days! – hours – even minutes would be too long. Not a moment was to be lost before some action must be taken.

And what action? They could think of none – none but open action. What! dare a man not claim his own sister? Demand her restoration?

But the thought of refusal – the thought of subterfuge – in fact, the certainty that such would be the result – quite terrified them both.

And yet how else could they act? They would at least give publicity to the atrocious deed; that might serve them. There would be sympathy in their favour – perhaps more. Perhaps the people, slaves as they were, might surround the Presidio, and clamour loudly; – in some way the captive might be rescued. Such were their hurried reflections.

“If not rescued,” said Carlos, grinding his teeth together, “she shall be revenged. Though the garrota press my throat, he shall not live if she be dishonoured. I swear it!”

“I echo the oath!” cried Don Juan, grasping the hilt of his machete.

“Masters! dear masters!” said Antonio, “you both know I am not a coward. I shall aid you with my arm or my life; but it is a terrible business. Let us have caution, or we fail. Let us be prudent!”

“True, we must be prudent. I have already promised that to my mother; but how, comrades? – how! In what does prudence consist? – to wait and watch, while she – oh!”

All three were silent for a while. None of them could think of a feasible plan to be pursued.

The situation was, indeed, a most difficult one. There was the Presidio, and within its walls – perhaps in some dark chamber – the cibolero well knew his sister was a captive; but under such peculiar circumstances that her release would be a most difficult enterprise.

In the first place, the villain who held her would assuredly deny that she was there. To have released her would be an acknowledgment of his guilt. What proof of it could Carlos give? The soldiers of the garrison, no doubt, were ignorant of the whole transaction – with the exception of the two or three miscreants who had acted as aides. Were the cibolero to assert such a thing in the town he would be laughed at – no doubt arrested and punished. Even could he offer proofs, what authority was there to help him to justice? The military was the law of the place, and the little show of civic authority that existed would be more disposed to take sides against him than in his favour. He could expect no justice from any quarter. All the proof of his accusation would rest only on such facts as would neither be understood nor regarded by those to whom he might appeal. The return trail would be easily accounted for by Vizcarra – if he should deign to take so much trouble – and the accusation of Carlos would be scouted as the fancy of a madman. No one would give credence to it. The very atrociousness of the deed rendered it incredible!

Carlos and his companions were aware of all these things. They had no hope of help from any quarter. There was no authority that could give them aid or redress.

The cibolero, who had remained for a while silent and thoughtful, at length spoke out. His tone was altered. He seemed to have conceived some plan that held out a hope.

“Comrades!” he said, “I can think of nothing but an open demand, and that must be made within the hour. I cannot live another hour without attempting her rescue – another hour, and what we dread – No! within the hour it must be. I have formed a sort of plan – it may not be the most prudent – but there is no time for reflection. Hear it.”

“Go on!”

“It will be of no use our appearing before the gate of the Presidio in full force. There are hundreds of soldiers within the walls, and our twenty Tagnos, though brave as lions, would be of no service in such an unequal fight. I shall go alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes; I trust to chance for an interview with him. If I can get that, it is all I want. He is her gaoler; and when the gaoler sleeps, the captive may be freed. He shall sleep then.”

The last words were uttered in a significant tone, while the speaker placed his hand mechanically upon the handle of a large knife that was stuck in his waist-belt.

“He shall sleep then!” he repeated; “and soon, if Fate favours me. For the rest I care not: I am too desperate. If she be dishonoured I care not to live, but I shall have full revenge!”

“But how will you obtain an interview?” suggested Don Juan. “He will not give you one. Would it not be better to disguise yourself? There would be more chance of seeing him that way?”

“No! I am not easily disguised, with my light hair and skin. Besides, it would cost too much time. Trust me, I will not be rash. I have a plan by which I hope to get near him – to see him, at all events. If it fail, I intend to make no demonstration for the present. None of the wretches shall know my real errand. Afterwards I may do as you advise, but now I cannot wait. I must on to the work. I believe it is he that is at this moment pacing yonder azotea, and that is why I cannot wait, Don Juan. If it be me – ”

“But what shall we do?” asked Don Juan. “Can we not assist in any way?”

“Yes, perhaps in my escape. Come on, I shall place you. Come on quickly. Moments are days. My brain’s on fire. Come on!”

So saying, the cibolero leaped into his saddle and struck rapidly down the precipitous path that led to the valley.

From the point where the road touched the valley bottom, for more than a mile in the direction of the Presidio, it ran through a thick growth of low trees and bushes forming a “chapparal,” difficult to pass through, except by following the road itself.

But there were several cattle-paths through the thicket, by which it might be traversed; and these were known to Antonio the half-blood, who had formerly lived in this neighbourhood. By one of those a party of mounted men might approach within half-a-mile of the Presidio without attracting the observation of the sentries upon the walls. To this point, then, Antonio was directed to guide the party; and in due time they arrived near the edge of the jungle, where, at the command of Carlos, all dismounted keeping themselves and their horses under cover of the bushes.

“Now,” said the cibolero, speaking to Don Juan, “remain here. If I escape, I shall gallop direct to this point. If I lose my horse, you shall see me afoot all the same. For such a short stretch I can run like a deer: I shall not be overtaken. When I return I shall tell you how to act.

“See! Don Juan!” he continued, grasping the ranchero by the arm, and drawing him forward to the edge of the chapparal. “It is he! by Heaven, it is he!”

Carlos pointed to the azotea of the Presidio, where the head and shoulders of a man were seen above the line of the parapet.

“It is the Comandante himself!” said Don Juan, also recognising him.

“Enough! I have no time for more talk,” cried the cibolero. “Now or never! If I return, you shall know what to do. If not, I am taken or killed. But stay here. Stay till late in the night; I may still escape. Their prisons are not too strong; besides, I carry this gold. It may help me. No more. Adios! true friend, adios!”

With a grasp of the ranchero’s hand, Carlos leaped back to his saddle, and rode off.

He did not go in the direction of the Presidio, as that would have discovered him too soon. But a path that led through the chapparal would bring him out on the main road that ran up to the front gate, and this path he took. Antonio guided him to the edge of the timber, and then returned to the rest.

Carlos, once on the road, spurred his horse into gallop, and dashed boldly forward to the great gate of the Presidio. The dog Cibolo followed, keeping close up to the heels of his horse.

Chapter Thirty Three

“By the Virgin, it is he!” exclaimed Roblado, with a look of astonishment and alarm. “The fellow himself, as I live!”

“I knew it! – I knew it!” shrieked Vizcarra. “I saw him on the cliff: it was no vision!”

“Where can he have come from? In the name of all the saints, where has the fellow – ”

“Roblado, I must go below! I must go in, I will not stay to meet him! I cannot!”

“Nay, colonel, better let him speak with us. He has seen and recognised you already. If you appear to shun him, it will arouse suspicion. He has come to ask our help to pursue the Indians; and that’s his errand, I warrant you!”

“Do you think so?” inquired Vizcarra, partially recovering his self-possession at this conjecture.

“No doubt of it! What else? He can have no suspicion of the truth. How is it possible he could, unless he were a witch, like his mother? Stay where you are, and let us hear what he has got to say. Of course, you can talk to him from the azotea, while he remains below. If he show any signs of being insolent, as he has already been to both of us, let us have him arrested, and cooled a few hours in the calabozo. I hope the fellow will give us an excuse for it, for I haven’t forgotten his impudence at the fiesta.”

“You are right, Roblado; I shall stay and heur him. It will be better, I think, and will allay any suspicion. But, as you say, he can have none!”

“On the contrary, by your giving him the aid he is about to ask you for, you may put him entirely off the scent – make him your friend, in fact. Ha! ha!”

The idea was plausible, and pleased Vizcarra. He at once determined to act upon it.

This conversation had been hurriedly carried on, and lasted but a few moments – from the time the approaching horseman had been first seen, until he drew up under the wall.

For the last two hundred yards he had ridden slowly, and with an air of apparent respect – as though he feared it might be deemed rude to approach the place of power by any swaggering exhibition of horsemanship. On his fine features traces of grief might be observed, but not one sign of the feeling that was at that moment uppermost in his heart.

As he drew near, he raised his sombrero in a respectful salute to the two officers, whose heads and shoulders were just visible over the parapet; and having arrived within a dozen paces of the wall, he reined up, and, taking off his hat again, waited to be addressed.

“What is your business?” demanded Roblado.

“Cavalleros! I wish to speak with the Comandante.”

This was delivered in the tone of one who is soon to ask a favour. It gave confidence to Vizcarra, as well as to the bolder villain – who, notwithstanding all his assurances to the contrary, had still some secret misgivings about the cibolero’s errand. Now, however, it was clear that his first conjecture was correct; Carlos had come to solicit their assistance.

“I am he!” answered Vizcarra, now quite recovered from his fright, “I am the Comandante. What have you to communicate, my man?”

“Your excellency, I have a favour to ask;” and the cibolero again saluted with an humble bow.

“I told you so,” whispered Roblado to his superior. “All safe, my colonel.”

“Well, my good fellow,” replied Vizcarra, in his usual haughty and patronising manner, “let me hear it. If not unreasonable – ”

“Your excellency, it is a very heavy favour I would ask, but I hope not unreasonable. I am sure that, if it do not interfere with your manifold duties, you will not refuse to grant it, as the interest and trouble you have already taken in the cause are but too well-known.”

“Told you so,” muttered Roblado a second time.

“Speak out, man!” said Vizcarra, encouragingly; “I can only give an answer when I have heard your request.”

“It is this, your excellency. I am but a poor cibolero.”

“You are Carlos the cibolero! I know you.”

“Yes, your excellency, we have met – at the fiesta of San Juan – ”

“Yes, yes! I recollect your splendid horsemanship.”

“Your excellency is kind to call it so. It does not avail me now. I am in great trouble!”

“What has befallen? Speak out, man.” Both Vizcarra and Roblado guessed the purport of the cibolero’s request. They desired that it should be heard by the few soldiers lounging about the gate and for that reason they spoke in a loud tone themselves, anxious that their petitioner might do the same.

Not to oblige them, but for reasons of his own, Carlos replied in a loud voice. He, too, wished the soldiers, but more particularly the sentry at the gate, to hear what passed between himself and the officers. “Well, your excellency,” replied he, “I live in a poor rancho, the last in the settlement, with my old mother and sister. The night before last it was attacked by a party of Indians – my mother left for dead – the rancho set on fire – and my sister carried off!”

“I have heard of all this, my friend, – nay, more, I have myself been out in pursuit of the savages.”

“I know it, your excellency. I was absent on the Plains, and only returned last night. I have heard that your excellency was prompt in pursuing the savages, and I feel grateful.”

“No need of that; I only performed my duty. I regret the occurrence, and sympathise with you; but the villains have got clear off, and there is no hope of bringing them to punishment just now. Perhaps some other time – when the garrison here is strengthened – I shall make an incursion into their country, and then your sister may be recovered.”

So completely had Vizcarra been deceived by the cibolero’s manner, that his confidence and coolness had returned, and any one knowing nothing more of the affair than could be gathered from that conversation would have certainly been deceived by him. This dissimulation both in speech and manner appeared perfect. By the keen eye of Carlos, however – with his knowledge of the true situation – the tremor of the speaker’s lips, slight as it was – his uneasy glance – and an occasional hesitancy in his speech, were all observed. Though Carlos was deceiving him, he was not deceiving Carlos.

“What favour were you going to ask?” he inquired, after he had delivered his hopeful promise.

“This, your excellency; that you would allow your troops to go once more on the trail of the robbers, either under your own command – which I would much like – or one of your brave officers.” Roblado felt flattered. “I would act as guide, your excellency. There is not a spot within two hundred miles I am not acquainted with, as well as I am with this valley; and though I should not say it, I assure your excellency, I can follow an Indian trail with any hunter on the Plains. If your excellency will but send the troop, I promise you I shall guide them to the robbers, or lose my reputation. I can follow their trail wherever it may lead.”

“Oh! you could, indeed?” said Vizcarra, exchanging a significant glance with Roblado, while both exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness.

“Yes, your excellency, anywhere.”

“It would be impossible,” said Roblado. “It is now two days old; besides, we followed it beyond the Pecos, and we have no doubt the robbers are by this time far out of reach, of any pursuit. It would be quite useless to attempt such a thing.”

“Cavalleros!” – Carlos addressed himself to both – “I assure you I could find them. They are not so far off.”

Both the Comandante and his captain started, and visibly turned pale. The cibolero did not affect to notice this.

“Nonsense! my good fellow!” stammered Roblado; “they are – at least – hundreds of miles off by this – away over the Staked Plain – or to – to the mountains.”

“Pardon me, captain, for differing with you; but I believe I know these Indians – I know to what tribe they belong.”

“What tribe?” simultaneously inquired the officers, both with an earnestness of manner and a slight trepidation in their voices; “what tribe? – Were they not Yutas?”

“No,” answered the cibolero, while he observed the continued confusion of his questioners.

“Who, then?”

“I believe,” replied Carlos, “they were not Yutas – more likely my sworn foes, the Jicarillas.”

“Quite possible!” assented both in a breath, and evidently relieved at the enunciation.

“Quite possible!” repeated Roblado. “From the description given us by the people who saw them, we had fancied they were the Yutas. It may be a mistake, however. The people were so affrighted, they could tell but little about them. Besides, the Indians were only seen in the night.”

“Why think you they are the Jicarillas?” asked the Comandante, once more breathing freely.

“Partly because there were so few of them,” replied Carlos. “Had they been Yutas – ”

“But they were not so few. The shepherds report a large band. They have carried off immense numbers of cattle. There must have been a considerable force of them, else they would not have ventured into the valley – that is certain.”

“I am convinced, your excellency, there could not have been many. A small troop of your brave soldiers would be enough to bring back both them and their booty.”

Here the lounging lanzeros erected their dwarfish bodies, and endeavoured to look taller.

“If they were Jicarillas,” continued Carlos, “I should not need to follow their trail. They are not in the direction of the Llano. If they have gone that way, it was to mislead you in the pursuit. I know where they are at this moment – in the mountains.”

“Ha! you think they are in the mountains?”

“I am sure of it; and not fifty miles from here. If your excellency would but send a troop, I could guide it direct to the spot, and without following the trail they have taken out of the valley – which I believe was only a false one.”