The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

For a moment Roblado hesitated whether to “storm the house.” His rage almost induced him to the act. He reflected, however, that the proceeding might appear somewhat ridiculous and could not much better his position; besides, the pain of his wounded arm admonished him to retire from the field.

He re-crossed the bridge, was helped upon his horse, and, summoning around him his valiant troop, he rode back to the Presidio – leaving the roused town to conjecture the cause of the alarm.

Chapter Forty Eight

Next morning the town was full of “novedades.” At first it was supposed there had been an attack of Indians repelled as usual by the troops. What valiant protectors the people had!

After a while it was rumoured that Carlos the murderer had been captured, and that was the cause of the firing, – that Captain Roblado was killed in the affair. Presently Carlos was not taken, but he had been chased and came very near being taken! Roblado had engaged him singly, hand to hand, and had wounded him, but in the darkness he had got off by diving down the river. In the encounter the outlaw had shot the captain through the arm, which prevented the latter from making him a prisoner.

This rumour came direct from the Presidio. It was partly true. The wounding of Carlos by Roblado was an addition to the truth, intended to give a little éclat to the latter, for it became known afterwards that the cibolero had escaped without even a scratch.

People wondered why the outlaw should have ventured to approach the town, knowing as he did that there was a price upon his head. Some very powerful motive must have drawn him thither. The motive soon became known, – the whole story leaked out; and then, indeed, did scandal enjoy a feast. Catalina had been for some time the acknowledged belle of the place, and, what with envious women and jealous men, she was now treated with slight show of charity. The very blackest construction was put upon her “compromisa.” It was worse even than a mésalliance. The “society” were horrified at her conduct in stooping to intimacy with a “lepero;” while even the lepero class, itself fanatically religious, condemned her for her association with “un asesino,” but, still worse, a “heretico!”

The excitement produced by this new affair was great indeed, – a perfect panic. The cibolero’s head rose in value, like the funds. The magistrates and principal men assembled in the Casa de Cabildo. A new proclamation was drawn out. A larger sum was offered for the capture of Carlos, and the document was rendered still stronger by a declaration of severe punishment to all who should give him food or protection. If captured beneath the roof of any citizen who had voluntarily sheltered him, the latter was to suffer full confiscation of his property, besides such further punishment as might be fixed upon.

The Church was not silent. The padrés promised excommunication and the wrath of Heaven against those who would stay justice from the heretic murderer!

These were terrible terms for the outlaw! Fortunately for him, he knew how to live without a roof over his head. He could maintain existence where his enemies would have starved, and where they were unable to follow him, – on the wide desert plain, or in the rocky ravines of the mountains. Had he depended for food or shelter on his fellow-citizens of the settlement he would soon have met with betrayal and denouncement. But the cibolero was as independent of such a necessity as the wild savage of the prairies. He could sleep on the grassy sward or the naked rock, he could draw sustenance even from the arid surface of the Llano Estacado, and there he could bid defiance to a whole army of pursuers.

At the council Don Ambrosio was not present. Grief and rage kept him within doors. A stormy scene had been enacted between him and his daughter. Henceforth she was to be strictly guarded – to be kept a prisoner in her father’s house – to be taught repentance by the exercise of penance.

To describe the feelings of Roblado and the Comandante would be impossible. These gentlemen were well-nigh at their wits’ end with mortification. Disappointment, humiliation, physical and moral pain, had worked them into a frenzy of rage; and they were engaged together during all the day in plotting schemes and plans for the capture of their outlawed enemy.

Roblado was not less earnest than the Comandante in the success of their endeavours.

Carlos had now given both of them good cause to hate him, and both hated him from the bottom of their hearts.

What vexed Roblado most was, that he was no longer able to take the field – nor was he likely to be for several weeks. His wound, though not dangerous, would oblige him to sling his arm for some time, and to manage a horse would be out of the question. The strategic designs of the Comandante and himself would have to be carried out by those who felt far less interest in the capture of the outlaw than they did. Indeed, but for the arrival of a brace of lieutenants, sent from division head-quarters at Santa Fé, the garrison would have been without a commissioned officer fit for duty. These new-comers – Lieutenants Yafiez and Ortiga – were neither of them the men to catch the cibolero. They were brave enough – Ortiga in particular – but both were late arrivals from Spain, and knew nothing whatever of border warfare.

The soldiers were desirous of hunting the outlaw down, and acted with sufficient zeal. The stimulus of a large reward, which was promised to them, rendered them eager of effecting his capture; and they went forth on each fresh scout with alacrity. But they were not likely to attack the cibolero unless a goodly number of them were together. No one or two of them – including the celebrated Sergeant Gomez – would venture within range of his rifle, much less go near enough to lay hands upon him.

The actual experience of his prowess by some of them, and the exaggerated reports of it known to others, had made such an impression upon the whole troop, that the cibolero could have put a considerable body of them to flight only by showing himself! But in addition to the skill, strength, and daring which he had in reality exhibited – in addition to the exaggeration of those qualities by the fancy – the soldiers as well as people had become possessed with a strange belief – that was, that the cibolero was under the protection of his mother – under the protection of the “diablo” – in other words, that he was bewitched, and therefore invincible! Some asserted that he was impervious to shot, spear, or sabre. Those who had fired their carbines at him while on the bridge fully believed this. They were ready to swear – each one of them – that they had hit the cibolero, and must have killed him had he not been under supernatural protection!

Wonderful stories now circulated among the soldiers and throughout the settlement. The cibolero was seen everywhere, and always mounted on his coal-black horse, who shared his supernatural fame. He had been seen riding along the top of the cliffs at full gallop, and so close to their edge that he might have blown the stump of his cigar into the valley below! Others had met him in the night on lonely walks amid the chapparal, and according to them his face and hands had appeared red and luminous as coals of fire! He had been seen on the high plains by the hateros – on the cliff of “La Niña” – in many parts of the valley; but no one had ventured near enough to exchange words with him. Every one had fled or shunned him. It was even asserted that he had been seen crossing the little bridge that led out of Don Ambrosio’s garden, and thus brought down a fresh shower of scandal on the devoted head of Catalina. The scandal-mongers, however, were sadly disappointed on hearing that this bridge no longer existed, but had been removed by Don Ambrosio on the day following the discovery of his daughter’s misconduct!

In no part of the world is superstition stronger than among the ignorant populace of the settlements of New Mexico. In fact, it may be regarded as forming part of their religion. The missionary padrés, in grafting the religion of Rome upon the sun-worship of Quetzalcoatl, admitted for their own purposes a goodly string of superstitions. It would be strange if their people did not believe in others, however absurd. Witchcraft, therefore, and all like things, were among the New Mexicans as much matters of belief as the Deity himself.

It is not then to be wondered at that Carlos the cibolero became associated with the devil. His feat of horsemanship and hair-breadth escapes from his enemies were, to say the least, something wonderful and romantic, even when viewed in a natural sense. But the populace of San Ildefonso no longer regarded them in this light. With them his skill in the “coleo de toros,” in “running the cock,” – his feat of horsemanship on the cliff – his singular escapes from carbine and lance, were no longer due to himself, but to the devil. The “diablo” was at the bottom of all!

If the outlaw appeared so often during the next few days to those who did not wish to see him, it was somewhat strange that those who were desirous of a sight and an interview could get neither one nor the other. The lieutenants, Yafiez and Ortiga, with their following of troopers, were on the scout and look-out from morning till night, and from one day’s end to the other. The spies that were thickly-set in all parts where there was a probability he might appear, could see nothing of Carlos! To-day he was reported here, to-morrow there; but on tracing these reports to their sources, it usually turned out that some ranchero with a black horse had been taken for him; and thus the troopers were led from place to place, and misled by false reports, until both horses and men were nearly worn out in the hopeless pursuit. This, however, had become the sole duty on which the soldiers were employed – as the Comandante had no idea of giving up the chase so long as there was a trooper left to take the trail.

One place was closely watched both by day and by night. It was watched by soldiers disguised, and also by spies employed for the purpose. This was the rancho of the cibolero himself. The disguised soldiers and spies were placed around it, in such positions that they could see every movement that took place outside the walls without being themselves seen. These positions they held during the day, taking others at night; and the surveillance was thus continual, by these secret sentries relieving one another. Should the cibolero appear, it was not the duty of the spies to attack him. They were only to communicate with a troop – kept in readiness not far off – that thus insured a sufficient force for the object.

The mother and sister of the cibolero had returned to live in the rancho. The peons had re-roofed and repaired it – an easy task, as the walls had not been injured by the five. It was now as comfortable a dwelling as ever.

The mother and sister were not molested – in fact, they were supposed to know nothing of the fact that eyes were continually upon them. But there was a design in this toleration. They were to be narrowly watched in their movements. They were never to leave the rancho without being closely followed, and the circumstance of their going out reported to the leader of the ambushed troop at the moment of its occurrence. These orders were of the strictest kind, and their disobedience threatened with severe punishment.

The reasons for all this were quite simple. Both Vizcarra and Roblado believed, or suspected, that Carlos might leave the settlement altogether – why should he not? – and take both mother and sister along with him. Indeed, why should he not? The place could be no more a home to him, and he would easily find another beyond the Great Plains. No time could ever release him from the ban that hung over him. He could never pay the forfeit of his life – but by that life. It was, therefore, perfectly natural in the two officers to suspect him of the intention of moving elsewhere.

But, reasoned they, so long as we hold the mother and sister as hostages, he will not leave them. He will still continue to lurk around the settlement, and, if not now, some time shall the fox be caught and destroyed.

So reasoned the Comandante and his captain, and hence the strictness of their orders about guarding the rancho. Its inmates were really prisoners, though – as Vizcarra and Roblado supposed – they were ignorant of the fact.

Notwithstanding all their ingenious plans – notwithstanding all their spies, and scouts, and soldiers – notwithstanding their promises of reward and threats of punishment – day followed day, and still the outlaw remained at large.

Chapter Forty Nine

For a long time Carlos had neither been seen nor heard of except through reports that on being examined turned out to be false. Both the Comandante and his confrère began to grow uneasy. They began to fear he had in reality left the settlement and gone elsewhere to live, and this they dreaded above all things. Both had a reason for wishing him thus out of the place, and until late occurrences nothing would have pleased them better. But their feelings had undergone a change, and neither the intended seducer nor the fortune-hunter desired that things should end just in that way. The passion of revenge had almost destroyed the ruffian love of the one, and the avarice of the other. The very sympathy which both received on account of their misfortunes whetted this passion to a continued keenness. There was no danger of its dying within the breast of either. The looking-glass alone would keep it alive in Vizcarra’s bosom for the rest of his life.

They were together on the azotea of the Presidio, talking the matter between them, and casting over the probabilities of their late suspicion.

“He is fond of the sister,” remarked the Comandante; “and mother too, for that matter, hag as she is! Still, my dear Roblado, a man likes his own life better than anything else. Near is the shirt, etcetera. He knows well that to stay here is to get into our hands some time or other, and he knows what we’ll do with him if he should. Though he has made some clever escapes, I’ll admit, that may not always be his fortune. The pitcher may go to the well once too often. He’s a cunning rascal – no doubt knows this riddle – and therefore I begin to fear he has taken himself off, – at least for a long while. He may return again, but how the deuce are we to sustain this constant espionage? It would weary down the devil! It will become as tiresome as the siege of Granada was to the good king Fernando and his warlike spouse of the soiled chemise. Por Dios! I’m sick of it already!”

“Rather than let him escape us,” replied Roblado, “I’d wear out my life at it.”

“So I – so I, capitan. Don’t fear I have the slightest intention of dropping our system of vigilance. No – no – look in this face. Carajo!”

And as the speaker reflected upon his spoiled features, the bitterest scowl passed over them, making them still more hideous.

“And yet,” continued Vizcarra, following out the original theme, “it does not seem natural that he should leave them behind him, even for a short period, after what has occurred, and after the risk he ran to recover her; does it?”

“No,” replied the other, thoughtfully, “no. What I most wonder at is his not setting off with them the night she got back, – that very night, – for by the letter he was there upon the spot! But, true, it takes some time to prepare for a journey across the prairies. He would never have gone to one of our own settlements – not likely – and to have travelled elsewhere would have required some preparation for the women at least; for himself, I believe he is as much at home in the desert as either the antelope or the prairie wolf. Still with an effort he might have gone away at that time and taken them along with him. It was bad management on our part not to send our men down that night.”

“I had no fear of his going off, else I should have done so.”

“How? – no fear? was it not highly probable?”

“Not in the least,” replied Roblado.

“I cannot understand you, my dear capitan. Why not?”

“Because there is a magnet in this valley that held him tighter than either mother or sister could, and I knew that.”

“Oh! now I understand you.”

“Yes,” continued Roblado, grinding his teeth against each other, and speaking in a bitter tone; “that precious ‘margarita,’ that is yet to be my wife, – ha! ha! He was not likely to be off without having a talk with her. They have had it. God knows whether they agreed to make it their last, but I, with the help of Don Ambrosio, have arranged that for them. Carrai! she’ll make no more midnight sorties, I fancy. No – he’s not gone. I cannot think it, – for two reasons. First, on her account. Have you ever loved, Comandante? I mean truly loved! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha! ha! well I think I was caught once.”

“Then you will know that when a man really loves – for I myself count that foolish act among my experiences, – when a man really loves, there’s no rope strong enough to pull him away from the spot where the object of his love resides. No, I believe this fellow, low as he is, not only loves but worships this future wife of mine, – ha! ha! – and I believe also that no danger, not even the prospect of the garrote, will frighten him from the settlement so long as he has the hope of another clandestine tête-à-tête with her; and, knowing that she is ready to meet him half-way in such a matter, he will not have lost hope yet.

“But my second reason for believing he is still lurking about is that which you yourself have brought forward. He is not likely to leave them behind after what has happened. We have not blinded him; though —Gracias à Dios, or the devil – we have dusted the eyes of everybody besides! He knows all, as the girl Vicenza can well testify. Now, I have no belief that, knowing all this, he would leave them for any lengthened period. What I do believe is that the fellow is as cunning as a coyote, sees our trap, knows the bait, and won’t be caught if he can help it. He is not far off, and, through these accursed peons of his, communicates with the women regularly and continually.”

“What can be done?”

“I have been thinking.”

“If we stop the peons from going back and forth they would be sure to know the trap that was set around them.”

“Exactly so, Comandante. That would never do.”

“Have you considered any other plan?”

“Partly I have.”

“Let us hear it!”

“It is this. Some of those peons regularly visit the fellow in his lair. I feel certain of it. Of course they have been followed, but only in daylight, and then they are found to be on their ordinary business. But there is one of them who goes abroad at night; and all attempts at following him have proved abortive. He loses himself in the chapparal paths in spite of the spies. That is why I am certain he visits the cibolero.”

“It seems highly probable.”

“Now if we can find one who could either follow this fellow or track him – but there’s the difficulty. We are badly off for a good tracker. There is not one in the whole troop.”

“There are other ciboleros and hunters in the valley. Why not procure one of them?”

“True, we might – there are none of them over well disposed to the outlaw – so it is said. But I fear there is none of them fit, that is, none who combines both the skill and the courage necessary for this purpose – for both are necessary. They hate the fellow enough, but they fear him as well. There is one whom I have heard of, – in fact know something of him, – who would be the very man for us. He not only would not fear an encounter with the cibolero, but would hardly shun one with the devil; and, as for his skill in all sorts of Indian craft, his reputation among his kind is even greater than that of Carlos himself.”

“Who is he?”

“I should say there are two of them, for the two always go together; one is a mulatto, who has formerly been a slave among the Americanos. He is now a runaway, and therefore hates everything that reminds him of his former masters. Among other souvenirs, as I am told, he hates our cibolero with a good stout hatred. This springs partly from the feeling already mentioned, and partly from the rivalry of hunter-fame. So much in our favour. The alter ego of the mulatto is a man of somewhat kindred race, a zambo from the coast near Matamoras or Tampico How he strayed this way no one knows, but it is a good while ago, and the mulatto and he have for long been shadows of each other; live together, hunt together, and fight for one another. Both are powerful men, and cunning as strong; but the mulatto is the zambo’s master in everything, villainy not excepted. Neither is troubled with scruples. They would be the very men for our purpose.”

“And why not get them at once?”

“Therein lies the difficulty – unfortunately they are not here at present. They are off upon a hunt. They are hangers-on of the mission, occasionally employed by the padrés in procuring venison and other game.

“Now it seems that the stomachs of our good abstemious fathers have lately taken a fancy to buffalo tongue cured in a certain way, which can only be done when the animal is fresh killed. In order to procure this delicacy they have sent these hunters to the buffalo range.”

“How long have they been gone? – can you tell?”

“Several weeks – long before the return of our cibolero.”

“It is possible they may be on the way back. Is it not?”

“I think it quite probable, but I shall ride over to the mission this very hour and inquire.”

“Do so; it would be well if we could secure them. A brace of fellows, such as you describe these to be, would be worth our whole command. Lose no time.”

“I shall not waste a minute,” Roblado replied, and leaning over the wall he called out, “Hola! José! my horse there!”

Shortly after a messenger came up to say that his horse was saddled and ready. He was about to descend the escalera, when a large closely-cropped head – with a circular patch about the size of a blister shaven out of the crown – made its appearance over the stone-work at the top of the escalera. It was the head of the Padré Joaquin, and the next moment the owner, bland and smiling, appeared upon the azotea.

Chapter Fifty

The monk who presented himself was the same who had figured at the dinner-party. He was the senior of the two that directed the mission, and in every respect the ruler of the establishment. He was known as the Padré Joaquin, while his junior was the Padré Jorgé. The latter was a late addition to the post, whereas Padré Joaquin had been its director almost since the time of its establishment. He was, therefore, an old resident, and knew the history and character of every settler in the valley. For some reason or other he held an inveterate dislike to the family of the cibolero, to which he had given expression upon the evening of the dinner-party, – although he assigned no cause for his hostility. It could not have been because he regarded them as “hereticos,” for, though the Padré Joaquin was loud in his denunciations of all who were outside the pale of the Church, yet in his own heart he cared but little about such things. His zeal for religion was sheer hypocrisy and worldly cunning. There was no vice practised in the settlement in which Padré Joaquin did not take a leading part. An adroit monte player he was – ready to do a little cheating upon occasions – a capital judge of game “gallos,” ever ready to stake his onzas upon a “main.” In addition to these accomplishments, the padré boasted of others. In his cups, – and this was nothing unusual, – he was in the habit of relating the liaisons and amourettes of his earlier life, and even some of later date. Although the neophytes of the mission were supposed to be all native Tagnos with dark skins, yet there was to be seen upon the establishment quite a crowd of young mestizoes, both boys and girls, who were known as the “sobrinos” and “sobrinas” of Padré Joaquin.

You cannot otherwise than deem this an exaggeration: you will imagine that no reverend father could practise such conduct, and still be held in any sort of respect by the people among whom he dwelt? So should I have thought had I not witnessed with my own eyes and ears the “priest-life” of Mexico. The immoralities here ascribed to Padré Joaquin can scarcely be called exceptional in his class. They are rather common than otherwise – some have even said universal.