Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Twenty Six
Circumstances were arising that would be likely to interrupt the Comandante and his captain in the execution of their design. At least so it might have been supposed. In less than twenty-four hours after the conversation described, a rumour of Indian incursions was carried to the town, and spread through every house in the valley. The rumour said that a band of “Indios bravos,” – whether Apache, Yuta, or Comanche, was not stated, – had made their appearance near the settlement, in full war-paint and costume!
This of course denoted hostile intentions, and an attack might be expected in some part of the settlement. The first rumour was followed by one still more substantial, – that the Indians had attacked some shepherds in the upper plain, not far from the town itself. The shepherds had escaped, but their dogs had been killed, and a large number of sheep driven off to the mountain fastnesses of the marauders!
This time the report was more definite. The Indians were Yutas, and belonged to a band of that tribe that had been hunting to the east of the Pecos, and who had no doubt resolved upon this plundering expedition before returning to their home, near the heads of the Del Norte. The shepherds had seen them distinctly, and knew the Yuta paint.
That the Indians were Yutas was probable enough. The same tribe had lately made a foray upon the settlements in the fine valley of Taos. They had heard of the prosperous condition of San Ildefonso, and hence their hostile visit. Besides, both Apaches and Comanches were en paz with the settlement, and had for some years confined themselves to ravaging the provinces of Coahuila and Chihuahua. No provocation had been given to these tribes to recommence hostilities, nor had they given any signs of such an intention.
Upon the night of the same day in which the sheep were carried off, a more important robbery was committed. That took place in the settlement itself. A large number of cattle were driven off from a grazing-farm near the lower end of the valley. The Indians had been seen in the act, but the frightened vaqueros were but too glad to escape, and shut themselves up in the buildings of the farm.
No murders had as yet been committed, but that was because no resistance had been made to the spoliations. Nor had any houses been yet attacked. Perhaps the Indians were only a small band; but there was no knowing how soon their numbers might be increased, and greater outrages attempted.
The people of the valley, as well as those in the town, were now in a state of excitement. Consternation prevailed everywhere. Those who lived in the scattered ranchos forsook their homes during the night, and betook themselves to the town and the larger haciendas for shelter. These last were shut up as soon as darkness approached, and regular sentries posted upon their azoteas, who kept watch until morning. The terror of the inhabitants was great, – the greater because for a long period they had lived on good terms with the Indios bravos, and a visit from them was novel as unexpected.
No wonder that they were alarmed. They had cause for it. They well knew that in these hostile incursions the savage enemy acts with the utmost barbarity, – murdering the men, and sparing only the younger women, whom they carry off to a cruel captivity. They well knew this, for at that very date there were thousands of their countrywomen in the hands of the wild Indians, lost to their families and friends for ever! No wonder that there was fear and trembling.
The Comandante seemed particularly on the alert. At the head of his troops he scoured the neighbouring plains, and made incursions towards the spurs of the mountains. At night his patrols were in constant motion up and down the valley. The people were admonished to keep within their houses, and barricade their doors in case of attack. All admired the zeal and activity of their military protectors.
The Comandante won golden opinions daily. This was the first real opportunity he had had of showing them his “pluck,” for there had been no alarm of Indians since he arrived. In the time of his predecessor several had taken place, and on these occasions it was remembered that the troops, instead of going abroad to search for the “barbaros,” shut themselves up in the garrison till the latter were gone clear out of the valley, after having carried off all the cattle they could collect! What a contrast in the new Comandante! What a brave officer was Colonel Vizcarra!
This excitement continued for several days. As yet no murders had been committed, nor any women, carried off; and as the Indians had only appeared in the night, the probability was that they were in but small force, – some weak band of robbers. Had it been otherwise, they would have long since boldly shown themselves by daylight, and carried on their depredations on a much larger scale.
During all this time the mother and sister of the cibolero lived in their lone rancho without any protection, and were, perhaps, less in dread of the Indians than any other family in the whole valley. This was to be attributed to several causes. First, their training, which had taught them to make light of dangers that terrified their less courageous neighbours. Secondly, their poor hut was not likely to tempt the cupidity of Indian robbers, whose design was evidently plunder. There were too many well-stocked ranchos a little farther up the valley. The Indians would not be likely to molest them.
But there was still a better reason for this feeling, of confidence on their part, and that was somewhat of a family secret. Carlos, having traded with all the neighbouring tribes, was known to the Indians, and was on terms of friendship with nearly every one of their chiefs. One cause of this friendship was, that Carlos was known to them as an American. Such was their feeling in regard to Americans that, at this time, and for a long period after, both the trappers and traders of that nation could pass through the whole Apache and Comanche range in the smallest parties without molestation, while large caravans of Mexicans would be attacked and robbed! It was only long after that these tribes assumed a fierce hostility against the Saxon whites; and this was brought about by several acts of barbarism committed by parties of the whites themselves.
In his dealings with the Indios bravos, then, the cibolero had not forgotten his little rancho at home; and he had always counselled his mother and sister not to fear the Indians in his absence, assuring them that these would not molest them.
The only tribe with which Carlos was not on friendly terms was the Jicarilla, a small and miserable band that lived among the mountains north-east of Santa Fé. They were a branch of the Apaches, but lived apart, and had little in common with the great freebooters of the south – the Mezcaleros and Wolf-eaters.
For these reasons, then, the little Rosita and her mother, though not entirely without apprehension, were yet less frightened by the current rumours of the time than their neighbours.
Every now and then Don Juan rode over to the rancho, and advised them to come and stay at his house – a large strong building well defended by himself and his numerous peons. But the mother of Rosita only laughed at the fears of Don Juan; and Rosita herself, from motives of delicacy, of course refused to accede to his proposal.
It was the third night from the time the Indians had been first heard of. The mother and daughter had laid aside their spindle and loom, and were about to retire to their primitive couches on the earthen floor, when Cibolo was seen to spring from his petaté, and rush towards the door, growling fiercely.
His growl increased to a bark – so earnest, that it was evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the old woman, without even inquiring who was there, pulled out the bar, and opened the door.
She had scarcely shown herself when the wild whoop of Indians rang in her ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated her upon the threshold. Spite the terrible onset of the dog, several savages, in all the horrid glare of paint and feathers, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and brandishing their weapons; and in less than five minutes’ time, the young girl, screaming with terror, was borne in their arms to the outside of the rancho, and there tied upon the back of a mule.
The few articles which the Indians deemed of any value were carried away with them; and the savages, after setting fire to the rancho, made off in haste.
Rosita saw the blaze of the rancho as she sat tied upon the mule. She had seen her mother stretched upon the door-step, and was in fact dragged over her apparently lifeless form; and the roof was now in flames!
“My poor mother!” she muttered in her agony; “O God! O God! what will become of my poor mother?”
Almost simultaneously with this attack, or a little after it, the Indians appeared before the house of the ranchero, Don Juan; but, after yelling around it and firing several arrows over the azotea and against the door, they retired.
Don Juan was apprehensive for his friends at the rancho. As soon as the Indians had gone away from about his own premises, he stole out; and, trusting to the darkness, made his way in that direction.
He had not gone far before the blaze of the building came under his eyes, causing the blood to rush cold through his veins.
He did not stop. He was afoot, but he was armed, and he dashed madly forward, resolved to defend Rosita, or die!
In a few minutes he stood before the door of the rancho; and there, to his horror, lay the still senseless form of the mother, her wild and ghastly features illuminated by the blaze from the roof. The fire had not yet reached her, though in a few moments more she would have been buried in the flames!
Don Juan drew her forth into the garden, and then rushed frantically around calling on Rosita.
But there was no reply. The crackling blaze – the sighing of the night wind – the hooting of the cliff owl, and the howling of 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.
