Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Twenty Eight
For some minutes Carlos remained stupefied with the shock, and made no effort to rouse himself.
A friendly hand laid upon his shoulder caused him to look up; Don Juan the ranchero was bending over him.
Don Juan’s face wore a look as wretched as his own. It gave him no hope; and it was almost mechanically the words escaped his lips —
“My mother? my sister?”
“Your mother is at my house,” replied Don Juan.
“And Rosita?”
Don Juan made no reply – the tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Come, man!” said Carlos, seeing the other in as much need of consolation as himself; “out with it – let me know the worst! Is she dead?”
“No, – no, – no! – I hope not dead!”
“Carried off?”
“Alas, yes!”
“By whom?”
“The Indians.”
“You are sure by Indians?”
As Carlos asked this question, a look of strange meaning glanced from his eyes.
“Quite sure – I saw them myself – your mother?”
“My mother! What of her?”
“She is safe. She met the savages in the doorway, was knocked senseless by a blow, and saw no more.”
“But Rosita?”
“No one saw her; but certainly she was taken away by the Indians.”
“You are sure they were Indians, Don Juan?”
“Sure of it. They attacked my house almost at the same time. They had previously driven off my cattle, and for that, one of my people was on the look-out. He saw them approach; and, before they got near, we were shut up and ready to defend ourselves. Finding this, they soon went off. Fearing for your people, I stole out as soon as they were gone, and came here. When I arrived the roof was blazing, and your mother lying senseless in the doorway. Rosita was gone! Madre de Dios! she was gone!”
And the young ranchero wept afresh.
“Don Juan!” said Carlos, in a firm voice; “you have been a friend – a brother – to me and mine. I know you suffer as much as I do. Let there be no tears! See! mine are dried up! I weep no more – perhaps sleep not – till Rosita is rescued or revenged. Let us to business, then! Tell me all that is known about these Indians – and quick, Don Juan! I have a keen appetite for your news!”
The ranchero detailed the various rumours that had been afloat for the three or four days preceding – as well as the actual occurrences, – how the Indians had been first seen upon the upper plain; their encounter with the shepherds and the driving off of the sheep; their appearance in the valley, and their raid upon his own cattle – for it was his ganaderia that had suffered – and then the after circumstances already known to Carlos.
He also informed the latter of the activity shown by the troops; how they had followed that morning upon the trail of the robbers; how he had desired to accompany them with some of his people; and how the request was refused by the Comandante.
“Refused?” exclaimed Carlos, interrogatively.
“Yes,” replied Don Juan; “he said we would only hinder the troops! I fancy his motive was his chagrin with me. He does not like me ever since the fiesta.”
“Well! what then?”
“The troops returned but an hour ago. They report that they followed the trail as far as the Pecos, where it crossed, striking direct for the Llano Estacado; and, as the Indians had evidently gone off to the great plains, it would have been useless to attempt pursuing them farther. So they alleged.
“The people,” continued Don Juan, “will be only too glad that the savages have gone away, and will trouble themselves no farther about it. I have been trying to get up a party to follow them, but not one would venture. Hopeless as it was, I intended a pursuit with my own people; but, thank God! you have come!”
“Ay, pray God it may not be too late to follow their trail. But no; only last night at midnight, you say? There’s been neither rain nor high wind – it will be fresh as dew; and if ever hound – Ha! where’s Cibolo?”
“At my house, the dog is. He was lost, this morning; we thought he had been killed or carried off; but at midday my people found him by the rancho here, covered with mud, and bleeding where he had received the prick of a spear. We think the Indians must have taken him along, and that he escaped from them on the road.”
“It is strange enough – Oh! my poor Rosita! – poor lost sister! – where art thou at this moment? – where? – where? – Shall I ever see you again? – My God! my God!”
And Carlos once more sunk back into his attitude of despair.
Then suddenly springing to his feet, with clenched fist and flashing eyes, he cried out —
“Wide though the prairie plains, and faint the trail of these dastardly robbers, yet keen is the eye of Carlos the cibolero! I shall find thee yet – I shall find thee, though it cost me the search of a life. Fear not, Rosita! fear not, sweet sister! I come to your rescue! If thou art wronged, woe, woe, to the tribe that has done it!” Then turning to Don Juan, he continued, – “The night is on – we can do nothing to-night. Don Juan! – friend, brother! – bring me to her – to my mother.”
There is a wild poetry in the language of grief, and there was poetry in the words of the cibolero; but these bursts of poetic utterance were brief, and he again returned to the serious reality of his situation. Every circumstance that could aid him in his purposed pursuit was considered and arranged in a sober and practical manner. His arms and accoutrements, his horse, all were cared for, so as to be ready by the earliest hour of light. His servants, and those of Don Juan, were to accompany him, and for these horses were also prepared.
Pack-mules, too, with provisions and other necessaries for a long journey – for Carlos had no intention of returning without the accomplishment of his sworn purpose – rescue or revenge. His was no pursuit to be baffled by slight obstacles. He was not going to bring back the report “no los pudimos alcanzar” He was resolved to trail the robbers to the farthest point of the prairies – to follow them to their fastens, wherever that might be.
Don Juan was with him heart and soul, for the ranchero’s interest in the result was equal to his own – his agony was the same.
Their peons numbered a score – trusty Tagnos all, who loved their masters, and who, if not warriors by trade, were made so by sympathy and zeal.
Should they overtake the robbers in time, there would be no fear of the result. From all circumstances known, the latter formed but a weak band. Had this not been the case, they would never have left the valley with so trifling a booty. Could they be overtaken before joining their tribe, all might yet be well. They would be compelled to give up both their plunder and their captive, and, perhaps, pay dearly for the distress they had occasioned. Time, therefore, was a most important consideration, and the pursuers had resolved to take the trail with the earliest light of the morning.
Carlos slept not – and Don Juan only in short and feverish intervals. Both sat up in their dresses, – Carlos by the bedside of his mother, who, still suffering from the effects of the blow, appeared to rave in her sleep.
The cibolero sat silent, and in deep thought. He was busied with plans and conjectures – conjectures as to what tribe of Indians the marauders could belong to. Apaches or Comanches they were not. He had met parties of both on his return. They treated him in a friendly manner, and they said nothing of hostilities against the people of San Ildefonso. Besides, no bands of these would have been in such small force as the late robbers evidently were. Carlos wished it had been they. He knew that in such a case, when it was known that the captive was his sister, she would be restored to him. But no; they had nothing to do with it. Who then? – the Yutas? Such was the belief among the people of the valley, as he had been told by Don Juan. If so, there was still a hope – Carlos had traded with a branch of this powerful and warlike tribe. He was also on friendly terms with some of its chiefs, though these were now at war with the more northern settlements.
But the Jicarillas still returned to his mind. These were Indians of a cowardly, brutal disposition, and his mortal foes. They would have scalped him on sight. If his sister was their captive, her lot was hard indeed; and the very thought of such a fate caused the cibolero to start up with a shudder, and clench his hands in a convulsive effort of passion.
It was near morning. The peons were astir and armed. The horses and mules were saddled in the patio, and Don Juan had announced that all were ready. Carlos stood by the bedside of his mother to take leave. She beckoned him near. She was still weak, for blood had flown freely from her, and her voice was low and feeble.
“My son,” said she, as Carlos bent over her, “know you what Indians you are going to pursue?”
“No, mother,” replied Carlos, “but I fear they are our enemies the Jicarillas.”
“Have the Jicarillas beards on their faces and jewels on their fingers?”
“No mother; why do you ask such a question? – you know they have no beards! My poor mother!” added he, turning to Don Juan; “this terrible stroke has taken her senses!”
“Follow the trail, then!” she continued, without noticing the last remark uttered by Carlos in a whisper; “follow the trail – perhaps it will guide thee to – ” and she whispered the rest into his ear.
“What, mother?” said he, starting, as if at some strange information. “Dost thou think so?”
“I have some suspicion – only suspicion– but follow the trail – it will guide thee – follow it, and be satisfied!”
“Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied of that.”
“One promise before you go. Be not rash – be prudent.”
“Fear not, mother! I will.”
“If it be so – ”
“If it be so, mother, you’ll soon see me back. God bless you! – My blood’s on fire – I cannot stay! – God bless you, mother! – Farewell!”
Next minute the train of mounted men, with Don Juan and Carlos at its head, passed out of the great gate, and took the road that led out from the valley.
Chapter Twenty Nine
It was not yet daybreak when the party left the house, but they had not started too early. Carlos knew that they could follow the road so far as the lancers had gone, in the darkness; and it would be light enough by the time they had got to the point where these had turned back.
Five miles below the house of Don Juan the road forked – one, leading southward, was that by which Carlos had returned the evening before; the other, or left fork, led nearly in a direct line towards the Pecos, where there was a ford. The left fork had been that taken by the troopers, as their horse-tracks showed.
It was now day. They could have followed the trail at a gallop, as it was a much-travelled and well-known path. But the eye of the cibolero was not bent upon this plain trail, but upon the ground on each side of it, and this double scrutiny caused him to ride more slowly.
On both sides were cattle-tracks. These were, no doubt, made by the cattle stolen from Don Juan – in all numbering about fifty. The cibolero said they must have passed over the ground two days before. That would correspond with the time when they had been taken.
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!”
