Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Forty One
Vizcarra’s desire for revenge grew stronger every hour. The almost joyful reaction he had experienced, when relieved from the fear of death, was short-lived. So, too, was that which followed his relief from the anxiety about his captive. The thought that now tortured him was of a different character. The very breath of his existence – his personal appearance – was ruined for ever. He was disfigured for life!
When the mirror was passed before his face, it caused his heart to burn like a coal of fire. Coward though he was, he would almost as soon have been killed outright.
Several of his teeth were gone. They might have been replaced; but not so could be restored the mutilated cheek. A portion had been carried off by the “tear” of the bullet. There would be a hideous scar never to be healed!
The sight was horrible. His thoughts were horrible. He groaned outright as he contemplated the countenance which the cibolero had given him. He swore vengeance. Death and torture if he could but capture Carlos – death to him and his!
At times he even repented that he had sent away the sister. Why should he have cared for consequences? Why had he not revenged himself upon her? He no longer loved her. Her scornful laugh still rankled in his heart. She had been the cause of all his sufferings – of sufferings that would never end but with his life – chagrin and mortification for the rest of his days! Why had he not taken her life? That would have been sweet revenge upon the brother. It would almost have been satisfaction.
He tossed upon his couch, tortured with these reflections, and giving utterance at intervals to groans of anguish and horrid imprecations.
Carlos must be captured. No effort must be spared to ensure that event. And captured alive if possible. He should measure out the punishment. It should be death, but not sudden death. No; the savages of the plains should be his teachers. The cibolero should die like a captive Indian – by fire at the stake. Vizcarra swore this!
After him, the mother, too. She was deemed a witch. She should be punished as often witches have been. In this he would not have to act alone. He knew that the padrés would endorse the act. They were well inclined to such fanatical cruelties.
Then the sister, alone – uncared for by any one. She would be wholly in his power – to do with her us he would, and no one to stay his will. It was not love, but revenge.
Such terrible resolves passed through the mind of the wretched caitiff.
Roblado was equally eager for the death of the cibolero. His vanity had been scathed as well, for he was now satisfied that Catalina was deeply interested in the man, if not already on terms of intimacy – on terms of love, mutually reciprocated and understood. He had visited her since the tragical occurrence at the Presidio. He had observed a marked change in her manner. He had thought to triumph by the malignant abuse heaped on the assassin; but she, although she said nothing in defence of the latter – of course she could not – was equally silent on the other side, and showed no symptoms of indignation at the deed. His (Roblado’s) abusive epithets, joined to those which her own father liberally heaped upon the man, seemed to give her pain. It was plain she would have defended him had she dared!
All this Roblado had noticed during his morning call.
But more still had he learnt, for he had a spy upon her acts. One of her maids, Vicenza, who for some reason had taken a dislike to her mistress, was false to her, and had, for a length of time, been the confidant of the military wooer. A little gold and flattery, and a soldier-sweetheart – who chanced to be José – had rendered Vicenza accessible. Roblado was master of her thoughts, and through José he received information regarding Catalina, of which the latter never dreamt. This system of espionage had been but lately established, but it had already produced fruits. Through it Roblado had gained the knowledge that he himself was hated by the object of his regard, and that she loved some other! What other even Vicenza could not tell. That other Roblado could easily guess.
It is not strange that he desired the capture and death of Carlos the cibolero. He was as eager for that event as Vizcarra himself.
Both were making every exertion to bring it about. Already scouting-parties had been sent out in different directions. A proclamation had been posted on the walls of the town, – the joint production of the Comandante and his captain, offering a high reward for the cibolero’s head, and a still higher sum for the cibolero himself if captured alive!
The citizens, to show their zeal and loyalty, had also issued a proclamation to the same effect, heading it with a large sum subscribed among them – a very fortune to the man who should be so lucky as to be the captor of Carlos. This proclamation was signed by all the principal men of the place, and the name of Don Ambrosio figured high upon the list! There was even some talk of getting up a volunteer company to assist the soldiers in the pursuit of the heretico assassin, or rather to earn the golden price of his capture.
With such a forfeit on his head, it was an enigma how Carlos should be long alive!
Roblado sat in his quarters busy devising plans for the capture. He had already sent his trustiest spies to the lower end of the valley, and these were to hover day and night in the neighbourhood. Any information of the haunts of the cibolero, or of those with whom he was formerly in correspondence, was to be immediately brought to him, and would be well paid for. A watch was placed on the house of the young ranchero, Don Juan; and though both Vizcarra and Roblado had determined on special action with regard to him, they agreed upon leaving him undisturbed for the present, as that might facilitate their plans. The spies who had been employed were not soldiers, but men of the town and poor rancheros. A military force appealing below would frustrate their design. That, however, was kept in readiness, but its continued presence near the rancho, thought Vizcarra and his captain, would only frighten the bird, and prevent it from returning to its nest. There was good logic in this.
Roblado, as stated, was in his quarters, completing his arrangements. A knock aroused him from the contemplation of some documents. They were communications from his spies, which had just reached the Presidio, addressed both to himself and the Comandante. They were concerning the affair.
“Who is it?” he asked, before giving the privilege to enter.
“I, captain,” answered a sharp squeaky voice.
Roblado evidently knew the voice, for he called out —
“Oh! it is you? Come in, then.”
The door opened, and a small dark man, of sharp weasel-like aspect, entered the room. He had a skulking shuffling gait, and, notwithstanding his soldier’s dress, his sabre and his spurs, the man looked mean. He spoke with a cringing accent, and saluted his officer with a cringing gesture. He was just the sort of person to be employed upon some equivocal service, and by such men as Vizcarra and Roblado; and in that way he had more than once served them. It was the soldier José.
“Well! what have you to say? Have you seen Vicenza?”
“I have, captain. Last night I met her out.”
“Any news?”
“I don’t know whether it may be news to the captain; but she has told me that it was the señorita who sent her home yesterday.”
“Her?”
“Yes, captain, the güera.”
“Ha! go on!”
“Why, you know when you left her with the alcalde she was offered to whoever would take her. Well, a young girl came up and claimed to be an acquaintance, and a woman who was the girl’s mother. She was given up to them without more ado, and they took her away to a house in the chapparal below the town.”
“She did not stay there. I know she’s gone down, but I have not yet heard the particulars. How did she go?”
“Well, captain; only very shortly after she arrived at the house of the woman, a carreta came up to the door, driven by a Tagno, and the girl – that is, the daughter, who is called Josefa – mounted into the carreta, taking the güera along with her; and off they went down below.
“Now, neither this girl nor her mother ever saw the güera before, and who does captain think sent them, and the carreta too?”
“Who says Vicenza?”
“The señorita, captain.”
“Ha!” sharply exclaimed Roblado. “Vicenza is sure of that.”
“More than that, captain. About the time the carreta drove away, or a little after, the señorita left the house on her horse, and with a common serapé over her, and a sombrero on her head, like any ranchera; and in this – which I take to be a disguise for a lady of quality like her – she rode off by the back road. Vicenza, however, thinks that she turned into the camino abajo after she got past the houses, and overtook the carreta. She was gone long enough to have done so.”
This communication seemed to make a deep impression upon the listener. Shadows flitted over his dark brow, and gleams of some new intelligence or design appeared in his eyes. He was silent for a moment, engaged in communicating with his thoughts. At length he inquired —
“Is that all your information, José?”
“All, captain.”
“There may be more from the same source. See Vicenza to-night again. Tell her to keep a close watch. If she succeed in discovering that there is a correspondence going on, she shall be well rewarded, and you shall not be forgotten. Find out more about this woman and her daughter. Know the Tagno who drove them. Lose no time about it. Go, José!”
The minion returned his thanks in a cringing tone, made another cringing salute, and shuffled out of the room.
As soon as he had left, Roblado sprang to his feet, and, walking about the room in an agitated manner, uttered his thoughts aloud: —
“By Heaven! I had not thought of this. A correspondence, I have no doubt. Fiends! such a woman! She must know all ere this – if the fellow himself is not deceived by us! I must watch in that quarter too. Who knows but that will be the trap in which we’ll take him? Love is even a stronger lure than brotherly affection. Ha! señorita; if this be true, I’ll yet have a purchase upon you that you little expect. I’ll bring you to terms without the aid of your stupid father!”
After figuring about for some minutes, indulging in these alternate dreams of vengeance and triumph, he left his room, and proceeded towards that of the Comandante, for the purpose of communicating to the latter his new-gotten knowledge.
Chapter Forty Two
The house of Don Ambrosio de Cruces was not a town mansion. It was suburban – that is, it stood upon the outskirts of the village, some seven or eight hundred yards from the Plaza. It was detached from the other buildings, and at some distance from any of them. It was neither a “villa” nor a “cottage.” There are no such buildings in Mexico, nor anything at all resembling them. In fact, the architecture of that country is of unique and uniform style, from north to south, through some thousand miles of latitude! The smaller kinds of houses, – the ranchos of the poorer classes, – show a variety corresponding to the three thermal divisions arising from different elevation —caliente, templada, and fria. In the hot lands of the coast, and some low valleys in the interior, the rancho is a frail structure of cane and poles with a thatch of palm-leaves. On the elevated “valles,” or table-plains – and here, be it observed, dwell most of the population – it is built of “adobes,” and this rule is universal. On the forest-covered sides of the more elevated mountains the rancho is a house of logs, a “log-cabin,” with long hanging eaves and shingled roof, differing entirely from the log-cabin of the American backwoods, and far excelling the latter in neatness and picturesque appearance.
So much for the “ranchos.” About them there is some variety of style. Not so with “casas grandes,” or houses of the rich. A sameness characterises them through thirty degrees of latitude – from one extremity of Mexico to the other; and, we might almost add, throughout all Spanish America. If now and then a “whimsical” structure be observed, you may find, on inquiry, that the owner is some foreigner resident – an English miner, a Scotch manufacturer, or a German merchant.
These remarks are meant only for the houses of the country. In small villages the same style as the country-house is observed, with very slight modifications; but in large towns, although some of the characteristics are still retained, there is an approximation to the architecture of European cities – more particularly, of course, to those of Spain.
The house of Don Ambrosio differed very little from the general fashion of “casas grandes” of country style. It had the same aspect of gaol, fortress, convent, or workhouse – whichever you please; but this aspect was considerably lightened by the peculiar colouring of the walls, which was done in broad vertical bands of red, white, and yellow, alternating with each other! The effect produced by this arrangement of gay colours is quite Oriental, and is a decided relief to the otherwise heavy appearance of a Mexican dwelling. In some parts of the country this fashion is common.
In shape there was no peculiarity. Standing upon the road in front you see a long wall, with a large gateway near the middle, and three or four windows irregularly set. The windows are shielded with bars of wrought-iron standing vertically. That is the “reja.” None of them have either sash or glass. The gateway is closed by a heavy wooden door, strongly clasped and bolted with iron. This front wall is but one storey high, but its top is continued so as to form a parapet, breast-high above the roof, and this gives it a loftier appearance. The roof being flat behind, the parapet is not visible from below. Look around the corner at either end of this front wall. You will see no gable – there is no such thing on a house of the kind we are describing. In its place you will see a dead wall of the same height as the parapet, running back for a long distance; and were you to go to the end of it, and again look around the corner, you would find a similar wall at the back closing in the parallelogram.
In reality you have not yet seen the true front of Don Ambrosio’s house, if we mean by that the part most embellished. A Mexican spends but little thought on the outside appearance of his mansion.
It is only from the courtyard, or “patio,” you can get a view of the front upon which the taste of the owner is displayed, and this often exhibits both grandeur and elegance.
Let us pass through the gateway, and enter the “patio.” The “portero,” when summoned by knock or bell, admits us by a small door, forming part of the great gate already mentioned. We traverse an arched way, the “zaguan,” running through the breadth of the building, and then we are in the patio. From this we have a view of the real front of the house.
The patio itself is paved with painted bricks – a tessellated pavement. A fountain, with jet and ornamental basin, occupies its centre; and several trees, well trimmed, stand in large vessels, so that their roots may not injure the pavement. Around this court you see the doors of the different apartments, some of them glazed and tastefully curtained. The doors of the “sala,” the “cuarto,” and the sleeping-rooms, are on three sides, while the “cocina” (kitchen), the “dispensa” (store-room), “granero” (granary), with the “caballeriza” and coach-house, make up the remaining part of the square.
There is still an important portion of the mansion to be spoken of – the “azotea,” or roof. It is reached by an “escalera,” or stone staircase. It is flat and quite firm, being covered with a cement that is proof against rain. It is enclosed by a parapet running all round it – of such a height as not to hinder the view of the surrounding country, while it protects those occupying it from the intrusive gaze of persons passing below. When the sun is down, or behind a cloud, the azotea is a most agreeable promenade; and to render it still more so, that over the house of Don Ambrosio had been arranged so as to resemble a flower-garden. Richly japanned pots, containing rare flowers, were placed around, and green boughs and gay blossoms, rising above the top of the wall, produced a fine effect on viewing the building from without.
But this was not the only garden belonging to the mansion of the rich miner. Another, of oblong shape, extended from the rear of the house, enclosed by a high wall of adobes on either side. These, ending upon the bank of the stream, formed the boundary of the garden. Along the stream there was no fence, as it was here of sufficient breadth and depth to form an enclosure of itself. The garden was of large extent, including an orchard of fruit-trees at its lower part, and it was tastefully laid out in walks, flowerbeds, and arbours of different shapes and sizes. Don Ambrosio, although but a rich parvenu, might have been supposed to be a man of refined taste by any one viewing this garden – the more so, as such delightful retreats are by no means common in that country. But it was to another mind than his that these shadowy trees and fragrant arbours owed their existence. They were the “ideas” of his fair daughter, many of whose hours were spent beneath their shade.
To Don Ambrosio the sight of a great cavity in the earth, with huge quarries of quartz rock or scoria, and a rich “veta” at the back, was more agreeable than all the flowers in the world. A pile of “barras de plata” would be to his eyes more interesting than a whole country covered with black tulips and blue dahlias.
Not so his fair daughter Catalina. Her taste was both elevated and refined. The thought of wealth, the pride of riches, never entered her mind. She would willingly have surrendered all her much-talked-of inheritance to have shared the humble rancho of him she loved.
Chapter Forty Three
It was near sunset. The yellow orb was hastening to kiss the snowy summit of the Sierra Blanca, that barred the western horizon. The white mantle, that draped the shoulders of the mountain, reflected beautiful roseate tints deepening into red and purple in the hollows of the ravines, and seeming all the more lovely from the contrast of the dark forests that covered the Sierra farther down.
It was a sunset more brilliant than common. The western sky was filled with masses of coloured clouds, in which gold and purple and cerulean blue mingled together in gorgeous magnificence; and in which the eye of the beholder could not fail to note the outlines of strange forms, and fancy them bright and glorious beings of another world. It was a picture to gladden the eye, to give joy to the heart that was sad, and make happier the happy.
It was not unobserved. Eyes were dwelling upon it – beautiful eyes; and yet there was a sadness in their look that ill accorded with the picture on which they were gazing.
But those eyes were not drawing their inspiration from the sky-painting before them. Though apparently regarding it, the thoughts which gave them expression were drawn from a far different source. The heart within was dwelling upon another object.
The owner of those eyes was a beautiful girl, or rather a fully developed woman still unmarried. She was standing upon the azotea of a noble mansion, apparently regarding the rich sunset, while, in reality, her thoughts were busy with another theme, and one that was less pleasant to contemplate. Even the brilliant glow of the sky, reflected upon her countenance, did not dissipate the shadows that were passing over it. The clouds from within overcame the light from without. There were shadows flitting over her heart that corresponded to those that darkened her fair face.
It was a beautiful face withal, and a beautiful form – tall, majestic, of soft graces and waving outlines. The lady was Catalina de Cruces.
She was alone upon the azotea – surrounded only by the plants and flowers. Bending over the low parapet that overlooked the garden to the rear, she at the same time faced toward the sinking orb, – for the garden extended westward.
Now and then her eyes were lifted to the sky and the sun; but oftener they sought the shaded coppice of wild-china-trees at the bottom of the enclosure, through whose slender trunks gleamed the silvery surface of the stream. Upon this spot they rested from time to time, with an expression of strange interest. No wonder that to those eyes that was an interesting spot – it was that where love’s first vows had been uttered in her delighted ear – it had been consecrated by a kiss, and in her thoughts it was hallowed from the “earth’s profound” to the high heaven above her. No wonder she regarded it as the fairest on earth. The most famed gardens of the world – even Paradise itself – in her imagination, had no spot so sweet, no nook so shady, as the little arbour she had herself trained amid the foliage of those wild-china-trees.
Why was she regarding it with a look of sadness? In that very arbour, and on that very night, did she expect to meet him – the one who had rendered it sacred. Why then was she sad? Such a prospect should have rendered her countenance radiant with joy.
And so was it, at intervals, when this thought came into her mind; but there was another – some other thought – that brought those clouds upon her brow, and imparted that air of uneasy apprehension. What was that thought?
In her hand she held a bandolon. She flung herself upon a bench, and began to play some old Spanish air. The effort was too much for her. Her thoughts wandered from the melody, and her fingers from the strings.
She laid down the instrument, and, again rising to her feet, paced backwards and forwards upon the azotea. Her walk was irregular. At intervals she stopped, and, lowering her eyes, seemed to think intently on something that was absent. Then she would start forward, and stop again in the same manner as before. This she repeated several times, without uttering either word or exclamation.
Once she continued her walk all around the azotea, casting a scrutinising look among the plants and flower-pots on both sides, as if in search of something; but whatever it was, she was unsuccessful, as nothing appeared to arrest her attention.
She returned once more, and took up the bandolon. But her fingers had hardly touched the strings before she laid the instrument down again, and rose from the bench, as if some sudden resolution had taken possession of her.
“I never thought of that – I may have dropped it in the garden!” she muttered to herself, as she glided toward a small escalera that led down into the patio.
From this point an avenue communicated with the garden; and the next moment she had passed through this and was tripping over the sanded walks, bending from side to side, and peeping behind every plant and bush that could have concealed the object of her search.
She explored every part of the enclosure, and lingered a moment in the arbour among the china-trees – as if she enjoyed that spot more than any other – but she came back at length with the same anxious expression, that told she was not rewarded by the recovery of whatever she had lost.
The lady once more returned to the azotea – once more took up the bandolon; but after a few touches of the strings, laid it down, and again rose to her feet. Again she soliloquised.
“Carrambo! it is very strange! – neither in my chamber – the sala, the cuarto, the azotea, the garden! – where can it be? O Dios! if it should fall into the hands of papa! It is too intelligible – it could not fail to be understood – no – no – no! O Dios! if it should reach other hands! – those of his enemies! It names to-night – true, it does not tell the place, but the time is mentioned – the place would be easily discovered. Oh! that I knew where to communicate with him! But I know not, and he will come. Ay de mi! it cannot be prevented now. I must hope no enemy has got it. But where can it be? Madre de Dios! where can it be?”
All these phrases were uttered in a tone and emphasis that showed the concern of the speaker at the loss of some object that greatly interested her. That object was no other than the note brought by Josefa, and written by Carlos the cibolero, in which the assignation for that night had been appointed. No wonder she was uneasy at its loss! The wording not only compromised herself, but placed the life of her lover in extreme peril. This it was that was casting the dark shadows over her countenance – this it was that was causing her to traverse the azotea and the garden in such anxious search.
“I must ask Vicenza,” she continued. “I like not to do it, for I have lost confidence in her of late. Something has changed this girl. She used to be frank and honest, but now she has grown false and hypocritical. Twice have I detected her in the act of deceiving me. What does it mean?”
She paused a moment as if in thought. “I must ask her notwithstanding. She may have found the paper, and, not deeming it of any use may have thrown it in the fire. Fortunately she does not read, but she has to do with others who can. Ha! I forgot her soldier sweetheart! If she should have found it, and shown it to him! Dios de mi alma!”
This supposition seemed a painful one, for it caused the lady’s heart to beat louder, and her breathing became short and quick.
“That would be terrible!” she continued, – “that would be the very worst thing that could happen. I do not like that soldier – he appears mean and cunning and I have heard is a bad fellow, though favoured by the Comandante. God forfend he should have gotten this paper! I shall lose no more time. I shall call Vicenza, and question her.”
She stepped forward to the parapet that overlooked the patio.
“Vicenza! – Vicenza!”
“Aqui, Señorita,” answered a voice from the interior of the house.
“Ven aca! —Ven aca!” (Come hither.)
“Si, Señorita.”
“Anda! Anda!” (Quickly.)
A girl, in short bright-coloured nagua, and white chemisette without sleeves, came out into the patio, and climbed up the escalera that led to the roof.
She was a mestiza, or half-blood, of Indian and Spanish mixture, as her brownish-white skin testified. She was not ill-looking; but there was an expression upon her countenance that precluded the idea of either virtue, honesty, or amiability. It was a mixed expression of malice and cunning. Her manner, too, was bold and offensive, like that of one who had been guilty of some known crime, and had become reckless. It was only of late she had assumed that tone, and her mistress had observed it among other changes.
“Qué quiere V., Señorita?” (What want you, my lady?)
“Vicenza, I have lost a small piece of paper. It was folded in an oblong shape – not like a letter, but this – ”
Here a piece of paper, similarly put up, was held out for the inspection of the girl.
“Have you seen anything of it?”
“No, Señorita,” was the prompt and ready answer.
“Perhaps you may have swept it out, or thrown it into the fire? It looked insignificant, and, indeed, was not of much importance, but there were some patterns upon it I wished to copy. Do you think it has been destroyed?”
“I know not that, Señorita. I know that I did not destroy it. I neither swept it out nor threw it into the fire. I should not do that with any paper, as I cannot read myself, and might destroy something that was valuable.”
Whatever truth there was in the last part of her harangue, the mestiza knew that its earlier declarations were true enough. She had not destroyed it, either by sweeping out or burning.
Her answer was delivered with an ingenuous naïvété, accompanied with a slight accent of anger, as though she was not over-pleased at being suspected of negligence.
Whether her mistress noticed the latter did not appear from her answer, but she expressed herself satisfied.
“It is of no consequence, then,” said she. “You may go, Vicenza.”
The girl walked off, looking sulky. When her head was just disappearing below the top of the escalera, her face was towards her mistress, whose back was now turned to her. A scornful pouting of the lips, accompanied by a demoniac smile, was visible upon it. It was evident from that look that she knew something more of the lost paper than was admitted in her late declaration.
Catalina’s gaze was once more turned upon the setting sun. In a few minutes he would disappear behind the snowy ridge of the mountain. Then a few hours, and then – moments of bliss!
Roblado was seated in his cuartel as before. As before, a tiny knock sounded upon the door. As before, he called out, “Quien es?” and was answered, “Yo!” and, as before, he recognised the voice and gave the order for its owner to enter. As before, it was the soldier José, who, in a cringing voice and with a cringing salute, approached his officer.
“Well, José, what news?”
“Only this,” replied the soldier, holding out a slip of paper folded into an oblong shape.
“What is it?” demanded Roblado. “Who is it from?” in the same breath.
“The captain will understand it better than I can, as I can’t read; but it comes from the Señorita, and looks inside like a letter. The Señorita got it from somebody at church yesterday morning: so thinks Vicenza, for she saw her read it as soon as she got back from morning prayers. Vicenza thinks that the girl Josefa brought it up the valley, but the captain most likely can tell for himself.”
Roblado had not listened to half of this talk; but had instead been swallowing the contents of the paper. As soon as he had got to the end of it he sprang from his chair as if a needle had been stuck into him, and paced the room in great agitation.
“Quick! quick, José!” he exclaimed. “Send Gomez here. Say nothing to any one. Hold yourself in readiness – I shall want you too. Send Gomez instantly. Vaya!”
The soldier made a salute less cringing because more hurried, and precipitately retired from the apartment. Roblado continued —
