Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Sixty One
The zambo had disappeared in the underwood almost at the same instant that Carlos had mounted and galloped out through the avenue. Not a living creature remained in the glade.
The huge body lay with arms outstretched, one of them actually across the blazing pile! Its weight, pressing down the faggots, half-obscured their light. Enough there was to exhibit the ghastly face mottled with washes of crimson. There was no motion in either body or limbs – no more than in that of the counterfeit form that was near. Dead was the yellow hunter – dead! The hot flame that licked his arm, preparing to devour it, gave him no pain. Fire stirs not the dead!
Where were the others? They had gone off in directions nearly opposite! Were they flying from each other?
The zambo had gone back in the same direction whence he had come. He had gone in a very different manner though. After disappearing behind the leafy screen, he had not halted, but rushed on like one terrified beyond the power of controlling himself. The cracking of dead sticks, and the loud rustling among the bushes, told that he was pressing through the grove in headlong flight. These noises had ceased – so, too, the echo of hoofs which for a while came back from the galloping horse of the cibolero.
Where were they now – zambo and cibolero? Had they fled from each other? It would have seemed so from the relative directions in which they had gone.
It was not so in reality. Whatever desire the zambo might have felt to get away from that spot, his antagonist had no such design. The latter had galloped out of the glade, but not in flight.
He knew the zambo well enough to tell that his courage was now gone. The sudden loss of his comrade, and under such mysterious circumstances, had terrified the black, and would paralyse him almost beyond the power of resistance. He would think of nothing else but making his escape. Carlos knew that.
The quick intellect of the latter had taught him whence his enemies had come – from the lower or southern side of the grove. He had, indeed, been loosing for them in that direction, and, while scrutinising the underwood, had given most attention to that edge of the glade lying to the south. He conjectured that they would deem this the safest way to approach him, and his conjectures proved true.
Their horses would be left at some distance off, lest the stroke of their hoofs might alarm him. This, too, was his conjecture, and a just one. Still another, also just, was that the zambo was now making for the horses! This last occurred to Carlos as he saw the other rushing off into the underwood.
Just what the zambo was doing. Seeing his leader fall so mysteriously, he thought no longer of an encounter. Flight was his only impulse – to get back to the horses, mount and ride off, his one purpose. He had hopes that Carlos would not hastily follow – that he might escape under cover of the darkness.
He was mistaken. It was just to defeat this purpose that Carlos had galloped forth. He, too, was resolved to make for the horses!
Once in the open plain, he wheeled to the right, and rode round the grove. On reaching a point where he could command a view of the river he reined up. His object in doing so was to reload his rifle.
He threw the piece into a vertical position, at the same time groping for his powder-horn. To his surprise he could not get his hands upon it, and on looking down he saw that it was gone! The strap by which it had been suspended was no longer over his shoulders. It had been caught upon a branch, and lifted off as he had leaped from the tree!
Annoyed with this misfortune, he was about turning his horse to hurry back to the live-oak, when his eye fell upon a dark figure gliding over the plain, and close in to the fringe of willows by the river. Of course it was the fleeing zambo – there could be no doubt of that.
Carlos hesitated. Should he return for the powder-horn, and then waste time in reloading, the zambo might escape. He would soon reach the horses, and mount. Had it been day Carlos could easily have overtaken him, but not so under the night darkness. Five hundred yards’ start would have carried him safe out of sight.
The cibolero was full of anxiety. He had ample reasons to wish that this man should die. Prudence as well as a natural feeling of revenge prompted this wish. The cowardly manner in which these hired ruffians had dogged him had awakened his vengeance. Besides, while either lived, the outlaw knew he would have a dangerous enemy. The zambo must not escape!
It was but for a moment that Carlos hesitated. Should he wait to reload his rifle the other would get off. This reflection decided him. He dropped the piece to the ground, turned his horse’s head, and shot rapidly across the plain in the direction of the river. In a dozen seconds he reined up in front of his skulking foe.
The latter, seeing himself cut off from the horses, halted and stood at bay, as if determined to fight. But before Carlos could dismount to close with him, his heart once more gave way; and, breaking through the willows, he plunged into the river.
Carlos had not calculated upon this. He stood for some moments in a state of surprise and dismay. Would the fiend escape him? He had come to the ground. Whether should he mount again or follow on foot?
He was not long irresolute. He chose the latter course, and, rushing through the willows where the other had passed, he paused a moment on the edge of the stream. Just then his enemy emerged upon the opposite bank, and, without a moment’s halt, started off in full run across the plain. Again Carlos thought of following on horseback, but the banks were high, – a horse might find it difficult to ford at such a place, – perhaps impossible. There was no time to be lost in experiments.
“Surely,” thought Carlos, “I am swift as he. For a trial then!”
And as he uttered the words he flung himself broad upon the water.
A few strokes carried him across the stream; and, climbing out on the opposite bank, he sprang after his retreating foe.
The zambo had by this time got full two hundred yards in the advance, but before he had run two hundred more, there was not half that distance between them. There was no comparison in their speed. Carlos fairly doubled upon his terrified antagonist, although the latter was doing his utmost. He knew that he was running for his life.
Not ten minutes did the chase continue.
Carlos drew near. The zambo heard his footsteps close behind. He felt it was idle to run any longer. He halted, and once more stood at bay.
In another instant the two were face to face, within ten feet of each other!
Both were armed with large knives – their only weapons – and, dim as the light was, the blades of these could be seen glittering in the air.
The foes scarce waited to breathe themselves. A few angry exclamations passed between them; and then, rushing upon each other, they clutched in earnest conflict!
It was a short conflict. A dozen seconds would have covered its whole duration. For a while, the bodies of the combatants seemed turned around each other, and one of them fell heavily upon the plain. A groan was uttered. It was in the voice of the zambo. It was he who had fallen!
The prostrate form wriggled for a moment over the ground – it half rose and fell again – then writhed for a few seconds longer, and then lay still in death!
The cibolero bent over it to be assured of this. Death was written upon the hideous face. The marks were unmistakeable. The victor no longer doubted; and, turning away from the corpse, he walked back towards the river.
Having regained his rifle and powder-horn, and reloaded his gun, Carlos now proceeded to search for the horses.
These were soon found. A bullet was sent through the head of the bloodhound, and another through that of his more wolf-like companion, and the horses were then untied and set free.
This done, Carlos once more returned to the glade, and, after lifting Cibolo down from his perch, he approached the fire, and gazed for a moment at the corpse of the yellow hunter. The fires were blazing more brightly than ever. These were fed by human flesh!
Turning in disgust from the sight, the cibolero collected his garments, and, once more mounting into the saddle, rode off in the direction of the ravine.
Chapter Sixty Two
Three days had elapsed from the time that the yellow hunter and his companion had started on their expedition. Those who sent them were beginning to grow impatient for some news of them. They did not allow themselves to doubt of the zeal of their employes, – the reward would secure that, – and scarce did they doubt of their success. The latter seemed to all three – Roblado, Vizcarra, and the Padré – but a consequence of the former. Still they were impatient for some report from the hunters – if not of the actual capture, at least that the outlaw had been seen, or that they were upon his trail.
On reflection, however, both Padré and officers saw that it would not be likely they should have any report before the hunters themselves came back, either with or without their captive.
“No doubt,” suggested the monk, “they are after him every hour, and we shall hear nothing of them until they have laid hands upon the heretic rascal.”
What a startling piece of news it was to this charming trio, when a hatero brought the information to the settlement that he had seen two dead bodies upon the plain, which he recognised as those of the Mission hunters – Manuel and Pepe.
His report was that he had seen them near a grove upon the Pecos, – that they were torn by the wolves and vultures – but that what still remained of their dress and equipments enabled him to make out who they were – for the hatero had chanced to know these men personally. He was sure they were the mulatto and Zambo, the hunters of the mission.
At first this “mysterious murder,” as it was termed, could not be explained – except upon the supposition that the “Indios bravos” had done it. The people knew nothing of the duty upon which the hunters had been lately employed. Both were well enough known, though but little notice was taken of their movements, which lay generally beyond the observation of the citizen community. It was supposed they had been out upon one of their usual hunts, and had fallen in with a roving band of savages.
A party of dragoons, guided by the hatero, proceeded to the grove; and these returned with a very different version of the story.
They had ascertained beyond a doubt that both the hunters had been killed, not by Indian arrows, but by the weapons of a white man. Furthermore, their horses had been left, while their dogs had been killed – the skeletons of the latter were found lying upon the bank of the river.
It could not have been Indians, then. They would have carried off the animals, both dogs and horses, and, moreover, would have stripped the dead of their equipments, which were of some value. Indians? No.
There was not much difficulty in deciding who had committed this murder. Where the skeletons of the dogs were found the ground was soft, and there were hoof-tracks that did not belong to the horses of the hunters. These were recognised by several. They were the tracks of the well-known horse of Carlos the cibolero.
Beyond a doubt Carlos had done the deed. It was known that he and the yellow hunter had not been on friendly terms, but the contrary. They had met and quarrelled, then; or, what was more likely, Carlos had found the hunters asleep by their camp-fire, had stolen upon them, and thus effected his purpose. The mulatto had been shot dead at once, and had fallen into the fire, for part of the body was consumed to a cinder! His companion, attempting to make his escape, had been pursued and overtaken by the bloodthirsty outlaw!
New execrations were heaped upon the head of the devoted Carlos. Men crossed themselves and uttered either a prayer or a curse at the mention of his name; and mothers made use of it to fright their children into good behaviour. The name of Carlos the cibolero spread more terror than the rumour of an Indian invasion!
The belief in the supernatural became strengthened. Scarce any one now doubted that the cibolero’s mother was a witch, or that all these deeds performed by her son were the result of her aid and inspiration.
There was not the slightest hope that he would either be captured or killed. How could he? Who could bind the devil and bring him to punishment? No one any longer believed that he could be caught.
Some gravely proposed that his mother – the witch should be taken up and burnt. Until that was done, argued they, he would set all pursuit at defiance; but if she were put out of the world, the murderer might then be brought to justice!
It is probable enough that the counsels of these and they were the majority of the inhabitants – would have prevailed; especially as they were openly approved of by the padrés of the mission; but before the public mind became quite ripe for such a violent sacrifice, an event occurred which completely changed the currant of affairs.
It was on the morning of a Sunday, and the people were just coming out of the church, when a horseman, covered with sweat and dust, galloped into the Plaza. His habiliments were those of a sergeant of dragoons; and all easily recognised the well-known lineaments of the sergeant Gomez.
In a few minutes he was surrounded by a crowd of idlers, who, although it was Sunday, were heard a few moments after breaking out into loud acclamations of joy. Hats were uptossed and vivas rent the air!
What news had Gomez announced? A rare bit of news —the capture of the outlaw! It was true. Carlos had been taken, and was now a prisoner in the hands of the soldiers. He had been captured neither by strength nor stratagem. Treachery had done the work. He had been betrayed by one of his own people.
It was thus his capture had been effected. Despairing for the present of being able to communicate with Catalina, he had formed the resolution to remove his mother and sister from the valley. He had prepared a temporary home for them far off in the wilderness, where they would be secure from his enemies, while he himself could return at a better opportunity.
To effect their removal, watched as they were, he knew would be no easy matter. But he had taken his measures, and would have succeeded had it not been for treason. One of his own people – a peon who had accompanied him in his last expedition – betrayed him to his vigilant foes.
Carlos was within the rancho making a few hasty preparations for the journey. He had left his horse hidden some distance off in the chapparal. Unfortunately for him Cibolo was not there. The faithful dog had been laid up since his late encounter at the cave. To a peon had been assigned the duty that would otherwise have been intrusted to him – that of keeping watch without.
This wretch had been previously bought by Roblado and Vizcarra. The result was, that, instead of acting as sentinel for his master, he hastened to warn his enemies. The rancho was surrounded by a troop; and, although several of his assailants were killed by the hand of Carlos, he himself was finally overpowered and taken.
Gomez had not been five minutes in the Plaza when a bugle was heard sounding the advance of a troop, which the next moment defiled into the open square. Near its middle was the prisoner, securely tied upon the back of a saddle-mule, and guarded by a double file of troopers.
An arrival of such interest was soon known, and the Plaza became filled with a crowd eager to gratify its curiosity by a sight of the notorious cibolero.
But he was not the only one upon whom the people gazed with curiosity. There were two other prisoners – one of whom was regarded with an interest equal to that felt at the sight of the outlaw himself. This prisoner was his mother. Upon her the eyes of the multitude turned with an expression of awe mingled with indignation; while jeering and angry cries hailed her as she passed on her way to the Calabozo.
“Muera la hechicera! muera!” (Death to the witch – let her die!) broke from ruffian lips as she was carried along.
Even the dishevelled hair and weeping eyes of her young companion – her daughter – failed to touch the hearts of that fanatical mob, and there were some who cried, “Mueran las dos! madre y hija!” (Let both die – mother and daughter!)
The guards had even to protect them from rude assault, as they were thrust hastily within the door of the prison!
Fortunately Carlos saw nought of this. He was not even aware that they were prisoners! He thought, perhaps, they had been left unmolested in the rancho, and that the vengeance of his enemies extended no farther than to himself. He knew not the fiendish designs of his persecutors.
Chapter Sixty Three
The female prisoners remained in the Calabozo. Carlos, for better security, was carried on to the Presidio, and placed in the prison of the guard-house.
That night he received a visit. The Comandante and Roblado could not restrain their dastard spirits from indulging in the luxury of revenge. Having emptied their wine-cups, they, with a party of boon companions, entered the guard prison, and amused themselves by taunting the chained captive. Every insult was put upon him by his half-drunken visitors – every rudeness their ingenuity could devise.
For long all this was submitted to in silence. A coarse jest from Vizcarra at length provoked reply. The reply alluded to the changed features of the latter, which so exasperated the brute, that he dashed, dagger in hand, upon the bound victim, and would have taken his life, but that Roblado and others held him back! He was only prevented from killing Carlos by his companions declaring that such a proceeding would rob them of their anticipated sport! This consideration alone restrained him; but he was not contented until with his fists he had inflicted several blows upon the face of the defenceless captive!
“Let the wretch live!” said Roblado. “To-morrow we shall have a fine spectacle for him!”
With this the inebriated gang staggered out, leaving the prisoner to reflect upon this promised “spectacle.”
He did reflect upon it. That he was to be made a spectacle he understood well enough. He had no hopes of mercy, either from civil or military judges. His death was to be the spectacle. All night long his soul was tortured with painful thoughts, not of himself, but about those far dearer to him than his own life.
Morning glanced through the narrow loophole of his gloomy cell. Nothing else – nought to eat, to drink – no word of consolation – no kind look from his ruffian gaolers. No friend to make inquiry about him – no sign that a single heart on earth cared for him.
Midday arrived. He was taken, or rather dragged, from his prison. Troops formed around, and carried him off. Where was he going? To execution?
His eyes were free. He saw himself taken to the town, and through the Plaza. There was an unusual concourse of people. The square was nearly filled, and the azoteas that commanded a view of it. All the inhabitants of the settlement seemed to be present in the town. There were haciendados, rancheros, miners, and all. Why? Some grand event must have brought them together. They had the air of people who expected to witness an unusual scene. Perhaps the “spectacle” promised by Roblado! But what could that be? Did they intend to torture him in presence of the multitude? Such was not improbable.
The crowd jeered him as he passed. He was carried through their midst, and thrust into the Calabozo.
A rude banqueta along one side of his cell offered a resting-place. On this the wretched man sank down into a lying posture. The fastenings on his arms and legs would not allow him to sit upright.
He was left alone. The soldiers who had conducted him went out, turning the key behind them. Their voices and the clink of their scabbards told him that some of them still remained by the door. Two of them had been left there as sentinels. The others sauntered off, and mingled with the crowd of civilians that filled the Plaza.
Carlos lay for some minutes without motion – almost without thought. His soul was overwhelmed with misery. For the first time in his life he felt himself yielding to despair.
The feeling was evanescent; and once more he began to reflect – not to hope – no! Hope, they say dies but with life: but that is a paradox. He still lived, but hope had died. Hope of escape there was none. He was too well guarded. His exasperated enemies, having experienced the difficulty of his capture, were not likely to leave him the slightest chance of escape. Hope of pardon – of mercy – it never entered his thoughts to entertain either.
But reflection returned.
It is natural for a captive to glance around the walls of his prison – to assure himself that he is really a prisoner. It is his first act when the bolt shoots from the lock, and he feels himself alone. Obedient to this impulse, the eye of Carlos was raised to the walls, his cell was not a dungeon – a small window, or embrasure, admitted light. It was high up, but Carlos saw that, by standing upon the banqueta, he could have looked out by it. He had no curiosity to do so, and he lay still. He saw that the walls of his prison were not of stone. They were adobe bricks, and the embrasure enabled him to tell their thickness. There was no great strength in them either. A determined man, with an edge-tool and time to spare, could make his way through them easily enough. So Carlos reflected: but he reflected, as well, that he had neither the edge-tool nor the time. He was certain that in a few hours – perhaps minutes – he would be led from that prison to the scaffold.
Oh! he feared not death – not even torture, which he anticipated would be his lot. His torture was the thought of eternal separation from mother, sister, from the proud noble girl he loved – the thought that he would never again behold them – one or other of them – this was the torture that maddened his soul.
Could he not communicate with them? Had he no friend to carry to them a last word? – to convey a dying thought? None.
The sunbeam that slanted across the cell was cut off at intervals, and the room darkened. Something half covered the embrasure without. It was the face of some idle lepero, who, curious to catch a glimpse of the captive, had caused himself to be hoisted upon the shoulders of his fellows. The embrasure was above the heads of the crowd. Carlos could hear their brutal jests, directed not only against himself, but against those dear to him – his mother and sister. While this pained him, he began to wonder that they should be so much the subject of the conversation. He could not tell what was said of them, but in the hum of voices their names repeatedly reached his ear. He had lain about an hour on the banqueta, when the door opened, and the two officers, Vizcarra and Roblado, stepped within the cell. They were accompanied by Gomez.
The prisoner believed that his hour was come. They were going to lead him forth to execution. He was wrong. That was not their design. Far different. They had come to gloat over his misery. Their visit was to be a short one. “Now, my brave!” began Roblado. “We promised you a spectacle to-day. We are men of our word. We come to admonish you that it is prepared, and about to come off. Mount upon that banqueta, and look out into the Plaza; you will have an excellent view of it; and as it is near you will need no glass! Up then! and don’t lose time. You will see what you will see. Ha! ha! ha!”
And the speaker broke into a hoarse laugh, in which the Comandante as well as the sergeant joined; and then all three, without waiting for a reply, turned and went out, ordering the door to be locked behind them.
The visit, as well as Roblado’s speech, astonished and puzzled Carlos. For some minutes he sat reflecting upon it. What could it mean? A spectacle, and he to be a spectator? What spectacle but that of his own execution? What could it mean?
For a time he sat endeavouring to make out the sense of Roblado’s words. For a good while he pondered over the speech, until at length he had found, or thought he had found, the key to its meaning.
“Ha!” muttered he; “Don Juan – it is he! My poor friend! They have condemned him, too; and he is to die before me. That is what I am called upon to witness. Fiends! I shall not gratify them by looking at it. No! I shall remain where I am.”
He threw himself once more prostrate along the banqueta, determined to remain in that position. He muttered at intervals: —
“Poor Don Juan! – a true friend – to death – ay, even to death, for it is for me he dies – for me, and – oh! love – love – ”
His reflections were brought to a sudden termination. The window was darkened by a face, and a rough voice called in: —
“Hola! Carlos, you butcher of buffaloes! look forth! Carajo! here’s a sight for you! Look at your old witch of a mother! What a figure she cuts! Ha! ha!”
The sting of a poisonous reptile – a blow from an enemy – could not have roused Carlos more rapidly from his prostrate attitude. As he sprang to an upright position, the fastenings upon his ankles were forgotten; and, after staggering half across the floor, he came down upon his knees.
A second effort was made with more caution, and this time he succeeded in keeping his feet. A few moments sufficed for him to work himself up to the banqueta; and, having mounted this, he applied his face to the embrasure and looked forth.
His eyes rested upon a scene that caused the blood to curdle in his veins, and started the sweat in bead-drops over his forehead. A scene that filled his heart with horror, that caused him to feel as if some hand was clutching and compressing it between fingers of iron!
