Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Sixty Seven
From the position he occupied, Carlos did not fail to observe the outlines of his prison, and search for that point that might be pierced with least trouble. He saw that the walls were of adobe bricks – strong, enough to shut in an ordinary malefactor, but easily cut through by a man armed with the proper tool, and the determination to set himself free. Two hours’ work would suffice, but how to work that two hours without being interrupted and detected? That, was the question that occupied the mind of the captive.
One thing was very evident; it would be unwise to commence operations before a late hour – until the relief of the guard.
Carlos had well calculated his measures. He had determined to remain as he was, and keep up the counterfeit of his being fast bound until such time as the guard should be changed. He knew that it was the duty of the old guard to deliver him to the relief; and these would assure themselves of his being in the cell by ocular inspection. He guessed that the hour of guard-mounting must be near. He would, therefore, not have long to wait before the new sentries should present themselves in his cell.
One thought troubled him. Would they keep him in the Calabozo that night, or take him back to the Presidio for better security? If the latter, his only chance would be – as she had suggested – to make a desperate effort, and escape on the route. Once lodged in the guard-house prison, he would be surrounded by walls of stone. There would be no hope of cutting his way through them.
It was probable enough he should be taken there; and yet why should they fear his escape from the Calabozo – fast bound as they believed him – unarmed, guarded by vigilant sentinels? No. They would not dream of his getting off. Besides, it would be more convenient to keep him all night in the latter prison. It was close to the place of his intended execution, which no doubt was to take place on the morrow. The garrote had been already erected in front of his gaol!
Partly influenced by such considerations, and partly that they were occupied with pleasanter matters, the authorities had resolved on leaving him where he was for the night, though Carlos was ignorant of this.
He had, however, prepared himself for either contingency. Should they convey him back to the Presidio, he would seek the best opportunity that offered, and risk his life in a bold effort to escape. Should he be permitted to remain in the Calabozo, he would wait till the guard had visited him – then set to work upon the wall after they had gone out. In the event of being detected while at work, but one course remained, – run the gauntlet of the guard, and cut his way through their midst.
His escape was not an affair of such improbability. A determined man with a long knife in his grasp – one who will yield only to death – is a difficult thing to secure under any circumstances. Such an one will often effect his freedom, even when hemmed in by a host of enemies. With Carlos, however, the probabilities of escape were much greater. He was individually strong and brave, while most of his enemies were physically but pigmies in comparison. As to their courage, he knew that once they saw him with his hands free and armed, they would make way for him on all sides. What he had most to fear was the bullets of their carbines; but he had much to hope from their want of skill, and the darkness would favour him.
For more than an hour he lay along the banqueta, turning over in his mind the chances of regaining his liberty. His reflections were interrupted by an unusual stir outside his prison. A fresh batch of soldiers had arrived at the door.
Carlos’ heart beat anxiously. Was it a party come to conduct him to the Presidio? It might be so. He waited with painful impatience listening to every word.
To his great joy it proved to be the arrival of the relief-guard; and he had the satisfaction of hearing, by their conversation, that they had been detailed to guard him all night in the Calabozo. This was just the very thing he desired to know.
Presently the door was unlocked and opened, and several of the men entered. One bore a lantern. With this they examined him – uttering coarse and insulting remarks as they stood around. They saw that he was securely bound! After a while all went out and left him to himself. The door was of course re-locked, and the cell was again in perfect darkness.
Carlos lay still for a few minutes, to assure himself they were not going to return. He heard them place the sentries by the door, and then the voices of the greater number seemed borne off to some distance.
Now was the time to begin his work. He hastily cast the cords from his hands and feet, drew the long knife from his breast, and attacked the adobe wall.
The spot he has chosen was at the corner farthest from the door, and at the back side of the cell. He knew not what was the nature of the ground on the other side, but it seemed most likely that which would lie towards the open country. The Calabozo was no fortress-prison – a mere temporary affair, used by the municipal authorities for malefactors of the smaller kind. So much the better for his chances of breaking it. The wall yielded easily to his knife. The adobe is but dry mud, toughened by an admixture of grass, and although the bricks were laid to the thickness of twenty inches or more, in the space of an hour Carlos succeeded in cutting a hole large enough to pass through. He could have accomplished this feat, in still shorter time, but he was compelled to work with caution, and as silently as possible. Twice he fancied that his guards were about to enter the cell, and both times he had sprung to his feet, and stood, knife in hand, ready to assail them. Fortunately his fancies were without foundation. No one entered until the hole was made, and the captive had the satisfaction to feel the cold air rushing through the aperture!
He stopped his work and listened. There was no sound on that side of the prison. All was silence and darkness. He pressed his head forward, and peered through. The night was dark, but he could see weeds and wild cactus-plants growing close to the wall. Good! There were no signs of life there.
He widened the aperture to the size of his body, and crawled through, knife in hand. He raised himself gradually and silently. Nothing but tall rank weeds, cactus-plants, and aloes. He was behind the range of the dwellings. He was in the common. He was free!
He started towards the open country, skulking under the shadow of the brushwood. A form rose before him, as if out of the earth, and a voice softly pronounced his name. He recognised the girl Josefa. A word or two was exchanged, when the girl beckoned him to follow, and silently led the way.
They entered the chapparal, and, following a narrow path, succeeded in getting round the village. On the other side lay the ranche, and in half-an-hour’s time they arrived at and entered the humble dwelling.
In the next moment Carlos was bending over the corpse of his mother!
There was no shock in this encounter. He had been half prepared for such an event. Besides, his nerves had been already strained to their utmost by the spectacle of the morning. Sorrow may sometimes eclipse sorrow, and drive it from the heart; but that agony which he had already endured could not be supplanted by a greater. The nerve of grief had been touched with such severity that it could vibrate no longer!
Beside him was one who offered consolation – she, his noble preserver.
But it was no hour for idle grief. Carlos kissed the cold lips – hastily embraced his weeping sister – his love.
“The horses?” he inquired.
“They are close at hand – among the trees.”
“Come, then! we must not lose a moment – we must go hence. – Come!”
As he uttered these words, he wrapped the serapé around the corpse, lifted it in his arms, and passed out of the rancho.
The others had already preceded him to the spot where the horses were concealed.
Carlos saw that there were five of these animals. A gleam of joy shot from his eyes as he recognised his noble steed. Antonio had recovered him. Antonio was there, on the spot.
All were soon in the saddles. Two of the horses carried Rosita and Catalina; the other two were ridden by Antonio and the groom Andres. The cibolero himself, carrying his strange burden, once more sprang upon the back of his faithful steed.
“Down the valley, master?” inquired Antonio.
Carlos hesitated a moment as if deliberating.
“No,” replied he at length. “They would follow us that way. By the pass of La Niña. They will not suspect us of taking the cliff road. Lead on, Antonio: – the chapparal path – you know it best. On!”
The cavalcade started, and in a few minutes had passed the borders of the town, and was winding its way through the devious path that led to the pass of La Niña. No words were exchanged, or only a whisper, as the horses in single file followed one another through the chapparal.
An hour’s silent travel brought them to the pass, up which they filed without halting till they had reached the top of the ravine. Here Carlos rode to the front, and, directing Antonio to guide the others straight across the table-land, remained himself behind.
As soon as the rest were gone past, he wheeled his horse, and rode direct for the cliff of La Niña. Having reached the extremity of the bluff, he halted at a point that commanded a full view of San Ildefonso. In the sombre darkness of night the valley seemed but the vast crater of an extinct volcano; and the lights, glittering in the town and the Presidio, resembled the last sparks of flaming lava that had not yet died out!
The horse stood still. The rider raised the corpse upon his arm; and, baring the pale face, turned it in the direction of the lights.
“Mother! mother!” he broke forth, in a voice hoarse with grief. “Oh! that those eyes could see – that those ears could hear! – if but for a moment – one short moment – that you might bear witness to my vow! Here do I swear that you shall be revenged! From this hour I yield up my strength, my time, my soul and body, to the accomplishment of vengeance. Vengeance! why do I use the word? It is not vengeance, but justice – justice upon the perpetrators of the foulest murder the world has ever recorded. But it shall not go unpunished. Spirit of my mother, hear me! It shall not. Your death shall be avenged – your torture shall have full retribution. Rejoice, you ruffian crew! feast, and be merry, for your time of sorrow will soon come – sooner than you think for! I go, but to return. Have patience – you shall see me again. Yes! once more you shall stand face to face with Carlos the cibolero!”
He raised his right arm, and held it outstretched in a menacing attitude, while a gleam of vengeful triumph passed over his countenance. His horse, as if actuated by a similar impulse, neighed wildly; and then wheeling round at a signal from his rider, galloped away from the cliff!
Chapter Sixty Eight
After having witnessed the disgusting ceremony in the Plaza, the officers returned to their quarters at the Presidio.
As already stated, they did not return alone. The principal men of the place had been invited to dine with them – cura, padrés, alcalde, and all. The capture of the outlaw was a theme of public gratulation and rejoicing; and the Comandante and his captain – to whom was due the credit – were determined to rejoice. To that end the banquet was spread in the Presidio.
It was not thought worth while to remove Carlos to the soldiers’ prison. He could remain all night in the Calabozo. Fast bound and well guarded as he was, there was not the slightest danger of him making his escape.
To-morrow would be the last day of his life. To-morrow his foes should have the pleasure of seeing him die – to-morrow the Comandante and Roblado would enjoy their full measure of vengeance.
Even that day Vizcarra had enjoyed part of his. For the scorn with which he had been treated he had revenged himself – though it was he who from the centre of the Plaza had cried “Basta!” It was not mercy that had caused him to interfere. His words were not prompted by motives of humanity – far otherwise.
His designs were vile and brutal. To-morrow the brother would be put out of the way, and then —
The wine – the music – the jest – the loud laugh – all could not drown some bitter reflections. Ever and anon the mirror upon the wall threw back his dark face spoiled and distorted. His success had been dearly purchased – his was a sorry triumph.
It prospered better with Roblado. Don Ambrosio was one of the guests, and sat beside him.
The wine had loosened the heart-strings of the miner. He was communicative and liberal of his promises. His daughter, he said, had repented of her folly, and now looked with indifference upon the fate of Carlos. Roblado might hope.
It is probable that Don Ambrosio had reasons for believing what he said. It is probable that Catalina had thrown out such hints, the better to conceal her desperate design.
The wine flowed freely, and the guests of the Comandante revelled under its influence. There were toasts, and songs, and patriotic speeches; and the hour of midnight arrived before the company was half satiated with enjoyment.
In the midst of their carousal, a proposal was volunteered by some one, that the outlaw Carlos should be brought in! Odd as was this proposition, it exactly suited the half-drunken revellers. Many were curious to have a good sight of the cibolero – now so celebrated a personage.
The proposal was backed by many voices, and the Comandante pressed to yield to it.
Vizcarra had no objection to gratify his guests. Both he and Roblado rather liked the idea. It would be a further humiliation of their hated enemy.
Enough. Sergeant Gomez was summoned, the cibolero sent for, and the revelry went on.
But that revelry was soon after brought to a sudden termination, when Sergeant Gomez burst into the saloon, and announced in a loud voice that —
The prisoner had escaped!
A shell dropping into the midst of that company could not have scattered it more completely. All sprang to their feet – chairs and tables went tumbling over – glasses and bottles were dashed to the floor, and the utmost confusion ensued.
The guests soon cleared themselves of the room. Some ran direct to their houses to see if their families were safe; while others made their way to the Calabozo to assure themselves of the truth of the sergeant’s report.
Vizcarra and Roblado were in a state bordering upon madness. Both stormed and swore, at the same time ordering the whole garrison under arms.
In a few minutes nearly every soldier of the Presidio had vaulted to his saddle, and was galloping in the direction of the town.
The Calabozo was surrounded.
There was the hole through which the captive had got off. How had he unbound his fastenings – who had furnished him with the knife?
The sentries were questioned and flogged – and flogged and questioned – but could tell nothing. They knew not that their prisoner was gone, until Gomez and his party came to demand him!
Scouring parties were sent out in every direction – but in the night what could they do? The houses were all searched, but what was the use of that? The cibolero was not likely to have remained within the town. No doubt he was off once more to the Plains!
The night search proved ineffectual; and in the morning the party that had gone down the valley returned, having found no traces either of Carlos, his sister, or his mother. It was known that the hechicera had died on the previous night, but where had the body been taken to? Had she come to life again, and aided the outlaw in his escape? Such was the conjecture!
At a later hour in the morning some light was thrown on the mysterious affair. Don Ambrosio, who had gone to rest without disturbing his daughter, was awaiting her presence in the breakfast-room. What detained her beyond the usual hour? The father grew impatient – then anxious. A messenger was at length sent to summon her – no reply to the knocking at her chamber-door!
The door was burst open. The room was entered – it was found untenanted – the bed unpressed – the señorita had fled!
She must be pursued! Where is the groom? – the horses? She must be overtaken and brought back!
The stable is reached, and its door laid open. No groom! no horse! – they, too, were gone!
Heavens! what a fearful scandal! The daughter of Don Ambrosio had not only assisted the outlaw to escape, but she had shared his flight, and was now with him. “Huyeron!” was the universal cry.
The trail of the horses was at length taken up, and followed by a large party, both of dragoons and mounted civilians. It led into the high plain, and then towards the Pecos, where they had crossed. Upon the other side the trail was lost. The horses had separated, and gone in different directions, and their tracks, passing over dry shingle, could no longer be followed.
After several days’ fruitless wandering, the pursuing party returned, and a fresh one started out; but this, after a while, came back to announce a similar want of success. Every haunt had been searched; the old rancho – the groves on the Pecos – even the ravine and its cave had been visited, and examined carefully. No traces of the fugitives could be discovered; and it was conjectured that they had gone clear off from the confines of the settlement.
This conjecture proved correct, and guessing was at length set at rest. A party of friendly Comanches, who visited the settlement, brought in the report that they had met the cibolero on their way across the Llano Estacado – that he was accompanied by two women and several men with pack-mules carrying provisions – that he had told them (the Indians) he was on his way for a long journey – in fact, to the other side of the Great Plains.
This information was definite, and no doubt correct. Carlos had been often heard to express his intention of crossing over to the country of the Americanos. He was now gone thither – most likely to settle upon the banks of the Mississippi. He was already far beyond the reach of pursuit. They would see him no more – as it was not likely he would ever again show his face in the settlements of New Mexico.
Months rolled past. Beyond the report of the Comanches, nothing was heard of Carlos or his people. Although neither he nor his were forgotten, yet they had ceased to be generally talked of. Other affairs occupied the minds of the people of San Ildefonso; and there had lately arisen one or two matters of high interest – almost sufficient to eclipse the memory of the noted outlaw.
The settlement had been threatened by an invasion from the Yutas – which would have taken place, had not the Yutas, just at the time, been themselves attacked and beaten by another tribe of savages! This defeat had prevented their invasion of the valley – at least for that season, but they had excited fears for the future.
Another terror had stirred San Ildefonso of late – a threatened revolt of the Tagnos, the Indios mansos, or tame Indians, who formed the majority of the population. Their brethren in several other settlements had risen, and succeeded in casting off the Spanish yoke.
It was natural that those of San Ildefonso should dream of similar action, and conspire.
But their conspiracy was nipped in the bud by the vigilance of the authorities. The leaders were arrested, tried, condemned, and shot. Their scalps were hung over the gateway of the Presidio, as a warning to their dusky compatriots, who were thus reduced to complete submission!
These tragic occurrences had done much to obliterate from the memory of all the cibolero and his deeds. True, there were some of San Ildefonso who, with good cause, still remembered both; but the crowd had ceased to think of either him or his. All had heard and believed that the outlaw had long ago crossed the Great Plains, and was now safe under the protection of those of his own race, upon the banks of the Mississippi.
