Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Twenty Three
The first thing which Rosita did, after the noise without had ceased, was to glide forth and peep through the cactus-fence. She had heard the bugle again, and she wished to be sure that the intruders were gone.
To her joy, she beheld the troop some distance off, defiling up the valley.
She ran back into the house and communicated the intelligence to her mother, who had again seated herself, and was quietly smoking her pipe of punche.
“Dastardly ruffians!” exclaimed the latter. “I knew they would be gone. Even an old woman and a dog are enough. Oh, that my brave Carlos had been here! He would have taught that proud Gachupino we were not so helpless! Ha! that would Carlos!”
“Do not think of it any more, dear mother; I don’t think they will return. You have frightened them away, – you and our brave Cibolo. How well he behaved! But I must see,” she added, hastily casting her eyes round the room; “he may be hurt. Cibolo! Cibolo! here, good fellow! Come, I’ve got something for you. Ho, brave dog!”
At the call of her well-known voice the dog came forth from his hiding-place, and bounded up, wagging his tail, and glancing kindly in her face.
The girl stooped down, and, passing her hands through his shaggy coat, examined every part of his body and limbs, in fear all the while of meeting with the red stain of a bullet. Fortunately the sergeant’s aim had not been true. Neither wound nor scratch had Cibolo received; and as he sprang around his young mistress, he appeared in perfect health and spirits.
A splendid animal he was, – one of those magnificent sheep-dogs of New Mexico, who, though half-wolf themselves, will successfully defend a flock of sheep from the attack of wolves, or even of the more savage bear. The finest sheep-dogs in the world are they, and one of the finest of his race was Cibolo.
His mistress, having ascertained that he was uninjured, stepped upon the banqueta, and reached up towards a singular-looking object that hung over a peg in the wall. The object bore some resemblance to a string of ill-formed sausages. But it was not that, though it was something quite as good for Cibolo, who, by his sparkling eyes and short pleased whimpers, showed that he knew what it was. Yes, Cibolo had not to be initiated into the mysteries of a string of tasajo. Dried buffalo-meat was an old and tried favourite; and the moment it reached his jaws, which it did immediately after, he gave proof of this by the earnest manner in which he set to work upon it.
The pretty Rosita, still a little apprehensive, once more peeped through the cactus-fence to assure herself that no one was near.
But this time some one was near, and the sight did not cause her any fear, – quite the contrary. The approach of a young man in a blue manga, mounted upon a richly-caparisoned horse, had a contrary effect altogether, and Rosita’s little heart now beat with confidence.
This young horseman was Don Juan the ranchero. He rode straight up to the opening, and seeing the güera cried out in a frank friendly voice, “Buenos dias, Rosita!”
The reply was as frank and friendly – a simple return of the salutation —
“Buenos dias, Don Juan!”
“How is the Señora your mother to-day?”
“Muchas gracias, Don Juan! as usual she is. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”
“Hola!” exclaimed Don Juan. “What are you laughing at, Rosita?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Saw you nothing of the fine soldiers?”
“True, I did. I met the troop as I came down, going up the valley in a gallop, and the Comandante riding far ahead, as if the Apaches were after him. In truth, I thought they had met the Indios bravos – for I know that to be their usual style of riding after an interview with these gentry.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” still laughed the little blonde, “but did you notice nothing odd about the officer?”
“I think I did. He looked as though he had ridden through the chapparal; but I had scarce a glance at him, he passed so quickly. He gave me one that was anything but friendly. No doubt he remembers the loss of his gold onzas at San Juan. Ha! ha! But, dear Rosita, what may you be laughing at? Have the soldiers been here? Anything happened?”
Rosita now gave an account of the Comandante’s visit; how he had called to light his cigar and get a drink of water; how he had entered the house and been attacked by Cibolo, which caused the precipitate retreat to his horse, and his hasty departure from the place. She was silent, however, about the most important particulars. She said nothing of the insulting speeches which Vizcarra had made – nothing of the kiss. She feared the effect of such a communication on Don Juan. She knew her lover was of a hot rash disposition. He would not hear these things quietly; he would involve himself in some trouble on her account; and these considerations prompted her to conceal the cause that had led to the “scene.” She, therefore, disclosed only the more ludicrous effects, at which she laughed heartily.
Don Juan, even knowing only so much, was inclined to regard the affair more seriously. A visit from Vizcarra – a drink of water – light his cigar – enter the rancho – all very strange circumstances, but not at all laughable, thought Don Juan. And then to be attacked and torn by the dog – to be driven from the house in such a humiliating manner – in presence of his own troop, too! – Vizcarra – the vainglorious Vizcarra – the great militario of the place – the hero of a hundred Indian battles that never were fought – he to be conquered by a cur! Seriously, thought Don Juan, it was not an affair to laugh at. Vizcarra would have revenge, or try hard to obtain it.
The young ranchero had other unpleasant thoughts in connexion with this affair. What could have brought the Comandante to the rancho? How had he found out that interesting abode, – that spot, sequestered as it was, that seemed to him (Don Juan) to be the centre of the world? Who had directed him that way? What brought the troop out of the main road, their usual route of march?
These were questions which Don Juan put to himself. To have asked them of Rosita would have been to disclose the existence of a feeling he would rather keep concealed – jealousy.
And jealous he was at the moment. The drink, she had served him of course, – the cigar, she had lit it for him – perhaps invited him in! Even now she appeared in the highest spirits, and not at all angry at the visit that had been paid her!
Don Juan’s reflections had suddenly grown bitter, and he did not join in the laugh which his sweetheart was indulging in.
When after a short while she invited him in, his feelings took a turn, and he became himself again. He dismounted from his horse, and followed Rosita through the garden into the house.
The girl sat down by the loom and continued her work, while the young ranchero was allowed to kneel upon the petaté beside her, and converse at will. There was no objection to his occasionally assisting her to straighten out the woof or untwist a fouled thread; and, on these occasions, their fingers frequently met, and seemed to remain longer in contact than was necessary for the unravelling of the knot.
But no one noticed all this. Rosita’s mother was indulging in a siesta; and Cibolo, if he saw anything amiss, said nothing about it to any one, but wagged his tail, and looked good-humouredly at Don Juan, as if he entirely approved of the latter’s conduct.
Chapter Twenty Four
When Vizcarra reached his sumptuous quarters, the first thing he did was to call for wine. It was brought, and he drank freely and with fierce determination.
He thought by that to drown his chagrin; and for a while he succeeded.
There is relief in wine, but it is only temporary: you may make jealousy drunk and oblivious, but you cannot keep it so. It will be sober as soon – ay, sooner than yourself. Not all the wine that was ever pressed from grapes can drown it into a complete oblivion.
Vizcarra’s heart was filled by various passions. There was love – that is, such love as a libertine feels; jealousy; anger at the coarse handling he had experienced; wounded self-love, for with his gold-lace and fine plumes he believed himself a conqueror at first sight; and upon the top of all, bitter disappointment.
This last was the greater that he did not see how his suit could be renewed. To attempt a similar visit would lead to similar chagrin, – perhaps worse.
It was plain the girl did not care for him, with all his fine feathers and exalted position. He saw that she was very different from the others with whom he had had dealings – different from the dark-eyed doncellas of the valley, most of whom, if not all, would have taken his onza without a word or a blush!
It was plain to him he could go no more to the rancho. Where, then, was he to meet her – to see her? He had ascertained that she seldom came to the town – never to the amusements, except when her brother was at home. How and where, then, was he to see her? His was a hopeless case – no opportunity of mending his first faux pas– none, any more than if the object of his pursuit was shut up in the cloisters of a nunnery! Hopeless, indeed! Thus ran his reflections.
Though uttering this phrase, he had no belief in its reality. He had no intention of ending the affair so easily. He – the lady-killer, Vizcarra – to fail in the conquest of a poor ranchera! He had never failed, and would not now. His vanity alone would have urged him farther in the affair; but he had a sufficient incentive to his strong passion, – for strong it had now grown. The opposition it had met – the very difficulty of the situation – only stimulated him to greater energy and earnestness.
Besides, jealousy was there, and that was another spur to his excited pride.
He was jealous of Don Juan. He had noticed the latter on the day of the fiesta. He had observed him in the company of the cibolero and his sister. He saw them talking, drinking, feasting together. He was jealous then; but that was light, for then he still anticipated his own easy and early triumph. That was quiet to the feeling that tortured him now – now that he had failed– now that he had seen in the very hour of his humiliation that same rival on his road to the rancho – welcome, no doubt – to be told of all that had happened – to join her in jeering laughter at his expense – to – Furies! the thought was intolerable.
For all that the Comandante had no idea of relinquishing his design. There were still means – foul, if not fair – if he could only think of them. He wanted some head cooler than his own. Where was Roblado?
“Sergeant! tell Captain Roblado I wish to speak with him.”
Captain Roblado was just the man to assist him in any scheme of the sort. They were equally villains as regarded women; but Vizcarra’s métier was of a lighter sort – more of the genteel-comedy kind. His forte lay in the seductive process. He made love à la Don Giovanni, and carried hearts in what he deemed a legitimate manner; whereas Roblado resorted to any means that would lead most directly to the object – force, if necessary and safe. Of the two Roblado was the coarser villain.
As the Comandante had failed in his way, he was determined to make trial of any other his captain might suggest; and since the latter knew all the “love stratagems,” both of civilised and savage life, he was just the man to suggest something.
It chanced that at this time Roblado wanted counsel himself upon a somewhat similar subject. He had proposed for Catalina, and Don Ambrosio had consented; but, to the surprise of all, the Señorita had rebelled! She did not say she would not accept Captain Roblado. That would have been too much of a defiance, and might have led to a summary interference of paternal authority. But she had appealed to Don Ambrosio for time – she was not ready to be married! Roblado could not think of time – he was too eager to be rich; but Don Ambrosio had listened to his daughter’s appeal, and there lay the cause of the captain’s trouble.
Perhaps the Comandante’s influence with Don Ambrosio might be the means of overruling this decision and hastening the wished-for nuptials. Roblado was therefore but too eager to lay his superior under an obligation.
Roblado having arrived, the Comandante explained his case, detailing every circumstance that had happened.
“My dear colonel, you did not go properly to work. I am astonished at that, considering your skill and experience. You dropped like an eagle upon a dovecot, frightening the birds into their inaccessible holes. You should not have gone to the rancho at all.”
“And how was I to see her?”
“In your own quarters; or elsewhere, as you might have arranged it.”
“Impossible! – she would never have consented to come.”
“Not by your sending for her direct; I know that.”
“And how, then?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Roblado; “are you so innocent as never to have heard of such a thing as an ‘alcahuete’?”
“Oh! true – but by my faith I never found use for one.”
“No! – you in your fine style have deemed that a superfluity; but you might find use for one now. A very advantageous character that, I assure you – saves much time and trouble – diminishes the chances of failure too. It’s not too late. I advise you to try one. If that fails, you have still another string to your bow.”
We shall not follow the conversation of these ruffians further. Enough to say that it led into details of their atrocious plans, which, for more than an hour, they sat concocting over their wine, until the whole scheme was set forth and placed in readiness to be carried out.
It was carried out, in fine, but led to a different ending from what either anticipated. The “lady” who acted as “alcahuete” soon placed herself en rapport with Rosita; but her success was more equivocal than that of Vizcarra himself; in fact, I should rather say unequivocal, for there was no ambiguity about it.
As soon as her designs were made known to Rosita, the latter communicated them to her mother; and the scratches which the Comandante had received were nothing to those which had fallen to the lot of his proxy. The “alcahuete” had, in fact, to beg for her life before she was allowed to escape from the terrible Cibolo.
She would have sought legal revenge, but that the nature of her business made it wiser for her to pocket the indignities, and remain silent.
Chapter Twenty Five
“Now, Roblado,” asked the Comandante, “what is the other string to my bow?”
“Can’t you guess, my dear colonel?”
“Not exactly,” replied Vizcarra, though he well knew that he could. It was not long since the other string had been before his mind. He had even thought of it upon the day of his first defeat, and while his anger was hot and revengeful. And since then, too – often, often. His question was quite superfluous, for he well knew Roblado’s answer would be “force.”
It was “force.” That was the very word. “How?”
“Take a few of your people, go by night, and carry her off. What can be more simple? It would have been the proper way at first, with such a prude as she! Don’t fear the result. It’s not so terrible to them. I’ve known it tried before. Long ere the cibolero can return, she’ll be perfectly reconciled, I warrant you.”
“And if not?”
“If not, what have you to fear?”
“The talk, Roblado – the talk.”
“Bah! my dear colonel, you are timid in the matter. You have mismanaged it so far, but that’s no reason you should not use tact for the future. It can be done by night. You have chambers here where no one is allowed to enter – some without windows, if you need them. Who’s to be the wiser? Pick your men – those you can trust. You don’t require a whole troop, and half-a-dozen onzas will tie as many tongues. It’s as easy as stealing a shirt. It is only stealing a chemisette. Ha! ha! ha!” and the ruffian laughed at his coarse simile and coarser joke, in which laugh he was joined by the Comandante.
The latter still hesitated to adopt this extreme measure. Not from any fineness of feeling. Though scarce so rough a villain as his companion, it was not delicacy of sentiment that restrained him now. He had been accustomed all his life to regard with heartless indifference the feelings of those he had wronged; and it was not out of any consideration for the future happiness or misery of the girl that he hesitated now. No, his motive was of a far different character. Roblado said true when he accused him of being timid. He was. It was sheer cowardice that stayed him.
Not that he feared any bodily punishment would ever reach him for the act. He was too powerful, and the relatives of his intended victim too weak, to give him any apprehensions on that score. With a little policy he could administer death, – death to the most innocent of the people, – and give it a show of justice. Nothing was more easy than to cause suspicion of treason, incarcerate, and slay – and particularly at that time, when both Pueblo revolt and Creole revolution threatened the Spanish rule in America.
What Vizcarra feared was “talk.” Such an open rape could not well be kept secret for long. It would leak out, and once out it was too piquant a piece of scandal not to have broad fame: all the town would soon enjoy it. But there was a still more unpleasant probability. It might travel beyond the confines of the settlement, perhaps to high quarters, even to the Vice-regal ear! There find we the secret of the Comandante’s fears.
Not indeed that the Vice-regal court at the time was a model of morality. It would have been lenient enough to any act of despotism or debauchery done in a quiet way; but such an open act of rapine as that contemplated, on the score of policy, could hardly be overlooked. In truth, Vizcarra’s prudence had reason. He could not believe that it would be possible to keep the thing a secret. Some of the rascals employed might in the end prove traitors. True, they would be his own soldiers, and he might punish them for it at his will, but what satisfaction would that give him? It would be locking the stable after the steed had been stolen!
Even without their playing him false, how could he hope to keep the affair concealed? First, there was an angry brother. True, he was out of the way; but there was a jealous lover on the ground, and the brother would return in time. The very act of the rape would point to him, Vizcarra. His visit, the attempt of the “alcahuete,” and the carrying off of the girl, would all be pieced together, and put down to his credit; and the brother – such a one – and such a lover too – would not be silent with their suspicious. He might take measures to get rid of both, but these measures must needs be violent and dangerous.
Thus reasoned Vizcarra with himself, and thus he argued with Roblado. Not that he wished the latter to dissuade him – for the end he desired with all his heart – but in order that by their united wisdom some safer means of reaching it might be devised.
And a safer plan was devised. Roblado, deeper in head, as well as bolder in heart, conceived it. Bringing his glass to the table with a sudden stroke, he exclaimed —
“Vamos, Vizcarra! By the Virgin, I have it!”
“Bueno—bravo!”
“You may enjoy your sweetheart within twenty four hours, if you wish, and the sharpest scandalmonger in the settlement will be foiled; at least, you will have nothing to fear. What a devil of a lucky thought! – the very thing itself, amigo!”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, camarado! your plan! your plan!”
“Stop till I’ve had a gulp of wine. The very thought of such a glorious trick makes me thirsty.”
“Drink then, drink!” cried Vizcarra, filling out the wine, with a look of pleasant anticipation.
Roblado emptied the goblet at a draught, and then, leaning nearer to the Comandante, he detailed what he had conceived in a low and confidential tone. It seemed to satisfy his listener, who, when the other had finished, uttered the word “Bravo!” and sprang to his feet like one who had received some joyful news. He walked back and forth for some minutes in an excited manner, and then, bursting into a loud laugh, he cried out, “Carrambo, comrade! you are a tactician! The great Conde himself would not have shown such strategy. Santisima Virgen! it is the very master-stroke of design; and I promise you, camarado, it shall have speedy execution.”
“Why delay? Why not set about it at once?”
“True, – at once let us prepare for this pleasant masquerade!”
