Chapter 19 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
The Comandante, with his friend Roblado, alone remained in the room, and continued the conversation with a fresh glass and cigar.
“And you really think, Roblado, that the fellow had encouragement. I think so too, else he would never have dared to act as he did.”
“I am quite sure of it now. That he saw her last night, and alone, I am certain. As I approached the house I saw a man standing before the reja, and leaning against the bars, as if conversing with some one inside. Some friend of Don Ambrosio, thought I.
“As I drew nearer, the man, who was muffled in a manga, walked off and leaped upon a horse. Judge my surprise on recognising in the horse the black stallion that was yesterday ridden by the cibolero!
“When I entered the house and made inquiries as to who were at home, the servants informed me that master was at the mineria, and that the Señorita had retired, and could see no one that night!
“By Heaven! I was in such a passion, I hardly knew what I said at the moment. The thing’s scarce credible; but, that this low fellow is on secret terms with her, is as sure as I am a soldier.”
“It does seem incredible. What do you mean to do, Roblado?”
“Oh! I’m safe enough about her. She shall be better watched for the future. I’ve had a hint given to Don Ambrosio. You know my secret well enough, colonel. Her mine is my loadstone; but it is a cursed queer thing to have for one’s rival such a fellow as this! Ha! ha! ha!”
Roblado’s laugh was faint and unreal. “Do you know,” continued he, striking on a new idea, “the padré don’t like the güero family. That’s evident from the hints he let drop to-night. We may get this fellow out of the way without much scandal, if the Church will only interfere. The padrés can expel him at once from the settlement if they can only satisfy themselves that he is a ‘heretico.’ Is it not so?”
“It is,” coldly replied Vizcarra, sipping his wine; “but to expel him, my dear Roblado, some one else might be also driven off. The rose would be plucked along with the thorn. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“That, then, of course, I don’t wish—at least not for the present. After some time we may be satisfied to part with rose, thorn, bush, roots, and all. Ha! ha! ha!”
“By the way, colonel,” asked the captain, “have you made any progress yet?—have you been to the house?”
“No, my dear fellow; I have not had time. It’s some distance, remember. Besides, I intend to defer my visit until this fellow is out of the way. It will be more convenient to carry on my courtship in his absence.”
“Out of the way! what do you mean?”
“That the cibolero will shortly start for the Plains—to be gone, perhaps, for several months, cutting up buffalo-beef, tricking the Indians, and such-like employments.”
“Ho! that’s not so bad.”
“So you see, querido camarado, there’s no need for violence in the matter. Have patience—time enough for everything. Before my bold buffalo-hunter gets back, both our little affairs will be settled, I trust. You shall be the owner of rich mines, and I—”
A slight knock at the door, and the voice of Sergeant Gomez was heard, asking to see the Comandante.
“Come in, sergeant!” shouted the colonel. The brutal-looking trooper walked into the room, and, from his appearance, it was plain he had just dismounted from a ride.
“Well, sergeant?” said Vizcarra, as the man drew near; “speak out! Captain Roblado may know what you have to say.”
“The party, colonel, lives in the very last house down the valley,—full ten miles from here. There are but the three, mother, sister, and brother—the same you saw at the fiesta. There are three or four Tagno servants, who help the man in his business. He owns a few mules, oxen, and carts, that’s all. These he makes use of in his expeditions, upon one of which he is about to start in three or four days at the furthest. It is to be a long one, I heard, as he is to take a new route over the Llano Estacado.”
“Over the Llano Estacado?”
“Such, I was told, was his intention.”
“Anything else to say, sergeant?”
“Nothing, colonel, except that the girl has a sweetheart—the same young fellow who bet so heavily against you at the fiesta.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Vizcarra, while a deep shadow crossed his forehead.
“He, indeed! I suspected that. Where does he live?”
“Not far above them, colonel. He is the owner of a rancho, and is reputed rich—that is for a ranchero.”
“Help yourself to a glass of Catalan, sergeant.”
The trooper stretched out his hand, laid hold of a bottle, and, having filled one of the glasses, bowed respectfully to the officers, and drank off the brandy at a draught. Seeing that he was not wanted further, he touched his shako and withdrew.
“So, camarado, you see it is right enough, so far as you are concerned.”
“And for you also!” replied Roblado.
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the story of this sweetheart—this ranchero. The fellow possesses money—a spirit, too, that may be troublesome. He’s not the man one would be called upon to fight—at least not one in my position; but he is one of these people—what the cibolero is not—and has their sympathies with him. It would be a very different thing to get involved with him in an affair. Bah! what need I care? I never yet failed. Good night, camarado!”
“Buenos noches!” replied Roblado; and both, rising simultaneously from the table, retired to their respective sleeping-rooms.