Chapter 30 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
At that moment upon the azotea a man was pacing to and fro. He was not a sentinel, though at opposite angles of the building two of these could be seen who carried carbines—their heads and shoulders just appearing above the crenated top of the battlement towers.
The man en promenade was an officer, and the part of the azotea upon which he moved was the roof of the officers’ quarter, separated from the rest by a wall of equal height with the parapet. It was, moreover, a sacred precinct—not to be disturbed by the tread of common troopers on ordinary occasions. It was the “quarterdeck” of the Presidio.
The officer was in full dress, though not on any duty; but a single glance at the style and cut of his uniform would convince any one that he was a “dandy soldier,” and loved to appear at all times in fine feathers. The gold-lace and bright-coloured broad-cloth seemed to affect him as his rich plumage does the peacock. Every now and again he paused in his promenade, glanced down at his lacquered boots, examined the tournure of his limbs, or feasted his eyes upon the jewels that studded his delicate white fingers.
He was no beauty withal nor hero either; but that did not prevent him from indulging in the fancy that he was both—a combination of Mars and Apollo.
He was a colonel in the Spanish army, however, and Comandante of the Presidio—for the promenader in question was Vizcarra himself.
Though satisfied with his own appearance, he was evidently not satisfied about something else. There was a cloud upon his features that not even the contemplation of the lacquered boots or lily-white hands could banish. Some disagreeable thought was pressing upon his mind, causing him at intervals to make fitful starts, and look nervously around him.
“Bah! ’twas but a dream!” he muttered to himself. “Why should I think of it? ’twas only a dream!”
His eyes were bent downward as he gave expression to these abrupt phrases, and as he raised them again chance guided his look in the direction of “La Niña Perdida.” No, it was not chance, for La Niña had figured in his dream, and his eyes were but following his thoughts.
The moment they rested on the cliff he started back as if some terrible spectre were before him, and mechanically caught hold of the parapet. His cheeks suddenly blanched, his jaws fell, and his chest heaved, in hurried and convulsive breathing!
What can cause these symptoms of strong emotion? Is it the sight of yonder horseman standing upon the very pinnacle of the bluff, and outlined against the pale sky? What is there in such an appearance to terrify the Comandante—for terrified he is? Hear him!
“My God! my God!—it is he! The form of his horse—of himself—just as he appeared—it is he! I fear to look at him! I cannot—”
And the officer averted his face for a moment, covering it with his hands.
It was but a moment, and again he looked upwards. Not curiosity, but the fascination of fear, caused him to look again. The horseman had disappeared. Neither horse nor man—no object of any sort—broke the line of the bluffs!
“Surely I have been dreaming again?” muttered the still trembling caitiff. “Surely I have? There was no one there, least of all—. How could he? He is hundreds of miles off! It was an illusion! Ha! ha! ha! What the devil is the matter with my senses, I wonder? That horrid dream of last night has bewitched them! Carrambo! I’ll think no more of it?”
As he said this he resumed his pace more briskly, believing that that might rid him of his unpleasant reflections. At every turn, however, his eyes again sought the bluff, and swept along its edge with a glance that betokened fear. But they saw no more of the spectre horseman, and their owner began to feel at ease again.
A footstep was heard upon the stone steps of the “escalera.” Some one was ascending to the roof.
The next moment the head and shoulders of a man were visible; and Captain Roblado stepped out upon the azotea.
The “buenos dias” that passed between him and Vizcarra showed that it was their first meeting for that day. In fact, neither had been long up; for the hour was not yet too late for fashionable sleepers. Roblado had just breakfasted, and come out on the azotea to enjoy his Havannah.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he, as he lighted the cigar, “what a droll masquerade it has been! ’Pon my soul! I can scarce get the paint off; and my voice, after such yelling, won’t recover for a week! Ha! ha! Never was maiden wooed and won in such a romantic, roundabout way. Shepherds attacked—sheep driven off and scattered to the winds—cattle carried away and killed in regular battue—old woman knocked over, and rancho given to the flames—besides three days of marching and countermarching, travestying Indian, and whooping till one is hoarse; and all this trouble for a poor paisana—daughter of a reputed witch! Ha! ha! ha! It would read like a chapter in some Eastern romance—Aladdin, for instance—only that the maiden was not rescued by some process of magic or knight-errantry. Ha! ha ha!”
This speech of Roblado will disclose what is, perhaps, guessed at already—that the late incursion of “los barbaros” was neither more nor less than an affair got up by Vizcarra and himself to cover the abduction of the cibolero’s sister. The Indians who had harried the sheep and cattle—who had attacked the hacienda of Don Juan—who had fired the rancho and carried off Rosita—were Colonel Vizcarra, his officer Captain Roblado, his sergeant Gomez, and a soldier named José—another minion of his confidence and will.
There were but the four, as that number was deemed sufficient for the accomplishment of the atrocious deed; and rumour, backed by fear, gave them the strength of four hundred. Besides, the fewer in the secret the better. This was the prudence or cunning of Roblado.
Most cunningly, too, had they taken their measures. The game, from beginning to end, was played with design and execution worthy of a better cause. The shepherds were first attacked on the upper plain, to give certainty to the report that hostile Indians were near. The scouting-parties were sent out from the Presidio, and proclamations issued to the inhabitants to be on their guard—all for effect; and the further swoop upon the cattle was clear proof of the presence of “los barbaros” in the valley. In this foray the fiendish masquers took an opportunity of “killing two birds with one stone;” for, in addition to carrying out their general design, they gratified the mean revenge which they held against the young ranchero.
Their slaughtering his cattle in the ravine had a double object. First, the loss it would be to him gave them satisfaction; but their principal motive was that the animals might not stray back to the settlement. Had they done so, after having been captured by Indians, it would have looked suspicious. As it was, they hoped that, long before any one should discover the battue, the wolves and buzzard would do their work; and the bones would only supply food for conjecture. This was the more probable, as it was not likely, while the Indian alarm lasted, that any one would be bold enough to venture that way. There was no settlement or road, except Indian trails, leading in that direction.
Even when the final step was taken, and the victim carried off, she was not brought directly to the Presidio; for even she was to be hoodwinked. On the contrary, she was tied upon a mule, led by one of the ruffians, and permitted to see the way they were going, until they had reached the point where their trail turned back. She was then blinded by a leathern “tapado,” and in that state carried to the Presidio, and within its walls—utterly ignorant of the distance she had travelled, and the place where she was finally permitted to rest.
Every act in the diabolical drama was conceived with astuteness, and enacted with a precision which must do credit to the head of Captain Roblado, if not to his heart. He was the principal actor in the whole affair.
Vizcarra had, at first, some scruples about the affair—not on the score of conscience, but of impracticability and fear of detection. This would indeed have done him a serious injury. The discovery of such a villainous scheme would have spread like wildfire over the whole country. It would have been ruin to him.
Roblado’s eloquence, combined with his own vile desires, overruled the slight opposition of his superior; and, once entered on the affair, the latter found himself highly amused in carrying it out. The burlesque proclamations, the exaggerated stories of Indians, the terror of the citizens, their encomiums on his own energetic and valorous conduct—all these were a pleasant relief to the ennui of a barrack life and, during the several days’ visit of “los barbaros,” the Comandante and his captain were never without a theme for mirth and laughter.
So adroitly had they managed the whole matter that, upon the morning after the final coup of the robbers—the abduction of Rosita—there was not a soul in the settlement, themselves and their two aides excepted, that had the slightest suspicion but that real hostile Indians were the actors!
Yes, there was one other who had a suspicion—only a suspicion—Rosita’s mother. Even the girl believed herself in the hands of Indians—if belief she had.