Chapter 41 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
Vizcarra’s desire for revenge grew stronger every hour. The almost joyful reaction he had experienced, when relieved from the fear of death, was short-lived. So, too, was that which followed his relief from the anxiety about his captive. The thought that now tortured him was of a different character. The very breath of his existence—his personal appearance—was ruined for ever. He was disfigured for life!
When the mirror was passed before his face, it caused his heart to burn like a coal of fire. Coward though he was, he would almost as soon have been killed outright.
Several of his teeth were gone. They might have been replaced; but not so could be restored the mutilated cheek. A portion had been carried off by the “tear” of the bullet. There would be a hideous scar never to be healed!
The sight was horrible. His thoughts were horrible. He groaned outright as he contemplated the countenance which the cibolero had given him. He swore vengeance. Death and torture if he could but capture Carlos—death to him and his!
At times he even repented that he had sent away the sister. Why should he have cared for consequences? Why had he not revenged himself upon her? He no longer loved her. Her scornful laugh still rankled in his heart. She had been the cause of all his sufferings—of sufferings that would never end but with his life—chagrin and mortification for the rest of his days! Why had he not taken her life? That would have been sweet revenge upon the brother. It would almost have been satisfaction.
He tossed upon his couch, tortured with these reflections, and giving utterance at intervals to groans of anguish and horrid imprecations.
Carlos must be captured. No effort must be spared to ensure that event. And captured alive if possible. He should measure out the punishment. It should be death, but not sudden death. No; the savages of the plains should be his teachers. The cibolero should die like a captive Indian—by fire at the stake. Vizcarra swore this!
After him, the mother, too. She was deemed a witch. She should be punished as often witches have been. In this he would not have to act alone. He knew that the padrés would endorse the act. They were well inclined to such fanatical cruelties.
Then the sister, alone—uncared for by any one. She would be wholly in his power—to do with her us he would, and no one to stay his will. It was not love, but revenge.
Such terrible resolves passed through the mind of the wretched caitiff.
Roblado was equally eager for the death of the cibolero. His vanity had been scathed as well, for he was now satisfied that Catalina was deeply interested in the man, if not already on terms of intimacy—on terms of love, mutually reciprocated and understood. He had visited her since the tragical occurrence at the Presidio. He had observed a marked change in her manner. He had thought to triumph by the malignant abuse heaped on the assassin; but she, although she said nothing in defence of the latter—of course she could not—was equally silent on the other side, and showed no symptoms of indignation at the deed. His (Roblado’s) abusive epithets, joined to those which her own father liberally heaped upon the man, seemed to give her pain. It was plain she would have defended him had she dared!
All this Roblado had noticed during his morning call.
But more still had he learnt, for he had a spy upon her acts. One of her maids, Vicenza, who for some reason had taken a dislike to her mistress, was false to her, and had, for a length of time, been the confidant of the military wooer. A little gold and flattery, and a soldier-sweetheart—who chanced to be José—had rendered Vicenza accessible. Roblado was master of her thoughts, and through José he received information regarding Catalina, of which the latter never dreamt. This system of espionage had been but lately established, but it had already produced fruits. Through it Roblado had gained the knowledge that he himself was hated by the object of his regard, and that she loved some other! What other even Vicenza could not tell. That other Roblado could easily guess.
It is not strange that he desired the capture and death of Carlos the cibolero. He was as eager for that event as Vizcarra himself.
Both were making every exertion to bring it about. Already scouting-parties had been sent out in different directions. A proclamation had been posted on the walls of the town,—the joint production of the Comandante and his captain, offering a high reward for the cibolero’s head, and a still higher sum for the cibolero himself if captured alive!
The citizens, to show their zeal and loyalty, had also issued a proclamation to the same effect, heading it with a large sum subscribed among them—a very fortune to the man who should be so lucky as to be the captor of Carlos. This proclamation was signed by all the principal men of the place, and the name of Don Ambrosio figured high upon the list! There was even some talk of getting up a volunteer company to assist the soldiers in the pursuit of the heretico assassin, or rather to earn the golden price of his capture.
With such a forfeit on his head, it was an enigma how Carlos should be long alive!
Roblado sat in his quarters busy devising plans for the capture. He had already sent his trustiest spies to the lower end of the valley, and these were to hover day and night in the neighbourhood. Any information of the haunts of the cibolero, or of those with whom he was formerly in correspondence, was to be immediately brought to him, and would be well paid for. A watch was placed on the house of the young ranchero, Don Juan; and though both Vizcarra and Roblado had determined on special action with regard to him, they agreed upon leaving him undisturbed for the present, as that might facilitate their plans. The spies who had been employed were not soldiers, but men of the town and poor rancheros. A military force appealing below would frustrate their design. That, however, was kept in readiness, but its continued presence near the rancho, thought Vizcarra and his captain, would only frighten the bird, and prevent it from returning to its nest. There was good logic in this.
Roblado, as stated, was in his quarters, completing his arrangements. A knock aroused him from the contemplation of some documents. They were communications from his spies, which had just reached the Presidio, addressed both to himself and the Comandante. They were concerning the affair.
“Who is it?” he asked, before giving the privilege to enter.
“I, captain,” answered a sharp squeaky voice.
Roblado evidently knew the voice, for he called out—
“Oh! it is you? Come in, then.”
The door opened, and a small dark man, of sharp weasel-like aspect, entered the room. He had a skulking shuffling gait, and, notwithstanding his soldier’s dress, his sabre and his spurs, the man looked mean. He spoke with a cringing accent, and saluted his officer with a cringing gesture. He was just the sort of person to be employed upon some equivocal service, and by such men as Vizcarra and Roblado; and in that way he had more than once served them. It was the soldier José.
“Well! what have you to say? Have you seen Vicenza?”
“I have, captain. Last night I met her out.”
“Any news?”
“I don’t know whether it may be news to the captain; but she has told me that it was the señorita who sent her home yesterday.”
“Her?”
“Yes, captain, the güera.”
“Ha! go on!”
“Why, you know when you left her with the alcalde she was offered to whoever would take her. Well, a young girl came up and claimed to be an acquaintance, and a woman who was the girl’s mother. She was given up to them without more ado, and they took her away to a house in the chapparal below the town.”
“She did not stay there. I know she’s gone down, but I have not yet heard the particulars. How did she go?”
“Well, captain; only very shortly after she arrived at the house of the woman, a carreta came up to the door, driven by a Tagno, and the girl—that is, the daughter, who is called Josefa—mounted into the carreta, taking the güera along with her; and off they went down below.
“Now, neither this girl nor her mother ever saw the güera before, and who does captain think sent them, and the carreta too?”
“Who says Vicenza?”
“The señorita, captain.”
“Ha!” sharply exclaimed Roblado. “Vicenza is sure of that.”
“More than that, captain. About the time the carreta drove away, or a little after, the señorita left the house on her horse, and with a common serapé over her, and a sombrero on her head, like any ranchera; and in this—which I take to be a disguise for a lady of quality like her—she rode off by the back road. Vicenza, however, thinks that she turned into the camino abajo after she got past the houses, and overtook the carreta. She was gone long enough to have done so.”
This communication seemed to make a deep impression upon the listener. Shadows flitted over his dark brow, and gleams of some new intelligence or design appeared in his eyes. He was silent for a moment, engaged in communicating with his thoughts. At length he inquired—
“Is that all your information, José?”
“All, captain.”
“There may be more from the same source. See Vicenza to-night again. Tell her to keep a close watch. If she succeed in discovering that there is a correspondence going on, she shall be well rewarded, and you shall not be forgotten. Find out more about this woman and her daughter. Know the Tagno who drove them. Lose no time about it. Go, José!”
The minion returned his thanks in a cringing tone, made another cringing salute, and shuffled out of the room.
As soon as he had left, Roblado sprang to his feet, and, walking about the room in an agitated manner, uttered his thoughts aloud:—
“By Heaven! I had not thought of this. A correspondence, I have no doubt. Fiends! such a woman! She must know all ere this—if the fellow himself is not deceived by us! I must watch in that quarter too. Who knows but that will be the trap in which we’ll take him? Love is even a stronger lure than brotherly affection. Ha! señorita; if this be true, I’ll yet have a purchase upon you that you little expect. I’ll bring you to terms without the aid of your stupid father!”
After figuring about for some minutes, indulging in these alternate dreams of vengeance and triumph, he left his room, and proceeded towards that of the Comandante, for the purpose of communicating to the latter his new-gotten knowledge.