Chapter 49 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
For a long time Carlos had neither been seen nor heard of except through reports that on being examined turned out to be false. Both the Comandante and his confrère began to grow uneasy. They began to fear he had in reality left the settlement and gone elsewhere to live, and this they dreaded above all things. Both had a reason for wishing him thus out of the place, and until late occurrences nothing would have pleased them better. But their feelings had undergone a change, and neither the intended seducer nor the fortune-hunter desired that things should end just in that way. The passion of revenge had almost destroyed the ruffian love of the one, and the avarice of the other. The very sympathy which both received on account of their misfortunes whetted this passion to a continued keenness. There was no danger of its dying within the breast of either. The looking-glass alone would keep it alive in Vizcarra’s bosom for the rest of his life.
They were together on the azotea of the Presidio, talking the matter between them, and casting over the probabilities of their late suspicion.
“He is fond of the sister,” remarked the Comandante; “and mother too, for that matter, hag as she is! Still, my dear Roblado, a man likes his own life better than anything else. Near is the shirt, etcetera. He knows well that to stay here is to get into our hands some time or other, and he knows what we’ll do with him if he should. Though he has made some clever escapes, I’ll admit, that may not always be his fortune. The pitcher may go to the well once too often. He’s a cunning rascal—no doubt knows this riddle—and therefore I begin to fear he has taken himself off,—at least for a long while. He may return again, but how the deuce are we to sustain this constant espionage? It would weary down the devil! It will become as tiresome as the siege of Granada was to the good king Fernando and his warlike spouse of the soiled chemise. Por Dios! I’m sick of it already!”
“Rather than let him escape us,” replied Roblado, “I’d wear out my life at it.”
“So I—so I, capitan. Don’t fear I have the slightest intention of dropping our system of vigilance. No—no—look in this face. Carajo!”
And as the speaker reflected upon his spoiled features, the bitterest scowl passed over them, making them still more hideous.
“And yet,” continued Vizcarra, following out the original theme, “it does not seem natural that he should leave them behind him, even for a short period, after what has occurred, and after the risk he ran to recover her; does it?”
“No,” replied the other, thoughtfully, “no. What I most wonder at is his not setting off with them the night she got back,—that very night,—for by the letter he was there upon the spot! But, true, it takes some time to prepare for a journey across the prairies. He would never have gone to one of our own settlements—not likely—and to have travelled elsewhere would have required some preparation for the women at least; for himself, I believe he is as much at home in the desert as either the antelope or the prairie wolf. Still with an effort he might have gone away at that time and taken them along with him. It was bad management on our part not to send our men down that night.”
“I had no fear of his going off, else I should have done so.”
“How?—no fear? was it not highly probable?”
“Not in the least,” replied Roblado.
“I cannot understand you, my dear capitan. Why not?”
“Because there is a magnet in this valley that held him tighter than either mother or sister could, and I knew that.”
“Oh! now I understand you.”
“Yes,” continued Roblado, grinding his teeth against each other, and speaking in a bitter tone; “that precious ‘margarita,’ that is yet to be my wife,—ha! ha! He was not likely to be off without having a talk with her. They have had it. God knows whether they agreed to make it their last, but I, with the help of Don Ambrosio, have arranged that for them. Carrai! she’ll make no more midnight sorties, I fancy. No—he’s not gone. I cannot think it,—for two reasons. First, on her account. Have you ever loved, Comandante? I mean truly loved! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Ha! ha! ha! well I think I was caught once.”
“Then you will know that when a man really loves—for I myself count that foolish act among my experiences,—when a man really loves, there’s no rope strong enough to pull him away from the spot where the object of his love resides. No, I believe this fellow, low as he is, not only loves but worships this future wife of mine,—ha! ha!—and I believe also that no danger, not even the prospect of the garrote, will frighten him from the settlement so long as he has the hope of another clandestine tête-à-tête with her; and, knowing that she is ready to meet him half-way in such a matter, he will not have lost hope yet.
“But my second reason for believing he is still lurking about is that which you yourself have brought forward. He is not likely to leave them behind after what has happened. We have not blinded him; though—Gracias à Dios, or the devil—we have dusted the eyes of everybody besides! He knows all, as the girl Vicenza can well testify. Now, I have no belief that, knowing all this, he would leave them for any lengthened period. What I do believe is that the fellow is as cunning as a coyote, sees our trap, knows the bait, and won’t be caught if he can help it. He is not far off, and, through these accursed peons of his, communicates with the women regularly and continually.”
“What can be done?”
“I have been thinking.”
“If we stop the peons from going back and forth they would be sure to know the trap that was set around them.”
“Exactly so, Comandante. That would never do.”
“Have you considered any other plan?”
“Partly I have.”
“Let us hear it!”
“It is this. Some of those peons regularly visit the fellow in his lair. I feel certain of it. Of course they have been followed, but only in daylight, and then they are found to be on their ordinary business. But there is one of them who goes abroad at night; and all attempts at following him have proved abortive. He loses himself in the chapparal paths in spite of the spies. That is why I am certain he visits the cibolero.”
“It seems highly probable.”
“Now if we can find one who could either follow this fellow or track him—but there’s the difficulty. We are badly off for a good tracker. There is not one in the whole troop.”
“There are other ciboleros and hunters in the valley. Why not procure one of them?”
“True, we might—there are none of them over well disposed to the outlaw—so it is said. But I fear there is none of them fit, that is, none who combines both the skill and the courage necessary for this purpose—for both are necessary. They hate the fellow enough, but they fear him as well. There is one whom I have heard of,—in fact know something of him,—who would be the very man for us. He not only would not fear an encounter with the cibolero, but would hardly shun one with the devil; and, as for his skill in all sorts of Indian craft, his reputation among his kind is even greater than that of Carlos himself.”
“Who is he?”
“I should say there are two of them, for the two always go together; one is a mulatto, who has formerly been a slave among the Americanos. He is now a runaway, and therefore hates everything that reminds him of his former masters. Among other souvenirs, as I am told, he hates our cibolero with a good stout hatred. This springs partly from the feeling already mentioned, and partly from the rivalry of hunter-fame. So much in our favour. The alter ego of the mulatto is a man of somewhat kindred race, a zambo from the coast near Matamoras or Tampico How he strayed this way no one knows, but it is a good while ago, and the mulatto and he have for long been shadows of each other; live together, hunt together, and fight for one another. Both are powerful men, and cunning as strong; but the mulatto is the zambo’s master in everything, villainy not excepted. Neither is troubled with scruples. They would be the very men for our purpose.”
“And why not get them at once?”
“Therein lies the difficulty—unfortunately they are not here at present. They are off upon a hunt. They are hangers-on of the mission, occasionally employed by the padrés in procuring venison and other game.
“Now it seems that the stomachs of our good abstemious fathers have lately taken a fancy to buffalo tongue cured in a certain way, which can only be done when the animal is fresh killed. In order to procure this delicacy they have sent these hunters to the buffalo range.”
“How long have they been gone?—can you tell?”
“Several weeks—long before the return of our cibolero.”
“It is possible they may be on the way back. Is it not?”
“I think it quite probable, but I shall ride over to the mission this very hour and inquire.”
“Do so; it would be well if we could secure them. A brace of fellows, such as you describe these to be, would be worth our whole command. Lose no time.”
“I shall not waste a minute,” Roblado replied, and leaning over the wall he called out, “Hola! José! my horse there!”
Shortly after a messenger came up to say that his horse was saddled and ready. He was about to descend the escalera, when a large closely-cropped head—with a circular patch about the size of a blister shaven out of the crown—made its appearance over the stone-work at the top of the escalera. It was the head of the Padré Joaquin, and the next moment the owner, bland and smiling, appeared upon the azotea.