Chapter 62 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
Three days had elapsed from the time that the yellow hunter and his companion had started on their expedition. Those who sent them were beginning to grow impatient for some news of them. They did not allow themselves to doubt of the zeal of their employes,—the reward would secure that,—and scarce did they doubt of their success. The latter seemed to all three—Roblado, Vizcarra, and the Padré—but a consequence of the former. Still they were impatient for some report from the hunters—if not of the actual capture, at least that the outlaw had been seen, or that they were upon his trail.
On reflection, however, both Padré and officers saw that it would not be likely they should have any report before the hunters themselves came back, either with or without their captive.
“No doubt,” suggested the monk, “they are after him every hour, and we shall hear nothing of them until they have laid hands upon the heretic rascal.”
What a startling piece of news it was to this charming trio, when a hatero brought the information to the settlement that he had seen two dead bodies upon the plain, which he recognised as those of the Mission hunters—Manuel and Pepe.
His report was that he had seen them near a grove upon the Pecos,—that they were torn by the wolves and vultures—but that what still remained of their dress and equipments enabled him to make out who they were—for the hatero had chanced to know these men personally. He was sure they were the mulatto and Zambo, the hunters of the mission.
At first this “mysterious murder,” as it was termed, could not be explained—except upon the supposition that the “Indios bravos” had done it. The people knew nothing of the duty upon which the hunters had been lately employed. Both were well enough known, though but little notice was taken of their movements, which lay generally beyond the observation of the citizen community. It was supposed they had been out upon one of their usual hunts, and had fallen in with a roving band of savages.
A party of dragoons, guided by the hatero, proceeded to the grove; and these returned with a very different version of the story.
They had ascertained beyond a doubt that both the hunters had been killed, not by Indian arrows, but by the weapons of a white man. Furthermore, their horses had been left, while their dogs had been killed—the skeletons of the latter were found lying upon the bank of the river.
It could not have been Indians, then. They would have carried off the animals, both dogs and horses, and, moreover, would have stripped the dead of their equipments, which were of some value. Indians? No.
There was not much difficulty in deciding who had committed this murder. Where the skeletons of the dogs were found the ground was soft, and there were hoof-tracks that did not belong to the horses of the hunters. These were recognised by several. They were the tracks of the well-known horse of Carlos the cibolero.
Beyond a doubt Carlos had done the deed. It was known that he and the yellow hunter had not been on friendly terms, but the contrary. They had met and quarrelled, then; or, what was more likely, Carlos had found the hunters asleep by their camp-fire, had stolen upon them, and thus effected his purpose. The mulatto had been shot dead at once, and had fallen into the fire, for part of the body was consumed to a cinder! His companion, attempting to make his escape, had been pursued and overtaken by the bloodthirsty outlaw!
New execrations were heaped upon the head of the devoted Carlos. Men crossed themselves and uttered either a prayer or a curse at the mention of his name; and mothers made use of it to fright their children into good behaviour. The name of Carlos the cibolero spread more terror than the rumour of an Indian invasion!
The belief in the supernatural became strengthened. Scarce any one now doubted that the cibolero’s mother was a witch, or that all these deeds performed by her son were the result of her aid and inspiration.
There was not the slightest hope that he would either be captured or killed. How could he? Who could bind the devil and bring him to punishment? No one any longer believed that he could be caught.
Some gravely proposed that his mother—the witch should be taken up and burnt. Until that was done, argued they, he would set all pursuit at defiance; but if she were put out of the world, the murderer might then be brought to justice!
It is probable enough that the counsels of these and they were the majority of the inhabitants—would have prevailed; especially as they were openly approved of by the padrés of the mission; but before the public mind became quite ripe for such a violent sacrifice, an event occurred which completely changed the currant of affairs.
It was on the morning of a Sunday, and the people were just coming out of the church, when a horseman, covered with sweat and dust, galloped into the Plaza. His habiliments were those of a sergeant of dragoons; and all easily recognised the well-known lineaments of the sergeant Gomez.
In a few minutes he was surrounded by a crowd of idlers, who, although it was Sunday, were heard a few moments after breaking out into loud acclamations of joy. Hats were uptossed and vivas rent the air!
What news had Gomez announced? A rare bit of news—the capture of the outlaw! It was true. Carlos had been taken, and was now a prisoner in the hands of the soldiers. He had been captured neither by strength nor stratagem. Treachery had done the work. He had been betrayed by one of his own people.
It was thus his capture had been effected. Despairing for the present of being able to communicate with Catalina, he had formed the resolution to remove his mother and sister from the valley. He had prepared a temporary home for them far off in the wilderness, where they would be secure from his enemies, while he himself could return at a better opportunity.
To effect their removal, watched as they were, he knew would be no easy matter. But he had taken his measures, and would have succeeded had it not been for treason. One of his own people—a peon who had accompanied him in his last expedition—betrayed him to his vigilant foes.
Carlos was within the rancho making a few hasty preparations for the journey. He had left his horse hidden some distance off in the chapparal. Unfortunately for him Cibolo was not there. The faithful dog had been laid up since his late encounter at the cave. To a peon had been assigned the duty that would otherwise have been intrusted to him—that of keeping watch without.
This wretch had been previously bought by Roblado and Vizcarra. The result was, that, instead of acting as sentinel for his master, he hastened to warn his enemies. The rancho was surrounded by a troop; and, although several of his assailants were killed by the hand of Carlos, he himself was finally overpowered and taken.
Gomez had not been five minutes in the Plaza when a bugle was heard sounding the advance of a troop, which the next moment defiled into the open square. Near its middle was the prisoner, securely tied upon the back of a saddle-mule, and guarded by a double file of troopers.
An arrival of such interest was soon known, and the Plaza became filled with a crowd eager to gratify its curiosity by a sight of the notorious cibolero.
But he was not the only one upon whom the people gazed with curiosity. There were two other prisoners—one of whom was regarded with an interest equal to that felt at the sight of the outlaw himself. This prisoner was his mother. Upon her the eyes of the multitude turned with an expression of awe mingled with indignation; while jeering and angry cries hailed her as she passed on her way to the Calabozo.
“Muera la hechicera! muera!” (Death to the witch—let her die!) broke from ruffian lips as she was carried along.
Even the dishevelled hair and weeping eyes of her young companion—her daughter—failed to touch the hearts of that fanatical mob, and there were some who cried, “Mueran las dos! madre y hija!” (Let both die—mother and daughter!)
The guards had even to protect them from rude assault, as they were thrust hastily within the door of the prison!
Fortunately Carlos saw nought of this. He was not even aware that they were prisoners! He thought, perhaps, they had been left unmolested in the rancho, and that the vengeance of his enemies extended no farther than to himself. He knew not the fiendish designs of his persecutors.