Carlos, who by this time had become aware of the nature of their
inquiries, now stepped forward, and, in modest phrase, detailed through
the interpreter how the chief had fallen, and what part he himself had
borne in the conflict.
A loud murmur of applause broke from the circle of warriors, and the
more excited of the young men rushed forward and grasped the cibolero's
hand, uttering as they did so expressions of gratitude. Most of the
warriors already knew that to him they were indebted for their safety.
It was the report of his rifle, fired in the night, that had put them on
their guard, and prevented the Panes from surprising their encampment,
else the day's history might have been _very_ different. In fact, the
Panes, through this very signal having been heard, had been themselves
surprised, and that was the true secret of their disaster and sanguinary
retreat.
When, in addition to this service, it was seen how the cibolero had
fought on their side, killing several of their foes, the hearts of the
Wacoes were filled with gratitude; but now that it became known that the
pale-faced warrior was the avenger of their beloved chief, their
gratitude swelled into enthusiasm, and for some minutes their loud
expressions of it alone could be heard.
When the excitement had to some extent subsided, the warrior who seemed
to be recognised as the orator of the tribe, and who was regarded with
great deference, again stood forth to speak. This time his speech was
directed to Carlos alone.
"White warrior!" he said. "I have spoken with the braves of our nation.
They all feel that they owe you deep gratitude, which words cannot
repay. The purport of our recent deliberations has been explained to
you. Upon this ground we vowed that the avenger of him who lies cold
should be our future chief. We thought not at the time that that brave
warrior was our white brother. But now we know; and should we for that
be false to our vow--to our promised word? No!--not even in thought;
and here, with equal solemnity, we again repeat that oath."
"We repeat it!" echoed around the ring of warriors, while each with
solemnity of manner placed his hand over his heart.
"White warrior!" continued the speaker, "our promise remains sacred.
The honour we offer you is the greatest that we can bestow. It has
never been borne but by a _true_ warrior of the Waco tribe, for no
impotent descendant of even a favourite chief has ever ruled over the
braves of our nation. We do not fear to offer this honour to you. We
would rejoice if you would accept it. Stranger! we will be proud of a
_white_ chief when that chief is a warrior such as you! We know you
better than you think. We have heard of you from our allies the
Comanche--we have heard of _Carlos the Cibolero_!
"We know you are a great warrior; and we know, too, that in your own
country, among your own people, you are nothing. Excuse our freedom,
but speak we not the truth? We despise your people, who are only
tyrants and slaves. All these things have our Comanche brothers told
us, and much more of _you_. We know who you are, then; we knew you when
you came amongst us, and were glad to see you. We traded with you as a
friend.
"We now hail you as a brother, and thus say,--If you have no ties that
bind you to your ungrateful nation, we can offer you one that will not
be ungrateful. Live with us,--be our chief!"
As the speaker ended, his last words were borne like an echo from lip to
lip until they had gone round the full circle of warriors, and then a
breathless silence ensued.
Carlos was so taken by surprise that for some moments he was unable to
make reply, he was not alone surprised by the singular proposal thus
singularly made to him; but the knowledge which the speaker betrayed of
his circumstances quite astonished him. True, he had traded much among
the Comanches, and was on friendly terms with that tribe, some of whom,
in times of peace, even visited the settlement of San Ildefonso; but it
seemed odd that these savages should have noticed the fact--for fact it
was--that the cibolero was somewhat of an outcast among his own people.
Just then he had no time to reflect upon the singularity of the
circumstances, as the warriors waited his reply.
He scarcely knew what reply to make. Hopeless outcast that he was, for
a moment the proposal seemed worthy of acceptance. At home he was
little better than a slave; here he would be ruler, the lord elect of
all.
The Wacoes, though savages by name, were warriors, were men of hearts,
human and humane. He had proofs of it before him. His mother and
sister would share his destiny; but Catalina,--ha! that one thought
resolved him; he reflected no further.
"Generous warriors!" he replied; "I feel from the bottom of my heart a
full sense of the honour you have offered to confer upon me. I wish
that by words I could prove how much I thank you, but I cannot. My
words, therefore, shall be few and frank. It is true that in my own
land I am not honoured,--I am one of the poorest of its people; but
there is _a tie_ that binds me to it--_a tie of the heart_ that calls
upon me to return. Wacoes, I have spoken!"
"Enough!" said the orator; "enough, brave stranger: it is not for us to
inquire into the motives that guide your acts. If not our chief, you
will remain our friend. We have yet a way--a poor one--left us to show
our gratitude: you have suffered from our enemies; you have lost your
property, but that has been recovered, and shall be yours again.
Further we entreat you to remain with us for some days, and partake of
our rude hospitality. _You_ will stay with us?"
The invitation was promptly echoed by all, and as promptly accepted.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
About a week after this time an atajo of pack-mules--nearly fifty in
number--loaded with buffalo-hides and tasajo, was seen struggling up the
eastern ceja of the Llano Estacado, and heading in a north-westerly
direction over that desert plain. The arriero, mounted upon the
_mulera_, was a half-blood Indian. Three carretas, drawn by oxen and
driven by dusky peons, followed the mule-train, making noise enough to
frighten even the coyotes that behind skulked through the coverts of
mezquite. A dashing horseman mounted upon a fine black steed rode in
advance, who, ever and anon turning in his saddle, looked back with a
satisfied glance upon the fine atajo. That horseman was _Carlos_.
The Wacoes had not forgotten to be generous. That train of mules and
those heavy packs were the gift of the tribe to the avenger of their
chief. But that was not all. In the breast-pocket of the cibolero's
jacket was a "bolsa," filled with rare stuff, also a present from the
Wacoes, who promised some day that their guest should have more of the
same. What did that bolsa contain? coin? money? jewels? No. It
contained only dust; but that dust was yellow and glittering. It was
_gold_!