For some minutes Carlos remained stupefied with the shock, and made no
effort to rouse himself.
A friendly hand laid upon his shoulder caused him to look up; Don Juan
the ranchero was bending over him.
Don Juan's face wore a look as wretched as his own. It gave him no
hope; and it was almost mechanically the words escaped his lips--
"My mother? my sister?"
"Your mother is at my house," replied Don Juan.
"And Rosita?"
Don Juan made no reply--the tears were rolling down his cheeks.
"Come, man!" said Carlos, seeing the other in as much need of
consolation as himself; "out with it--let me know the worst! Is she
dead?"
"No,--no,--no!--I hope not _dead_!"
"Carried off?"
"Alas, yes!"
"By whom?"
"The Indians."
"You are sure by _Indians_?"
As Carlos asked this question, a look of strange meaning glanced from
his eyes.
"Quite sure--I saw them myself--your mother?"
"My mother! What of her?"
"She is safe. She met the savages in the doorway, was knocked senseless
by a blow, and saw no more."
"But Rosita?"
"No one saw her; but certainly she was taken away by the Indians."
"You are sure they were _Indians_, Don Juan?"
"Sure of it. They attacked my house almost at the same time. They had
previously driven off my cattle, and for that, one of my people was on
the look-out. He saw them approach; and, before they got near, we were
shut up and ready to defend ourselves. Finding this, they soon went
off. Fearing for your people, I stole out as soon as they were gone,
and came here. When I arrived the roof was blazing, and your mother
lying senseless in the doorway. Rosita was gone! _Madre de Dios_! she
was gone!"
And the young ranchero wept afresh.
"Don Juan!" said Carlos, in a firm voice; "you have been a friend--a
brother--to me and mine. I know you suffer as much as I do. Let there
be no tears! See! mine are dried up! I weep no more--perhaps sleep
not--till Rosita is rescued or revenged. Let us to business, then!
Tell me all that is known about these Indians--and quick, Don Juan! I
have a keen appetite for your news!"
The ranchero detailed the various rumours that had been afloat for the
three or four days preceding--as well as the actual occurrences,--how
the Indians had been first seen upon the upper plain; their encounter
with the shepherds and the driving off of the sheep; their appearance in
the valley, and their raid upon his own cattle--for it was his
_ganaderia_ that had suffered--and then the after circumstances already
known to Carlos.
He also informed the latter of the activity shown by the troops; how
they had followed that morning upon the trail of the robbers; how he had
desired to accompany them with some of his people; and how the request
was refused by the Comandante.
"Refused?" exclaimed Carlos, interrogatively.
"Yes," replied Don Juan; "he said we would only hinder the troops! I
fancy his motive was his chagrin with me. He does not like me ever
since the fiesta."
"Well! what then?"
"The troops returned but an hour ago. They report that they followed
the trail as far as the Pecos, where it crossed, striking direct for the
Llano Estacado; and, as the Indians had evidently gone off to the great
plains, it would have been useless to attempt pursuing them farther. So
they alleged.
"The people," continued Don Juan, "will be only too glad that the
savages have gone away, and will trouble themselves no farther about it.
I have been trying to get up a party to follow them, but not one would
venture. Hopeless as it was, I intended a pursuit with my own people;
but, thank God! _you_ have come!"
"Ay, pray God it may not be too late to follow their trail. But no;
only last night at midnight, you say? There's been neither rain nor
high wind--it will be fresh as dew; and if ever hound--Ha! where's
Cibolo?"
"At my house, the dog is. He was lost, this morning; we thought he had
been killed or carried off; but at midday my people found him by the
rancho here, covered with mud, and bleeding where he had received the
prick of a spear. We think the Indians must have taken him along, and
that he escaped from them on the road."
"It is strange enough--Oh! my poor Rosita!--poor lost sister!--where art
thou at this moment?--where?--where?--Shall I ever see you again?--My
God! my God!"
And Carlos once more sunk back into his attitude of despair.
Then suddenly springing to his feet, with clenched fist and flashing
eyes, he cried out--
"Wide though the prairie plains, and faint the trail of these dastardly
robbers, yet keen is the _eye_ of Carlos the cibolero! I shall find
thee yet--I shall find thee, though it cost me the search of a life.
Fear not, Rosita! fear not, sweet sister! I come to your rescue! If
thou art wronged, woe, woe, to the tribe that has done it!" Then
turning to Don Juan, he continued,--"The night is on--we can do nothing
to-night. Don Juan!--friend, brother!--bring me to her--to my mother."
There is a wild poetry in the language of grief, and there was poetry in
the words of the cibolero; but these bursts of poetic utterance were
brief, and he again returned to the serious reality of his situation.
Every circumstance that could aid him in his purposed pursuit was
considered and arranged in a sober and practical manner. His arms and
accoutrements, his horse, all were cared for, so as to be ready by the
earliest hour of light. His servants, and those of Don Juan, were to
accompany him, and for these horses were also prepared.
Pack-mules, too, with provisions and other necessaries for a long
journey--for Carlos had no intention of returning without the
accomplishment of his sworn purpose--rescue or revenge. His was no
pursuit to be baffled by slight obstacles. He was not going to bring
back the report "_no los pudimos alcanzar_" He was resolved to trail the
robbers to the farthest point of the prairies--to follow them to their
fastens, wherever that might be.
Don Juan was with him heart and soul, for the ranchero's interest in the
result was equal to his own--his agony was the same.
Their peons numbered a score--trusty Tagnos all, who loved their
masters, and who, if not warriors by trade, were made so by sympathy and
zeal.
Should they overtake the robbers in time, there would be no fear of the
result. From all circumstances known, the latter formed but a weak
band. Had this not been the case, they would never have left the valley
with so trifling a booty. Could they be overtaken before joining their
tribe, all might yet be well. They would be compelled to give up both
their plunder and their captive, and, perhaps, pay dearly for the
distress they had occasioned. Time, therefore, was a most important
consideration, and the pursuers had resolved to take the trail with the
earliest light of the morning.
Carlos slept not--and Don Juan only in short and feverish intervals.
Both sat up in their dresses,--Carlos by the bedside of his mother, who,
still suffering from the effects of the blow, appeared to rave in her
sleep.
The cibolero sat silent, and in deep thought. He was busied with plans
and conjectures--conjectures as to what tribe of Indians the marauders
could belong to. Apaches or Comanches they were not. He had met
parties of both on his return. They treated him in a friendly manner,
and they said nothing of hostilities against the people of San
Ildefonso. Besides, no bands of these would have been in such small
force as the late robbers evidently were. Carlos wished it had been
they. He knew that in such a case, when it was known that the captive
was _his_ sister, she would be restored to him. But no; they had
nothing to do with it. Who then?--the Yutas? Such was the belief among
the people of the valley, as he had been told by Don Juan. If so, there
was still a hope--Carlos had traded with a branch of this powerful and
warlike tribe. He was also on friendly terms with some of its chiefs,
though these were now at war with the more northern settlements.
But the Jicarillas still returned to his mind. These were Indians of a
cowardly, brutal disposition, and his mortal foes. They would have
scalped him on sight. If his sister was _their_ captive, her lot was
hard indeed; and the very thought of such a fate caused the cibolero to
start up with a shudder, and clench his hands in a convulsive effort of
passion.
It was near morning. The peons were astir and armed. The horses and
mules were saddled in the patio, and Don Juan had announced that all
were ready. Carlos stood by the bedside of his mother to take leave.
She beckoned him near. She was still weak, for blood had flown freely
from her, and her voice was low and feeble.
"My son," said she, as Carlos bent over her, "know you what Indians you
are going to pursue?"
"No, mother," replied Carlos, "but I fear they are our enemies the
Jicarillas."
"Have the Jicarillas _beards on their faces and jewels on their
fingers_?"
"No mother; why do you ask such a question?--you know they have no
beards! My poor mother!" added he, turning to Don Juan; "this terrible
stroke has taken her senses!"
"Follow the trail, then!" she continued, without noticing the last
remark uttered by Carlos in a whisper; "follow the trail--perhaps it
will guide thee to--" and she whispered the rest into his ear.
"What, mother?" said he, starting, as if at some strange information.
"Dost thou think so?"
"I have some suspicion--only _suspicion_--but follow the trail--it will
guide thee--follow it, and be satisfied!"
"Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied of _that_."
"One promise before you go. Be not rash--be prudent."
"Fear not, mother! I will."
"If it be so--"
"If it be so, mother, you'll soon see me back. God bless you!--My
blood's on fire--I cannot stay!--God bless you, mother!--Farewell!"
Next minute the train of mounted men, with Don Juan and Carlos at its
head, passed out of the great gate, and took the road that led out from
the valley.