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 padres 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 Jose--had rendered Vicenza
accessible. Roblado was master of her thoughts, and through Jose 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.