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 _confrere_ 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 _tete-a-tete_ 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 a 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 padres 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! Jose! 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 Padre Joaquin, and the next
moment the owner, bland and smiling, appeared upon the azotea.