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 Padre--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 Padre 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 padres 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.