After having witnessed the disgusting ceremony in the Plaza, the
officers returned to their quarters at the Presidio.
As already stated, they did not return alone. The principal men of the
place had been invited to dine with them--cura, padres, alcalde, and
all. The capture of the outlaw was a theme of public gratulation and
rejoicing; and the Comandante and his captain--to whom was due the
credit--were determined to rejoice. To that end the banquet was spread
in the Presidio.
It was not thought worth while to remove Carlos to the soldiers' prison.
He could remain all night in the Calabozo. Fast bound and well guarded
as he was, there was not the slightest danger of him making his escape.
To-morrow would be the last day of his life. To-morrow his foes should
have the pleasure of seeing him die--to-morrow the Comandante and
Roblado would enjoy their full measure of vengeance.
Even that day Vizcarra had enjoyed part of his. For the scorn with
which he had been treated he had revenged himself--though it was he who
from the centre of the Plaza had cried "_Basta_!" It was not mercy that
had caused him to interfere. His words were not prompted by motives of
humanity--far otherwise.
His designs were vile and brutal. To-morrow the brother would be put
out of the way, and then--
The wine--the music--the jest--the loud laugh--all could not drown some
bitter reflections. Ever and anon the mirror upon the wall threw back
his dark face spoiled and distorted. His success had been dearly
purchased--his was a sorry triumph.
It prospered better with Roblado. Don Ambrosio was one of the guests,
and sat beside him.
The wine had loosened the heart-strings of the miner. He was
communicative and liberal of his promises. His daughter, he said, had
repented of her folly, and now looked with indifference upon the fate of
Carlos. Roblado might hope.
It is probable that Don Ambrosio had reasons for believing what he said.
It is probable that Catalina had thrown out such hints, the better to
conceal her desperate design.
The wine flowed freely, and the guests of the Comandante revelled under
its influence. There were toasts, and songs, and patriotic speeches;
and the hour of midnight arrived before the company was half satiated
with enjoyment.
In the midst of their carousal, a proposal was volunteered by some one,
that the outlaw Carlos should be brought in! Odd as was this
proposition, it exactly suited the half-drunken revellers. Many were
curious to have a good sight of the cibolero--now so celebrated a
personage.
The proposal was backed by many voices, and the Comandante pressed to
yield to it.
Vizcarra had no objection to gratify his guests. Both he and Roblado
rather liked the idea. It would be a further humiliation of their hated
enemy.
Enough. Sergeant Gomez was summoned, the cibolero sent for, and the
revelry went on.
But that revelry was soon after brought to a sudden termination, when
Sergeant Gomez burst into the saloon, and announced in a loud voice
that--
_The prisoner had escaped_!
A shell dropping into the midst of that company could not have scattered
it more completely. All sprang to their feet--chairs and tables went
tumbling over--glasses and bottles were dashed to the floor, and the
utmost confusion ensued.
The guests soon cleared themselves of the room. Some ran direct to
their houses to see if their families were safe; while others made their
way to the Calabozo to assure themselves of the truth of the sergeant's
report.
Vizcarra and Roblado were in a state bordering upon madness. Both
stormed and swore, at the same time ordering the whole garrison under
arms.
In a few minutes nearly every soldier of the Presidio had vaulted to his
saddle, and was galloping in the direction of the town.
The Calabozo was surrounded.
There was the hole through which the captive had got off. How had he
unbound his fastenings--who had furnished him with the knife?
The sentries were questioned and flogged--and flogged and questioned--
but could tell nothing. They knew not that their prisoner was gone,
until Gomez and his party came to demand him!
Scouring parties were sent out in every direction--but in the night what
could they do? The houses were all searched, but what was the use of
that? The cibolero was not likely to have remained within the town. No
doubt he was off once more to the Plains!
The night search proved ineffectual; and in the morning the party that
had gone down the valley returned, having found no traces either of
Carlos, his sister, or his mother. It was known that the _hechicera_
had died on the previous night, but where had the body been taken to?
Had she come to life again, and aided the outlaw in his escape? Such
was the conjecture!
At a later hour in the morning some light was thrown on the mysterious
affair. Don Ambrosio, who had gone to rest without disturbing his
daughter, was awaiting her presence in the breakfast-room. What
detained her beyond the usual hour? The father grew impatient--then
anxious. A messenger was at length sent to summon her--no reply to the
knocking at her chamber-door!
The door was burst open. The room was entered--it was found
untenanted--the bed unpressed--the senorita had fled!
She must be pursued! Where is the groom?--the horses? She must be
overtaken and brought back!
The stable is reached, and its door laid open. No groom! no horse!--
they, too, were gone!
Heavens! what a fearful scandal! The daughter of Don Ambrosio had not
only assisted the outlaw to escape, but she had shared his flight, and
was now with him. "_Huyeron_!" was the universal cry.
The trail of the horses was at length taken up, and followed by a large
party, both of dragoons and mounted civilians. It led into the high
plain, and then towards the Pecos, where they had crossed. Upon the
other side the trail was lost. The horses had separated, and gone in
different directions, and their tracks, passing over dry shingle, could
no longer be followed.
After several days' fruitless wandering, the pursuing party returned,
and a fresh one started out; but this, after a while, came back to
announce a similar want of success. Every haunt had been searched; the
old rancho--the groves on the Pecos--even the ravine and its cave had
been visited, and examined carefully. No traces of the fugitives could
be discovered; and it was conjectured that they had gone clear off from
the confines of the settlement.
This conjecture proved correct, and guessing was at length set at rest.
A party of friendly Comanches, who visited the settlement, brought in
the report that they had met the cibolero on their way across the Llano
Estacado--that he was accompanied by two women and several men with
pack-mules carrying provisions--that he had told them (the Indians) he
was on his way for a long journey--in fact, to the other side of the
Great Plains.
This information was definite, and no doubt correct. Carlos had been
often heard to express his intention of crossing over to the country of
the Americanos. He was now gone thither--most likely to settle upon the
banks of the Mississippi. He was already far beyond the reach of
pursuit. They would see him no more--as it was not likely he would ever
again show his face in the settlements of New Mexico.
Months rolled past. Beyond the report of the Comanches, nothing was
heard of Carlos or his people. Although neither he nor his were
forgotten, yet they had ceased to be generally talked of. Other affairs
occupied the minds of the people of San Ildefonso; and there had lately
arisen one or two matters of high interest--almost sufficient to eclipse
the memory of the noted outlaw.
The settlement had been threatened by an invasion from the Yutas--which
would have taken place, had not the Yutas, just at the time, been
themselves attacked and beaten by another tribe of savages! This defeat
had prevented their invasion of the valley--at least for that season,
but they had excited fears for the future.
Another terror had stirred San Ildefonso of late--a threatened revolt of
the Tagnos, the _Indios mansos_, or _tame_ Indians, who formed the
majority of the population. Their brethren in several other settlements
had risen, and succeeded in casting off the Spanish yoke.
It was natural that those of San Ildefonso should dream of similar
action, and conspire.
But their conspiracy was nipped in the bud by the vigilance of the
authorities. The leaders were arrested, tried, condemned, and shot.
Their scalps were hung over the gateway of the Presidio, as a warning to
their dusky compatriots, who were thus reduced to complete submission!
These tragic occurrences had done much to obliterate from the memory of
all the cibolero and his deeds. True, there were some of San Ildefonso
who, with good cause, still remembered both; but the crowd had ceased to
think of either him or his. All had heard and believed that the outlaw
had long ago crossed the Great Plains, and was now safe under the
protection of those of his own race, upon the banks of the Mississippi.