And what had become of Carlos? Was it true that he had crossed the
great plains? Did he never return? What became of San Ildefonso?
These questions were asked, because he who narrated the legend had
remained for some time silent. His eyes wandered over the valley, now
raised to the cliff of La Nina, and now resting upon the weed-covered
ruin. Strong emotion was the cause of his silence.
His auditory, already half guessing the fate of San Ildefonso,
impatiently desired to know the end. After a while he continued.
Carlos _did_ return. What became of San Ildefonso? In yonder ruin you
have your answer. San Ildefonso fell. But, you would know how? Oh! it
is a terrible tale--a tale of blood and vengeance, and Carlos was the
avenger.
Yes--the cibolero returned to the valley of San Ildefonso, but he came
not alone. Five hundred warriors were at his back--red warriors who
acknowledged him as their leader--their "White Chief." They were the
braves of the Waco band. They knew the story of his wrongs, and had
sworn to avenge him!
It was autumn--late autumn--that loveliest season of the American year,
when the wild woods appeal painted, and Nature seems to repose after her
annual toil--when all her creatures, having feasted at the full banquet
she has so lavishly laid out for them, appear content and happy.
It was night, with an autumnal moon--that moon whose round orb and
silvery beams have been celebrated in the songs of many a harvest land.
Not less brilliant fell those beams where no harvest was ever known--
upon the wild plain of the Llano Estacado. The lone _hatero_, couched
beside his silent flock, was awakened by a growl from his watchful
sheep-dog. Raising himself, he looked cautiously around. Was it the
wolf, the grizzly bear, or the red puma? None of these. A far
different object was before his eyes, as he glanced over the level
plain--an object whose presence caused him to tremble.
A long line of dark forms was moving across the plain. They were the
forms of horses with their riders. They were in single file--the muzzle
of each horse close to the croup of the one that preceded him. From
east to west they moved. The head of the line was already near, but its
rear extended beyond the reach of the hatero's vision.
Presently the troop filed before him, and passed within two hundred
paces of where he lay. Smoothly and silently it glided on. There was
no chinking of bits, no jingling of spurs, no clanking of sabres. Alone
could be heard the dull stroke of the shoeless hoof, or at intervals the
neigh of an impatient steed, suddenly checked by a reproof from his
rider. Silently they passed on--silent as spectres. The full moon
gleaming upon them added to their unearthly appearance!
The watcher trembled where he lay--though he knew they were not
spectres. He knew well what they were, and understood the meaning of
that extended deployment. They were Indian warriors upon the march.
The bright moonlight enabled him to distinguish farther. He saw that
they were all full-grown men--that they were nude to the waist, and
below the thighs--that their breasts and arms were painted--that they
carried nought but their bows, quivers, and spears--in short, that they
were braves _on the war-trail_!
Strangest sight of all to the eyes of the hatero was the leader who rode
at the head of that silent band. He differed from all the rest in
dress, in equipments, in the colour of his skin. _The hatero saw that
he was white_!
Surprised was he at first on observing this, but not for long. This
shepherd was one of the sharpest of his tribe. It was he who had
discovered the remains of the yellow hunter and his companion. He
remembered the events of that time. He reflected; and in a few moments
arrived at the conclusion that the _White Chief_ he now saw could be no
other than Carlos the cibolero! In that conjecture he was right.
The first thought of the hatero had been to save his own life by
remaining quiet. Before the line of warriors had quite passed him,
other thoughts came into his mind. The Indians were on the
_war-trail_!--they were marching direct for the settlement,--they were
headed by Carlos the cibolero!
The history of Carlos the outlaw now came before his mind--he remembered
the whole story; beyond a doubt the cibolero was returning to the
settlement to take vengeance upon his enemies!
Influenced partly by patriotism, and partly by the hope of reward, the
hatero at once resolved to defeat this purpose. He would hasten to the
valley and warn the garrison!
As soon as the line had filed past he rose to his feet, and was about to
start off upon his errand; but he had miscalculated the intelligence of
the white leader. Long before, the flanking scouts had enclosed both
him and his charge, and the next moment he was a captive! Part of his
flock served for the supper of that band he would have betrayed.
Up to the point where the hatero had been encountered, the White Chief
and his followers had travelled along a well-known path--the trail of
the traders. Beyond this, the leader swerved from the track; and
without a word headed obliquely over the plain. The extended line
followed silently after--as the body of a snake moves after its head.
Another hour, and they had arrived at the _ceja_ of the Great Plain--at
a point well-known to their chief. It was at the head of that ravine
where he had so oft found shelter from his foes. The moon, though
shining with splendid brilliance, was low in the sky, and her light did
not penetrate the vast chasm. It lay buried in dark shade. The descent
was a difficult one, though not to such men, and with such a guide.
Muttering some words to his immediate follower, the White Chief headed
his horse into the cleft, and the next moment disappeared under the
shadow of the rocks.
The warrior that followed, passing the word behind him, rode after, and
likewise disappeared in the darkness; then another, and another, until
five hundred mounted men were engulfed in that fearful-looking abysm.
Not one remained upon the upper plain.
For a while there struck upon the ear a continued pattering sound--the
sound of a thousand hoofs as they fell upon rocks and loose shingle.
But this noise gradually died away, and all was silence. Neither horses
nor men gave any token of their presence in the ravine. The only sounds
that fell upon the ears were the voices of nature's wild creatures whose
haunts had been invaded. They were the wail of the goatsucker, the bay
of the barking wolf, and the maniac scream of the eagle.
Another day passes--another moon has arisen--and the gigantic serpent,
that had all day lain coiled in the ravine, is seen gliding silently out
at its bottom, and stretching its long vertebrate form across the plain
of the Pecos.
The stream is reached and crossed; amidst plashing spray, horse follows
horse over the shallow ford, and then the glittering line glides on.
Having passed the river lowlands, it ascends the high plains that
overlook the valley of San Ildefonso.
Here a halt is made--scouts are sent forward--and once more the line
moves on.
Its head reaches the cliff of La Nina just as the moon has sunk behind
the snowy summit of the Sierra Blanca. For the last hour the leader has
been marching slowly, as though he waited her going down. Her light is
no longer desired. Darkness better befits the deed that is to be done.
A halt is made until the pass has been reconnoitred. That done, the
White Chief guides his followers down the defile; and in another
half-hour the five hundred horsemen have silently disappeared within the
mazes of the chapparal!
Under the guidance of the half-blood Antonio, an open glade is found
near the centre of the thicket. Here the horsemen dismount and tie
their horses to the trees. The attack is to be made on foot.
It is now the hour after midnight. The moon has been down for some
time; and the cirrus clouds, that for a while had reflected her light,
have been gradually growing darker. Objects can no longer be
distinguished at the distance of twenty feet. The huge pile of the
Presidio, looming against the leaden sky, looks black and gloomy. The
sentinel cannot be seen upon the turrets, but at intervals his shrill
voice uttering the "_Centinela alerte_!" tells that he is at his post.
His call is answered by the sentinel at the gate below, and then all is
silent. The garrison sleeps secure--even the night-guard in the zaguan
with their bodies extended along the stone banqueta, are sleeping
soundly.
The Presidio dreads no sudden attack--there has been no rumour of Indian
incursion--the neighbouring tribes are all _en paz_; and the Tagno
conspirators have been destroyed. Greater vigilance would be
superfluous. A sentry upon the azotea, and another by the gate, are
deemed sufficient for the ordinary guardianship of the garrison. Ha!
the inmates of the Presidio little dream of the enemy that is nigh:
"_Centinela alerte_!" once more screams the watcher upon the wall.
"_Centinela alerte_!" answers the other by the gate.
But neither is sufficiently on the alert to perceive the dark forms
that, prostrate upon the ground, like huge lizards, are crawling forward
to the very walls. Slowly and silently these forms are moving, amidst
weeds and grass, gradually drawing nearer to the gateway of the
Presidio.
A lantern burns by the sentinel. Its light, radiating to some distance,
does not avail him--he sees them not!
A rustling noise at length reaches his ear. The "_quien viva_?" is upon
his lips; but he lives not to utter the words. Half-a-dozen bowstrings
twang simultaneously, and as many arrows bury themselves in his flesh.
His heart is pierced, and he falls, almost without uttering a groan!
A stream of dark forms pours into the open gateway. The guard, but half
awake, perish before they can lay hand upon their weapons!
And now the war-cry of the Wacoes peals out in earnest, and the hundreds
of dark warriors rush like a torrent through the zaguan.
They enter the patio. The doors of the _cuartos_ are besieged--
soldiers, terrified to confusion, come forth in their shirts, and fall
under the spears of their dusky assailants. Carbines and pistols crack
on all sides, but those who fire do not live to reload them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a short but terrible struggle--terrible while it lasted. There
were shouts, and shots, and groans, mingling together--the deep voice of
the vengeful leader, and the wild war-cry of his followers--the crashing
of timber, as doors were broken through or forced from their hinges--the
clashing of swords and spears, and the quick detonation of fire-arms.
Oh! it was a terrible conflict!
It ends at length. An almost total silence follows. The warriors no
longer utter their dread cry. Their soldier-enemies are destroyed.
Every cuarto has been cleared of its inmates, who lie in bleeding heaps
over the patio and by the doors. No quarter has been given. All have
been killed on the spot.
No--not all. There are two who survive--two whose lives have been
spared. Vizcarra and Roblado yet live!
Piles of wood are now heaped against the timber posterns of the
building, and set on fire. Volumes of smoke roll to the sky, mingling
with sheets of red flame. The huge pine-beams of the azotea catch the
blaze, burn, crackle, and fall inwards, and in a short while the
Presidio becomes a mass of smoking ruins!
But the red warriors have not waited for this. The revenge of their
leader is not yet complete. It is not to the soldiers alone that he
owes vengeance. He has sworn it to the citizens as well. The whole
settlement is to be destroyed!
And well this oath was kept, for before the sun rose San Ildefonso was
in flames. The arrow, and the spear, and the tomahawk, did their work;
and men, women, and children, perished in hundreds under the blazing
roofs of their houses!
With the exception of the Tagno Indians, few survived to tell of that
horrid massacre. A few whites only--the unhappy father of Catalina
among the rest--were permitted to escape, and carry their broken
fortunes to another settlement.
That of San Ildefonso--town, Presidio, mission, haciendas, and ranchos--
in the short space of twelve hours had ceased to exist. The dwellers of
that lovely valley were no more!
It is yet but noon. The ruins of San Ildefonso are still smoking. Its
former denizens are dead, but it is not yet unpeopled. In the Plaza
stand hundreds of dusky warriors drawn up in hollow square, with their
faces turned inward. They are witnessing a singular scene--another act
in the drama of their leader's vengeance.
Two men are mounted upon asses, and tied upon the backs of the animals.
These men are stripped--so that their own backs are perfectly bare, and
exposed to the gaze of the silent spectators! Though these men no
longer wear their flowing robes, it is easy to distinguish them. Their
close-cut hair and shaven crowns show who they are--the padres of the
mission!
Deep cuts the cuarto into their naked skin, loudly do they groan, and
fearfully writhe. Earnestly do they beg and pray their persecutors to
stay the terrible lash. Their entreaties are unheeded.
Two white men, standing near, overlook the execution. These are Carlos
the cibolero and Don Juan the ranchero.
The priests would move them to pity, but in vain. The hearts of those
two men have been turned to stone.
"Remember my mother--my sister!" mutters Carlos.
"Yes, false priests--remember!" adds Don Juan.
And again is plied the cutting lash, until each corner of the Plaza has
witnessed a repetition of the punishment!
Then the asses are led up in front of the parroquia--now roofless and
black; their heads are fastened together, so that the backs of their
riders are turned toward the spectators.
A line of warriors forms at a distance off--their bows are bent, and at
a signal a flight of arrows goes whistling through the air.
The suffering of the padres is at an end. Both have ceased to exist.
I have arrived at the last act of this terrible drama; but words cannot
describe it. In horror it eclipses all the rest. The scene is La
Nina--the top of the cliff--the same spot where Carlos had performed his
splendid feat on the day of San Juan.
Another feat of horsemanship is now to be exhibited. How different the
actors--how different the spectators!
Upon the tongue that juts out two men are seated upon horseback. They
are not free riders, for it may be noticed that they are tied upon their
seats. Their hands do not grasp a bridle, but are bound behind their
backs; and their feet, drawn together under the bellies of their horses,
are there spliced with raw-hide ropes. To prevent turning in the
saddle, other thongs, extending from strong leathern waist-belts, stay
them to croup and pommel, and hold their bodies firm. Under such a
ligature no horse could dismount either without also flinging the
saddle, and that is guarded against by the strongest girthing. It is
not intended that these horsemen shall lose their seats until they have
performed an extraordinary feat.
It is no voluntary act. Their countenances plainly tell that. Upon the
features of both are written the most terrible emotions--craven
cowardice in all its misery--despair in its darkest shadows!
Both are men of nearly middle age--both are officers in full uniform.
But it needs not that to recognise them as the deadly enemies of
Carlos--Vizcarra and Roblado. No longer now his enemies. They are his
captives!
But for what purpose are they thus mounted? What scene of mockery is to
be enacted? Scene of mockery! Ha! ha! ha!
Observe! _the horses upon which they sit are wild mustangs_! Observe!
_they are blinded with tapojos_!
For what purpose? You shall see.
A Tagno stands at the head of each horse, and holds him with difficulty.
The animals are kept fronting the cliff, with their heads directed to
the jutting point of La Nina.
The Indians are drawn up in line also facing to the cliff. There is no
noise in their ranks. An ominous silence characterises the scene. In
front is their chief mounted upon his coal-black steed; and upon him the
eyes of all are fixed, as though they expected some signal, his face is
pale, but its expression is stern and immobile. He has not yet reached
the completion of his vengeance.
There are no words between him and his victims. All that has passed.
They know their doom.
Their backs are towards him, and they see him not; but the Tagnos who
stand by the horses' heads have their eyes fixed upon him with a
singular expression. What do these expect? A signal.
In awful silence was that signal given. To the right and left sprang
the Tagnos, leaving free the heads of the mustangs. Another signal to
the line of mounted warriors, who, on receiving it, spurred their horses
forward with a wild yell.
Their spears soon pricked the hips of the mustangs, and the blinded
animals sprang towards the cliff!
The groans of agonised terror that escaped from their riders were
drowned by the yells of the pursuing horsemen.
In a moment all was over. The terrified mustangs had sprung out from
the cliff--had carried their riders into eternity!
The dusky warriors pulled up near the brink, and sat gazing upon each
other in silent awe.
A horseman dashed to the front; and, poising his horse upon the very
edge, looked down into the abysm. It was the White Chief.
For some moments he regarded the shapeless masses that lay below. He
saw that they moved not. Men and horses were all dead crushed, bruised,
and shattered--a hideous sight to behold!
A deep sigh escaped him, as though some weight had been lifted from his
heart, and, turning around he muttered to his friend--
"Don Juan! I have kept my oath--_she is avenged_!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The setting sun saw that long line of Indian warriors filing from the
valley, and heading for the plain of the Llano Estacado. But they went
not as they had come. They returned to their country laden with the
plunder of San Ildefonso--to them the legitimate spoils of war.
The cibolero still rode at their head, and Don Juan the ranchero was by
his side. The fearful scenes through which they had just passed
shadowed the brows of both; but these shadows became lighter as they
dwelt on the prospect before them. Each looked forward to a happy
greeting at the end of his journey.
Carlos did not remain long among his Indian friends. Loaded with the
treasure they had promised, he proceeded farther east, and established a
plantation upon the Red River of Louisiana. Here, in the company of his
beautiful wife, his sister, Don Juan, and some of his old servants, he
led in after years a life of peace and prosperity.
Now and then no made hunting excursions into the country of his old
friends the Wacoes--who were over glad to see him again, and still
hailed him as their chief.
Of San Ildefonso there is no more heard since that time. No settlement
was ever after made in that beautiful valley. The Tagnos--released from
the bondage which the padres had woven around them--were but too glad to
give up the half-civilisation they had been taught. Some of them sought
other settlements, but most returned to their old habits, and once more
became hunters of the plains.
Perhaps the fate of San Ildefonso might have attracted more attention in
other times; but it occurred at a peculiar period in Spanish-American
history. Just then the Spanish power, all over the American continent,
was hastening to its decline; and the fall of San Ildefonso was but one
episode among many of a character equally dramatic. Near the same time
fell Gran Quivira, Abo, Chilili, and hundreds of other settlements of
note. Each has its story--each its red romance--perhaps far more
interesting than that we have here recorded.
Chance alone guided our steps to the fair valley of San Ildefonso,--
chance threw in our way one who remembered its legend--the legend of the
_White Chief_.