Chapter Sixty Nine
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 Niña, 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 Niña 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 padrés 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 padrés 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 Niña – 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 Niña.
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 padrés 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
.
Appendix
Notes
“
Sierra Blanca
.” – Page 1. The Sierra Blanca is so called because the tops of this range are usually covered with snow. The snow of the Sierra Blanca is not “eternal.” It only remains for about three parts of the year. Its highest peaks are below the snow-line of that latitude. Mountains that carry the eternal snow are by the Spanish Americans denominated “Nevada.”
“
The Grand Prairie
.” – Page 2. This name is somewhat indefinite, being applied by some to particular portions of prairie land. Among the hunters it is the general name given to the vast treeless region lying to the west of the timbered country on the Mississippi. The whole longitudinal belt from the Lower Rio Grande to the Great Slave Lake is, properly speaking, the Grand Prairie; but the phrase has been used in a more restricted sense, to designate the larger tracts of open country, in contra-distinction to the smaller prairies, such as those of Illinois and Louisiana, which last are separated from the true prairie country by wide tracts of timbered surface.
“
Settlements of Nuevo Mexico
.” – Page 2. The settlements of New Mexico covered at one time a much wider extent of country than they do now. The Indians have been constantly narrowing the boundaries for the last fifty years. At present these settlements are almost wholly restricted to the banks of the Del Norte and a few tributary streams.
“
Gramma grass
.” – Page 2. The
Chondrosium
, a beautiful and most nutritions herbage that covers many of the plains of Texas and North Mexico. There are several species of grass known among Mexicans as “gramma”; one in particular, the
Chondrosium foeneum
, as a food for horses, is but little inferior to oats.
“
Cackle of his fighting-cock
.” – Page 7. There is no exaggeration in all this. Every traveller in Mexico has witnessed such scenes, and many have borne testimony to these and similar facts. I have often seen the fighting chanticleer carried inside the church under the arm of its owner, while the latter entered to pray!
“
Fiestas principales
.” – Page 7. The more noted Saints’ days, or religious festivals, as Saint John’s, Good-Friday, Guadalupe, etcetera, are so styled to distinguish them from the many others of lesser celebrity.
“
Tailing the bull
.” – Page 7. “Bull-tailing” (
coleo de toro
) and “running the cock” (
correr el gallo
) are favourite sports in most parts of Mexico, but particularly in the Northern provinces. They were also Californian games while that country was Spano-Mexican.
“
The Apache
” – Page 8. One of the largest tribes of the “Indios bravos” or wild Indians,
i. e.
Indians who have never submitted to the Spanish yoke. Their country lies around the heads of the Gila, extending from that stream to the Del Norte, and down the latter to the range of another large and powerful tribe – the Comanches – also classed as “Indios bravos.”
“
Familias principales
.” – Page 8. The “first families,” a United States phrase, is the synonym of “familias principales” of Mexico.
“
Comerciante
.” – Page 8. Merchant or extensive trader. Merchandise is not degrading in Mexico. The rich merchant may be one of the “familias principales.” Although there is still an old
noblesse
in the Mexican republic, the titles are merely given by courtesy, and those who hold them are often outranked and eclipsed in style by the prosperous parvenu.
“
Alcalde
.” – Page 8. Pronounced Alkalde. The duties of the Alcalde are very similar to those of a magistrate or justice of the peace. Every village has its Alcalde, who is known by his large gold or silver-headed cane and tassel. In villages where the population is purely Indian, the Alcalde is usually either of Indian or mixed descent – often pure Indian.
“
Mode de Paris
!” – Page 8. The upper classes in Mexico, particularly those who reside in the large cities, have discarded the very picturesque national costume, and follow the fashions of Paris. In all the large towns, French tailors, modistes, jewellers, etcetera, may be met with. The ladies wear French dresses, but without the bonnet. The shawl is drawn over the head when it becomes necessary to cover it. The hideous bonnet is only seen upon foreign ladies residing in Mexico. The city gentleman of first-class wears a frock-coat, but the cloth jacket is the costume of the greater number. A long-tailed dress-coat is regarded as an
outré
affair, and never appears upon the streets of a Mexican town.
“
Gachupino
.” – Page 9. A Spaniard of Old Spain. The term is used contemptuously by the natives, or Creoles (Criollos), of Mexico, who hate their Spanish cousins as the Americans hate Englishmen, and for a very similar reason.
“
Hijo de algo
.” – Page 9. Literally, “son of somebody.” Hence the word
hidalgo
. The “blue blood” (
sangre azul
) is the term for pure blood or high birth.
“
Poblanas
.” – Page 9. A
poblana
is, literally, a village girl or woman, but in a more specific sense it signifies a village belle, or beauty. It is nearly a synonyme of the Spanish “maja.”
“
Don Juan Tenorio
.” – Page 9. Don Juan Tenorio – a celebrated character of Spanish romance and drama. He is the original from which Byron drew his conception of Don Juan. He is the hero of a thousand love-scrapes and “
desafios
,” or duels. The drama of “Don Juan Tenorio” still keeps the Spanish stage, and Spaniards can hardly find words to express their admiration of its poetry. It requires two nights to play this piece, which is about twice the length of a regular five-act play.
“
Teniente
.” – Page 9. “Lugar-teniente” is lieutenant in Spanish, but the “lugar” is left out, and “teniente” stands for the title of the subaltern.
“
Quien sabel
.” – Page 10. A noted phrase which figures largely in Spanish dialogue. Literally, “Who knows?”
“
Gambucinos and rancheros
!” – Page 10.
Gambucino
, a petty miner, who digs or washes gold on his own account.
Ranchero
, the dweller in a
rancho
, or country hut. The ranchero class corresponds pretty nearly to that known as “small farmers,” though in Mexico they are more often graziers than agriculturists.
“
Enaguas
.” – Page 10. Sometimes written “nagua,” – the petticoat, usually of coarse blue or red cotton stuff, with a list of white or some other colour forming the top part.
“
Reboso
.” – Page 10. The scarf of greyish or slaty blue, worn by all women in Mexico, except the ladies of the Upper Ten Thousand, who use it only on occasions.
“
Allegria
.” – Page 11. A singular custom prevails among the women of New Mexico, of daubing their faces all over with the juice of a berry called by them the “allegria,” which gives them anything but a charming look. The juice is of a purplish red colour, somewhat like that of blackberries. Some travellers allege that it is done for ornament, as the Indians use vermilion