The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

“True!” ejaculated the orator. “Let us question the arrow!”

And, stepping forward, he drew the shaft from the body of the Pané, and held it aloft.

The moment the eyes of the warriors fell upon its barbed head, an exclamation of astonishment passed from their lips. The head was of iron! No Waco ever used such a weapon as that!

All eyes were instantly turned on Carlos the cibolero, with looks of inquiry and admiration. All felt that it must be from his bow had sped that deadly shaft; and they were the more convinced of this because some who had noticed the third Pané pierced with a rifle bullet, had just declared the fact to the crowd.

Yes, it must be so. The pale-face was the avenger of their chief!

Chapter Seventeen

Carlos, who by this time had become aware of the nature of their inquiries, now stepped forward, and, in modest phrase, detailed through the interpreter how the chief had fallen, and what part he himself had borne in the conflict.

A loud murmur of applause broke from the circle of warriors, and the more excited of the young men rushed forward and grasped the cibolero’s hand, uttering as they did so expressions of gratitude. Most of the warriors already knew that to him they were indebted for their safety. It was the report of his rifle, fired in the night, that had put them on their guard, and prevented the Panés from surprising their encampment, else the day’s history might have been very different. In fact, the Panés, through this very signal having been heard, had been themselves surprised, and that was the true secret of their disaster and sanguinary retreat.

When, in addition to this service, it was seen how the cibolero had fought on their side, killing several of their foes, the hearts of the Wacoes were filled with gratitude; but now that it became known that the pale-faced warrior was the avenger of their beloved chief, their gratitude swelled into enthusiasm, and for some minutes their loud expressions of it alone could be heard.

When the excitement had to some extent subsided, the warrior who seemed to be recognised as the orator of the tribe, and who was regarded with great deference, again stood forth to speak. This time his speech was directed to Carlos alone.

“White warrior!” he said. “I have spoken with the braves of our nation. They all feel that they owe you deep gratitude, which words cannot repay. The purport of our recent deliberations has been explained to you. Upon this ground we vowed that the avenger of him who lies cold should be our future chief. We thought not at the time that that brave warrior was our white brother. But now we know; and should we for that be false to our vow – to our promised word? No! – not even in thought; and here, with equal solemnity, we again repeat that oath.”

“We repeat it!” echoed around the ring of warriors, while each with solemnity of manner placed his hand over his heart.

“White warrior!” continued the speaker, “our promise remains sacred. The honour we offer you is the greatest that we can bestow. It has never been borne but by a true warrior of the Waco tribe, for no impotent descendant of even a favourite chief has ever ruled over the braves of our nation. We do not fear to offer this honour to you. We would rejoice if you would accept it. Stranger! we will be proud of a white chief when that chief is a warrior such as you! We know you better than you think. We have heard of you from our allies the Comanche – we have heard of Carlos the Cibolero!

“We know you are a great warrior; and we know, too, that in your own country, among your own people, you are nothing. Excuse our freedom, but speak we not the truth? We despise your people, who are only tyrants and slaves. All these things have our Comanche brothers told us, and much more of you. We know who you are, then; we knew you when you came amongst us, and were glad to see you. We traded with you as a friend.

“We now hail you as a brother, and thus say, – If you have no ties that bind you to your ungrateful nation, we can offer you one that will not be ungrateful. Live with us, – be our chief!”

As the speaker ended, his last words were borne like an echo from lip to lip until they had gone round the full circle of warriors, and then a breathless silence ensued.

Carlos was so taken by surprise that for some moments he was unable to make reply, he was not alone surprised by the singular proposal thus singularly made to him; but the knowledge which the speaker betrayed of his circumstances quite astonished him. True, he had traded much among the Comanches, and was on friendly terms with that tribe, some of whom, in times of peace, even visited the settlement of San Ildefonso; but it seemed odd that these savages should have noticed the fact – for fact it was – that the cibolero was somewhat of an outcast among his own people. Just then he had no time to reflect upon the singularity of the circumstances, as the warriors waited his reply.

He scarcely knew what reply to make. Hopeless outcast that he was, for a moment the proposal seemed worthy of acceptance. At home he was little better than a slave; here he would be ruler, the lord elect of all.

The Wacoes, though savages by name, were warriors, were men of hearts, human and humane. He had proofs of it before him. His mother and sister would share his destiny; but Catalina, – ha! that one thought resolved him; he reflected no further.

“Generous warriors!” he replied; “I feel from the bottom of my heart a full sense of the honour you have offered to confer upon me. I wish that by words I could prove how much I thank you, but I cannot. My words, therefore, shall be few and frank. It is true that in my own land I am not honoured, – I am one of the poorest of its people; but there is a tie that binds me to it —a tie of the heart that calls upon me to return. Wacoes, I have spoken!”

“Enough!” said the orator; “enough, brave stranger: it is not for us to inquire into the motives that guide your acts. If not our chief, you will remain our friend. We have yet a way – a poor one – left us to show our gratitude: you have suffered from our enemies; you have lost your property, but that has been recovered, and shall be yours again. Further we entreat you to remain with us for some days, and partake of our rude hospitality. You will stay with us?”

The invitation was promptly echoed by all, and as promptly accepted.

About a week after this time an atajo of pack-mules – nearly fifty in number – loaded with buffalo-hides and tasajo, was seen struggling up the eastern ceja of the Llano Estacado, and heading in a north-westerly direction over that desert plain. The arriero, mounted upon the mulera, was a half-blood Indian. Three carretas, drawn by oxen and driven by dusky peons, followed the mule-train, making noise enough to frighten even the coyotes that behind skulked through the coverts of mezquite. A dashing horseman mounted upon a fine black steed rode in advance, who, ever and anon turning in his saddle, looked back with a satisfied glance upon the fine atajo. That horseman was Carlos.

The Wacoes had not forgotten to be generous. That train of mules and those heavy packs were the gift of the tribe to the avenger of their chief. But that was not all. In the breast-pocket of the cibolero’s jacket was a “bolsa,” filled with rare stuff, also a present from the Wacoes, who promised some day that their guest should have more of the same. What did that bolsa contain? coin? money? jewels? No. It contained only dust; but that dust was yellow and glittering. It was gold!

Chapter Eighteen

On the second day after the fiesta there was a small dining party at the Presidio. Merely a few bachelor friends of the Comandante – the beaux esprits of the place – including the fashionable Echevarria. The cura was among the number, and also the mission padrés, both of whom enjoyed the convivialities of the table equal to any “friar of orders grey.”

The company had gone through the numerous courses of a Mexican meal – the “pucheros,” “guisados,” and endless mixtures of “chilé,” – and the dinner was at that stage when the cloth has been carried off, and the wine flows freely, “Canario” and “Xeres,” “Pedro do Ximenes,” “Madeira,” and “Bordeos,” in bottles of different shapes, stood upon the table; and for those who liked a stronger beverage there was a flask of golden “Catalan,” with another of Maraschino. A well-stored cellar was that of the Comandante. In addition to his being military governor, he was, as already hinted, collector of the derechos de consume, or custom-house dues. Hence he was the recipient of many a little present, as now and then a basket of champagne or a dozen of Bordeaux.

His company had got fairly into the wine. The cura had thrown aside his sanctity and become human like the rest; the padrés had forgotten their sackcloth and bead-roll, and the senior of them, Padré Joaquin, entertained the table with spicy adventures which had occurred to him before he became a monk. Echevarria related anecdotes of Paris, with many adventures he had encountered among the grisettes.

The Spanish officers being the hosts were, of course, least talkative, though the Comandante – vain as any young sub who wore his epaulettes for the first time – could not refrain from alluding occasionally to his terrible list of bonnes fortunes among the fair Sevillanas. He had long been stationed at the city of oranges, and “la gracia Andalusiana” was ever his theme of admiration.

Roblado believed in the belles of the Havannah, and descanted upon the plump, material beauty which is characteristic of the Quadroons; while the lieutenant expressed his penchant for the small-footed Guadalaxareñas– not of old Spain, but of the rich Mexican province Guadalaxara. He had been quartered there.

So ran the talk – rough and ribald – upon that delicate theme – woman. The presence of the trio of churchmen was no restraint. On the contrary, both padrés and cura boasted of their liaisons with as much bawd and brass as the others, for padrés and cura were both as depraved as any of their dining companions. Any little reserve either might have shown upon ordinary occasions had disappeared after a few cups of wine; and none of them feared the company, which, on its part, stood as little in awe of them. The affectation of sanctity and self-denial was meant only for the simple poblanos and the simpler peons of the settlement. At the dinner-table it was occasionally assumed by one or the other, but only by way of joke, – to give point and piquancy to the relation of some adventure. In the midst of the conversation, which had grown somewhat general and confused, a name was pronounced which produced a momentary silence. That name was “Carlos the cibolero.”

At the mention of this name several countenances changed expression. Roblado was seen to frown; on Vizcarra’s face were portrayed mixed emotions; and both padrés and cura seemed to know the name unfavourably.

It was the beau Echevarria who had mentioned it.

“’Pon the honour of a cavallero! the most impudent thing I ever witnessed in all my life, even in republican Paris! A fellow, – a demned trader in hides and tasajo – in short, a butcher of demned buffaloes to aspire —Parbleu!”

Echevarria, though talking Spanish, always swore in French. It was more polite.