These reflections all passed through the mind of the cibolero in the space of a few moments, as he stood gazing in the direction in which the marauders had gone. He made no attempt to follow – that would have been worse than useless. On his splendid horse he might have overtaken them – only to die on the points of their lances!
“A curse upon Indian duplicity!” he once more repeated; and then, rising to his feet, walked back to the corral, and gave orders for the oxen to be drawn close up and firmly fastened to the carretas. Another surprise might be attempted by some lingering party of the savages; and, as it would be unsafe to go to sleep, the cibolero and his four companions remained awake and on the alert for the remainder of the night.
Chapter Fourteen
That was a noche triste to Carlos – a night of painful reflections. Bereft of his property – in the midst of hostile Indians, who might change their minds, return, and massacre him and his party – many hundred miles from home, or from any settlement of whites – a wide desert to be traversed – the further discouragement that there was no object for his going home, now that he was stripped of all his trading-stock – perhaps to be laughed at on his return – no prospect of satisfaction or indemnity, for he well knew that his government would send out no expedition to revenge so humble an individual as he was – he knew, in fact, that no expedition of Spanish soldiery could penetrate to the place, even if they had the will; but to fancy Vizcarra and Roblado sending one on his account! No, no; there was no hope of his obtaining satisfaction. He was cruelly robbed, and he knew that he must endure it; but what a blighted prospect was before him!
As soon as day broke he would go to the Waco camp – he would boldly upbraid them for their treachery. But what purpose would that serve? Besides, would he find them still there? No; most likely they were moving off to some other part at the time they had planned the robbery!
Several times during the night a wild idea occurred to him. If he could not have indemnity he might obtain revenge. The Wacoes were not without enemies. Several bordering tribes were at war with them; and Carlos knew they had a powerful foe in the Panés.
“My fortune is bitter,” thought Carlos; “but revenge is sweet! What if I seek the Pané, – tell him my intention, – offer him my lance, my bow, and my true rifle? I have never met the Pané. I know him not; but I am no weak hand, and now that I have a cause for vengeance he will not despise my aid. My men will follow me – I know they will – anywhere; and, tame ‘Tagnos’ though they be, they can fight when roused to revenge. I shall seek the Pané!”
The last thought was uttered half aloud, and with emphasis that spoke determination. The cibolero was a man of quick resolves, and this resolve he had actually come to. It is not to be wondered at, His indignation at being treated in such a cruel and cowardly manner – the poor prospect before him on returning to the settlement – his natural desire to punish those who had placed him in such a predicament – as well as some hope which he still entertained of recovering at least a part of his lost property, – all influenced him to this resolve. He had determined upon it, and was just on the point of communicating his determination to his companions, when he was interrupted by the half-blood Antonio.
“Master,” said the latter, who appeared to have been for some time busied with his own thoughts, “did you notice nothing strange?”
“When, Antonio?”
“During the estampeda.”
“What was there strange?”
“Why, there appeared to be a good number, full half, of the rascals afoot.”
“True; I observed that.”
“Now, master, I have seen a cavallada stampeded by the Comanches more than once – they were always mounted.”
“What signifies that? These are Wacoes, not Comanches.”
“True, master; but I have heard that the Wacoes, like the Comanches, are true Horse-Indians, and never go afoot on any business.”
“That is indeed so,” replied the cibolero in a reflective mood. “Something strange, I confess.”
“But, master,” continued the half-blood, “did you notice nothing else strange during the stampede?”
“No,” answered Carlos; “I was so annoyed – so put out by the loss – I scarce noticed anything. What else, Antonio?”
“Why, in the midst of these yellings, did you not hear a shrill whoop now and then – a whistle?”
“Ha! did you hear that?”
“More than once – distinctly.”
“Where were my ears?” asked the cibolero of himself. “You are sure, Antonio?”
“Quite sure, master.”
Carlos remained for a moment silent, evidently engaged in busy reflection. After a pause, he broke out in a half-soliloquy: —
“It may have been – it must have been – by Heavens! it must – ”
“What, master?”
“The Pané whistle!”
“Just what I was thinking, master. The Comanches never whoop so – the Kiawa never. I have not heard that the Wacoes give such a signal. Why not Pané? Besides, their being afoot – that’s like Pané!”
A sudden revulsion had taken place in the mind of the cibolero. There was every probability that Antonio’s conjecture was correct. The “whistle” is a peculiar signal of the Pané tribes. Moreover, the fact of so many of the marauders being on foot – that was another peculiarity. Carlos knew that among the Southern Indians such a tactic is never resorted to. The Panés are Horse-Indians too, but on their marauding expeditions to the South they often go afoot, trusting to return mounted – which they almost invariably do.
“After all,” thought Carlos, “I have been wronging the Wacoes – the robbers are Panés!”
But now a new suspicion entered his mind. It was still the Wacoes that had done it. They had adopted the Pané whistle to deceive him! A party of them might easily be afoot – it was not such a distance to their camp, – besides, after the estampeda they had gone in that very direction!
No doubt, should he go there on the morrow, they would tell him that Panés were in the neighbourhood, that it was they who had stolen his mules – the mules of course he would not see, as these would be safely concealed among the hills.
“No, Antonio,” he said, after making these reflections, “our enemies are the Wacoes themselves.”
“Master,” replied Antonio, “I hope not.”
“I hope not, too, camarado. I had taken a fancy to our friends of but yesterday: I should be sorry to find them our foes – but I fear it is even so.”
With all, Carlos was not confident; and now that he reflected, another circumstance came to his mind in favour of the Wacoes. His companions had also noted it.
That circumstance was the running of the buffaloes observed during the past few days. The gangs had passed from the north, going southward; and their excited manner was almost a proof that they were pressed by a party of hunters. The Wacoes were all this time hunting to the south of the cibolero’s camp! This would seem to indicate that some other Indians were upon the north. What more likely than a band of Panés?
Again Carlos reproached himself for his too hasty suspicions of his new friends. His mind was filled with doubts. Perhaps these would be resolved by the light of the morning.
As soon as day should arrive, he had resolved to