Another word from the cibolero, and a few moments’ reflection, and his incredulity vanished. The terrible truth flashed upon his mind, for he, too, remembered the conduct of Vizcarra on the day of the fiesta. His visit to the rancho and other circumstances now rushed before him, aiding the conviction that Carlos spoke the truth.
For some moments the lover could scarce give utterance to his thoughts, so painful were they. More painful than ever! Even while under the belief that his mistress was in the hands of wild Indians he suffered less. There was still some hope that, by their strange code in relation to female captives, she might escape that dreaded fate, until he and Carlos might come up and rescue her. But now the time that had elapsed—Vizcarra’s character—O God! it was a terrible thought; and the young man reeled in his saddle as it crossed his mind.
He rode back a few paces, flung himself from his horse, and staggered to the ground in the bitterness of his anguish.
Carlos remained on the bluff, still gazing down on the Presidio. He seemed to be maturing some plan. He could see the sentries on the battlements, the troopers lounging around the walls in their dark blue and crimson uniforms. He could even hear the call of the cavalry bugle, as its clear echoes came dancing along the cliffs. He could see the figure of a man—an officer—pacing to and fro on the azotea, and he could perceive that the latter had halted, and was observing him.
It was at this very moment that Vizcarra had caught sight of the horseman on the bluff—the sight that had so terrified him, and which indeed was no illusion.
“Can it be that fiend himself?” thought Carlos, regarding the officer for a moment. “Quite likely it is he. Oh! that he were within range of my rifle! Patience—patience! I will yet have my revenge!”
And as the speaker muttered these words, he reined back from the bluff and rejoined his companion.
A consultation was now held as to what would be the best mode of proceeding. Antonio was called to their council, and to him Carlos declared his belief that his sister was a captive within the Presidio. It was telling Antonio what he had already divined. The mestizo had been to the fiesta as well as his master, and his keen eyes had been busy on that day. He, too, had observed the conduct of Vizcarra; and long before their halt he had arrived at an elucidation of the many mysteries that marked the late Indian incursion. He knew all—his master might have saved words in telling him.
Neither words nor time were wasted. The hearts of both brother and lover were beating too hurriedly for that. Perhaps at that moment the object of their affection was in peril,—perhaps struggling with her ruffian abductor! Their timely arrival might save her!
These considerations took precedence of all plans; in fact, there was no plan they could adopt, to remain concealed—to skulk about the place—to wait for opportunity—what opportunity? They might spend days in fruitless waiting. Days!—hours— even minutes would be too long. Not a moment was to be lost before some action must be taken.