Such an indifference to suffering is by no means a characteristic of the New Mexican people—I should rather say of the females of that land—for the men are brutal enough. As regards the former, the very opposite character is theirs.
Their conduct would be unaccountable, therefore, but for the knowledge of a fact which guided it on this occasion. They knew who the captive girl was—they knew she was the sister of Carlos the cibolero—Carlos the murderer! This it was that checked the flow of their bettor feelings.
Against Carlos the popular indignation was strong. “Asesino,” “ladron,” “ingrato,” were the terms used in speaking of him. A wretch! to have murdered the good lieutenant—the favourite of the place; and for what motive? Some paltry quarrel or jealousy! What motive, indeed? There seemed no motive but a thirst of blood on the part of this “demonio,” this “güero heretico.” Ungrateful wretch, too, to have attempted the life of the valiant Comandante—he who had been striving all he could to recover the assassin’s sister from the Indian savages!
And now he had actually succeeded! Only think of it! There she was, brought safe home again by the agency of this very Comandante, who had sent his captain and soldiers for her,—this very man whom he would have killed! Demonio! asesino! ladron! They would all be glad to see him seated in the chair of the “garrote.” No “buen Catolico” would have acted as he had done—no one but a sinful “heretico”—a blood-loving “Americano”! How he would be punished when caught!
Such were the feelings of all the populace, except, perhaps, the poor slaves—the mansos—and a very few Criollos, who, although not approving of the acts of Carlos, held revolutionary principles, and hated the Spanish régime with all their hearts.
With such prejudice against the cibolero, no wonder that there was but little sympathy for the forlorn creature, his sister:
That it was his sister no one doubted, although there were few on the spot who knew either. Up to the day of the fiesta her brother, now so notorious, was but little known to the inhabitants of the town, which he rarely visited—she less; and there were but few in the place who had ever seen her before that hour. But the identity was unmistakeable. The fair, golden hair, the white skin, the glowing red of the cheeks, though common in other parts of the world, were rare characteristics in North Mexico. The proclamation upon the walls described the “asesino” as possessing them. This could be no other than his sister. Besides, there were those who had seen her at the fiesta, where her beauty had not failed to attract both admiration and envy.
She looked beautiful as ever, though the red was not so bright on her cheek, and a singular, wild expression appeared in her eyes. To the questions put to her she either answered not or returned vague replies. She sat in silence; but several times broke forth into strange, unintelligible, exclamatory phrases, in which the words “Indios” and “barbaros” repeatedly occurred.
“Esta loco!” (“She is mad!”) muttered one to another; “she fancies she is still with the savages!”
Perhaps it was so. Certainly she was not among friends.