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.”