Chapter Twenty Five.
“Now, Roblado,” asked the Comandante, “what is the other string to my bow?”
“Can’t you guess, my dear colonel?”
“Not exactly,” replied Vizcarra, though he well knew that he could. It was not long since the other string had been before his mind. He had even thought of it upon the day of his first defeat, and while his anger was hot and revengeful. And since then, too—often, often. His question was quite superfluous, for he well knew Roblado’s answer would be “force.”
It was “force.” That was the very word. “How?”
“Take a few of your people, go by night, and carry her off. What can be more simple? It would have been the proper way at first, with such a prude as she! Don’t fear the result. It’s not so terrible to them. I’ve known it tried before. Long ere the cibolero can return, she’ll be perfectly reconciled, I warrant you.”
“And if not?”
“If not, what have you to fear?”
“The talk, Roblado—the talk.”
“Bah! my dear colonel, you are timid in the matter. You have mismanaged it so far, but that’s no reason you should not use tact for the future. It can be done by night. You have chambers here where no one is allowed to enter—some without windows, if you need them. Who’s to be the wiser? Pick your men—those you can trust. You don’t require a whole troop, and half-a-dozen onzas will tie as many tongues. It’s as easy as stealing a shirt. It is only stealing a chemisette. Ha! ha! ha!” and the ruffian laughed at his coarse simile and coarser joke, in which laugh he was joined by the Comandante.