CHAPTER IIUNEXPECTED GUESTS
Before they had ridden far, Carlos, whom Marta had laughingly compelled to take the place behind his sister, reached over her shoulder and laid his hand upon the bridle rein, saying:
“Wait, Carlota. Turn him around. I want to go to the schoolroom and get myriata[6]and my little hammer.”
“Let’s! I’ll get my posy-box, too. Maybe we’ll find some nice new things to show our father—when he comes home,” she wistfully answered.
“Of course!” assented the boy, wheeling Benoni about, only to pull him up again in sheer amazement.
Upon the plain before them was a group of four persons, neither Indians, neighbors, nor any white settlers whom the children knew, thoughthe two burros were of the familiar type ofvaqueros[7]employed upon their own rancho. The other two strangers were mounted upon fine horses and wore queer clothing, once white, but now soiled and travel-stained. On their heads were curious canvas helmets with green linings and floating, gauzy veils. Also, these two men carried monster umbrellas of white and green, which strange articles nearly sent Benoni into convulsions. He trembled like an aspen, and his suffering promptly restored Carlota’s own composure. She soothed him in her gentlest accents:
“There, there, my darling! Whoa, my pretty! Dearest beastie, don’t you fear, heart of my life! Carlota will take care of Benoni. So she will!”
Carlos could only sit and stare, his curiosity increasing when the foremost rider of the group burst into a hearty laugh of relief and amusement. Then he exclaimed:
“So, you two ferocious creatures are not young Indians, after all! But pray tell me if this is a land where the girls act as guides and protectors to their brothers.”
Neither child fully understood this speech, yet Carlos perceived that, for the second time that day, he was being ridiculed. First, by old Marta, and now by this stranger. This made him forget that cardinal virtue of instant and unquestioning hospitality in which he had been trained and to retort:
“If people do not like the land and its customs they needn’t come into it, no! As for girls ‘protecting’—Pooh! Everywhere men who are men are brave as they are tender and, my father says, to be indulgent is not weakness, always.”
The stranger’s amusement had given place to a frank admiration of the beautiful boy thus arrogantly assuming manhood’s airs, even in part deserving them. Also, the younger gentleman courteously asked:
“Will you kindly tell me, little lady, if there is water near at hand? We are all very thirsty.”
“Surely. Right here in the schoolroom. It is but a tiny way—. Only those queer things—Benoni—I’d show you if it wasn’t for them. I’ll show you, anyway. Here, Carlos!” and with a swift, graceful movement the girl tossed the bridle toward her brother and slipped tothe ground. Then lightly catching the bit-ring of the questioner’s horse, she ran forward at a pace which compelled the animal she led to trot. “Right yonder, where the osiers grow, is the most delicious spring of water in all New Mexico. So my father thinks.”
Everybody now followed Carlota, even Benoni; though he planted his forefeet firmly every once in a while as if protesting against the cruelty of his young master in thus forcing him to keep so near those terrible umbrellas; but, fortunately, by the time they reached the spring these obnoxious things had been furled and laid upon the ground.
“The basket, brother! The basket—hurry!” cried the little girl, promptly emptying its precious cakes upon the grass as he tossed it to her. Then she filled it with water and offered it to him who had first complained of thirst.
“Thank you, little lady, but my father needs it most. All the time he suffers from the heat and dryness, and is always ready for a drink. Though I doubt if he has ever used a cup so odd and pretty.”
“Beg pardon, but it isn’t a cup. It’s abasket. Old Marta made it. She can make some even beautifuller.”
“Indeed? What a skillful Marta she must be! This is the finest basket I ever saw.” Then, receiving the utensil from his father’s hand he dipped and offered it to the two Mexican servants. Afterward he quenched his own thirst, which must have been intense, for he drank so deeply before he finished.
“There! I thought you were a gentleman, if the other’s not,” remarked the observant Carlota, with satisfaction.
“Eh? Thank you, but I must claim that my father is, also, a gentleman.”
“Why then did he make Carlos get angry?”
“Maybe because he’s very tired and not used to boys. Where is the schoolroom you mentioned?”
“Why—this. We’re in it, now.”
The young man whistled in surprise, and exclaimed:
“Well, truly, this is a remarkable country! An out-of-door schoolroom. Is the sun your teacher?”
“My father is our teacher. Course, he knows everything there is, I guess.”
“What is his name? I like to know wise people, though they are very scarce.”
“Adrian Manuel. My brother is Carlos and I am Carlota Manuel. We are twins, though he is so much bigger than me.”
Again the stranger whistled, then hastily called to the older man who had lain down in the shade of the osiers to cool and rest:
“Father! We’ve struck the very spot!”
That gentleman arose with surprising quickness, exclaiming:
“What! Is this the Refugio Rancho?”
“Yes, Señor,” answered Carlos who had shown the Mexicans a pool beyond the spring where they could water their animals and who now returned to stand beside his sister, with his arm about her shoulders.
“Does your father live here, son?”
“Course.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s that? I have come a long, long distance on purpose to see, and talk with him. I’ve written him a score of letters without avail, so now I’ll try what word of mouth will do,”answered the elder gentleman, with considerable sharpness.
“When he comes home he’ll be glad to talk with you. He always likes to talk with strangers and makes them welcome. I forgot that when I lost my temper. I beg your pardon, Señor.”
“Don’t mention it, lad. But allow me to say that, upon my word, you’re the queerest little chap I ever met. Indian clothes, Spanish graces, and Yankee bluntness. So this is Refugio, at last! Hmm, hmm. Well, well, well! Where is the house!”
“Yonder, Señor, among the palms and olives that partly hide it. There is a rise of ground that way, too. Would you like to go there now?” asked Carlos, once more the courteous small host his father would have approved.
“Presently, thank you. But I find this rest and shade delightful. My! It’s a hot country! Sit down on the grass here and tell me all you know about Refugio.”
Both children laughed aloud at that, Carlos replying:
“It would take till nightfall! Why, I couldtalk about our dear Refugio ‘forever and a day’ and not have done. You see, Señor, it’s such a very old place. My father says it is one of the most ancient landmarks. A landmark is, if you don’t know—I didn’t—one of the boundaries of a country or its history. Old Refugio is both.”
The boy was as eager to discuss this beloved subject as the newcomers were to listen, but Carlota quietly interposed:
“If brother once begins to talk about Refugio and the things which have happened here he won’t know how to stop. Yet my father says that travelers are always hungry when they get here, we live so far from any other rancho. So, if you won’t go to the house yet, will you have some of our cakes here?”
Gathering up the cakes and loaves she had emptied from the basket, she proffered them to the strangers, beginning with the gray haired man as she had seen his son do with the water.
“Yes, thank you. Though it’s not long since we stopped to eat, those cakes smell very appetizing. Let us all sit about the spring and enjoy them together. So, this is your schoolroom. What do you learn in it?” he asked.
“I could better tell you what we don’t. First, there’s geography. See that white line?”
“Yes. It suggests a tennis-court. What is it for?”
Carlos sprang up and merrily bestrode the line-mark, crying:
“One leg is in my native land and one upon foreign soil! That’s the way my father says it. This—” putting his hand upon a tuft of grass—“is in Mexico. This other in the United States. Our rancho is the southeast boundary of our own country. Our house was built hundreds of years ago by the good priests who came to teach the Pueblos about our Lord. That’s why they named it Refugio, the House of Refuge. Because it wasn’t only to help folks to go to Heaven, it was to give them shelter when they were persecuted. Somebody must always have been fighting then, I think.”
“So history says. Do you learn that, too?” inquired the younger gentleman.
“Yes. Not out of books, though. Father says we’re to study that way, later. Now, he just brings out old Guadalupo—who’s a hundred and fifteen years—and, sometimes, Marta, and makes them what he calls his ‘texts.’ Hesays that they’re living history. Carlota and I are history-makers, too. If we should live as long as those old folks somebody might find us just as interesting as we do them.”
“Far more so, maybe. I find you extremely interesting even now. I would like to hear a great deal about your lives and doings.”
Carlos thoughtfully studied the young gentleman’s face, then asked:
“Would you, really? How strange that seems—just children like us. Let me see. We learn Spanish and behavior—when we don’t forget it—from the Mestizas. They are never, never rude. Even when they stab a man in the back they do it courteously. So Miguel says.”
“What? What! You dreadful child! Are you taught stabbing, also, in this modern school of philosophy?” demanded the elder Mr. Disbrow, nervously glancing toward his dark-skinned servants.
Carlos rolled upon the grass, boisterously laughing. Then, suddenly remembering the “courtesy” which he boasted of having studied, sat up and apologized.
The apology accepted, the inquiry followed:
“Do you like to speak the Spanish you are taught?”
“Oh! I love it! You can say such things in it. They seem to mean more, ’specially if you’re angry. But our father doesn’t wish us to use it very much. He says we must first acquire pure English. He is very particular himself. But isn’t it hard to be grammar-y?” asked Carlota, not to be left out of the conversation.
“Very. Yet, I think your father couldn’t have greatly objected to the Spanish, since he gave you such pretty Spanish names,” answered Mr. Rupert.
“That was our mother’s doing. She named us. See? That is where she sleeps. That is her grave.”
The little girl stood up and pointed to a clump of agave plants, in the midst of which rose a flower-decked mound, with a simply-inscribed, natural boulder at its head.
After a hasty exchange of glances, with one impulse, the strangers rose and quietly walked to the spot Carlota had designated. For a little time they stood there, with bowed heads, as if doing reverence to the slumbering dust below,then gravely turned away. They did not again sit down in the “schoolroom” and, immediately, Mr. Rupert asked the children to guide them to the house.
For the first time in their lives the twins regarded their mother’s resting place with feelings of awe, inspired by the solemn manner of these strangers. She had died when they were babies, but their father had kept alive in their hearts a consciousness of her existence as real as it was joyous.
Their happy mother, young, beloved, and beautiful; who had sung and laughed her way through life, and who had trustfully gone out of it to another which was even fuller of sunshine. Why should anybody grow stern and sad who looked down upon her grave?
They could not fathom the mystery, and soberly led the way to the old adobe Mission, which had been a House of Refuge for so many strangers.
“I think, Carlota, maybe these are the ‘enemy’ sort of folks Miguel so often talks about, and seems to expect will come, sometime to Refugio,” impressively whispered Carlos.
“‘Enemies’ are wicked people, isn’t they?”
“Ye-es. I be-lieve so;” yet the boy’s tone was doubtful. If these were “enemies” they appeared to be more queer than wicked.
“Hmm. Then that is why.”
“Why what, girlie?”
“Why they wear such funny hats on their heads and carry such strange things in their hands. Don’t you remember that in all the stories of bad ones there’s always something to know them by? Marks on their foreheads, or ugly clothes or faces; and now those have—I wonder what they call these horrid greeny-white open-and-shutters that scared Benoni so! You see, brother, he knew they were ‘enemies’ at once. Horses do know lots about such things, Marta says.”
“They are ‘sunumberellas.’ I asked the gentleman,” answered Carlos, proud of this acquisition to his “pure English.”
“Then whenever I see a ‘sunerbell’ I shall know I see an ‘enemy,’ too,” rejoined Carlota, with conviction.