CHAPTER IXPABLO, THE DANCER
It was due to its steep slope that Benoni had penetrated so far into the cave. To escape from the ‘norther,’ he had fled down it, stumbling and forced to go forward, till he reached that level inner chamber where consciousness returned to the children.
Now to reascend that narrow, jagged passage was almost impossible. Yet the same instinct which had guided him to safety remained with him as he crawled, struggled, twisted himself upward. The children clung to him, urged and pushed him, in their frantic efforts to escape whatever was pursuing them; for constantly nearer and louder drew that curious cry from the tunnel-like depths of the cavern. And, at last, when their force was almost spent—they found themselves in the sunshine!
The sudden light blinded them so that they clapped their hands over their eyes to shut itout and even Benoni dropped his head and blinked at the ground. Then, all at once, that hoarse shout was in their very ears; yet, out there in the open, sounding much feebler and more human.
Carlota opened her eyes and peeped through her fingers—stared—and bounded forward with an answering cry of delight:
“Pablo, the Simple! Only our own Pablo— Pablo!”
The man stared back at her in return, blinking at the light as she had done, till a smile spread over his dull countenance and he began to hop around her in that curious fashion which expressed his keenest pleasure.
Carlos looked up and joined his recognition to hers:
“Pablo, the Dancer! The Simple!”
At a glance the reason of the latter nickname was obvious: the face of this middle-aged man had little intelligence, though there was a certain craftiness in his small black eyes. He wore a blanket and the cast-off clothing of some ranchman, while his head was partially covered by a rimless straw hat. Around the hat was a faded red ribbon on which some rude jester hadpainted the legend: “Razzle Dazzle, the Dancer,” and the fellow wore it as if it were a royal headdress.
His present “dance” continued until he was tired; then he held out his hand for an alms.
“No, poor Pablo. I have nothing to give you. Our father isn’t with us. How came you here?”
He muttered something which Carlos could not understand but Carlota’s sympathy interpreted.
“The storm? Yes, I know, we were in it, too. There! Don’t shrug your shoulders any more—you make me cold to see you! Yet, you look well. I hope you aren’t hungry, Pablo, as we are.”
“Ha!” He pulled a crust from his ragged pocket and offered it to her; but it was black from contact with the dirty cloth and, faint though she was, she couldn’t touch it. She could only look enviously at Benoni, who had already nibbled a space in the grass. That, at least, was clean. If she could but eat it, too!
“No? Hmm;” said Pablo, shaking his head in satisfaction and returning the crust whence it came.
Then the girl asked:
“Pablo, can’t you show us a place where there are berries? Remember the Señor Manuel, Don Adrian? He is your friend.”
At the question a new expression stole into the beclouded face and, taking Carlota’s small brown hand in his dirty paw, he gently stroked it. All the good which had ever come into his life had come through “Don Adrian” and the dead “Lady of Refugio.” He remembered. Such as Pablo do not easily forget. Once—he didn’t know when—but he remembered, he had been very ill. The fever had burned in his veins and he had lain upon the mesa while the sun had scorched him to death.
Then, in time, there had come between him and the sun the shadow of a kindly face. The face had bent above him and there had been no shrinking in it. Pablo was used to seeing people shrink away when he drew near. This brooding Señor had not done so. He had put a wet cloth on the hot head—he had put the suffering “Simple” on his own horse—he had himself walked a long way. They had come to Refugio, to a great, white, cool room, where an “Angel” in a white robe had ministered to thesick one. Pablo had recovered, but—the “Angel” had died.
The poor half-breed knew. He had seen them put her in the ground and plant flowers above her. After that, Señor Manuel had come and sent Pablo away. With money in his grasping hands, with clean clothing upon his deformed body, with all kindness and charity, yet still—away. Else, the “Simple” would have stayed on forever in the cool, white rooms. But the sad-faced Señor could not bear that. The sight of the wretched creature, whose life had cost a life infinitely more precious, was too bitter.
In some dim way the “natural” understood even that. So he went, sorrowfully but obediently; and always thereafter, when he saw the master of Refugio riding across the plateau put himself out of sight. Yet, as the little children grew up, they were told about Pablo and their mother’s sacrifice for him and learned to regard him with a sacred interest and friendliness.
After a moment’s apparent consideration of her request, the half-breed darted away, disappeared in the ground, as it were—whence hesoon emerged. This time his hands were heaped with food which even dainty Carlota could enjoy; nuts of more than one sort, with the fruit of an edible cactus, such as the children often and eagerly sought.
Now, for a time, nothing was heard but the cracking of nutshells and the munching of sharp teeth; till, wholly refreshed, Carlos remarked:
“Well, I don’t know how long we were in that cave, but it must have been all night. While we can, and it is daylight, I think we’d best go on. My little compass says that way, yonder, is north, and I do hope we’ll get to some nice place before it’s dark again.”
“Wait a minute, brother. I’ve thought of something. Marta and Miguel and everybody may be worried, thinking about us out in a ‘norther,’ and I’m going to tell them we did not die.”
“I’d like to know how? If we go back those men will be there just the same, likely. It was you Carlota Manuel, first said we should go to our father; and, even if you’ve changed your girl’s mind I haven’t changed my boy’s one.”
“I haven’t changed the leastest littlest cornerof it, so there. But, listen, Pablo. Will you do something for Don Adrian Manuel? Something to prove you love him?”
“Umm.”
When he nodded so emphatically, she caught her brother’s knife from the sash where it still remained and ran to a near-by agave plant, and cut one of its broadest leaves. Using its own thorn for a pen she carefully printed on its tough skin the few sentences following:
“The Norther didn’t Get Us. God and benoni Took Care of us. we Cannot come Home Yet. Carlos and Carlota Manuel.”
Then she placed the leaf in the Indian’s hand and looking closely into his eyes, directed:
“Listen to me, Pablo. Listen the very sharpest ever was and with no forgetting. Are you paying strictest ’tention?”
“Umm.”
“You must go straight to Refugio. You are to take this leaf to old Marta. You know her, well. She is the old, old woman who gives you bread and meat when you come stealing around and my father is away. You are to give it to her and nobody else. Who are you to give it to, Pablo?”
“Marta. She give Pablo chickentamales. Umm. Good.”
Before she could reiterate her instructions he had started. He held the printed leaf in both hands before him and steadfastly studied it. Maybe he had never felt of such importance; and if his vagrant mind could have kept to one idea the precious missive would have soon been in the housekeeper’s hands. As it was, trifles attracted this unfortunate postman, and he had wandered hither and thither in pursuit of them, till it was on the evening of that seventh day when he at length delivered it.
Where, at that hour, were the little runaways?