CHAPTER VA LITTLE EXCURSION
“Basta, enough! If some go supperless to bed this night it shall not be the little ones!Vamos, Amador!” cried Anita, as she struggled to keep both her difficult seat and the contents of the jar.
Now Amador was a horse of spirit, and, like his master, was called a “woman hater”; therefore, he resented the petticoat flapping against his side. Rearing, he pawed the air with his forefeet, tossed himself from side to side, and vigorously tried to shake off the obnoxious skirt.
“So? Wouldst thou? Vicious, like thy owner,si? Well, learn then! One day is as good as another to break thy will, and before thou wast born, imp, Anita was a horsewoman. Take that!”
With an audacity even Miguel would not have shown, the excited girl brought the hot and heavy jar down upon Amador’s shoulder, and,instantly, he stood stock-still, save for a peculiar shivering through all his frame which, in itself, would have warned Miguel of evil to come.
Not inexperienced Anita. Her heart swelled with pride and mischief, as she jeered:
“Ha, ungallant! Thus easily subdued by a woman—a woman, Amador—Wouldst not the skirt? Then, take this for thy incivility and—forward!”
Unwisely, she again lifted the jar and dealt the beast a second blow, and, already loosened by the violent shaking, the stopper fell out and the warm contents splashed over his neck.
This was the last indignity which Amador could endure. With a spring he was off. The jar fell to the ground, broken, and for her life Anita now clung to the bridle. But he thrust his nostrils forward and jerked the reins from her grasp. Then she gripped him about the throat, half-choking him; yet the fire of his wild ancestors stirred within him and he did not stop for this. His wicked eyes glanced backward and seemed to ask:
“Wouldst ride, Anita? Then ride thou shalt till thou art content!”
She never knew how long that startling onrush lasted. It seemed an endless progress in which, each moment, destruction menaced her; then, suddenly, she found herself in the middle of a mesquite bush, her clothing torn, her face scratched and bleeding, while the footfalls of the now free Amador swiftly died in the distance.
“Ha! But you shall suffer—suffer—villain!” she cried, as soon as she could recover her breath. Then she tried to turn about, but each movement meant agony. Everywhere the sharp thorns of the shrub pierced her. To remain was impossible—to extricate herself—Ugh!
When, at last, she stood free upon the ground there was little in her appearance to recall the coquettish Anita. Yet, at that moment, a ringing laugh and mocking voice smote her ears:
“So? But you are well punished for your impudence, fair mistress of the pans, is it not? My Amador is a horse of sense. I knew it!”
It was Miguel, who had urged Rupert Disbrow’s “Lady Jane” to its utmost speed and had arrived in time to witness the maid’s exitfrom the mesquite spines, though not to aid her. Now, seeing that she was really suffering, he dismounted and added:
“But, in truth! I am sorry! That was a nasty trick of Amador—and I had esteemed him a gentleman!”
Anita shrugged her torn shoulders, then groaned:
“There are no gentlemen left at Refugio, no! Since the Señor—my master was kind—he would not jeer—”
Her voice died in a wail and Miguel exclaimed:
“Why, child, Anita! Hush, hush! There, there! So, so, my beauty!”
“Pstit! I am not a horse—not Amador—to be soothed as a baby. He is—he isdiablo! and thou—his master!” she retorted. Then dropped her scarred face in her hands and again began to weep.
Miguel hated tears worse than he hated women; and he laid his hand upon her arm, asking:
“Why not believe that I am truly sorry? And, in the name of reason, why stole you the stew-pot as well as the horse?”
“Why? For my children, souls of my life, indeed, yes.”
“If they so choose, can they not eat their meat in their father’s house?”
“Miguel Cardanza! Standest thou there and askest me that?” tragically demanded the maid.
In spite of his best intentions, Miguel laughed. Poor Anita would also have laughed if she could have seen herself; and her anger slowly oozed away before his mirth. If he were in that cheerful mood affairs could not be so bad as she had fancied from what she had overheard in the cloister. She determined to learn the real truth now, and asked:
“Miguel Cardanza, did you not say that these strangers had come to carry away our children? Did you not forbid their man to help them in their fiendish task? Oh! I heard you, I heard you. And if the master’s ‘friend’ cares not whither he sent the frightened innocents, Anita, the humble kitchen-maid, has a heart of flesh and will follow to care for them. Even I, bruised by that vile Amador— Where are my children, Miguel Cardanza?”
“Listen, Anita! If you shed more tearsyour face will be clean! If I sent the small ones away it was but for a moment, till I could speak to them more fully. Carlota is an angel. She knew not till I whispered her, that the hand she grasped so friendly had come to do her harm. Bah! girl! Your eavesdropping has wrought mischief this day!”
As their tempers cooled they had resumed their ordinary speech, changing the “thou” to “you”; and now, also, the manager realized that he had acted foolishly and might have chosen a better way to protect his charges. He was vexed with Anita for putting such stress upon the children’s disappearance. Of course, they were safe somewhere near. What harm could possibly come to them except from the intriguing guests? It is natural to visit one’s own fault upon somebody else and the maid afforded the readiest victim of Miguel’s self-reproach.
“I tell you, silly wench, you have wrought dire mischief. What is a mess ofpodridato our children when the whole countryside is ‘sanctuary’ for them. Are they not the little ones of the ‘Lady of Refugio’? Is her name not still a talisman? You should not havescared them, you! Nor lost me my priceless Amador—You—”
“I? I—scare them? I, Miguel Cardanza, when I spoke not with them at all? You are mad, I tell you. Everybody is mad this day, and as for that fiend Amador, may he never return!” exclaimed the amazed and indignant damsel. Then drawing away from him, as he continued to help her pull the thorns from her dress, she added: “No! aid me no more. Your courtesy follows too close upon your rudeness to be valued. I must go from here; but—how?”
She began to be amused by the situation and regarded the angry man with a curious smile. There was but one horse, and that one already far spent. Miguel Cardanza had never walked a step in his life when riding had been possible. Anita examined her torn attire and wounded hands, though these caused her little pain now, since her young and healthful blood recovered swiftly from any hurt. Yet now was a chance to test how true a “gentleman” was the Señor Miguel Cardanza!
Her laughing audacity nettled him and he remarked, ungraciously:
“It’s miles if it’s a rod. Must I walk? Can you? Well, then, bitter pills must e’en be swallowed.”
With that he swung Anita upon Lady Jane and leaped into the saddle before her, then goaded the doubly-burdened animal to its swiftest pace. In this fashion and in due time the ill-assorted couple appeared before old Marta at her kitchen door, and set that astonished person trembling and gasping at the extraordinary sight, Miguel and Anita, riding double! Indeed, and indeed! They had all gone mad that day!
“Anita—thepodrida—my son—”
During her return ride the girl had scorned to support herself by so much as a touch upon her cavalier’s belt, but she now coquettishly clasped his sturdy waist and sweetly answered:
“Yes, Mother Marta, it is even so I bring back your little son quite safe. Yet I have suffered much, and it was that Amador who spilled the children’s supper and— Hark!”
A shrill whistling sound silenced the words on her lips.