CHAPTER XVIIIA ROUGH KNIGHT ERRANT
“Letitia, that woman we owe was on the train that stopped here last night. She was one of those who spoke to these Manuel children and the sight of her clinched my anxiety to get away.”
“That—woman? Are you sure?”
“I reckon I can’t be mistaken in the face of the person who has held a mortgage on my life so long. The queer thing is, I overheard her say she’d ‘crossed the continent a dozen times’—that I never chanced to see her before. Now—shall I send word ahead that the new man can have my place?”
“So—soon, dear?”
“Capable operators and agents aren’t as thick as sage brush hereabouts. Especially those willing to live at—Tuttle! I owe something to the company I’ve served so long and—I mustn’t lose this chance. The traces I found—I’msure this venture’ll pan out well—I hate to uproot you from your home, poor as it is, but I hope to give you a better. Shall I send word, ‘Yes?’ Here she comes!”
“Ye-es,” faltered the wife, hurriedly turning houseward to hide the tears which had started to her eyes. To leave the home itself was less to her than leaving the stone-covered grave beside it. However, frail as she was, she was a loyal wife and sunshiny woman, and she made the best of the matter. She would at once begin her preparations, but her heart was heavy with forebodings concerning the children so unexpectedly placed in her care.
Mr. Burnham had lost no time in carrying out the suggestions of Captain Sherman’s note. He had sat up late on the night of its arrival dispatching and receiving messages concerning them. He had even supplemented the cavalryman’s directions by inquiries of his own, for when all was summed up that officer’s facts had been meager, indeed.
As Mrs. Burnham thought, it was fortunate that the new station-master could not arrive at Tuttle till the end of two weeks; and during those fourteen days her husband made fresh effortsto trace the children’s friends, anxiously scanning every mail and listening to every wire—and all without result.
What had seemed to Captain Sherman and, at first, even to Mr. Burnham, the simplest matter in the world became impossible to accomplish; and all because of a chain of circumstances, each trivial in itself.
The letters and messages sent to Lanark, the nearest postoffice to Refugio, remained unclaimed and undelivered, because on the very night of Pablo’s arrival at the mission, Miguel had left it and had not returned. Nobody else there sent to Lanark, nor did the indolent mail-and-telegraph-agent trouble to forward any matter to Refugio, since he knew that both its master and manager were absent.
When he left home after failing to draw further information from Pablo than the agave leaf contained, Miguel set off at once on a search of his own; and by a strange chance came to that glen in the mountains where Benoni lay dead among the dead Apaches. Always hasty in judgment, the distracted fellow now leaped to the conclusion that his beloved “small ones” were also dead—or worse—were in captivity,and that thereafter life held only torment for him. He would never dare to look upon Adrian Manuel’s face again; and, though he still carried the sealed letter which was to be opened at the end of two months, he resolved to go where none could find him till that time came. Then—“what shall be will be!” he concluded, and mounting the horse which supplied Amador’s place, he rode away southward and was seen no more.
The Disbrows, also, left at once, and reached a remote little town on their homeward way, when the elder gentleman was suddenly stricken with a serious illness. Indeed he was so extremely ill that, Mr. Rupert, who would otherwise have been eager to secure and read all newspapers, had neither time nor thought for anything save nursing his father back to health, or, at least, to a physical condition fit for travel. He did, however, seize an opportunity to dispatch a message to Mrs. Sinclair; confident that her energy would be sufficient to trace her “Mary’s children,” should they still be alive.
But Mrs. Sinclair was at that time on her journey across the continent, and the servant left in charge of her home received the messageand mislaid it. She had not dared to break the seal and read it, or she might have told it promptly on her mistress’s arrival. As it was, fearing the sharp rebukes which would have been given her, she kept the matter secret, trusting in her heart that “it couldn’t have amounted to anything or another would have followed.”
Adrian Manuel, the longed for father, lay a prisoner between hospital walls, and in imminent danger of never leaving them alive. He was so critically ill that he was oblivious to all that went on about him, nor were the advertising columns of a newspaper of any interest to the quiet nurse who attended him; and who, because of his hazardous condition, allowed no less experienced person to care for him.
This was the reason of his mysterious journey “to the north.” The knowledge of his serious malady had come to him with startling suddenness and he had made instant preparation to place himself under the best surgical treatment. He would not sadden his happy little ones by his own forebodings and had ridden bravely away with a gay “Adios!” to meet his fate. Should he not return, the sealed letterprovided for everything, and especially, that the twins were then to be taken to Mrs. Sinclair, who thus would be left their natural and only guardian.
So, when the two weeks expired and the Burnhams could no longer delay departure they decided that the young Manuels must accompany them. The new station-master was a rough old miner, unmarried, and though efficient in the duties he assumed, he liked to keep a lot of such men as himself about him. To leave Carlota in such an establishment, even on the now fading chance of her father’s claiming her, seemed impossible to Mrs. Burnham.
But the child, herself, strenuously protested against this departure. Captain Sherman’s lecture upon “Obedience” had vividly impressed her.
“He said to stay was right. I’d made trouble enough not obediencing before and I must. He was a soldier—he knew. We must not go away from this straight railroad track, not at all. We can live at Leopard with Dennis, if we can’t live with the new folks.”
Whereat that fine fellow answered without delay:
“Sure, me purty colleen, ’tis meself ’d be proud to have the carin’ of ye, so it would. More by token ye’re a born lady, so ye be. But, faith, if the family’s going to dig gold out of the mountains beyant, Dennis Fogarty’s the man must have a fist in that same. Och! It’s the truth I am speakin’.”
Mr. Burnham clinched the argument, saying:
“That cuts your last plank from under you, my dear. Never mind. I shall leave directions what is to be done when you are sent for and how we may be followed. We start to-morrow morning, at sunrise.”
At the hour they named they did so. A canvas-covered wagon containing a camper’s outfit and drawn by four old—therefore experienced—horses, left the little station platform for a “Castle in Spain.” Yet, despite Letitia Burnham’s feeling that it might prove only that, she was cheerful over the departure, seeing her husband happy at resuming what he called “the business of his life,” and that he now believed would be successful. He had often, on similar settings-out, been equally sanguine, but the good wife was not one to remind him of that. Besides, as she confided to Carlota:
“After all’s said and done, away down in their hearts all human beings love a little vagabondizing!”
So, though her eyes filled as she glanced toward her Mary’s grave she was still able to smile upon Teddy, lifting him into the wagon and, rather hastily, climbing in beside him.
“I think it will be lovely, even though it doesn’t seem right for us—Carlos and me. But we shall like it. We’re used to sleeping out of doors and it will be like a long, all-summer picnic, won’t it?”
“I hope so. Of course, there will be hard realities. The worst is sometimes wanting water. It’s a thirsty, thirsty land, this New Mexico. But—‘The Lord will provide’.”
Carlota ran on in front and joined her brother and his comrade, Jack; and, presently, to their surprise there came to them the sound of Letitia Burnham—singing! A low, sweet hymn, whose burden was thanksgiving.
“Gophers! The mother at that business? Hold on! Hark!” cried Jack, who could scarcely believe his own ears.
“Your father is singing with her. That’s all,” said Carlota.
“That’s all, is it? ‘All?’ Well, then, Saynyereeter, let me tell you that I, John Winterbottom Burnham, can’t remember that, during the whole course of my checkered career, I ever heard my respected respectable parents warble before!”
“You—disrespectful boy!”
“What have I done now? Can’t a fellow call attention to the talents of his parents without being accused of disrespect?” he demanded, in affected astonishment.
They all laughed. They were in a mood to find even trifles amusing. There was not a cloud in that wonderful sky; the blue was almost too radiantly deep. There was a clearness in the air which rendered the distant mountains closely visible, and the expanse which lay between them and these hills of delight seemed less a solitude than did that central plain, marked by its one line of shining steel.
“Behold, my friends! We go out—paupers; we return—millionaires!” declared Jack, proudly strutting beside his “team.” These four venerable “campaigners,” who had beenchosen because of their familiarity with plain and mountain life, were the first horses with which he had ever been familiar. The days of his parents’ former wanderings a-field had been too early for him to recall.
“Hmm. That front beast on the left has a spavin,” remarked Carlos, musingly.
“Huh! What’s that? Spavin! Spavin! I’d have you understand, young Trot-and-go-barefoot, you—that what I don’t know about horseflesh isn’t worth knowing.”
Carlos looked on, questioningly. He rarely knew whether Jack were jesting or in earnest; but, either way, he found that having a boy companion was so delightful that he was inclined to rather neglect Carlota, with whom his time had always been passed. At that same moment, up came Dennis, riding a vicious little beast which was doing its utmost to unseat the unaccustomed horseman.
“Dennis! Dennis, on a broncho!” cried young Burnham, stopping his leader’s progress, to await this fresh arrival. “We thought you had petered out, Dennis, me friend! Sickened of the job and gone back tostraightening the ties. Where did you get that nag, eh? and what are you doing with that unhappy burro?”
“Whoa, I tell ye! Whist! to the heels of ye! So, so. Yes, I know, I know. There, there! Quiet, me beautiful boy! So, so—so-o!”
The wild little horse had been nearly maddened by the treatment of its new owner. It had been checked up till its neck was half-twisted out of shape, while a facetious trackman had persuaded Dennis to put on spurs of an exaggerated size.
As soon as the broncho neared the other horses it quieted its movements and, as if to give the children a chance to contemplate its rider in all his glory, planted its forefeet firmly in the sand and stood stock-still.
“Och! Dennis, me boy! Sure ’tis yourself that’s magnificent, entirely!” mocked Jack, clapping his hands to his breast with a tragic air.
Nor, though they tried, could the twins help laughing.
“If Miguel could see!” cried Carlos, hurrying forward to examine the Irishman’s outfit.
This was truly gorgeous. He had purchasedit from a passing Mexicanvaquero. It consisted of much adorned, leathern breeches; a gay silk shirt and sash; a fineserape(cloak), thrown carelessly over one shoulder; a handsomesombrero; long boots, such as no Mexican would have parted with, save from dire necessity; a heavy, clumsy saddle; and a bridle, rich in ornament. Altogether, a fine and picturesque outfit, that might serve well in somefiestaprocession, but likely to prove troublesome on the present trip.
Carlota soon stopped laughing. Even though she could see in the depths of the “schooner” the amused faces of Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, she feared that Dennis might be more sensitive than he appeared and he, certainly, had spared nothing to do justice to the occasion.
“It surely is a nice little pony, Dennis. But I’ve only seen you walking the track or on a hand-car and I didn’t know you were a horseman;” she remarked.
“Faith, it wouldn’t be much of a man that couldn’t bestride the back of a beast, now would it, little lady? It’s ridin’ I haven’t been doin’, belike, but that’s neither here nor there.It’s ridin’ I shall be from this on, and why not? But, how do ye like me new clothes, Miss Carlota?”
“They are very grand, Dennis. I’ve seen such atfiestas, yet, on ordinary days they’ve been put away very carefully. I hope you won’t hurt them in the mountains. Why, yoursombrerois finer than mine, and much more adorned.”
“Sure it is that, now ain’t it?” said Dennis, well pleased. “But ye’re not askin’ a word about t’other fine beast I’m a leadin’, me dear.”
“I suppose that is for your—your—pack, isn’t it. Or to rest you and the broncho when he is tired.”
Now, indeed, was Dennis Fogarty a happy man! Almost from the first he had become Carlota’s slave, and the Burnhams were glad of it, for he added to her enjoyment. They suspected that he had for her sake decided to go mining; and, also, for her sake, had Carlota known it, that he had expended his dollars in the purchase of this decorative outfit.
“Sure, little lady, is it only that deceivin’ Meegell (Miguel) that can wear the handsomecontraptions, belike? ’Twas meself an’ Mickey Grady as thought the matther out. Asombrerois it? What then? So have I. Sayrappy? Faith, I warrant here’s one to be proud of. And a burro, says you? Now how’d this purty grayish-whitey be pleasin’ yerself? Eh, me little lady?”
Even yet Carlota did not comprehend what Dennis thought he had made so plain.
“He’s a pretty little creature. Indeed, he is much like one I used to have at home. Carlos had one all beautifully marked with brown and white, but mine was just a mouse-colored dear, as like this one as—as one star is like another. You have made a good choice, I think, Dennis.”
Then was the Irishman’s felicity complete. He slipped from his broncho and bowing low before his “little lady,” offered her the leading strap of the “mouse-colored dear.”
“Then sure, Miss Carlota, ye’ll be doin’ me that proud by acceptin’ this same, as a token o’ friendship, belike. And I’d admire to be seein’ how ye fits on his back.”
“For—me? You have bought that pretty creature for me? Why, Dennis, Dennis!”
“That same is me name, an’ no shame to it; barrin’ ye’ll have none of the beast.”
“But, I’ll have all of him, indeed! Oh! thank you, thank you!”
Her delight and the way in which she clapped her little brown hands nearly turned the brain of the generous Irishman. Hitherto, he had known but hard toil and the rough side of life, but Carlota represented to him something wholly different; and the chivalry which is latent in every manly breast, no matter how humble, roused him to become her champion and protector. Moreover, he was very jealous of the unknown Miguel, of whom both children talked with such sincere affection. To Mike Grady, alone, had Dennis confided his ambition:
“I’ll take the shine off that ‘Greaser’ or I’ll spend the last cent I ever will earn. Mind that, now;” and, after he had arrayed himself in his finery, he had asked: “Do ye think, Mickey boy, that the ‘Greaser’ ’ll look grander nor me, the day?”
Faithful to friendship as to wrestling, Mike had replied and meant it:
“Sure, there never was man under sun so fine as yourself the morn, Dennis, me lad.”
Carlota felt really touched and grateful as she cried:
“All gray, with that pretty white blaze on his face! What is his name, dear Dennis?”
“Name is it? If he has one, ’tis more nor I know. Let me lift ye on, please.”
She could easily have stepped into the low saddle, but she recognized that he wished to “swing her up,” as Miguel used to do upon some of the spirited horses at Refugio; so she let him lift her, all clumsily and delightedly, and settled herself in her place with a laugh of satisfaction.
“He’s lovely! He shall be called Connemara, for your home. It’s a pretty long name for a pretty small beast, but what he lacks in size he makes up in his cog-cognomen. That’s right, I think.”
It was entirely right to the happy donor.
“Connemara, says she. Hear to it, all. Connemara, for me own purty home. Sure it’s proud am I—”
A shriek—a chorus of voices broke in upon his happiness:
“Dennis! Dennis! The broncho! The—bronch—is—gone!”