CHAPTER XXVIIIAT THE POINT OF DEATH

CHAPTER XXVIIIAT THE POINT OF DEATH

Carlota was awakened by the sun shining upon her face and Connemara nibbling at her curls. She sprang up, confused by her new surroundings, then laughed aloud at the beauty of the morning. The loneliness of the last evening had vanished and she was ready for whatever might come. First, for a frolic with Carlos or Dennis.

These two yet lay sleeping, their feet toward the ashes of their bedtime fire and their heads almost touching the ring of prickly, horsehair ropes which marked out their tiny camp; and over which, the Pueblos had assured them, no reptile of delicate skin would crawl.

In a mood to tease, Carlota now picked up these tethers and started to bind her brother’s hands with them. The first touch roused him and, finding what she would be at, he entered so noisily into the fun that Dennis, also, awoke.

“Whist! to ye. Sure, now’s not the time to be stirrin’ yet, is it?”

“Quite time, good Dennis. How is the arm? How did you sleep? Did you hear any of the wild beasts that you imagined were going to surround us?”

“Never a one did I, but a thankful man I’ll be, more by token, when I feels a good roof overhead once more. Not an Injun roof but a fine Christian sort. Arrah musha! ’Tis a load, is this barrowful o’ mud them queer people have piled on me arm, so it is!”

“Dennis! Dennis, the Grumbler! If it wasn’t a ‘good Christian roof’ you’ve slept under these last few nights, I don’t know what you’d call one. You went to that pueblo with murder in your heart and its owners treated you—splendidly. They fed you, nursed you, and mended you—bones and clothes. For you were a rough sight, my Dennis, till Paula sewed up the rips you’d given your grand attire in struggling with Cork. Poor Cork! to be ‘swopped’ for a—mule!”

“Sure, a burro’s no mule. A burro’s a donkey; an’ a donkey is a sweet little beast, like they have in old Ireland. But the creatur’s noname, so that job must be done over again, belike.”

“Oh! if you ‘swopped’ animals, you must have ‘swopped’ names. I got Carlota to ask and this one’s name is a wicked one, Dennis, it’s ‘Diablo,’” said Carlos.

“Yes, I know, I know, I was hearin’ that same but I’ll not have it. No, indeed. Troth, no name at all is better nor a bad one.”

“I’ll tell you. Call him ‘Captain’ after the real Captain who was so kind to us. I’m afraid he isn’t a good tempered beast, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll have plenty of work to do, here in the mountains, and—I’m hungry! Dennis, shall I wash your face for you, or can you do it for yourself with your well hand?” asked Carlota.

“Wash me face! Wash—me—face? An’ sure is it dirty?”

“Dirty? Of course, it is. Haven’t you been asleep? Isn’t it morning? Doesn’t everybody need to freshen themselves after sleeping? I don’t think you’re really awake yet.”

“Arrah musha! But I’m more nor wide awake enough than to be lettin’ the likes o’ yourself do such a service for the poor ladfrom Connemara. Och! the purty thackeen!”

Fortunately the broken arm was not the right one, therefore Dennis could do most needful things for himself and soon grew so “handy with one hand” that he also did much for the others.

All during their happy and simple breakfast which they ate by the spring, Carlos observed his sister’s eyes continually roving over the ground and, finally, he asked:

“For what are you looking, girlie? Have you lost anything?”

“Yes, and no. I’m looking for something I thought I saw, last night. Something about which old Paula told me. I was sure I saw it—one—just after she went away; but, I don’t see it now, and maybe I only dreamed it.”

“Well, if you’ve finished breakfast we must be off. I’m afraid the Burnhams will think we are lost, for good.”

“Maybe we were!” said Carlota, mysteriously.

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘lost for good.’ It may prove the best kind of good to them and everybody.”

“I don’t see how,” returned the lad, who hated “riddles.”

“By and by, I’ll tell you—if there’s anything to tell. I’m keeping my eyes open, as our father bade us. He said that the habit of observing everything and calling nothing a trifle—Why, sometimes some of the little bits of things led up to the very, very biggest ones. It was a little thing Paula told me about, and I’m watching for it.”

“And I’m on the watch for the camp! Come on. I’ll put all the saddles on. They’re a nuisance. I’d rather ride without any, only it didn’t seem polite to say so when the Pueblos gave them to us.”

“But, brother, they’re not much of saddles. Not like that Dennis gave away with Cork. They’re soft and blanket-y like, and I guess we’re more comfortable with them. Which way, first?”

“Right on and up the canyon. The Indians said that it leads to some mining camps, and they thought we might find the Burnhams there. Or, anyway, hear news of them, if any of the miners have seen them. If there are any minersleft. If—if—if! I’m tired of ‘ifs,’ so let’s hurry on!”

They set off, at once. They divided their simple luggage among them, the twins insisting that the disabled Dennis should take but the lightest portion upon his burro. Carlos rode first, leading the way and having some trouble with his new Benoni. Dennis followed next and Carlota last, that she might look out for him. For as she said, with a laugh:

“A broken-armed man must be handled with care! And, aren’t you glad you learned to ride Cork, first? If you hadn’t learned when you were well, you could hardly have managed to do so now.”

“True for ye. But if this ain’t the road that beats all! Faith, here’s more stones nor ever I saw in me life!”

Indeed, that canyon was a rough place, and they followed toward its source the brawling stream that ran through it. Sometimes they were in the water, sometimes out of it. Sometimes they had to cling to the precipitous sides, leaving their animals to their own devices. Again, though rarely, they would reach a freerspace, where were myriads of flowers and tree-shaded nooks. They ate their mid-day meal at one such spot and here, for the first time, they found traces of other human beings.

Carlota was poking about among the blooming plants, scrutinizing each and selecting “specimens” for her box, when she caught sight of something blue and small.

“The flower! The flower!” she cried and ran to gather it.

But it was no flower. It was a torn scrap of coarse blue gingham.

At her cry, Dennis rushed forward. He was, as they told him, “centipede mad,” and, at any unusual sound, his instant thought was of peril from the creeping thing.

“Where is it? Where? Wait till I beats the life out o’ him, the nasty beast!”

She waved the bit of cloth before his eyes and he exclaimed:

“The tie-before o’ the little gossoon!”

“What? What is it?” asked Carlos, running forward.

“Teddy!” answered his sister, holding out the scrap of cloth.

“It is! Surely. Yet—that wasn’t torn to-day. It’s been hanging there a good while. See the edges.”

Carlota’s heart sank, as she replied:

“When I saw it I thought we had only to call out and they would hear us. I almost fancied I could see the little fellow’s face peeping at me from the very bush. Anyway, we must be on the right road and that does make it easier to go on.”

It did, indeed. Each felt a renewed patience for the toilsome search, though they were not immediately to come upon any further trace of the family they sought. That night they slept within a rocky cove and Dennis dreamed of hobgoblins and “phookas,” galore. His snores and outcries were so constant and disturbing that before daylight fairly came, all were awake and ready to move on.

The fact was that poor Dennis was growing feverish and somewhat light headed. His arm, in its heavy dressings, was painful and exceedingly heavy. His great boots cumbered him. He was homesick and full of forebodings; and, as the morning advanced, the twins felt seriouslyalarmed. When they pressed him to take some food, he peevishly declined it, protesting:

“No. I don’t want it. Take it away. Yes, I know, I know. Eatin’s fine for them that likes it. Not for me. Arrah musha! We’ll never find they we are seekin’. When I left Mr. Grady, ‘Dennis,’ says he, ‘you’re crazy,’ says he. ‘Ye’ll die in them mountains,’ says he, ‘an’ what’ll I do for a neighbor to wrastle with, when home we goes to old Ireland an’ yourself dead,’ says he. Troth, that same was the truth he was speakin’.”

Carlota was at her wits’ end. Dennis obstinately refused to touch any food or to go onward another step.

“Dennis, Dennis! How silly to talk about a dead man’s wrestling! and Dennis Fogarty! howmeanto go and die—die—right in sight, almost, of our journey’s end! I thought you loved your ‘little lady,’ dear Dennis. Do you s’pose my Miguel would do anything so—so disappointing as to go and die, just because he wouldn’t eat, if I didn’t want him to? No. In truth! He’d live a hundred years, first, like old Guadalupo. He would so!”

A faint fire flashed in the tired eyes of the ex-trackman. He had quite decided to die. He felt, that under existing circumstances, life was too much to expect of any man. “Little lady?” Yes. Of course he loved her. She needn’t persist in taunting him with that wretched “Greaser.” Besides, anyhow, she had Carlos. They were all in all to each other, those two. They didn’t need him. His work was done. He had vindicated his manliness. He was very ill. Arrah musha! Very ill, indeed. Still, in the approved western style, he would “die with his boots on.” But he would, he wanted to, they needn’t—

“Look out! The lion—the lion!”

“Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-BANG!”

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