Music: El Campo.Ya me voy de esta campo querida,Donde tiernas caricias gocéY me voy con el alma partida,Campo ingrata por ti llovaré!CHAPTER XIII
Music: El Campo.Ya me voy de esta campo querida,Donde tiernas caricias gocéY me voy con el alma partida,Campo ingrata por ti llovaré!
Ya me voy de esta campo querida,Donde tiernas caricias gocéY me voy con el alma partida,Campo ingrata por ti llovaré!
Ya me voy de esta campo querida,Donde tiernas caricias gocéY me voy con el alma partida,Campo ingrata por ti llovaré!
O
Only an instant he gave to it all, but in that instant he made certain that every man and woman on the place was at prayers, except the old Indian woman, who squatted with covered head in the hall, and himself. His movements were no longer aimless. He retreated swiftly to the veranda, and tossed the cigarro into the garden. One glance he gave the wooden-like figure of the old Indian. Only as a last resort would he attempt to pass that way, but if the windows were not barred—
They were not. Ana had gone against her aunt's Mexican rule, which was that all fresh air should be excluded from a sick-room; and while that lady and all her servants exclaimed against the admissionof air, they let the blame lie on the shoulders of Ana, and no one closed the window. It swung wide to the wind of the west, and on the couch within, Bryton could see Raquel's face.
The lids were closed over the violet eyes, and the lips were apart, showing the white teeth. It was still so light that he could see the little flush on the cheeks against the white pillow, and on her right hand one little old ring of plain gold. On the left hand shone the red gold of her new wedding-ring.
She looked so pathetically young and so utterly alone, as she lay there, that all the man in him arose in protest, and a mist of tears blinded him for a moment to the beauty of her face.
"Poor little one," he whispered, "my poor little broken Doña Espiritu—my one lady of the spirit!"
The sound of the words did not wake her, but the sense of them reached her some way; for she opened her eyes suddenly, and without any shadow of wonder they rested on his face.
"I waited a long time," she said at last, "then I heard your voice, and I knew you were coming to me."
He set his lips tightly, and nodded, but did not speak.
"I waited a long time," she repeated, as a childappealing for understanding. "Did they tell you I thought you were dead?"
Then I Heard Your Voice“Then I Heard Your Voice”
“Then I Heard Your Voice”
He nodded assent. No one had told him so, but the words explained much.
"You said you would come back if you lived, and you never came, and they told me—the padre told me—that you were dead!"
"So I am," he said, gently; "and they told me, my lady of the spirit, that you had taken the final vow of the convent—that the night, our one night, was a thing you were forgetting under a black veil. Child, child! they lied to us, and now—"
"Forgetting?" she said, slowly. "How does one forget a night like that, when we walked out of the wilderness into the day together? You never came back; and I—I wanted to be in the world where you had been, so I—"
"I know," he whispered, gently; "I know, my doña of the spirit."
He had not meant to touch her,—only to look at her and speak to her once, and then ride wherever fate might take him.
But she reached her hands to him, and with a smothered groan he knelt by her couch and his arms were around her.
"Don't weep like that!" she whispered, and laidher hand on his head. "I have wept enough for two, since our carriages passed and I found you had not died. And you—you knew all the time."
"I knew when I saw you kneel in your wedding-veil and take that oath—not until then. I heard his mother say that he was the man you loved; and, soul of mine! you had not said as much as that in words to me. So I—"
"You heard that? Then you know the life I have to live." He nodded, without lifting his head from the pillow of her arm. There are some things hard to face with open eyes, but she felt the shudder that passed over him. Through the opened window came the rise and fall of many murmuring voices repeating the rosary. In the gold-of-Ophir rose-tree two birds fluttered and called to each other in the very whisper of bird notes. The soft lavender-grays of a Californian nightfall were sifting through the warm light of the afterglow, and away there in the west stretched bars of blood red, the last trace of the dying day. All the sequestration of the hour was about them, all the hush of the pause, before the final plunge of their day into the shadows, and the two souls were enveloped by the atmosphere of that ever-recurring tragedy of the hours, and of lives.
How long he knelt there he did not know. She felthis lips on her wrist, and felt rather than heard the broken words he was whispering—the wild, mad words he had meant not to say, as he had meant not to touch her; then her eyes grew bright as the stars picking their way through the vault of blue, and the golden-haired woman of the carriage belonged to a feverish phantasy of the past hours. She might exist, that golden-haired creature of beauty, but the real life of the man who knelt there in the dusk belonged only to her, to her always, through the bond of one starlit Mexican night of witchery, and this last hour of the California day.
Nothing made any difference now; though she lived in a hell of purgatory all her waking life, the bonds of their dream life would be closer than all else—always, always!
She felt suddenly well and strong. Ah, there was so much in the world to live for! Though they never met, never spoke again, this hour of the tryst would be his through all her life—her hour of a rosary of the heart.
A girl's voice in the patio came softly through the dark in an old Spanish hymn. It was Juanita, and the service of prayer was ending in the usual duo; one of the vaqueros with a fine barytone voice was singing the echoing stanzas of praise.
It was the signal for dispersing, but the man at thecouch did not know that. Neither did he know that the crouched form of the Indian was no longer in the hall. She was waiting in the dusk at the door, and she was clutching with a claw-like hand at the robe of the padre, and muttering, "He is there—it is true. He is there—and she is again bewitched. Now you will help me to kill the American?"
The padre looked at her sharply, and then motioned to Ana, who was close behind.
"Remain with the others. Make some excuse to keep them there—another hymn—anything. And be quick—quick!"
Startled though she was, Ana obeyed, and from the door of the hall he heard again the voice of Juanita; this time it was in a favorite known to all, and the volume of sound told him that Don Enrico himself was joining in the refrain, and that no one would leave the patio until the finale was reached.
No candle burned now in the hall. Polonia had blown it out, that no ray might enter the half-open door of the inner room. She would have gone with the padre, but the sudden vigorous grasp of his hand on her shoulder stopped her where she stood, and without a word being spoken, she knew better than to follow.
Quickly as a cat of the hills, the padre crossed thehall and stood where he could see the open window and the kneeling man, and the hand of Raquel on his bent head.
"Every night when the dusk comes it will be our time of the day," she was saying. "They told me you were dead, else—but you know. I think the mad hours have gone by for me; I can go on living if—if you do not forget."
The listening priest could not hear what the man said, but she heard, and smiled, and sighed.
"There is one thing," she said, hesitatingly: "the ring, you have worn it a year—and—"
"I know," and he lifted his head. "We need no visible emblem, you and I. I put it back on your finger, my lady of the spirit,—Doña Espiritu;—a pledge of renunciation, and a reminder of the rosary of the dusk."
She took from her right hand the little gold band and gave it to him, and in its place he slipped the onyx ring of the Aztec eagle and serpent.
"I did not tell you what that ring means to my people," she said, as he kissed it in its new resting-place. "Maybe I never can tell you. I—I thought I could be stronger if I wore it on my own hand, for—for the reason that my heart went out of my bosom to follow it, and—and I rode my horse as fast and as far as I could from you, because I—was afraid."
"Good God!" whispered the man. "You don't know what you are saying. Remember that I dare not touch your lips, and that I love you—love you—love you!"
Then the nestling birds in the gold-of-Ophir rose were startled from their repose by the man who strode through the open window and walked blindly out into the garden.
The padre watched the girl's face on the pillow for a moment, and heard her sobs, and retreated softly to the hall, where he met the others; and at Doña Ana, when they were alone a moment, he smiled with a certain elation.
"Look distressed no longer, little one," he said, reassuringly. "You have helped me to a good day's work, very good. Listen! I like your new American friend very much, and when you go to San Juan I count on you to help to make him welcome there. He is going to do me a good turn with Rafael Arteaga, and I forgive him all the horses he helped to save for the army men. He does not know it, but he is going to be my good friend, that fine Americano. He is so fine and so strong, Ana, that he thinks he can put a woman he loves in a niche of the memory, as we put statues of the saints in the niches of the altar-places."
"What do you say?" she queried, perplexed by his smile and words.
"And that though the woman loves him so much that she kisses her own hands where his lips have been, and though he loves her so much that he is half mad at denial, yet he will leave her always there in the little niche of the altar,—just above his head, but in reach of his hands; and the hands will never try to lift her down, Anita. He will only look at her as he rides past, and leave her there to remember."
"I think you have gone mad," said Ana, sharply. "What did the Indian witch tell you in the hall?"
"Ask her!" he suggested. But when Ana did so, she met only scowls and gutturals. And even the sound sleep of Raquel, and the absolute freedom from delirium, brought nothing but suspicion to the heart of old Polonia. It was witchcraft, like all the rest, and the padre should have put the malediction on the Americano when he had so good a chance. Above all, he should not have let him ride away in safety.
Music: Indian Reveille.CHAPTER XIV
Music: Indian Reveille.
T
The padre himself rode away very early. Don Enrico lent him a horse to ride to San Juan, and wondered a little that the San Gabriel people had not done as much; but times were changing in the land. One could not expect the old customs to live when so many strangers were crowding into the country.
The offered horse was accepted gratefully, and the padre breakfasted with the vaqueros, and left for the south before the family were astir. Bryton watched him go, but lingered for a sight of Ana, that he might hear how the night had passed inside the window of the golden rose.
And Ana was the last to join the party at breakfast, but was a very happy creature, compared with the nervous, pale woman of the night before. All wereastonished at the fact that Raquel announced that she had slept like a child and all the illness and fever were forgotten. She was not sure but that she could ride to San Juan, and above all things she was grateful to Ana, and wished both the girls to go with her and visit in the old Mission.
The servants were again the quiet listless folk they had been before the finding of the witch charm. But as Bryton rode out of the patio after many farewells and blessings from Doña Refugia, and cordial invitations from Don Enrico to ride back that way, and consider the place as his own home, there were sullen scowls among the dark people.
On the veranda Juanita stood alone and waved an adios to him. Back of her was the open window of the golden rose, and a slender girlish figure swayed toward him for an instant and then stood erect, and their eyes met and lingered, while he swept his sombrero to the stirrup.
Juanita wondered, since he saluted so gallantly and rode with his face turned toward her veranda until the hedge intervened, why he did not smile; she was accustomed to gayer caballeros. She realized that she must have looked very pretty in her pink gown framed in the blossoming vines, and she turned away with a pout and a shrug. After all, Fernando wasright: American men did not know how to make love.
Raquel was rather pale and very quiet that morning, but insisted upon staying up; she even remembered to ask what the loud calling and running of many feet had meant the evening before; or had she dreamed it? She supposed it was a stampede of horses—was it? Was any one hurt? She had heard the voices of women.
Ana told her it was only the breaking loose of part of a wild herd, but that no one was injured. Old Polonia heard, and blinked and scowled at Ana, but said nothing.
It was noon when Rafael reached the ranch and caught sight of Raquel in a porch-chair under the vines. She paled slightly at sight of him, and turned the onyx ring so that the carving did not show, and by the time he had crossed the patio and walked to join them, her face was a serene mask. The only surprise she betrayed was at the dark look he cast on Ana.
"Are you two in a politician's pay, that you bring me from Los Angeles in a fright of life and death, when I am needed every minute there for the business matters?" he demanded, and saw in a moment that his wife did not understand. Ana only laughed.
"I did it," she acknowledged. "I sent the boy with some truths for you. Your wife was like to die the first night she came. It is by the grace of God she has been saved from a siege of fever. She does not know in the least how ill she was, but if you had heard her gabbling of blood-stained altars and strange wedding-rings, and floods sweeping over her until she screamed to be saved from them,—well, Don Rafael, you might well have forgotten to spare your horse. Three hours would have brought a lover here, but it takes thirty for the husband."
"Why do you two quarrel always?" asked Raquel, indifferently. "I did not know she had sent for you. I was very tired, and the hot sun—something—oh yes, I was ill, and wakened myself screaming. But it is all gone. I can go home."
Rafael tramped the veranda and sulked.
"A fine laugh you have made for me in Los Angeles! They will think you were sick, that I follow my wife!" he said, frowning at Ana. "God of my soul! Why do you not get another husband to worry into the grave, and let your neighbors alone?"
She only laughed again, and bent over her embroidery frame, where white butterflies were being woven on the drawn threads of linen.
"Because no fine, manly, handsome caballero likeyourself rides this way to ask me," she retorted. "All the most desirable men are always married."
"The Señor Bryton was here for the night," remarked Juanita.
"Oh, he was? Alone?" asked Rafael.
Juanita nodded. "And a priest," she added. "They both rode south."
"Bryton alone?" mused Rafael. "I thought perhaps—Did any strangers ride south last night,—a large party?"
No one had heard of any one passing.
"Doña Maria comes in a carriage by this morning," he remarked, "and Mrs. Bryton. I suppose they will want you to travel in their carriage, if you feel equal to the drive to San Juan."
"Oh, she must not go to-day—not for anything!" decided Doña Refugia, who had come from the hall and overheard. "Doña Maria and her friend can stop here a few days, and then perhaps if your wife is strong enough—"
"Certainly, that is the best, the very best," assented Rafael, with a smile of relief. Doña Refugia was making it necessary that Raquel should at least meet the friends of Doña Maria. All was turning out well, after all.
Raquel made no remark, only looked out idlyacross the garden to the fields, yellow where the mustard bloom glowed. She knew she could not bear it just yet. Later, perhaps, she could grow strong enough to see Bryton's wife, and hear her voice cut across the days and the dusks here, where his whispers had awakened her to life—some day, perhaps; but she knew it could not be either to-day or to-morrow.
Her husband watched her curiously. If she would only give some sign of what she felt, as another woman would do! How was a man to read a woman who stared out on life like a sphinx, seeing nothing and hearing nothing?
In the same way, she had seemed a bit of wood over that old legend of the curse on San Juan: it had not changed in the least her determination to go back there; yet, since she had screamed of it in a fever, who was to know what feeling it had awakened back of those fathomless violet eyes?
Rafael turned this theory over in his mind, and smoked several cigarros to help to solve the problem, but it was of no use. It had been a very fine marriage for him. Her visit to Los Angeles had further emphasized that fact; but he had the galling feeling of being only prince-consort to the queen, and it was not so pleasant to a man who had been shown favor of adifferent sort by many women who would have been glad to give him the king's place.
To marry a girl who is like a wooden saint in a church may be a victory; it may be even romantic when she is half a nun; but it is not comforting to a husband who expects only a wife, a home.
Then across his thoughts came the blue eyes and yellow hair of the woman he had said a reluctant good-bye to in Los Angeles. There was a woman who would have met all his friends half-way, would have promoted his interests, instead of closing doors and refusing to entertain any but the slow old Spanish, who were letting all the money slip out of their hands. In a few years their names would be forgotten in the new world of commerce building, through the Americanos in Los Angeles,—the Americanos whom his wife disdained, but whom the clever little woman of the blue eyes would have won to his interests in so many ways that her influence would have weighed down all the gold of the Estevan heiress, who did not know how to use it. It is only a trick of fate that the money always goes to the wrong people.
So he thought, and smoked, and looked at Raquel Estevan de Arteaga, and wondered by what manœvre or stratagem he could break down her prejudices;he wondered, also, how a woman with such eyes and such lips could be so cold. He supposed it was inherited from the nun, her mother.
Rafael had never heard the story of the love, and revenge, and widowhood of that nun. One or two of the older people of San Juan had heard of it at the time of Estevan's death, but none knew how true it was. It seemed too much a bit out of the dark ages of the Indian records to be true of the debonair Felipe, who had ridden and fought to the admiration of all Californian Mexico, who had found women wherever he rode, and had made love as a caballero's duty. It seemed scarcely credible that he, of all men, should have met death in that way on the far southern mountain; and the older men crossed themselves and tried to forget it, and the younger ones never heard of it.
Rafael, smoking on the veranda and watching the serene face of his wife, and ascribing her coldness to the chill of convent walls, understood her no more than had Felipe Estevan understood the nun who had stepped down from her saint's niche for him; and old Polonia, sitting in the shadow, watched them both, and in her dull brain was also a query: Would he ever discover that she was not cold? And would he find out in the same way? Both God and the devilwould be needed to help them all on that day, for California was not the hill of the temple, where the Indian still ruled!
Rafael at last rode out to the range to see Don Enrico about several matters. He did not care to alarm the women concerning the rumors of the bandits, but now, since he had left Los Angeles behind, he would just as soon ride with the vigilantes as not, and Don Enrico could be trusted. It would be five long hours before the carriage with Doña Maria and her bewitching guest reached the ranch, and one must kill time some way.
He killed more time than he had counted upon. As the sun began to lower, and he and Don Enrico turned their horses for the ranch-house, the dogs started a coyote, and with one accord the Don, his guest, and his vaqueros, took up the trail, following the howls with hue and cry over mesa and along creeks, and by the time the dark had fallen, they were far toward Trabuco. They rode back laughing and singing, and making little dashes at racing, under the early stars.
But their laughter was changed when they rode into the corral. News had come from the south, and a bad thing had happened there. The sheriff from Los Angeles had been ambushed by the Flores men atNiguel Rancho, and nine men were lying dead there. Carts were on the way to take them to San Juan for Christian burial, and Bryton had sent a messenger to Los Angeles with the word; the man had only checked his horse at San Joaquin ranch to shout out the news; that was hours ago. The Indian who had searched the ranges for Don Enrico had come back and said he was not to be found. Doña Refugia had thought it possible that they had heard the word on the ranges and ridden direct to San Juan, and thanked God they had not done so.
She went on to recount to Rafael her terror of the night before, and the awful scene from which she had by no means recovered, and now for this horror to follow so close, and the dread that they might be left alone on the ranch—well, she was having chills at the thought. Ana was the only one not afraid, but with Ana gone to San Juan Capistrano—
Rafael grasped her arm so tightly that she gasped.
"To San Juan?" he demanded. "Alone?" But he was certain of the answer before she spoke.
"Holy Maria! What a grip you have! No. Did I not tell you? Well, we are crazy over it all; we forget. No; she went with your wife, and wild horses could not have held either one of them."
"A malediction on the pair of them!" burst outRafael. "God curse the horses they ride, that they break their necks on the way!"
"Rafael, for Jesus' sake, not so loud!" and Doña Refugia tried to put her hand over his mouth, but he dashed it aside in fury.
"Loud! Holy God! What do I care?" he demanded, wrathfully. "Do you know why they go like that? It is all a lie, that ambush story. That devil Ana Mendez has schemed to have some one ride past and call that out to you, so that they could pretend an excuse to ride anywhere away from here; and do you know why?"
Doña Refugia was past speech, and could only shake her head dumbly.
"Well, I will tell you. It is because Raquel Estevan did not mean to meet the friends you said you would be pleased to entertain on their arrival from Los Angeles. Doña Maria she will speak to, but Doña Angela is one of the heretics she vows her doors will not open to. That is the reason."
"But, Rafael—"
"Now listen to me," and he turned his fierce stride across the hall, "and God curse me if I do not keep my word!"
"Rafael!" she gasped, frightened at the white fury of his face; but he held up his hand.
"I swear she shall open her door to admit the women she slighted, first at Los Angeles and again in your home. She will find she has an Arteaga for a master. She shall open her door; she shall receive her; she shall make up for the insult to your home. By God, she shall make up, with interest!"
Then he strode out of the door, leaving Doña Refugia in a cold terror lest the guest of whom he spoke had heard his words through the closed door of Ana's room. It had been given to Mrs. Bryton on the arrival of the party an hour before, and though the door was closed, who could tell that his words might not have been heard there?
But the window on the veranda was open, and Doña Refugia breathed a sigh of relief when, a few minutes later, she saw Mrs. Bryton's fair face emerge from a bower of clematis in the garden. She had been admiring the beauty of the lilies out there, and looked like one herself,—so cool, so sweetly childish in her little appeals for admiration of the beautiful blooms she loved. Rafael met her there, and was enslaved anew by the blue eyes, as he bent over her tiny hand and kissed it furtively, and walked with her to show her Doña Refugia's carnation-beds, and under the starlight help her to see the beauties of the San Joaquin garden.
But old Polonia, who had heard his words to Doña Refugia, and who watched the two walking in the starlight, muttered in her Indian jargon, "Have a care, Don Rafael; have a care!"
Despite Rafael's doubt, it was all true about the ambush. It was quite true, and very awful. It had occurred in the morning, and Bryton had missed it only by his stay that night at the ranch. But he was also quite right when he said the two girls had left the ranch for other reasons. Raquel was quietly preparing to leave, when the word came warranting her in taking Ana. The two rode south with few words, each so wrapped in her own reasons for going that she gave no thought to the reasons of the other.
They found the town panic-stricken. Don Juan Alvara was ill, and Padre Andros absent at San Luis Rey. Raquel rode into the plaza white and weak from the long ride, but sat erect to hear of the things done and the things needed for the dead.
It was almost dark. While Ysadora the cook prepared supper, Ana questioned concerning a padre who had ridden a San Joaquin horse to San Juan that morning, but no one had seen him. Later, the animal was found grazing along Trabuco Creek. Evidently, some one had passed with a wagon or a herd going south, and had given the padre help on the way;beyond that, no one thought, except Ana, and what she thought she did not say.
Raquel walked through the little hall of the Mission into what had once been the garden of the padres, the little enclosed bit at the back of the belfry built after the falling of the tower. It was the one little corner from which the world seemed shut out. Under the carved doorway she passed into the old domed vestry with its stone centre cut, or worn by the dripping water, into the semblance of a leering face; "the devil's face," it was called, and people looked from its queer smile to the twisted serpent-like carving over what had once been the arch to the church itself, and wondered what the strange carvings meant, and found no one to answer. They were only a sign left by an unknown Mexican sculptor a half-century ago.
Raquel glanced at them and shuddered, and passed out into the great unroofed, beautiful place of fluted pillars and carven cornices.
The pink reflection of the sunset yet lingered on the mesa and the highlands above the sea. The world of the strange new town to the north was left behind. Here among the ruins consecrated, she breathed the air of home-coming, and paced the old altar-place with noiseless step, and with closed eyesand hands clasped she murmured prayers not in the book, taught by the good nuns; and she drew great breaths of strength from the wine-like air, and knew that somewhere, riding the mesa, a man was remembering this hour of the rosary.
Here among the Ruins Consecrated“Here among the Ruins Consecrated”
“Here among the Ruins Consecrated”
Ana found her later on the altar steps, with head bowed over her knees. Gaining no reply to questions, Ana felt that she had been weeping. She undressed her and put her to bed in the little chamber of the barred window facing the sea, and gave her all the care a devoted friend could in the grim isolation of the old walls.
And that was the home-coming of Raquel after her half-royal reception in the City of the Angels.
Music: El Capotin.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que es ta noche va llover.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que sera al amanecer!CHAPTER XV
Music: El Capotin.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que es ta noche va llover.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que sera al amanecer!
Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que es ta noche va llover.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que sera al amanecer!
Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que es ta noche va llover.Con el capotin, tin, tin, tin,que sera al amanecer!
W
When Andres Pico and his men rode into San Juan with the doubtful decoration of necklaces of human ears strung on rawhide strings, there was a breath of relief from the natives: it meant that the bandits had been "confessed," according to the General's naive explanation of the absence of prisoners they knew he had taken; the backbone of the bandit gang was broken.
The vigilantes were the heroes of the hour. As the band of outlaws divided and fled in various directions, they were waited for at every pass and hewn down by the dozen. Only two—Fontez, who had shot the sheriff, and El Capitan, who had not been seen by any one at any time of the raid—were still missing. One of the prisoners, on being questioned,stated that Fontez had taken his share of the plunder and started for Lower California; and when questioned as to El Capitan, swore wrathfully, because El Capitan had disagreed with Flores over the raid, refused to be counted in, and in consequence they would all go to hell! If El Capitan had helped, things would have been different, very different. He had voted against starting out with fifty men to drive the gringos from Southern California; he had fought them before in the open, and knew them. He had told Flores he was a fool, and left them in Santiago Cañon, and ridden away, and after the slaughter of the sheriff and his men he had ridden out of the mustard on a horse of the San Joaquin brand, and told them to ride south and stop for nothing; and no one had seen him since. They had not taken his advice—and now it was all over! A little later, it certainly was over for that particular unfortunate, and his ears were added to a string decorating a swarthy ranchman, who was especially lionized because of his gruesome trophies.
In the plaza of San Juan Mission, Ana listened to the hero of the necklace reciting all the glories of the campaign, and shuddered at the ghastly witness of its veracity. Raquel, standing beside her horse, listened also and felt a loathing of it all. Regular war, such as she had heard of, had never appeared so awful asthis series of slaughters from ambush, where the victors of either side decked themselves like savages.
"It is bad that we have no soldiers left who are hidalgos," she remarked. "The wild Indians carry scalps at their belts; I did not know people did so who had learned their religion from the padres."
She mounted and rode toward the sea, the only woman who dared venture alone out of sight of the protecting walls of the Mission in those days. The man with the necklace looked after her, and then up at the line of grain-sacks still left as a barricade along the roofs of the corridor. Behind them, men with rifles had lain through the days and nights when the panic was at its worst, and women and children had huddled in dread of massacre in the inner court.
"Does the señora forget all that," he asked, "or is there a caballero to guard her where she rides?"
Ana turned on the hero, glad of an outlet for her pent-up anger. "You—you butcher!" she said between her little white teeth. "You know Rafael Arteaga is not here. What other man would ride with his wife?"
"Who knows?" he laughed, easily. "The lady is not afraid, that is clear; and El Capitan is somewhere in the hills, or the willows."
She said nothing, realizing that he was watching herclosely, for all his apparent carelessness. When she continued silent, he laughed and swept his sombrero to the ground and sauntered away. She knew then that he had simply tried her, to see if by any chance she showed knowledge of, or fear for, the outlaw she had never disowned as cousin.
Teresa, seated beside her, saw her changing color, and reached over, patting her hand.
"Even when thou wert little the Capitan made a pet of thee," she said, kindly; "and now every friend he ever had is being watched. If—if—in any way you could warn him—"
"Warn him? How can we, when no one knows? I would walk barefoot across San Juan Mountain if I knew where he was hidden. He may be dying, or dead."
"That is so," decided Teresa, placidly; "and it would be better. They will always hunt him if he is alive."
There was silence between them for a little while, and then she added, "Well, there will be no mourning for him in the Arteaga family. Rafael will be glad."
"Oh, he!" muttered Ana, with impatience. "He is hanging on the skirts of Doña Maria these days, when he should be here with these other fine gentlemen." She pointed to the plaza where the vigilantesand their friends were gathered preparatory to starting on a new trail suggested by an Indian who had seen a white man without a horse somewhere in the hills.
"On the skirts of Doña Maria," repeated Teresa, her little eyes twinkling with interest. "It is true, then—it is that English woman still?"
"Still? How you talk! Is it so long since Los Angeles?"
"Oh, it was long, long before that! I was—Santa Maria!—I had a fright for a while! I thought there would be no wedding. He was crazy as a boy over her. It started, oh, with only a pin-point of a chance; for the Americano Bryton was here, and her eyes were for him! And then—Basta! All at once things changed, and Doña Angela and Don Rafael were never apart; and if she had not been married, I think always Raquel Estevan would have had no husband here in San Juan Capistrano."
"Raquel—does she know?"
"Raquel Estevan is too proud to show if she knows, just as she is now! Never will she go along or follow him when he rides abroad, but if she knew his time was with that heretic—she hates the heretics!"
"She is patient with him."
"Oh, sure; she is a good wife. But if she cared more, would she do as she did when the girl Martacame to the Mission with her child? On my soul, I think Rafael was afraid when she gave to Marta the bed and the clothes, and counted out how many cattle she could have,—to say no word as to how she stood herself as godmother at the baptism! The padre laughs over that!"
"And Rafael—?"
"Rafael—God knows what he said to her! He tried to make her send some one else as godmother, and she would not. Ysadora heard her say 'It is for your soul's sake, and the souls of your children, Rafael,' and he turned white and walked away."
"Poor Rafael," mocked Ana, "I do not think that he has much of a soul. It is as when a man sees he is beloved for his bravery, and all the time he is afraid of his own shadow, and hopes the one who loves him will not discover his weakness: that is how Rafael feels when his wife does penance, and prays for the soul he has not."
"How you talk! We have all a soul; the padre says so."
"Oh, the padre! The soul of our padre is also like a grain of mustard seed—so small, and no soil to grow in! Never could I confess to him. I wait until Padre Sanchez comes; no one but a Franciscan priest do I believe in."
"Ai! and if you should get sick and die, and Padre Sanchez on some other side of the world? He is always travelling; never will he settle and gather 'dobe dollars like our padre. Suppose he should not come; you would die without confession?"
"No; I would hang on to the edge of life by some thread of prayer until he came."
"Padre Pedro of the north was here last month: that man makes me afraid. He tries to be a saint, and is so often under vows. This time it was a vow not to speak, and Padre Andros was glad when he took to the road. It was like a black ghost to see him walk the plaza with a black hood over his head, and never a word or look up from the ground. You would think the saints he prayed to lived somewhere in the roads. We thanked God and emptied some bottles with the padre when he was out of sight."
"But he is a good man."
"Oh, he is a saint; but we can't feel easy with saints in San Juan. That is why your Raquel Estevan will always be outside."
"You mean above," retorted Ana. "The devil's face in the stone of the Mission dome fits better this place of the necklace of ears."
Teresa shuddered.
"It is bad luck to say things of that face," she warned. "Some think maybe it was an Indian god,—I heard an old Indio say so once. Never will I go under the dome of that old vestry since that day."
"How would an Indian god be put in a Christian church?"
"No one knows," and Teresa crossed herself. "The old Indios say it is bad luck to talk about it; so whatever the story is, it has been forgotten, and that is better. When I was a little child the old Indios told strange ghost and curse stories, and we were all much afraid; now the old Indios are mostly dead, and no one else remembers, only all are still afraid of the earthquake ruin at night."
"They are sheep; they are afraid of their shadows at night," retorted Ana; "that is why Raquel will always be, as you say, 'outside'!"
"Well, she goes against the padre, and that is always bad. It is bad luck to fight a padre; he can refuse absolution."
Ana made no reply. She was very weary of the endless, endless stories of Raquel's unlikeness to the other women; and what they did not understand they would like to condemn. She knew so well that in Mexico the Doña Luisa and the Doña Raquel had met only the hidalgos when they went for a brief visitto the world of people, but in San Juan there were no hidalgos; only the mixed races without pride of birth or distinction, apart from the lands and cattle around them on the ranges. Ana could feel, better than any other, why the wife of Rafael rode alone to the cliffs above the sea, seeking kinship there in the isolation.
In vain Ana had tried to solve the problem given her by the padre at the San Joaquin ranch that strange evening: his quick change of attitude toward the Americano,—even asking her friendliness and her welcome for him if he crossed her path. The queer idea of the Americano's love affairs was the most puzzling of all: it never occurred to her that he meant Raquel—Raquel, who avoided all heretics! Still, it was strange that she never thought of the Americano's love affair without involuntarily trying to picture a woman who would look like Raquel. And she did not dream those two had ever met.
As Pico and his men got into the saddles and started north she heard him mention Bryton's name. The latter had evidently tired quickly of vigilante work; at any rate he had disappeared as effectually as El Capitan,—no one had seen him for over a week. And of course no one had time to hunt him up.
At Trabuco Creek the vigilantes passed an Indianboy loping easily along the valley road. When stopped and questioned, he stated he was going to the Mission from San Joaquin ranch. The brand on the bronco corroborated his story, and he was let pass with slight attention; yet they would have found him quite worth while.
Ana had gone with Teresa to make a little visit to Don Juan Alvara, who was still ill, and very impatient at being housed up when all the world of San Juan was astir to see the cavalcade of avengers. He was asking sharply why Rafael Arteaga was following his English partner's example, and keeping out of the work of search or battle. It was to be expected that Don Eduardo Downing, after being forced by El Capitan to pay over a thousand dollars as tribute to the Flores bandits, would feel that he was exempt from active service in pursuit of them; they had cost him quite enough. And of course he had never anything but an alien's interest in the country, the interest of dollars; but with Rafael Arteaga it was different. What was he doing these days, when every man who held stock and could fight rode abroad?
The women exchanged glances. Of what use to tell Alvara it was a woman? He would only be more disgusted, and might say things to Doña Raquel, and that would never do.
Teresa's curiosity as to results led her very close to it, for her new sister-in-law was a thorn in the side of the bovine ponderous Californian, by whom the "brown girls" had been accepted as a part of domestic life. Ever since she had listened that day to the story of vengeance in Old Mexico, she had resented everything about it, even the child of that strange marriage, the child who had inherited—who knew how much?—of the blood and instincts of that saintly, half-Indian nun.
Yes, Teresa would have dearly loved to watch Raquel Estevan when the story was told; also the story of Rafael's latest infatuation; yet, all the Arteaga boys had died violent deaths, and she had no wish to see the last one of them murdered. She was certain that if it did happen, the ghost of Doña Luisa would be at the foot of her bed every night, and she would have to pay a lot for masses. They cost thirty-five dollars since the padre was building new fences around his orchards. So she contented herself with wishing as much as she dared without being held liable by the ghost of Doña Luisa in case of accidents. And then Ana was always there with her eyes, and if any one did tell Alvara, Ana would ferret it out, and she had such a tongue!
While they reassured the old man, and told himthe troublous days of San Juan were nearly over, the Indian boy from the San Joaquin ranch stopped at the gate.
"There is a letter for Doña Ana Mendez," he said. "It came last night. Doña Refugia sent it."
"Doña Refugia?" Ana knew that her aunt could not write, and that the accomplishments of her daughters in that line extended to the ability to inscribe their own names. She glanced at the message, and her lips grew suddenly white as she noted the writing.
It was in pencil, written very plainly. The envelope was folded from a page of letter-paper and sealed with gum of some sort. When she opened it, she found the written page was a communication to Mr. Bryton concerning saddle-horses. But a pencil was drawn through the lines, and around the Bryton letter was written the real message, and it was very brief:
"A man is hurt here. Can you in quiet help him to San Juan?"
An arrow and a cross were the only signature.
Teresa watched Ana questioningly. Letters to women were rare in San Juan, where few women could read; it must be of a death, or something of great importance.
But Ana told nothing, only ordered the boy to go to Ysadora for some lunch before he started back, andto tell Doña Refugia that all was well at San Juan. Though Doña Teresa listened closely, that was all she could hear that was said, and then she knew, of course, that Ana did not intend to remain a widow. She had a lover who wrote letters, an Americano perhaps; the Mexicans did not trouble themselves with such useless learning, now that the old padres were gone.
Ana sat quietly on the veranda for a little while, speaking of matters in general, and then arose languidly and confessed she wished she had gone with Raquel. A ride to the beach was better than to stay shut up in the town. Now that the vigilantes had gone, women would dare ride abroad without growing gray with fear.
"Ai! it is not far you would ride, Ana Mendez. You are like other women when it comes to riding alone these days."
"Raquel rides alone."
"Her mother was not of this country, or she would not be so bold," returned Teresa, tartly. "Men have little liking for women as strong as themselves."
"Alas for me!" laughed Ana, "for I tell you now I am going to copy after her. She makes the other women look like sheep. If she would go with me, I would ride to the San Joaquin ranch this night and have no fear."
Teresa shrugged her shoulders.
"You grow like a child, Ana, as you get more years. Your letter makes you young again—so?"
But Ana was out of the gate, and crossing the plaza with a light springy step, as if indeed the days of girlhood had come back. In her eyes was a smile, but back of the smile was a light of new determination. All at once she seemed to have found herself: he was in danger, and had called her.
At the Mission she found the Indian boy with a dish of frijolles.
"How did the letter come?" she asked, but he did not know. It was found under the door, and it had frightened Doña Refugia, and she wanted it out of the house when the men were away. She thought it, maybe, was a demand for money, such as the outlaws had sent Señor Eduardo Downing, and she asked Ana for the love of God to send word back quick what it meant.
"It is only from the padre who borrowed the horse, and he thanks her," said Ana, coolly. "Ride straight home, and talk to no one, or you will get a reata instead of frijolles."
The Indian boy nodded silently. He knew the Doña Ana always kept her promises of that sort.
A little later, Teresa looked out at the sound ofhorse-hoofs thundering by, and saw Ana on the road to the sea.
She let her horse have his head until she came to the Rancho de la Playa, when she halted to scan the meadow and sand of the shore, and then bent her attention to the ground, and paced slowly along until she found the tracks of Raquel's horse turning to the right. There was only one road to be followed to the right; she had gone through the little cañon of the cactus and up to the heights above. More than once Doña Ana halted to examine the ground, to be sure that no later tracks had been made on a return trip. Then, away across the mesa she saw Raquel's horse browsing among the sage-brush on the cliff above the sea. Raquel was nowhere in sight; but, knowing she was near, Ana rode quietly along the bluff, until right at the edge of the cliff she saw her stretched at full length in the odorous grasses, her chin propped on her hands, staring down the steeps where yellow poppies nodded to the surf below. A cluster of the blossoms was beside her, and her skirt was torn. She had evidently been down there after them, and was resting after her climb.
"What is it, Anita?" she asked after a brief upward glance. "Is there a spirit of unrest with you also? Some say there is sleep and forgetfulness inthese little cups of gold. I have gathered some and lain here a long time, but it is not true, Anita. There is no forgetting."