CHAPTER XI
MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER
The grey dawn that awoke the household of the cacique did so to somepurpose. "Josefa," called the step-mother as she arose, "Josefa"--but noanswer came. "Why, where can she be?" exclaimed the Indian woman,looking round and calling her other daughters. Salvador himself rushedinto the inner room to look for her. In a moment he sprang out again.
"She has gone!" he shouted. "She has got through the trap-door andescaped. Oh, the wretch!"
"Where can she be?" wondered his wife helplessly.
"Where can she be?" he echoed scornfully. "Why, with that pauperscoundrel of a Felipe. I know her. Oh, I'll make her pay for this!"
He seized his revolver and slipped his belt through the loop of itscase, and grasping a horsewhip he darted from the house. The rest of thefamily followed him somewhat timidly, anxious to see what was going tohappen, wishing, perhaps, that he would punish her a little for notbeing so good and steady as they were, hoping, too, to intervene andsave her from the extremity of his passion, for they knew how pitilesshe was when roused.
The cacique flew straight to Atanacio's dwelling, and thrusting thedoor open burst rudely into the apartment.
"Where is Felipe? Where is my daughter?" shouted he in tones of fury.
"I don't know. I don't know anything about it," said the old man humbly."Isn't your daughter at home? Perhaps she is over at Sahwaquiu's."Sahwaquiu was Josefa's uncle, her own mother's brother, and Josefa was apet of his.
"Where's Felipe, I ask you? Answer me, you old reprobate!" roared theangry cacique.
"I don't know," said the old man again, in the humblest tones. "I havenot seen him. He was here last night when we lay down, but he got up andwent out. I don't know where he is."
"He's run off with my daughter, that's where he is," shouted theindignant parent; "and I believe you know about it too," he added,threatening the old man with his whip. "You had better say what youknow, or I'll make you."
He was a thick-set, muscular man, and looked well able to carry out histhreat, as he stood over old Atanacio, who remained passive, seated on asheep skin near the hearth, neither attempting to defend himself nor toescape. The cacique's black eyes flashed fury, and his coarse featuresworked with passion, as with taunts and threats he cowed the helplessbeing before him.
But meanwhile the news of the elopement had spread, and the Indians werebuzzing about their village like a swarm of bees round the hive. Updashed one of the younger men with news. "Cacique, Cacique," he cried,"the stable! Your horse has gone, but the stable is locked. His tracksgo all up by the acequia"; and he pointed to where two Indians, withtheir heads bent low almost to the ground, were busily questing fromside to side like sleuth-hounds on a scent.
"Oh, the villain!" roared Salvador. "He's got my horse. He shall behanged." And he ran first of all to the stable to satisfy himself byseeing with his own eyes what had happened.
It was true. The stable was locked, but the steed was stolen, as couldbe seen by lying down and peeping under the door. The cacique got upwith his white shirt and buckskins all dusty from the ground, andturning to the crowd called out:
"Here, get me a horse, some of you--Tito, Miguel, Alejandro. Go get methe mare of the Americano, and mount yourselves, too." And he himselfstarted out towards the acequia to look at the tracks. Several Indiansran towards the corrals.
"The saddle," said one; "we want a saddle; go get yours, Alejandro. Youlive nearest."
"Hadn't we better tell the Americano," said Tito, "before we take hismare? Maybe he won't like to lend her."
"But he must lend her," retorted Miguel impatiently. "The cacique wantsher. Isn't that enough?"
By this time they had arrived at the bars of the corral where theprospector kept his stock, and they stopped to wait for Alejandro tobring the saddle. Tito took advantage of the delay to act on his ownmotion, and darting over to the door of Stephens's dwelling began toknock vigorously.
"Hullo! who's there?" called out Stephens in response to the knocking.He was still between the blankets, and had not yet turned out.
"The cacique wants your mare," cried Tito through the keyhole.
"Wants my what?" exclaimed Stephens, who failed to catch his wordsexactly. "Open the door, can't you, and let me hear what you've got tosay," he added, sitting up in bed.
Tito held the door ajar and put half his face into the aperture. He hada wholesome respect for Faro and did not care to adventure farther.
"The cacique wants to take your mare to ride, to go after his daughter,"he explained.
"Well, he can't have her, that's all about it," said Stephens, gettingout of bed and beginning to put on his moccasins. He had adopted theIndian foot-covering as more comfortable as well as more economical thanboots. "Just tell him," he continued, "that I'm not lending horses justnow. When I am I'll let him know. But why can't he take his own?"
"He hasn't got it. It's gone," said Tito, at the same time signallingwith the half of him outside the doorway to Miguel not to take the mare."It's gone. Felipe's run away with the cacique's horse and hisdaughter."
"The dickens he has!" said Stephens. "When did he do that?" As he spokehe recollected Felipe's midnight visit to him for the purpose ofborrowing the saddle, and a light dawned on him. But under thecircumstances it seemed better to say nothing about the matter.
He put on his hat and came to the door. Tito volubly expounded all heknew of the story. Presently Salvador himself came bustling up from theacequia, whip in hand and revolver on hip.
"Looks considerable on the war-path," said the prospector to himself."Wonder what he means to do about it."
"Here," said the cacique in a loud voice to the Indians round, "where'sthe horse? why isn't it saddled?"
Stephens stood leaning carelessly against the doorpost, but took nonotice of his speech. There was silence for a moment, and then Tito saidin a apologetic tone, "Don Estevan says he doesn't want to lend her."
"Oh, nonsense!" said the cacique; and then turning to the American andmastering his passion as well as he could, he said, "Lend me your mare,Don Estevan."
"I can't do it, Salvador," said the prospector deliberately. "I want togo to the sierra to-day."
"Oh, the sierra!" said the cacique impatiently. "That will do to-morrow.My daughter is gone and my horse is gone and there's nothing else to goafter them on. You must lend yours for once."
"Not to be ridden to death after them," said Stephens. "Why, they'releagues away by this time. You'll have to ride like the very mischief tocatch them." There was an accent of contempt in his voice whichinfuriated the Indian. Stephens valued the mare, which he had broughtwith him from Denver, above all earthly things, and the idea of lettingan Indian ride her near to death in a long, stern chase seemed to himthe blankest absurdity. "Why, I wouldn't do it for my own brother!" hewent on. "You can't have her, Cacique, and that's flat."
"But I must," said the Indian, enraged at an opposition he had notexpected. "I must and I will. What's a horse for but to ride?" He turnedto the crowd of Indians behind him, and called out, "Saddle her up, willyou, quick!"
Two or three began instantly to run towards the corral, and the restwere starting to follow when the loud, clear voice of the prospectorarrested their movement.
"Stop right there!" were his words. "You do no such thing. If anyonetouches my stock without my leave I'll shoot him."
The Indians stopped.
"I'll drive you out of here, you Americano," said the angry cacique,laying his hand upon the butt of his revolver and advancing directlytowards Stephens, who was of course quite unarmed.
"Drive away then, and be d----d to you," returned the American. "I'vehired these rooms from old Reyna till the end of April, and I sha'n'tbudge before." And his eyes flashed back defiance.
Salvador kept advancing in a threatening manner, and the younger Indianmen, of whom there were thirty or forty on the spot, closed up behindtheir leader; they half felt that he was wrong, but still he was theirc
hosen cacique.
Stephens stood his ground, and faced the mob with dauntless coolness. Anodd thing struck him. He knew them all personally quite well, but now hehardly seemed to recognise them. The expression of their faces, usuallyso peaceful, was entirely altered. It gave him quite a turn to thinkthat people who had crowded round him so full of fun, and so eager toshow their friendship and gratitude only the day before, should changeso quickly to a cruel mob. Yesterday's momentary outburst of suspicionexcited by the dreaded charge of witchcraft had revealed to him theexplosive forces that lay hidden under their quiet exterior, but thathad been dissipated by his own prompt repudiation of the charge, and bythe cacique's influence. Now it was the cacique himself who wasassailing him, and there was none to help, nor hope of anyone. A hundredblack, flashing eyes were fixed on him with an angry glare. He felt asif he were shut up in a den of wild beasts. He was quite alone; the newstorekeeper at San Remo was the only other American within sixty miles.
"Take your hand off that pistol, Salvador," said he quietly. "You can'tscare me, so don't you try it on."
The Indian stopped, but his hand plucked nervously at the hilt of theweapon. Stephens observed his opponent's indecision, and continued: "Apretty lot of fellows you are, to come crowding round me as you didyesterday, and call me your best friend, and say how you'll sing mypraises to the third generation, and now this morning you're ready tocut my throat before breakfast, all about nothing! I've heard of thegratitude of Indians before now," he continued, "but this beats all."
The Indians visibly winced at this taunt, the justice of which theycould not but acknowledge, and began to interchange rapid words in theirown language, thereby making themselves unintelligible to Stephens.
Just at this moment came a most welcome diversion. Round the cornerdashed Miguel full charge on a fiery steed. The Indians scattered rightand left before him. With a jerk on the terrible Spanish bit he set thehorse on his haunches, and as he sprang to the ground he cried, "Here,Cacique! Here's the horse of the new storekeeper at San Remo. I've gothim for you."
Salvador never spoke, but seizing the rein offered him by Miguel hesprang to the saddle, turned his back on Stephens and the crowd, anddashed wildly forwards to the trail.
All eyes were bent on his rapid course. The trackers on foot hadalready traced the hoof-marks from the acequia across to the Ensenadatrail, and were running half a mile off like hounds in full cry. In lessthan two minutes the galloping horseman overtook them, and canteredalongside to hear what they had to tell. They reported that the trackswere several hours old and that the horse carried double.
"I could have told you that," said Salvador, as he plied the whipfreshly, and galloping ahead disappeared in the direction of the mesasfrom the sight of those who were watching him.
"Wonder what he'll do if he catches Felipe!" said Stephens to himself ashe saw him vanish over the hills. "That young man'll have to look outfor himself, as sure as he's a foot high. Rather lucky for me," heruminated, turning to go in, "that chap Miguel's coming up with Backus'shorse! I wonder, by the way, how he came to get him. I don't know what Ishould have done if Mr. Salvador had gone for me with that six-shooter,and he was just about mad enough to try it on. Blamed if it wasn't thesuddenest scare I ever did get let in for! Why, hallo, Faro, old man,"said he aloud, on finding the dog at his heels, "what's up with you? Idon't often see you out of the blankets before breakfast. Blamed if Idon't believe you heard me a-talkin' to them fellers and just come outto take a hand!" He was right. The dog's quick ear had caught the noteof danger in his master's voice, and he had flown to his assistance.
Stephens took another look at the Indians around. Some were stillwatching the mesas; others were going about their daily business. Itseemed as if those who knew him best kept aloof, feeling ashamed to comeup and speak to him. However, an old man whom he hardly knew, and whospoke Spanish badly, approached him in an apologetic sort of way, andsaid, "Salvador very angry!"
"Well," answered Stephens, with a grim laugh, "I should think he's gonemad."
"Yes, mad, silly," assented the old man; "for why get angry? No good, nogood,"--and he stood there wagging his old head and saying "no good" ina way that the prospector quite understood to be intended for an _amendehonorable_ on the part of his fellows.
Nor was he the only one. "Senor Americano," said a cracked voice closebeside him, and Stephens felt a light touch on his elbow. He turned andfound himself face to face with Reyna, the Turquoise squaw from whom herented his rooms. She and her husband lived next door to him, and fromher he often bought eggs and meal. She of course had been a witness ofthe whole affair. She now produced two eggs, and holding them out to himsaid, "See, two."
"Yes, I see," said Stephens, "but I don't want 'em to-day. Haven't gotthe five cents."
"No, no!" she cried. "No money--two."
Her Spanish was weaker even than the old man's. Stephens turned to him."What does she mean?" he asked. "I can't make out what she's up to."
The two Indians exchanged some words in their own language.
"She means, your honour," said the old Indian man, speaking with painfulelaboration, "that this is for the gratitude of the Indians. Excuse her,your honour, she does not speak much in Spanish--that is, not like us,the men"--he added explanatorily, "but she can understand, and she heardyou say the Indians got no gratitude, and this is for her."
Stephens turned to the old squaw and took the eggs, thanking her aswell as he knew how. "And I'm going now to cook them for breakfast,"said he, as he went back to his room.
"Well, who'd have thought that?" he said to himself, as he began towhittle shavings from a piece of fat pine to light his fire with."They're a queer lot, Indians are, but I suppose it takes all sorts ofpeople to make a world." His thoughts wandered back to Salvador and thefugitives. "Wonder what Salvador'll do," he said half aloud. "He's madenough to kill the boy, if he gets close enough. Blamed if I don't thinkhe was about mad enough to kill me! He's real ugly when he's mad, andit's no foolin' when it comes to six-shooters." He went over the sceneof the early dawn again in his mind. "It does beat cock-fightin'," hecontinued to himself, "how folks like these Indians, that's as quiet anddecent and orderly as can be, should flare up all in a moment and glareat you like a lot of wildcats, and all for nothing. Why, if I'd gone andkilled somebody, or run off with somebody's wife, there'd be some sensein it, but to burst out just because I wouldn't lend my mare to be rodeplumb to death! It does beat all."
The fire now burned up brightly, and after setting the coffee-pot on toboil he filled the nose-bags himself, and went out to feed his stock."Confound that boy, running off like this," he grumbled, "and leaving methis job! Told his little brother Tomas, indeed! I don't see him aroundyet; not much; don't expect to neither."
He leaned up against the fence waiting while the stock ate their feed.Someone must keep watch in order to drive off the hungry Indian pigs,who prowled around and would have disputed their corn with the horses.The sun had just risen, and his level rays lit up like a flame the redcliffs crowned with dark pines, which formed the western side of thevalley. But Stephens did not see them. He was facing east, with thesunlight full in his face, and his eyes fixed on the bare, flat-toppedtable-lands which divided the Santiago valley from the Rio Grande."Confound him!" he growled again. "What a fool trick for him to play!I'm mighty glad it isn't my mare he's playing it on. He'll find himselfin a muss, too, if he don't mind out, sure. I don't more than half likethe notion of that ugly savage of a cacique getting after him with asix-shooter."
He waited till the stock had finished feeding, and then went back to hisrooms. But he decided not to start for the sierra till the next day."Confound the boy!" said he the third time. "I can't take that littlefool, Tomas, and I want somebody to help me dry the meat and pack itdown. Why the dickens couldn't he run off some other time! He want awife! He wants a nurse and a birch rod, I should say."
Thoroughly vexed, he prepared to put in the rest of his morning, or atleast as much of it a
s he could spare from swearing at Felipe'sescapade, in fixing up pack-saddles, mending his tent, cleaning hisbeloved repeating rifle, and generally getting ready for the trip he sounwillingly postponed.
But his plans for the day were destined to be interfered with for thesecond time. The inquisitive face of Mr. Backus appeared suddenly in theopen door.
"Mornin', Mr. Stephens," he began; "can I come in? So this is where youlive when you're at home." He dragged a heavy saddle across thethreshold and took a seat. "I told you I wouldn't be long before comin'up to take a squint at your white squaw."
"She's no squaw of mine, Mr. Backus," said Stephens with rising anger."I think I told you so already. And if you want to see her you can't,for it so happens that she has just eloped." He turned his back on thestorekeeper, kneeling down to arrange his pack-cinches with apreoccupied air.
"Oh," returned the other, "is that it? I didn't tumble to it that shewas the one who had bolted." His eye wandered around Stephens's modestabode, taking in every detail, as he tried to gratify his curiosityconcerning the prospector's domestic arrangements. It seemed to him anincredible thing that a man should settle down like this among theIndians and not provide himself with at least a temporary wife. But inthese bachelor's quarters there was no sign of feminine occupation,temporary or permanent. The one novelty that puzzled him was the neatlybuilt assaying furnace, which he at first took for a new sort of breadoven, until he detected the parcels of ore beside it and its true naturedawned upon him. But postponing the idea of asking questions about itfor the present, he went babbling on: "And here I've been and loaned myhorse to a chief to go chasing after her upon, and left myself afoot.Guess I'll have to try and borrow that mule of yourn to get back to SanRemo on." Stephens's face at this suggestion became the picture ofdisgust. "Say, though," he went on, "I was forgetting. You're badlywanted down there. I come up partly just to tell you that. DonNepomuceno is in a mighty awkward fix. What do you think that son ofhis, Andres, has been up to? You'll never guess in a month of Sundays.He's bin and had a fuss with a Navajo up yonder in the mountains over agame of cards, and killed him, and half burned the body in the camp-fireto try and get rid of the thing. And the Navajos have got right up ontheir ear about it and there's a whole band of 'em now down at San Remowanting old Sanchez to turn 'em over his whole sheep herd to pay for it.How's that for high, eh?"
Stephens leaped to his feet. "Who told you this?" he cried.
"Why, Andres himself," replied the storekeeper. "I've seen him. He'shidden away now in an inner room down at the house. The Indians arehaving a big pow-wow outside. Oh, they'd just murder him if they couldget their hands on him once."
Without a word Stephens caught up his saddle and his Winchester andstarted for the door.
"Where are you off to so quick?" asked Backus, rising also.
"To get my mare," was the answer, "and go straight down there. And you'dbest come along, too. You can have that mule."
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