by Zane Grey
She developed into a famous nurse. Low-voiced and soft-footed, she would coax the delirious man to lie down when he grew excited or to take his medicine according to the orders of the doctor.
It was on the third day after Gordon’s return to Corbett’s that Juanita heard a whistle while she was washing dishes after supper in the kitchen. Presently she slipped out of the back door and took the trail to the corral. A man moved forward out of the gloom to meet her.
“Is it you, Pablo?”
A slender youth, lean-flanked and broad-shouldered, her visitor turned out to be. His outstretched hands went forward swiftly to meet hers.
“Juanita, light of my life?” he cried softly. “Corazon mia!”
She submitted with a little reluctant protest to his caress. “I have but a minute, Pablo. The señora wants to walk over to Dolan’s place. I am to stay with the sick American.”
He exploded with low, fierce energy. “A thousand curses take the gringo! Why should you nurse him? Is he not an enemy to the señorita—to all in the valley who have bought from her or her father or her grandfather? Is he not here to throw us out—a thief, a spy, a snake in the grass?”
“No, he is not. Señor Gordon is good…and kind.”
“Bah! You are but a girl. He gives you soft words—and so—” The jealousy in him flared suddenly out. He caught his sweetheart tightly by the arm. “Has he made love to you, this gringo? Has he whispered soft, false lies in your ear, Juanita? If he has—”
She tried to twist free from him. “You are hurting my arm, Pablo,” the girl cried.
“It is my heart you hurt, niña. Is it true that this thief has stolen the love of my Juanita?”
“You are a fool, Pablo. He has never said a hundred words to me. All through his sickness he has talked and talked—but it is of Señorita Valdés that he has raved.”
“So. He will rob her of all she has and yet can talk of loving her. Do you not see he is a villain, that he has the forked tongue, as old Bear Paw, the Navajo, says of all gringoes? But let Señor Gordon beware. His time is short. He will not live to drive us from the valley. So say I. So say all the men in the valley.”
“No—no! I will not have it, Pablo. You do not know. This Señor Gordon is good. He would not drive us away.” Her arms slid around the neck of her lover and she pleaded with him impetuously. “You must not let them hurt him, for it is a kind heart he has.”
“Why should I interfere? He is only a gringo. Let him die. I tell you he means harm to all of us.”
“I do not know my Pablo when he talks like this. My Pablo was always kind and good and of a soft heart. I do not love him when he is cruel.”
“It is then that you love the American,” he cried. “Did I not know it? Did I not say so?”
“You say much that is foolish, muchacho. The American is a stranger to me…and you are Pablo. But how can I love you when your heart is full of cruelty and jealousy and revenge? Go to the Blessed Virgin and confess before the good priest your sins, amigo.”
“Amigo! Since when have I been friend to you and not lover, Juanita? I know well for how long—since this gringo with the white face crossed your trail.”
Suddenly she flung away from him. “Muy bien! You shall think as you please. Adios, my friend with the head of a donkey! Adios, icabron!”
She was gone, light as the wind, flying with swift feet down the trail to the house. Sulkily he waited for her to come out again, but the girl did not appear. He gave her a full half hour before he swung to the saddle and turned the head of his pony toward the Valdés’ hacienda. A new and poignant bitterness surged in his heart. Had this stranger, who was bringing trouble to the whole valley, come between him and little Juanita, whom he had loved since they had been children? Had he stolen her heart with his devilish wiles? The hard glitter in the black eyes of the Mexican told that he would punish him if this were true.
His younger brother Pedro took the horse from him as he rode into the ranch plaza an hour later.
“You are to go to the señorita at once and tell her how the gringo is, Pablo.” After a moment he added sullenly: “Maldito, how is the son of a thief?”
“Sick, Pedro, sick unto death. The devil, as you say, may take him yet without any aid from us,” answered Pablo Menendez brusquely.
“Why does the señorita send you every day to find out how he is? Can she not telephone? And why should she care what becomes of the traitor?” demanded Pedro angrily.
His brother shrugged. “How should I know?” He had troubles enough with the fancies of another woman without bothering about those of the señorita.
Valencia Valdés was on the porch waiting for her messenger.
“How is he, Pablo? Did you see the doctor and talk with him? What does he say?”
“Si, señorita. I saw Doctor Watson and he send you this letter. They say the American is a sick man—oh, very, very sick!”
The young woman dismissed him with a nod and hurried to her room. She read the letter from the doctor and looked out of one of the deep adobe windows into the starry night. It happened to be the same window from which she had last seen him go hobbling down the road. She rose and put out the light so that she could weep the more freely. It was hard for her to say why her heart was so heavy. To herself she denied that she cared for this jaunty debonair scoundrel. He was no doubt all she had told him on that day when she had driven him away.
Yes, but she had sent him to pain and illness…perhaps to death. The tears fell fast upon the white cheeks. Surely it was not her fault that he had been so obstinate. Yet—down in the depth of her heart she knew she loved the courage that had carried him with such sardonic derision out upon the road for the long tramp that had so injured him. And there was an inner citadel within her that refused to believe him the sneaking pup she had accused him of being. No man with such honest eyes, who stood so erect and graceful in the image of God, could be so contemptible a cur. There was something fine about the spirit of the man. She had sensed the kinship of it without being able to put a finger exactly upon the quality she meant. He might be a sinner, but it was hard to believe him a small and mean one. The dynamic spark of self-respect burned too brightly in his soul for that.
CHAPTER VI
JUANITA
The fifth day marked the crisis of Gordon’s illness. After that he began slowly to mend.
One morning he awoke to a realization that he had been very ill. His body was still weak, but his mind was coherent again. A slender young woman moved about the room setting things in order.
“Aren’t you Juanita?” he asked.
Her heart gave a leap. This was the first time he had recognized her. Sometimes in his delirium he had caught at her hand ind tried to kiss it, but always under the impression that she was Miss Valdés.
“Si, señor,” she answered quietly.
“I thought so.” He added after a moment, with the childlike innocence a sick person has upon first coming back to sanity: “There couldn’t be two girls as pretty as you in this end of the valley, could there?”
Under her soft brown skin the color flooded Juanita’s face. “I—I don’t know.” She spoke in a flame of embarrassment, so abrupt had been his compliment and so sincere.
“I’ve been very sick, haven’t I?”
She nodded. “Oh, señor, we have been—what you call—worried.”
“Good of you, Juanita. Who has been taking care of me?”
“Mrs. Corbett.”
“And Juanita?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ah! That’s good of you, too, amiga.”
She recalled a phrase she had often heard an American rancher’s daughter say. “I loved to do it, señor.”
“But why? I’m your enemy, you know. You ought to hate me. Do you?”
&n
bsp; Once again the swift color poured into the dark cheeks, even to the round birdlike throat.
“No, señor.”
He considered this an instant before he accused her whimsically. “Then you’re not a good girl. You should hate the devil, and I’m his agent. Any of your friends will tell you that.”
“Señor Gordon is a joke.”
He laughed weakly. “Am I? I’ll bet I am, the fool way I acted.”
“I mean a—what you call—a joker,” she corrected.
“But ain’t I your enemy, my little good Samaritan? Isn’t that what all your people are saying?”
“I not care what they say.”
“If I’m not your enemy, what am I?”
She made a great pretense of filling the ewer with water and gathering up the soiled towels.
“How about that, niña?” he persisted, turning toward her on the pillow with his unshaven face in his hand, a gentle quizzical smile in his eyes.
“I’m your…servant, señor,” she flamed, after the embarrassment of silence had grown too great.
“No, no! Nothing like that. What do you say? Will you take me for a friend, even though I’m an enemy to the whole valley?”
Her soft, dark eyes flashed to meet his, timidly and yet with an effect of fine spirit.
“Si, señor.”
“Good. Shake hands on it, little partner.”
She came forward reluctantly, as if she were pushed toward him by some inner compulsion. Her shy embarrassment, together with the sweetness of the glad emotion that trembled in her filmy eyes, lent her a rare charm.
For just an instant her brown fingers touched his, then she turned and fled from the room.
Mrs. Corbett presently bustled in, fat, fifty, and friendly.
“I can’t hardly look you in the face,” he apologized, with his most winning smile. “I reckon I’ve been a nuisance a-plenty, getting sick on your hands like a kid.”
Mrs. Corbett answered his smile as she arranged the coverlets.
“You’ll just have to be good for a spell to make up for it. No more ten-mile walks, Mr. Muir, till the knee is all right.”
“I reckon you better call me Gordon, ma’am.” His mind passed to what she had said about his walk. “Ce’tainly that was a fool pasear for a man to take. Comes of being pig-headed, Mrs. Corbett. And Doc Watson had told me not to use that game leg much. But, of course, I knew best,” he sighed ruefully.
“Well, you’ve had your lesson. And you’ve worried all of us. Miss Valdés has called up two or three times a day on the phone and sent a messenger over every evening to find out how you were.”
Dick felt the blood flush his face. “She has?” Then, after a little: “That’s very kind of Miss Valdés.”
“Yes. Everybody has been kind. Mr. Pesquiera has called up every day to inquire about you. He has been very anxious for you to recover.”
A faint sardonic smile touched the white lips. “A fellow never knows how many friends he has till he needs them. So Don Manuel is in a hurry to have me get on my feet. That’s surely right kind of him.”
He thought he could guess why that proud and passionate son of Spain fretted to see him ill. The humiliation to which he had been subjected was rankling in his heart and would oppress him till he could wipe it out in action.
“You’ve got other friends, too, that have worried a lot,” said Mrs. Corbett, as she took up some knitting.
“More friends yet? Say, ain’t I rich? I didn’t know how blamed popular I was till now,” returned the invalid, with derisive irony. “Who is it this time I’ve got to be grateful for?”
“Mr. Davis.”
“Steve Davis—from Cripple Creek, Colorado, God’s Country?”
“Yes.”
“Been writing about me, has he?”
Mrs. Corbett smiled. She had something up her sleeve. “First writing, then wiring.”
“He’s a kind of second dad to me. Expect the old rooster got anxious.”
“Looks that way. Anyhow, he reached here last night.”
Gordon got up on an elbow in his excitement. “Here? Here now? Old Steve?”
She nodded her head and looked over her shoulder toward the dining-room. “In there eating his breakfast. He’ll be through pretty soon. You see, he doesn’t know you’re awake.”
Presently Davis came into the room. He walked to the bed and took both of his friend’s hands in his. Tears were shining in his eyes.
“You darned old son-of-a-gun, what do you mean by scaring us like this? I’ve lost two years’ growth on account of your foolishness, boy.”
“Did Mrs. Corbett send for you?”
“No, I sent for myself soon as I found out how sick you was. Now hustle up and get well.”
“I’m going to do just that”
Dick kept his word. Within a few days he was promoted to a rocking-chair on the porch. Here Juanita served his meals and waited on his demands with the shy devotion that characterized a change in her attitude to him. She laughed less than she did. His jokes, his claim upon her as his “little partner,” his friendly gratitude, all served to embarrass her, and at the same time to fill her with a new and wonderful delight.
A week ago, when he had been lying before her asleep one day, she had run her little finger through one of his tawny curls and admired its crisp thickness. To her maiden fancy something of his strong virility had escaped even to this wayward little lock of hair. She had wondered then how the Señorita Valdés could keep from loving this splendid fellow if he cared for her. All the more she wondered now, for her truant heart was going out to him with the swift ardent passion of her race. It was as a sort of god she looked upon him, as a hero of romance far above her humble hopes. She found herself longing for chances to wait upon him, to do little services that would draw the approving smile to his eyes.
Gordon was still in the porch-dwelling stage of convalescence when a Mexican rider swung from his saddle one afternoon with a letter from Manuel Pesquiera. The note was a formal one, written in the third person, and it wasted no words.
After reading it Dick tossed the sheet of engraved stationery across to his companion.
“Nothing like having good, anxious friends in a hurry to have you well, Steve,” he said, with a smile.
The old miner read the communication. “Well, what’s the matter with his hoping you’ll be all right soon?”
“No reason why he shouldn’t. It only shows what a Christian, forgiving disposition he’s got. You see, that day I most walked my leg off I soused Mr. Pesquiera in a ditch.”
“You—what?”
“Just what I say. I picked him up and dropped the gentleman in the nearest ditch. That’s why he’s so anxious to get me well.”
“But—why for, boy?”
Dick laughed. “Can’t you see, you old moss-back? He wants me well enough to call out for a duel.”
“A duel.” Davis stared at him dubiously. He did not know whether or not his friend was making game of him.
“Yes, sir. Pistols and coffee for two, waiter. That sort of thing.”
“But folks don’t fight duels nowadays,” remonstrated the puzzled miner. “Anyhow, what’s he want to fight about? I reckon you didn’t duck him for nothing, did you? What was it all about?”
Dick told his tale of adventures, omitting only certain emotions that were his private property. He concluded with an account of the irrigating-ditch episode. “It ain’t the custom in this part of the country to duck the blue bloods. Shouldn’t wonder but what he’s some hot under the collar. Writes like he sees red, don’t you think, but aims to be polite and keep his shirt on.”
Davis refused to treat the matter as a joke.
“I told you to let your lawyers ’tend to this, Dic
k, and for you not to poke your nose into this neck of the woods. But you had to come, and right hot off the reel you hand one to this Pesky fellow, or whatever you call him. Didn’t I tell you that you can’t bat these greasers over the head the way you can the Poles in the mines?”
“Sure you told me. You’re always loaded with good advice, Steve. But what do you expect me to do when a fellow slaps my face?”
“They won’t stand fooling with, these greasers. This Pesky fellow is playing squarer than most would if he gives you warning to be ready with your six-gun. You take my advice, and you’ll burn the wind out of this country. If you git this fellow, the whole pack of them will be on top of you, and don’t you forget it, son.”
“So you advise me to cut and run, do you?” said Dick.
“You bet.”
“That’s what you’d do, is it?”
“Sure thing. You can’t clean out the whole of New Mexico.”
“Quit your lying, Steve, you old war-horse. You’d see it out, just like I’m going to.”
Davis scratched his grizzled poll and grinned, but continued to dispense good advice.
“You ain’t aiming to mix with this whole blamed country, are you?”
The man in the chair sat up, his lean jaw set and his eyes gleaming.
“I’ve been called the scum o’ the earth. I’ve been kicked out of her house as a fellow not decent enough to mix with honest folks. Only yesterday I got a letter from some of her people warning me to leave the country while I was still alive. This Pesquiera is camping on my trail.”
“Maybe he ain’t. You’ve only guessed that.”
“Guess nothing. It’s a cinch.”
“What you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“But if he lays for you.”
“Good enough. Let him go to it. I’m going through with this thing. I’m going to show them who’s the best man. And when I’ve beat them to a standstill I’ve got a revenge ready that will make Miss Valdés eat humble pie proper. Yes, sir. I’m tied to this country till this thing’s settled.”