by Zane Grey
“Felipe!”
“Yes, Felipe! I believe they called him that.”
Longorio strode to the end of the livingroom, flung open the wooden shutters of a window and, leaning far out, whistled sharply on his fingers.
“Oiga! Teniente! Ho, you fellows!” he shouted.
From the darkness a voice answered; a man, evidently on guard, came running.
“Call old Pancho,” the general directed. “Tell him to bring me black Felipe, the fellow with the torn lip. Quick!”
“Yes, general,” came the voice; then the metallic rattle of spurs and accoutrements as the sentry trotted away.
Dolores had completely broken down now, and Alaire was trying to comfort her. Their guest remained by the window, frowning. After a time there sounded a murmur of voices, then a shuffling of feet in the hall; Alaire’s friend, the old lieutenant, appeared in the doorway, saluting. Behind him were several others.
“Here is Felipe,” he announced.
“Bring him in.”
A sullen, frowning man in soiled uniform was pushed forward, and Dolores hid her face against her mistress’s shoulder.
“Is this the fellow?” Longorio inquired.
Dolores nodded.
“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” The general transfixed his trooper with a stare; then, as the latter seemed bereft of his voice, “Why did you enter this house?”
Felipe moistened his scarred lips. “That woman is—nice and clean. She’s not so old, either, when you come to look at her.” He grinned at his comrades, who had crowded in behind old Pancho.
“So! Let us go outside and learn more about this.” Longorio waved his men before him and followed them out of the room and down the hall and into the night.
When a moment or two had dragged past, Dolores quavered. “What are they going to do with him?”
“I don’t know. Anyhow, you need not fear—”
There sounded the report of a gunshot, deadened indeed by the thick adobe walls of the house, yet sudden and loud enough to startle the women.
When Longorio reappeared he found Alaire standing stiff and white against the wall, with Dolores kneeling, her face still buried in her mistress’s gown.
“Give yourself no concern,” he told them, quickly. “I beg a thousand pardons for Felipe. Henceforth no one will molest you.”
“Was that a—shot?” Alaire inquired faintly.
“Yes. It is all settled.”
“You killed him?”
The general nodded. “Purely for the sake of discipline—one has to be firm. Now your woman is badly frightened. Send her away so that we may reach an understanding.”
“Oh-h! This is frightful,” Alaire gasped. “I can’t talk to you. Go—Let me go.”
The man pondered for an instant. “Perhaps that would be better,” he agreed, reluctantly, “for I see you, too, are unstrung. Very well! My affairs will have to wait. Take a few hours to think over what I have told you. When you have slept you will feel differently about me. You will meet me with a smile, eh?” He beamed hopefully.
“Sleep? You expect me to sleep?”
“Please,” he begged. “Beauty is like a delicate flower, and sleep is the dew that freshens it. Believe me, you can rest in all security, for no one can come or go without my consent. You are cruel to postpone my delight; nevertheless, I yield to your feelings. But, star of my life, I shall dream of you, and of that little priest who waits with the key of Paradise in his hands.”
He bowed over Alaire’s cold fingers, then stood erect until she and Dolores had gone.
XXIX
THE PRIEST FROM MONCLOVA
That was a night of terror for the women. Although Longorio’s discipline was in some ways strict, in others it was extremely lax. From some quarter his men had secured a supply of mescal, and, forgetful of Felipe’s unhappy fate, they rendered the hours hideous. There were singing and quarreling, and a shot or two sounded from the direction of the outbuildings. Morning found both Alaire and Dolores sadly overwrought. But they felt some relief upon learning that the general had been unexpectedly summoned from his bed at daylight, and had ridden to the telegraph office.
Profiting by his absence, Alaire ventured from her room, racking her brain to devise some means of escape. But soldiers were everywhere; they lolled around the servants’ quarters; they dozed in the shade of the ranch buildings, recovering from the night’s debauch; and an armed sentinel who paced the hacienda road gave evidence that, despite their apparent carelessness, they had by no means relaxed their vigilance. A round of the premises convinced Alaire that the place was effectually guarded, and showed her the futility of trying to slip away. She realized, too, that even if she managed to do so, her plight would be little better. For how could she hope to cover the hundred miles between La Feria and the Rio Grande when every peon was an enemy?
She was standing in one of the open, sashless windows when her former protector, the old lieutenant, bade her good morning and paused to smoke a cigarette.
“Well, it was a great night, wasn’t it?” he began. “And we have great news this morning. We are going to fight you gringos.”
“I hope not.”
“Yes; it will probably go hard with you. Tell me, this city of Washington is a fine city, and very rich, is it not?”
“Oh yes.”
“It’s full of loot, eh? Especially the President’s palace? That is good. One can never believe all one hears.”
“Why do you ask?” Alaire was curious.
“I was thinking it would pay us to go there. If your soldiers march upon Mexico City, it would be a brilliant piece of strategy for General Longorio to invade the United States, would it not? It would be funny to capture Washington and hold your President for ransom, eh?”
“Very funny,” Alaire agreed, dryly. “How would you go about it?”
Pancho shrugged. “That is the trouble. We would have to march around Texas, I presume.”
“Around Texas?”
“Yes. You see, Texas is a bad country; it is full of—barbarians who know how to fight. If it were not for Texas we would have the United States at our mercy.” After some consideration he ventured this opinion: “We could afford to pay the Texans for allowing us to ride through their country, provided we stole nothing and paid for the cattle we ate. Well, Longorio is a great one for schemes; he is talking over the telegraph with somebody at this moment. Perhaps it is the President of Texas.”
“You are a poor man, are you not?” Alaire inquired.
“Miserably poor.”
“Would you like to make a great deal of money?”
“Dios! That is why I’m a soldier.”
“I will pay you well to get me two horses—”
But old Pancho shook his head vigorously. “Impossible! General Longorio is going to marry you. We all got drunk last night to celebrate the wedding. Yes, and the priest is waiting.”
“I will make you rich.”
“Ho! I wouldn’t live to spend a single peso. Felipe disobeyed orders, and the general shot him before he could cross himself. Boom! The poor fellow was in hell in a minute. No. We will all be rich after we win a few battles and capture some American cities. I am an old man; I shall leave the drinking and the women to the young fellows, and prepare for my old age.”
Seeing that she could not enlist Pancho’s aid, Alaire begged him to fetch the priest.
“You wish spiritual comfort, señora?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like much of a priest, but probably he will do. As for me, I don’t believe in such things. Churches are all very well for ignorant people, but we Mexicans are too intelligent; we are making an end of them.”
The priest was a small, white-hai
red man with a gentle, almost timid face, and at the moment when he appeared before Alaire he was in anything but a happy frame of mind. He had undergone, he told her, a terrible experience. His name was O’Malley. He had come from Monclova, whence the Rebels had banished him under threat of death. He had seen his church despoiled of its valuables, his school closed; he himself had managed to escape only by a miracle. During his flight toward the border he had suffered every indignity, and finally Longorio had intercepted him and brought him here, practically in chains.
“What a situation! What chaos!” he lamented. “The land is overrun with bandits; there is no law, no authority, no faith; religion is made a mockery. The men are becoming infidels and atheists, and in many places they will not allow us to give comfort even to their women.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
Father O’Malley shook his head sadly. “You’ve no idea. What do you think of a people who forbid the mention of God’s name in their schools? That is what the revolutionists are doing. Candeleria claims that the churches are the property of the State. He confiscates them, and he charges admission. He has banished all except a few of us priests, and has shamefully persecuted our Sisters of Mercy. Oh, the outrages! Mexico is, today, the blackest spot on the map of Christendom.” His voice broke. “That is the freedom, the liberty, the democracy, for which they are fighting. That is the new Mexico. And the Federals are not a bit better. This Longorio, for instance, this—wolf—he brings me here, as his prisoner, to solemnize an unholy marriage! He treats me like a dog. Last night I slept in a filthy hovel—”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” Alaire exclaimed. “But I’m half crazed with my own troubles. You must come into the house; the best I have is yours. You shall be as much my guest as I can make you, and—perhaps you will help me to escape.”
“Escape?” The little man smiled mournfully. “You are watched and guarded, and so am I. Even if you got away from here, what then? You can’t imagine the condition of the country.”
“I won’t marry him!” Alaire cried, with a shudder. “I won’t!”
“He can’t very well force you to do so. But remember, these are war times; the man is a fiend, and he puts no restraint upon his desires. If he is madly bent on having you, how can you prevent it? In normal times he would not dare injure one so prominent as you, but now—” Father O’Malley lifted his hands. “I only wonder that he suggests a lawful marriage. Suppose you refuse? Will he not sacrifice you to his passions? He has done worse things.” After a moment’s consideration he said: “Of course it is possible that I misjudge him. Anyhow, if you desire me to do so I will refuse to perform the ceremony. But—I’m afraid it will just mean ruin for both of us.”
“Surely he wouldn’t harm you?”
The Father shrugged. “What am I? An obscure priest. Many of my brothers are buried in Mexico. However, I shall do as you wish.”
As the day wore on Alaire realized even more clearly the fact that she was Longorio’s prisoner. His men, in spite of their recent debauch, kept a very good watch over her, and it was plain that they would obey his orders, no matter how extreme. It occurred to her finally that he was staying away purposely, in order to give her a fuller appreciation of her position—so that she might beat her wings against the cage until exhausted.
Afternoon came, then evening, and still Longorio did not return, Father O’Malley could give scant comfort; Dolores was a positive trial.
Half distracted, Alaire roamed through the house, awaiting her captor’s coming, steeling herself for their final battle. But the delay was trying; she longed for the crisis to come, that this intolerable suspense might be ended. At such an hour her thoughts naturally turned to Dave Law, and she found herself yearning for him with a yearning utterly new. His love had supported her through those miserable days at Las Palmas, but now it was a torture; she called his name wildly, passionately. He knew her whereabouts and her peril—why did he not come? Then, more calmly, she asked herself what he, or what any one, could do for her. How could she look for succor when two nations were at war?
Night had come before she finally gave up and acknowledged the hopelessness of her situation. She had fought bravely, but with darkness her fears grew blacker. She was on the verge of her first breakdown when, in the early dusk outside, she heard voices and the stamping of horses’ hoofs. The sounds were muffled by the heavy wooden shutters she had taken pains to close and bar, but they told her that Longorio had returned. Since it was futile to deny him entrance, she waited where she was. Old Pancho’s voice sounded outside; then there came a knock upon the door of the room in which she stood.
“Come in,” she said, tensely.
The lieutenant thrust his head in and, removing his hat, announced, “There is someone here to see General Longorio on important business. He says you will do.”
“I?”
“Yes. He says he is one of us—”
Pancho was pushed aside, the door was flung back, and a man strode swiftly into the lamplight. He paused, blinking as if momentarily blinded, and Alaire clutched at the nearest chair for support. A roaring began in her ears; she felt herself sway forward as if the strength had left her knees. She heard Dave’s voice faintly; he was saying:
“Take care of my horse. Feed and water her well. Understand? When General Longorio comes tell him I am waiting here.”
As if in a dream, Alaire saw the Mexican go out, closing the door behind him. Then she saw Dave come toward her, heard him speak her name, felt his arms around her.
Alaire did not swoon, but she never could remember very distinctly those first few moments. Scarcely knowing what she did, she found herself clinging to her lover, laughing, weeping, feeling him over with shaking hands that would not be convinced of his reality. She was aware of his kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her hair; he was saying something which she could not understand because of that roaring in her ears.
“You heard me calling,” she told him at last. “Oh, I was—so frightened!” She clung closer to him. After a time she discovered that she was mechanically nodding and shaking her head at the questions he was putting to her, but had only the vaguest idea what they were. By and by she began to tell him about Longorio, speaking in a sort of hypnotic murmur, as if her words issued at his mental suggestion. And all the time she snuggled against his breast.
“Dearest!” Dave held her away in gentle hands. “I was afraid you’d go to pieces like this, but I had to break through the best way I could. I learned you were here and something about what was going on from the people at the next ranch. But I expected to find him here, too.”
“How did you manage to get here?”
“I hardly know. I just wouldn’t let ’em stop me. This lieutenant wouldn’t let me in until I told him I was from Monterey with important news. I don’t remember all I did tell him. I tried to get here last night, but I had trouble. They caught me, and I had to buy my way through. I’ve bribed and bullied and lied clear from Romero. I reckon they couldn’t imagine I’d risk being here if I wasn’t a friend.”
It was more Dave’s tone than his words that roused Alaire to an appreciation of what he said.
“Are you alone?” she asked, in vague dismay. “Then what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. My plans ended here.”
“Dave! You rode in just to find me! Just to be with me?”
“Yes. And to get him.” Alaire saw his face twitch, and realized that it was very haggard, very old and tired. “They lifted my guns—a bunch of fellows at the Rio Negro crossing. Some of them were drunk and wouldn’t believe I was an amigo. So I finally had to ride for it.”
“Can’t you take me away?” she asked, faintly. “What will you do when—he comes?”
“I reckon I’ll manage him somehow.” His grip upon her tightened painfully, and she could feel him tremble. “I was af
raid I wouldn’t find you. I—O God, Alaire!” He buried his face in her hair.
“I had a terrible scene with him last night. He insists upon marrying me. I—I was hoping you’d come.”
“How could I, when nobody knew where you were?”
“Didn’t you know? I wrote you.” He shook his head. “Then how did you learn?”
“From José. I caught him within an hour of the murder, and made him tell me everything.”
Alaire’s eyes dilated; she held herself away, saying, breathlessly: “Murder! Is that what it was? He—Longorio—told me something quite different.”
“Naturally. It was he who hired José to do the shooting.”
“Oh-h!” Alaire hid her face in her hands. She looked up again quickly, however, and her cheeks were white. “Then he won’t spare you, Dave.” She choked for an instant. “We must get away before he comes. There must be some way of escape. Think!”
“I’m pretty tired to think. I’m pretty near played out,” he confessed.
“They’re watching me, but they’d let you go.”
“Now that I’m here I’m going to stay until—”
She interrupted, crying his name loudly, “Dave!”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Wait! Let me think.” She closed her eyes; her brows drew together as if in the labor of concentration. When she lifted her lids her eyes were alight, her voice was eager. “I know how. I see it. He won’t dare—But you must do what I tell you.”
“Of course.”
“No questions. Understand?”
When he nodded impatiently she ran to the door and, flinging it open, called down the hall:
“Father! Father O’Malley! Quick!” Then she summoned Dolores.
The priest answered; he hurried from his room and, with a dazed lack of comprehension, acknowledged his swift introduction to Dave. Alaire was keenly alive and vibrant with purpose now. Dolores, too, came running, and while the men were exchanging greetings her mistress murmured something in her ear, then hastened her departure with a quick push. Turning upon the others, Alaire explained: