Following the Grass

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  “Yes,” Andres nodded. “He asked me what I was called, and when I told him he said: ’So you are Andres, eh? I might have known. Timoteo was right.’ ”

  “Aw-w-w!” Angel gasped and shuddered. “He knows!” he said hopelessly.

  “He can not know I” Andres replied with strange emphasis.

  “That his father had nothing to do with Dorr’s death ?—he must know! And Timoteo—what does he know of him? What is this thing that Timoteo has said? He would not remember him —can it be that he has found the boy’s body?”

  Andres’s head sagged down on his chest at the thought, and with each passing second he found it harder to refute it. Andres had never talked about Timoteo, and yet Joseph had hurled his brother’s name at him with studied purpose.

  Angel read his son’s train of thought, and he echoed it. In his soul he knew his surmise was correct. No further explanation was possible, and the truth crushed him. He shook his head as Andres muttered unconvincingly:

  “It can not be. We looked for Timoteo.”

  “It can be,” his father replied. “The boy is not like other men. I can not deny it any longer—he has a power.”

  He told Andres how Joseph had brought the flock. This was something Andres could understand, but he only narrowed his. eyes the more.

  “You do not seem to understand, Andres,” his father went on. “If that hoy has found Timoteo, if he accuses you—I am ruined. The drought continues. Soon I must borrow money. I’ve got to buy hay-land. I may even need to ask men for range. My name must not he blackened by what happened so long ago. And you, Andres—what must happen to you, if he talks—if he knows the truth?”

  Andres held his breath until the air rushed from his lungs explosively, hut the snarl that his father half expected did not follow. Andres’s voice dropped almost to a whisper as he said:

  “Maybe—I go to jail. Maybe I will be—be—”

  “Yes, that. That is what it will mean, my son.” Despair gripped Angel. “Back—back where we were twenty years ago. And I thought myself done with the Gaults.”

  Andres saw his father age as he sat before him. Pockets gathered beneath Angel’s eyes; the hollows in his cheeks became deeper. Andres began to believe that he might die without ever leaving his chair. He was totally unprepared to see his father spring erect, something of his old fire leaping back. into his eyes as his masterful will summoned the flesh.

  “We will stop this to-night!” he exclaimed. “You are going up the mountain. Get this man’s girl for him, but be done with this Joseph first. Taylor can not break with me. Between us, he and I have more to say about what goes on in this country than all the others put together.

  “When we say that Gault’s boy stole Necia Dorr men will remember how his father ran away after the crime. They will see his son come back to revenge himself on Dorr’s daughter.

  “You go! You will have guns. Use them if he will not give up the girl. When he raises his hand to stop you—end it right there.”

  Andres’s eyes burned into his father’s.

  “So you, my father, ask me to kill him,” he muttered finally, his tone chilling.

  Angel clenched his teeth and pushed out his lips in an angry grimace. The words came with a whistling sound as he said:

  “Between the two of you, I have to choose. He must die. You do not refuse to go?”

  “No I No, I will go,” Andres answered as he got to his feet, “but I must say what I should have said years ago. Behind my back my own people, even my brothers, have called me a coward—a bully—they have been right. I was just that. Timoteo knew. You have never heard the truth about what happened that night. I killed Dorr—”

  “You need not shout it out,” Angel protested.

  “No one here understands—if they do, I care not—I shot Dorr. I did not go out that night to kill him. You know that is so.

  “You had talked your hatred of the Gaults into me from the cradle. When Timoteo and I went up to run Gault’s sheep across this man Taylor’s line, we thought we were pleasing you. You were to blame. You do not have to shake your head, my father. I speak the truth for once.

  “Timoteo was ahead of me. Dorr shot him. So I shot Dorr. I have often forgotten that, but I never forget that I ran away when my little Timoteo called to me. I left him there to die. A million times I have heard him cry: ’Andres, you are a coward!’ I have heard it on the range when I have been alone. It is with me all the time—’Andres you are a coward I’ I saw him; I heard him—but I ran.

  “I was a coward. I have always been a coward. I said nothing when you drove Margarida away. I let you put the law after this boy’s father. Always I have been afraid.”

  “Stop—stop!” Angel groaned.

  “We have much to be ashamed of,” Andres declared. “But I am going to prove to you to· night that I am no longer a coward. I will go—as you ask. You have always told me of the honor of the Irosabals. Well, I will do my part for the Irosabals to-night. Call this man, Taylor. I do not want his gold. Call him I”

  “Have you talked some sense into him?” Thad inquired as he opened the door.

  “I will go,” Andres answered for his father.

  “Well that’s—”

  “And I will take your guns,” Andres went on without heeding Thad’s interruption.

  “You have got sense, ain’t yuh?” exclaimed Thad. “You take my guns. Strap ’em on yuh. Put ’em around in back of you. You’ll have to walk up to his fire with your hands in the air: He won’t think you’re armed.

  “If he tries to stop you”go ahead. Your father and me’ll be behind you. But don’t you come back without Necia.

  “Don’t look for trouble—go up to him as if you was his friend. You understand?”

  “Si, señor,” Andres drawled. “I understand!”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  REVELATION.

  NECIA had come to the door of the dug-out. Slippy-foot was standing with her nose thrown up to the wind, but she made no sound. Joseph had marked as much, and he was not surprised that Grimm, the crow, did not call again, for he had never found them divided in their opinions.

  In four or five minutes Joseph caught the glow of the torch which Andres held above his head as he advanced. The light, held above him, kept the man’s face in shadow and it was not until he was within fifty yards of Joseph’s fire that the boy recognized him.

  “Why are you here?” Joseph called. Andres had not yet made him out, for the boy had stepped back so far that the fire-light did not reach him.

  Necia knew Andres by sight, and she stifled a cry on recognizing him.

  Andres, in turn, recognized her, and to give him credit, he was not surprised to find her a free agent. The girl had the dug-out; Joseph’s blanket was spread beside the watch fire.

  “I—I come as a friend,” Andres stated. He saw Joseph now and walked toward him. Grimm, the crow, had escorted Andres as he approached the fire. Joseph glanced at the bird before speaking.

  “I have no reason to doubt you,” he said then. “Grimm and the coyote do not protest your coming. What is your mission?”

  “I come to offer you my hand again,” Andres answered haltingly. “I—I was wrong yesterday.”

  The man’s voice rang true, but the boy could not believe his ears. However, he cried, “Advance!” wondering if a miracle had come to pass. Was this man the coward—the bully—of yesterday? Andres came up to him, his great head thrown back. Joseph stood and gazed at him.

  “You have changed,” he exclaimed. “You are not the Andres you were yesterday.”

  Necia had come close enough to hear what Joseph said. He seemed engulfed by the significance of Andres’s coming. Necia had said that God would send him some sign—some proof that he was to lead his fellowmen to a better understanding. Could he doubt that this was God’s answer?

  Necia was not slow to see what Joseph’s thought was, and she thrilled as she saw the boy move forward to Andres.

  “I offer you my h
and, my friend,” he said. “You are welcome.”

  Andres, however, seemed turned to stone.

  “You call me friend?” he murmured. “Knowing what you know—you are willing to take my hand?”

  “I offer it to you, Andres.”

  But the big fell ow only shook his head.

  “You are Margarida’s boy—I know!” he cried. “And you have found me out. When you spoke about Timoteo, I understood. You have found heem, too. But that ees not what brought me here.”

  Andres dropped his torch as he finished speaking and his hands flashed to the guns which he had strapped on behind him. First his left hand and then his right came forward, each holding a big .45. Necia screamed a warning to Joseph.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Andres said to her. “I was sent up here to get you. Theese gun belong to your grandfather. My father and heem ees wait at the Circle-Z for me. And Joseph—they theenk I come to keel you.”

  Andres flipped the guns around in his hands so that he held them by the barrels, and then without looking again at either Joseph or Necia he tossed the pistols into the sage.

  “Andres!” cried Joseph. “You do that—believing I hold your life in my hands—knowing that I know who killed this girl’s father?”

  “Yes, Joseph, yes! I do anytheeng for you. You open my eyes!” A wild cry broke from the big man’s lips and he flung himself to his knees before Joseph, pouring out his soul, denying no part of his guilt, of his meanness, finding peace at the feet of the boy he had been sent to kill.

  “Eef you say, go, I go. I’m not afraid to die,” he cried.

  “Andres, you are clean. Arise!” Joseph commanded. “I forgive you. You need not fear that I shall be driven away. My father lives. He soon will make himself known. I will take you to him.

  “The drought will continue. All of us must suffer, but we will lean on each other. You have opened my eyes, Andres. You, who were my enemy, and you, Necia, who might have been, are now my friends.”

  Joseph put his arm around Andres as he got up.

  “And you?” Andres asked Necia, “you forgeeve too?”

  Necia nodded, but she turned away, her eyes wet at the man’s contrition.

  “I told my father,” Andres began again, “that I would try to prove to-night that I could do sometheeng for the good name of my people. He misunderstand me. But I say to you, Joseph, I will keep my word. Soon I be the head of my clan. I am the oldest son. My father ees very old man. Eef he not change, I change.

  “You are part Basque, Joseph. Me, I am all Basque. Theese girl ees no Basque at all. But eef we be friends, then all Basques can be friends.”

  “Andres, Andres!” cried Joseph, his heart smiting him with joy. “If I have helped you to see that, if I can help that day to come, I care not what else happens. Come with me!” and Joseph held out his hand and led the way to the dug-out.

  And as the three moved away from the fire, Grimm, the crow, raised his wings and settled upon Andres’s shoulder. Andres stopped and looked up fearfully, but Grimm’s eyes were no longer ominous.

  Joseph was in the dug-out only a second. When he came out he held the bottle containing his mother’s and Timoteo’s letters.

  “Here,” he said to Andres, “is the message my mother left to me, and here is Timoteo’s. My mother buried him. She knew, and I knew, what you have told us to-night. Take them—destroy them!” and he handed the two letters to Andres.

  The coarseness seemed to fade from Andres’s face as his fingers closed over Joseph’s. His eyes lost their piggishness; and as he watched the flames lick up the two pieces of paper he made the sign of the cross with his thumb.

  “If you will stay here, my blanket is yours,” Joseph said to him. “I will share it with you.”

  “I—I will stay,” Andres answered.

  And down in the valley, Thad and Angel waited. No one came. No sound of shooting broke the stillness. Night passed, and dawn found them hollow-eyed, old, silent.

  First Necia and then Andres—Angel got down on his knees, daring to pray.

  And Thad, the scoffer, turned away, his lips scaled.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  THE LEAN KINE.

  MAN and boy, Thad Taylor had arisen with the sun. Pagan that he was, he had drunk of the dawn as though it were some healthful anodyne. This morning, however, he shivered as he closed the door on old Angel and stepped out to greet the Host of Light.

  The air was cold, as it ever is at dawn on the mountain-desert, even in midsummer, but Thad shivered not because of it. His was a mental reaction. He did not know it as such, sensing only that for the first time his spirit failed to thrill at the wonder of the· coming day.

  He squinted his eyes, as was the habit with him, and gazed far off to the east where the lofty Tuscaroras, swathed still in their night dress of filmy blue, dissolving rapidly now into a silver gossamer, lifted their spires and turrets dripping with deepest orange and cherry. Even as he gazed at them the cherry warmed to rose, the orange became yellow. Fire touched them suddenly. They seemed to tremble with the wonder which they withheld from the waiting world for a brief second.

  Thad wet his lips. He knew the play by heart; the climax was to hand. Like a jack out of his box the great sun popped above the shimmering peaks. The blue and violet hosts scampered away. Valley and mesa floated in a golden sea, the hazy drapery of the night caught fire, flamed and was gone; and lo ! it was day.

  Out from the ragged malpais, a coyote leaped to the crest of the rimrocks above the cañon of the North Fork. Raising his head, he barked his obeisance to the God of Light. From afar his brothers and sisters answered him.

  Thad heard a door open. The angry jangle of spur chains clanked metallically as the wranglers moved away to cut out the horses for the day’s work. The smell of coffee came from Little Billy’s fire; breakfast would not be long delayed. A window went up with a bang. Cursing followed—a broken shoe-lace!

  On a thousand mornings had the Circle-Z ranch-house echoed to just such sounds. There was nothing in the day to mark it as different from those that had been, and yet Thad found it all wrong. He thought of yesterday. It seemed far away.

  He wondered if he could ever get back to it—back to where he had been before Angel had come with his talk. He damned him aloud, the while his eyes swept Buckskin.

  MacNeil, the blacksmith, whistling a merry tune, came out and pulled the rope that turned the windmill into the wind. It began to creak and rattle.

  “Stop it; stop that damn noise!” Thad shouted. Poor Mac looked at him askance, wondering if the “old man” were daft. The windmill had creaked and groaned daily for ten years without a protesting voice having been raised against it.

  Thad saw the man’s unasked question, and having no answer for it, he reëntered the house and left the hapless MacNeil to himself. The incident, trifling though it was, served to bring Thad out of the backwater in which he had been drifting since the evening before. At least he had been made angry with himself, and as he faced Angel his jaw held some of its old air of determination.

  Angel did not look up as Thad entered. He sat slouched down in a chair, his head bent forward. Thad glanced at him twice, so still did the Basque sit. Thad could not see the man’s eyes, but the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the arms of his chair told him that Angel was not asleep. This immobility exasperated Thad. He waited a minute for Angel to speak, but the Basque remained silent.

  “You ain’t a-goin’ to sit there all day, be yuh ?” Thad demanded in rising anger. “You had schemes enough when you came here yesterday mornin’. It’s time to do somethin’!”

  Angel nodded and said: “Yes.”

  “Well, pull up then!” Thad snapped, “Pull up! This damned inaction is killin’ me. Sittin’ here mopin’ ain’t a-goin’ to git us nowheres. It’s mornin’! I ain’t wastin’ no more time. You grab a bite, and we’ll move.”

  Angel got up slowly, nodding his head as if confirming some decision of his own making
.

  “A cup of coffee will satisfy me,” he said. “Have your men ready.”

  “You forgit my men!” Thad exclaimed impatiently. “Do you think they’d take my side against her? If she’s up there because she wants to be, they’d see me in hell before they lift a finger. What do they care for their jobs? Where they’d git another one now, God only knows. But that wouldn’t matter. They’re a pack of sentimental fools. You and me started this thing, and we’ll finish it.”

  Angel agreed wearily. In the full ·light of the morning his skin was yellow. His eyes burned with an unnatural brightness.

  “Perhaps we had better make a friend of the boy,” he said under his breath.

  “Sure—anythin’ to git rid of him!” Thad answered.

  Joseph’s grandfather curled his lips in a mirthless grin.

  “I—I did not mean it that way,” said Angel.

  Thad threw up his head wondering if he heard aright.

  “You mean—to lay down to him?”

  “No; to compromise with him.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” Thad gasped. “You suggest that to me?” He shook with wrath.

  Angel appeared not to mind. He took out his watch and wound it absentmindedly.

  “I know what you do not know,” he said slowly. “Andres had every reason for doing what we asked. But have we heard a shot? Has he come back? No; and he is not easily moved. What I said to you yesterday is as true now as it was then. This Joseph has bewitched the valley. He has made your granddaughter love him. He has turned my son against me, he has—”

  “You’re jest guessin’ at that!” Thad exclaimed. “How do you know what’s happened up there?”

  Angel shook his head at him.

  “I know,” he muttered. “I feel it in here,” and he tapped his breast. “Wherever that boy goes he makes his friends. I would not believe the stories I heard. I do now.

  “For twenty years I have tried to forget the past. He is here to rake it up again. Well, if it is money he wants, he shall have it. I will stop at no price to get rid of him. Do you think I am going to see him turn my own children against me?”