ears, nostrils, and upper lip had been pierced for ornaments which he no longer possessed. Though technically a servant, because of the edict against the enslavement of Indians, he had no effective rights and was virtually a slave.
The young bloods of Jaen, with Pedro among them, liked to draw him out. Though silent and brooding as a rule, he grew talkative with drink, and would then relate a hodgepodge of marvels in his broken Spanish. It appeared that he was not originally from Cuba, though he was extremely vague on this point; but as nothing could be vaguer than Cuba itself, the mystery did not trouble his audience. He told a tall story about being cacique, or chief, in some fabulous country of the West, whence he had been kidnaped by Carib Indians and finally storm-tossed to the Cuban coast, a story which was accepted as credulously as the tales of Prester John. He was an expert tracker, and Pedro had borrowed him once for a wolf hunt, on which occasion they had become friends. He regretted now that Coatl had proved himself a rascal by running off,
"Join us," remarked de Silva with a roving glance. He was evidently impatient to start.
Don Francisco shook his head. "Too old for such pleasures on a hot day. By God, I recall a chase we had once near Gaeta after a French cavalier by the name of . . ."
"Excuse me," interrupted de Silva, "but we have to ride. Your son would like it perhaps?"
De Vargas stiffened. "Perhaps, senor. He can decide for himself. As I was saying when you took the liberty of interrupting me, the name of the French cavalier was Lanoy."
His eyelids drooped slightly. De Silva kept a patronizing smile.
"Vaya, sir, this fellow Coatl has a long start on us and will reach Granada if we do not spur. I have no time for anecdotes. . . . Senor Pedro, are you with us?"
Nettled at the slight which had been put on his father and about to decline, Pedro caught himself. He remembered his vow to Saint Peter, who was evidently putting him to the test. There could be no question that it was a good deed to help a man recover his property.
"I'll saddle in ten minutes."
De Silva gathered his bridle reins. "Good! We'll follow the Guardia Valley, and loose the dogs on both sides of the brook. He was seen heading that way. Catch up with us when you can. . . . Sound the horn, there."
A huntsman blew the call; de Silva's horse reared; the dogs went
crazy; the onlookers made way, and the cortege headed out of the square. One of Pedro's friends, Hernan Gomez, paused a moment to shout to him: "Don't miss the 'death.' De Silva swears he'll give Coatl two hundred lashes on the spot and cut his leg muscles. Ride hard."
The sound of the horn and clatter of horses drifted back. The little plaza became silent. Turning his mule, Don Francisco rejoined his wife and daughter, who had been looking on from the background.
"Talk of modern manners!" he grunted. "It's a degenerate time. I can't imagine myself at the age of that puppy cutting short an older man of consequence who was addressing me. It would have been unthinkable. And the fellow wishes to buy my vineyard! He can whistle for it!"
Preoccupied as he was, Pedro felt startled. The vineyard and its pavilion were especially dear to his father. Until now a sale had never been mentioned.
"The vineyard, sir?" he repeated.
"Yes, he wants to round out his property. He offers a good price, but I'll see him hanged first."
"You wouldn't sell the vineyard?"
Don Francisco exchanged a glance with his wife, which expressed annoyance at having talked too much.
"Why, perhaps," he evaded, "sometime. But not to him. And by the way, son, I'm surprised that you're riding with him."
"Not with him, sir." During the last minute, Pedro had been thinking intently. "They're following the Guardia. I don't believe that Coatl took that way."
"Ha? And why not?"
"I've hunted with him and know his mind. He's sick for the Islands. He will head for the sea—for Cadiz, not Granada."
"Hm-m," nodded the other. And with a touch of pride, "Well reasoned."
"Besides, we hunted in that direction, through the Sierra de Jaen, not toward the Sierra de Lucena. He knows the paths over there. I wager he let himself be seen along the Guardia, and then cut west. He's shrewd as a fox. I'd like the credit of bringing him in alone."
It was the pretext which would most appeal to his father, a scrap of honor in the offing.
Don Francisco approved. "Yes, it would be to your credit. By the Blessed Virgin, I'd go with you except for this knee. Bring the fellow in alone, eh, while de Silva scours the country with his men and dogs! It would be a feather in your cap and a joke on him. I'm sorry for the
Indian, but servants should not run away. Discipline must be kept. You'll be doing a service to all masters, not merely to de Silva. Remember to take stout cords with you."
"It may be dangerous for Pedro." ventured Dona Maria, "alone with a savage."
The old cavalier gazed proudly at his son's broad shoulders. "Pooh! The boy can take care of himself. He'll never get forward if you coddle him. . . . Hurry ahead, son. Saddle Campeador, and ride with God!"
Ill
Fifteen minutes later, Pedro struck fire from the cobblestones under the arches of the Puerta de Barreras, and waved at Ramon, the gate-man, as he passed.
"Hey!" shouted the old soldier, cupping his hands. "If you're following the Senor de Silva, you're taking the wrong road ... I say, you're taking the wrong road."
But as only a column of dust drifted back, and Pedro continued obstinately to the left, Ramon shrugged his shoulders and returned to the coolness under the tower.
Outside, the heat of the day had begun in earnest. Pedro could feel the burn of it on his shoulders through his long riding cloak. To spare Campeador, he pulled in, when the path turned upward, and continued at a moderate pace. Gradually the patchwork of orchards and gardens and the simmer of the plain on his right, the Campifia de Jaen, leading to Cordoba, were cut off by the first low ridges of the sierra. He threaded a grove of cork oaks, dipped into the greenness of a valley, clambered up again, and at last emerged among the naked mountains.
Meanwhile, the problem at hand absorbed him completely. With the instinct of the tracker, he kept putting himself in the place of Coatl. What would the Indian be likely to do under the circumstances? Apparently he had escaped before dawn. If Pedro's theory was correct, and he had cut over into these mountains from the Guardia Valley, he could not as yet have gone very far in the direction of Cadiz. Moreover, it was hardly to be expected that he would travel by day. The heat, the chance of being seen, his uncouth appearance, and the fact that he was probably moneyless, were all against him. Therefore, he would be apt to hide during the day and travel by night, relying on theft to keep alive until reaching the coast. Once in the dives of Sanlucar, where the
scum of the seaports gathered, he might He hidden, though he had a poor outlook from beginning to end. The immediate question was where to search for him in these hills.
Breathing his horse at an angle of the road, Pedro thought it over. On the face of it, the task seemed hopeless. Ever' boulder, every crack in the rocks, might serve as a hiding place. He might ride within a yard of the man wdthout seeing him. But a couple of factors helped. In this heat, Coatl must have water, and water was scarce along the uplands. Pedro knew the location of every spring and runnel in the neighborhood. Step by step, he tried to recall the route which he had followed with the Indian during the hunting trip last winter.
Then, beginning with the nearer possibilities, he tried several places without success. The air along the stony stretches had the hot bite of a furnace. Now and then glimpses of the plain far below, with here and there the campanil of a church or roofs of a hamlet figuring the green carpet, offered relief; but for the most part it was only rock and glare. Even Campeador, usually high-hearted, grew listless, hung his head, and left the water holes unwillingly. Pedro reflected that he might spend the day in this region to no purpose. On horseback, he could be seen and heard too easily, provi
ded indeed that he had guessed correctly, and that Coatl was still in this section of the mountains.
At last an idea flashed on him. There was one place of all places that made an ideal hideout from the Indian's standpoint. It was a narrow, shallow ravine about a mile off, open at both ends, and with a good spring of water. In one direction it gave a wide view of the country, and was a favorite stop of Pedro's on a day's hunt. He and Coatl had halted there. He remembered the Indian staring off into distance and his homesick talk about his native country.
But to reach this barranca to the accompaniment of horse's hoofs over the loose stones without giving an alarm was impossible. Riding at a walk, Pedro brought Campeador to vithin a quarter of a mile of the place. Then, dismounting, he tethered the horse between two boulders, and took off his cloak. The cords for tying up Coatl were transferred from the saddle pouch to his breeches pockets. He made sure that his dagger hung right and was loose in its sheath. That he might prove unequal to the Indian in a personal encounter did not enter his mind; for, w ithout vanity, he knew his own strength and knew besides that a Castilian cavalier was the superior of any savage. At the same time dutifully he commended himself to the Blessed Virgin with three Aves, and prayed to Saint Peter for help to fulfill his vow in honor of Luisa de Carvajal.
There was a low ridge to cross, and a slope to climb before the ravine; but, from the outset, Pedro walked carefully to avoid displacing any of the loose stones. Instead of proceeding in a straight line, he took a roundabout way, moving from boulder to boulder and listening at each pause. He had never stalked a wolf or bear with such intent-ness. There was not a sound—only the emptiness of the hills, the blue heat of the sky. In spite of the dry air, he ran with sweat.
Rounding the contour of the slope, which led to the ravine, he stopped again, listened, and then, inching his way, he peered around the corner.
The place was empty. He could see the round hollow of the spring and clear along to the opposite opening. All his precautions and maneuvers had been unnecessary.
Disgusted, he now entered the place to take a look from the vantage point at the other end.
And in the same moment two arms of steel closed around him from behind; he was lifted clear off his feet and brought down with a thud, while a heavy body pinned him to the earth. Quick as a cat, he arched himself, but felt the prick of a knife through his doublet.
"Spanish dog!" hissed a guttural voice at his ear. "I kill."
The knife prodded deeper, then withdrew; Pedro could sense that it was poised. Convulsively wrenching his neck around, he saw the granite face of Coatl six inches above, and the white of his bared teeth. He caught his breath against the blow.
But all at once everything seemed to relax. He heard a surprised grunt; the weight on his shoulders lightened.
"Senor Pedro?"
Still half-dazed, he was aware that the Indian had got up. Raising himself on his arms, he returned Goatl's stare.
"I not know," muttered the latter. "I think someone different; I jump and not look."
Suddenly a wave of feeling transformed the man. He flung his knife down and lifted both arms. "Coatl kill Sefior Pedro, his one friend. Seiior come to help. Coatl kill 'im. Sefior, forgive!"
Gradually Pedro's brain cleared. It was evident that he owed his life to a misconception. He had been outwitted and downed, and his pride felt the shock more than his body.
Getting up, he brushed himself off, finding it hard meanwhile to face the quandary into which Goatl's forbearance had put him. A mere step, and he could plant his foot on the other's knife, draw his own, and carry out the purpose for which he had come. But he could not take
that step. Shame forbade it; though, on the other hand, conscience assailed him for shrinking from his duty as a citizen and Christian. There could be nothing but scorn for such ill-timed scruples in the case of an escaped slave.
He temporized by saying, "Why did you want to kill anybody, Coatl?"
"People follow me," returned the Indian. "I kill. But not Senor Pedro. You-me eat together on hunt. I tell you of my country. Senor pity Coatl." He drew closer; his hands affectionately clasped each of Pedro's arms and lingered a moment. "Friend," he repeated.
Now was the time to take the fellow by surprise. A sudden blow to the jaw and a leap would do the trick; but the word "friend" cast a spell.
"I thought you would be here," Pedro said helplessly. "You came across from the Guardia, didn't you?"
The Indian nodded.
"Why did you run off?"
In answer the man's face became stone again. With a sudden movement, he was out of his ragged shirt and, turning, showed his back. The flesh gaped open in several long ridges with the blood clotted between them.
To Pedro, the sight of a flogged back was familiar enough in view of the public whippings imposed by the Inquisition. He had seen dozens of such backs pass through the streets of Jaen. But he winced a trifle because de Silva had apparently used a mule whip.
"Coatl no slave," said a choked voice. "Coatl, cacique, lord, in his own country. People, towns. De Silva a beggar beside him. He beat me; I kill if I could. Run away, yes."
"Do you think you can get back to the Indies?"
"My gods will help."
Pedro's scandalized conscience burned hotter than ever. His gods! The man was not only a fugitive, but a heretic, an apostata. He had been baptized and had lapsed. After de Silva had finished with him, he belonged to the Inquisitor. And here was Pedro de Vargas, a good Catholic, fresh from mass, fresh from making vows to the saints that he would perform deeds in his lady's honor—here he stood, hesitating to seize an infidel and hand him over to punishment! A moral weakling because the dog had spared his life! He felt bewildered, bewitched.
Resuming his shirt and knife, Coatl now walked the short length of the ravine, and stood gazing toward the southwest. Pedro followed him, grudgingly conscious of his statuesque body and stately bearing.
"Look, senor." The Indian pointed beyond the mountains. "Over there, Great Water take Coatl home. Where the sun set. Senor Pedro help?"
Standing behind him, Pedro could easily bring the heavy butt of liis poniard down on the man's head. A moment later, he would be securely tied. Young de Vargas's hand stole to the hilt of his dagger.
"Help how?"
"Money. I reach Sanlucar."
"It's a long road to Sanlucar."
Pedro intended to couple the words with a blow, but his arm failed him. At that moment Satan—because no saint would have intervened for a heretic—distracted him with a mental picture. It was the picture of Coatl captured and strung up in front of de Silva. Two hundred lashes! The flesh in strips, the bones showing. And what was it Hernan Gomez had said? Cut the tendons behind the Indian's knees? After that he would be a cripple; his legs would wither; he would creep in and out of de Silva's door, fair game for the street boys to trip up. It was queer to think how his fine body would look by evening.
Pedro's hand dropped from the dagger hilt. He had lost his chance, for Coatl now turned with a look of entreaty.
"If I have money, I reach Sanlucar."
Aware of his madness, but unable to resist, Pedro opened the purse at his belt and fingered its contents. He had two gold pesos, which his father had given him for his name-day. It was a dazzling present; he had never had so much money before.
With an aching heart, he drew out one of the precious coins and handed it to the Indian. "Here, Coatl." But his madness was unap-peased; he could not rid himself of the picture in his mind or of Gomez's words. His fingers crept back to the purse, lingered wretchedly, then brought out the other peso. It seemed heavier than the first and more freshly minted. As if no longer in control of his muscles, he pressed it into Coatl's palm.
And now, having made the plunge, he went on recklessly: "I wish I had more. You've got to hurry, Coatl. You mustn't wait here. Put country between you and them. They may cut over from the Guardia. Good luck! I hope you get to Sanlucar."
&n
bsp; The Indian stood silent a moment. Then he caught Pedro's hand, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Coatl never forget," he said hoarsely. Struggling to express himself, he added at last one word that had the effect of an accolade. ''Caha-llero!" he said.
And as if anything more would have lessened this title of honor, he turned and disappeared through the mouth of the ravine.
iv
The ravine seemed very empty and silent. It was so quiet that Pedro could hear the minute trickle of the spring. Little by little, the realization of what he had done expanded in his mind.
Whether discovered or not, he felt disgraced. He had cheated a gentleman out of his property, and had aided a heretic, whom he ought to have denounced. Still worse, by failing to perform his vow when the chance offered, he had been false to heaven itself. Yet meanwhile in the unacknowledged part of his mind, the murmur persisted that if he had given Coatl up to torture and perhaps to death, the memory of it would have haunted him always. It was his first experience with moral issues too complicated for the familiar rule-of-thumb, and he felt utterly at a loss.
In this unhappy frame of mind, he rambled absently downhill to where Campeador waited. How would he ever be able to confess these sins to Father Juan? How could he ever expiate them? The horse whinnied and rubbed a velvet nose against his shoulder. Here was a friend who would think none the worse of him. With the resiliency of youth, Pedro decided not to think too badly of himself. He might have done wrong, but Father Juan himself admitted that the flesh was weak.
The idea of breakfast suddenly occurred. He had eaten nothing since last night's supper and had taken no provisions for the ride. But it was impossible to return home for a while, because he must give the impression of having searched far and long for the Indian. The nearest place to get a meal was the ill-famed and forbidden Rosario tavern over toward the Guardia Valley. It struck him too, as an excuse, that he might turn up in de Silva's crowd and thus, so to speak, cover his own tracks.
Cheered by thoughts of bread and cheese, he resumed his cloak, un-tethered Campeador, and set out at as brisk a pace as the heat and the hills permitted. It would be less than an hour's ride to the doors of the venta.
Captain from Castile Page 2