by B. M. Bower
* * * *
Bill Wilson, having collected their winnings and his own, sought Dade and Jack, where they were lying under the shade of a sycamore just beyond the rim of the crowd chattering shrilly of the later events. With a grunt of relief to be rid of the buzzing, Bill flung himself down beside them and plucked a cigar from an inner pocket.
“Say,” he began, after he had bitten off the end of the cigar and had moistened the whole with his tongue. “Them greasers sure do hate to come forward with their losings! Some bets I never will be able to collect; but I got a lot—enough to pay for the trouble of coming down.” He rolled over upon his back and lay smoking and looking up into the mottled branches of the tree; thought of something, and lifted himself to an elbow so that he faced Jack.
“Sa-ay, I thought you said you was going to kill that greaser,” he challenged quizzically.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, took two long draws on his cigarette, and blew one of his pet smoke-rings. “I did.” He moistened his lips and blew another ring. “At least, I killed the biggest part of him—and that’s his pride.”
Bill grunted, lay down again, and stared up at the wide-pronged sycamore leaves. “Darn my oldest sister’s cat’s eyes if I ever seen anything like it!” he exploded suddenly, and closed his eyes in a vast content.
From the barbecue pits there came an appetizing odor of roasting beef; high-keyed voices flung good-humored taunts, and once they heard a great shout of laughter surge through the crowd gathered there. From the great platform built under a group of live oaks near the patio they heard the resonant plunk-plunk-plunk of a harp making ready for the dance, and the shrill laughter of slim señoritas hovering there. Down the slope before the three the shadows stretched longer and longer. A violin twanged in the tuning, the harp-strings crooning the key.
“You fellows are going to dance, ain’t yuh?” Bill inquired lazily, when his cigar was half gone to ashes and smoke. “Jack, here, can get pardners enough to keep him going fer a week—judging by the eyes them Spanish girls have been making at him since the duel and the horse-breaking.
“Say! How about that sassy-eyed Picardo girl? I ain’t seen you and her in speaking distance all day; and the way you was buzzing around her when I was down here before—”
“Say, Jack,” Dade interrupted, diplomacy winning against politeness, “I never dreamed you’d have the nerve to try that fancy corkscrew throw of yours before all that crowd. Why, after two years to get out of practice, you took an awful chance of making a fool of yourself! Y’see, Bill,” he explained with a deliberate garrulity, “that throw he made when he caught the horse was the finest bit of rope-work that’s been done today. I don’t believe there’s another man in the crowd that could do it; and the chances are they never saw it done before, even! I know I never saw but one man beside Jack that could do it. Jack was always at it, when we happened to be laying around with nothing to do, and I know he had to keep his hand in, or he’d make a fizzle of it. Of course,” he conceded, “you didn’t miss—but if you had—Wow!” He shook his head at the bare possibility.
Jack grinned at him. “I’m not saying how much moonlight I used up, practicing out in the orchard when everybody else was asleep. I reckon I’ve made that corkscrew five thousand times in the last three weeks!”
“Where you belong,” bantered Dade, “is on the stage. You do love to create a sensation, better than any one I ever—”
“Señors—” Diego came hurriedly out of the shadows behind them. “The patron begs that you will honor his table by dining with him tonight. In one little half-hour will he hope to see you; and Don José Pacheco will also be happy to meet the señors, if it is the pleasure of the señors to meet him and dine in his company. The patron,” added Diego, with the faintest suspicion of a twinkle in his pensive black eyes, “desires also that I shall extend to you the deep regret of the señora and the señorita because it will be impossible for them to be present.”
The three looked at one another, and in Bill’s eyes dawned slowly the light of understanding.
“Tell the patron we are honored by the invitation, and that it gives us much pleasure to accept,” Dade replied for the three of them, after a moment spent in swift, mental measuring of the situation. “Jack, you’ve got to get them bloody clothes off, and some decent ones on. Come on, Bill; half an hour ain’t any too much time to get ready in.”
Half-way to the house they walked without saying a word. Then Dade, walking between the two, suddenly clapped a hand down upon the shoulder of each.
“Say, I could holler my head off!” he exulted. “I’m going to quit worrying about anything, after this; the nights I’ve laid awake and worried myself purple over this darned fiesta—or the duel, rather! And things are turning out smooth as a man could ask.
“Jack, I’m proud to death of you, and that’s a fact. With that temper of yours, I kinda looked for you to get this whole outfit down on you; but the way you acted, I don’t believe there’s a man here, except Manuel, that’s got any real grudge against you, even if they did lose a lot of money on the fight. And it’s all the way you behaved, old boy—like a prince! Just—like a—blamed prince!”
“Oh, I don’t know—José acted pretty white, himself. You’ve got to admit that it’s José that took the fight out of the crowd. I’m glad—” He did not finish the sentence, and they were considerate enough not to insist that he should.
* * * *
Warm sunlight, and bonfires fallen to cheerless, charred embers and ashes gone gray; warm sunlight, and eyes grown heavy with the weariness of surfeited pleasure. Bullock carts creaked again, their squealing growing gradually fainter as the fat-jowled señoras lurched home to the monotony of life, while the señoritas drowsed and dreamed, and smiled in their dreaming.
At the corrals, red-lidded caballeros cursed irritably the horses they saddled. In the patio Don Andres gave dignified adieu to the guests that still lingered. The harp was shrouded and dumb upon the platform, the oaken floor polished and dark with the night-long slide of slippered feet. The fiesta was slipping out of the present into the past, where it would live still under the rose-lights of memory.
There was a scurry of little feet in the rose-garden. A door slammed somewhere and hushed the sound of sobbing. A señorita—a young and lovely señorita who had all her life been given her way—fled to her room in a great rage, because for once her smiles had not thawed the ice which her anger had frozen.
The señorita flung something upon the floor and trampled it with her little slipper-heels; a rose, blood-red and withered, yet heavy with perfume still; a rose, twin to the one upon which the black horse of José had set his foot in the arena. A note she tore in little bits, with fingers that tingled still from the slap she had given to Diego, who had brought it. She flung the fragments from her, and the writing was fine and feminine in every curve—her own, if you wish to know; the note she had sent, twenty-four hours before, to her blue-eyed one whom she had decided to forgive.
“Santa Maria!” she gasped, and gritted her teeth afterwards. “This, then, is what he meant—that insolent one! ‘After the fiesta will I send the answer’—so he told that simpering maid who took my letter and the rose. And the answer, then, is my rose and my letter returned, and no word else. Madre de Dios! That he should flout me thus! Now will I tell José to kill him—and kill him quickly. For that blue-eyed gringo I hate!” Then she flung herself across her bed and wept.
Let the tender-hearted be reassured. The señorita slid from sobbing into slumber, and her dreams were pleasant, so that she woke smiling. That night she sang a love-song to José, behind the passion vines; and her eyes were soft; and when young Don José pulled her fingers from the guitar strings and kissed them many times, her only rebuke was such a pursing of lips that they were kissed also for their mutiny.
After awhile the señorita sang again, while José, his neck held a little to one side because of his hurt, watched her worshipfully, and forgot how much he had
suffered because of her. She was seventeen, you see, and she was lovely to look upon; and as for a heart—perhaps she would develop one later.
CHAPTER XXV
ADIOS
The sun was sliding past the zenith when Jack yawned himself awake. He lay frowning at the ceiling as if he were trying to remember something, sat up when recollection came, and discovered that Dade was already up and getting into his jacket.
“Dade, let’s go back to the mine,” he suggested abruptly, reaching for his boots. “You aren’t crazy about this job here, are you? I know you didn’t want to take it, at first.”
“And I know you bullied me into it,” Dade retorted, with some acrimony. He had danced until his feet burned with fatigue, and there was the reaction from a month of worry to roughen his mood. Also, he had yet to digest the amazing fact that the sight of Teresita had not hurt him so very much—not one quarter as much as he had expected it would do. Now, here was Jack proposing to leave, just when staying would be rather agreeable!
“Well—but times have changed, since then. I’m ready to go.” Jack pulled on a boot and stamped his foot snugly into it. “What’s more, I’m going!”
“You’ll eat, first, won’t you?”
Jack passed over the sarcasm. “No, sir, I won’t. I’m not going to swallow another mouthful on this ranch. I held myself down till that damned fiesta was over, because I didn’t want folks to say I was scared off. But now—I’m going, just as quick as the Lord’ll let me get a saddle on that yellow mustang.”
“Why, you—”
“Why, I nothing! I’m going. If you want to go along, you can; but I won’t drag you off by the heels. You can suit yourself.” He stamped himself into the other boot, went over and splashed cold water into his eyes and upon his head, shook off the drops that clung to his hair, made a few violent passes with towel and brush, and reached for his sombrero.
“It’s a long ways to ride on an empty stomach,” Dade reminded him dryly.
“We can stop at Jerry Simpson’s and eat. That won’t be more than a mile or so out of the way.” Jack’s hand was on the latch.
“And that yellow horse ain’t what you can call trail-broke.”
“He will be, by the time I get to the mine!”
Dade threw out both hands in surrender. “Oh, well—you darned donkey, give me time to tell Don Andres good-by, anyway.”
Jack’s eyes lighted with the smile Dade knew and loved to see. “Dade, they don’t make ’em any better than you,” he cried, and left the door to try and break a shoulder-blade with the flat of his hand, just to show his appreciation of such friendship. “Bill Wilson has got enough gold that he pulled out of the crowd for us yesterday to grub-stake us for a good long while, and—I can’t get out of this valley a minute too soon to suit me,” he confessed. “You go on and hunt up Don Andres, while I tackle Solano. I’ll wait for you—but don’t ask me to stay till after dinner, because I won’t do it.
“We don’t want to go off without saying good-by to Jerry and his wife, anyway; and we’ll beg a meal from the old Turk, and listen to some more yarns about Tige, just to show we’re friendly. I’ll have Surry saddled, so all you’ve got to do is make your talk to the don and pack your socks.”
Dade grinned and followed him outside. “Good thing I’m used to you,” he commented grimly, “or my head would be whirling, right now.” Not a word, you will observe, as to whether his own interests would be furthered by this sudden departure; but that was Dade’s way. Not a word about the sudden change from last evening, when Jack had eaten at Don Andres’ table and had talked amiably with José—amiably in spite of the fact that every one of them understood perfectly that the amiability was but the flowers of courtesy strewn over a formal—and perhaps a temporary—truce. But José was not a fixture upon the ranch, and the don’s friendship for the two seemed unchanged.
Dade did not argue nor did he question. Barring details, he thought he understood why it was that Jack wanted to go—why it was impossible for him to stay. A girl may be only seventeen and as irresponsible as a kitten, but for all that she may play an important part in the making and the marring of a man’s most practical plans.
When he returned from the house, Don Andres walked beside him. The two of them reached the corral just as Jack released Solano’s foot from the rawhide loop that had held it high while Jack cinched the saddle in place. When Jack saw them he came forward, wiping from his face the beads of perspiration which the tussle had brought there.
“Señor Hunter tells me that you are going away,” Don Andres began almost at once. “That you are acting wisely I am truly convinced, Señor Allen, though it irks me to say that it is so. For a little time would all be well, perchance; for as long as your generosity fills the heart of José with gratitude, so that no ill will finds room there. But his temper is hot and hasty, as is yours; and with other considerations which one must face—” He held out his hand for farewell.
“Adios, Señor. I am indeed sorry that you must leave us,” he said simply. “Under other circumstance I should urge you to remain; but my lips are sealed, as you well know. Adios, amigo mio. I have liked thee well.” He gripped Jack’s hand warmly, and turned away. Dade he gave a final handclasp, and walked slowly back to the house, his proud old head bowed upon his chest.
Valencia, yawning prodigiously, came forth from the vaqueros’ hut and glimpsed them just as Jack was bringing Solano to something like decent behavior before they started down the slope.
“Dios!” cried Valencia, and ran to see what was taking place. For while the taming of a mustang is something which a man may undertake whenever the mood of him impels, the somewhat bulky packages tied behind the high cantles could mean nothing save a journey.
When they told him, he expostulated with tears in his eyes. He had been nursing since yesterday a secret hope that the blue-eyed one would teach him that wonderful trick of making a riata climb upward of its own accord as if it were a live thing. Beyond that he was genuinely distressed to see them go, and even threatened to go with them before he yielded finally to the inevitable—remembering Felice, perhaps, and the emptiness of life without her.
“Señor, should you chance to see that great hombre who whipped Manuel so completely, you would do well to give the warning. Me, I heard from Ronaldo last night that Manuel spoke many threats against that gringo who had beaten him. Carlos also—and I think they mean ill towards the Señor Seem’son. Me, I thought to ride that way tomorrow and give the word of warning.”
“We’re going there now,” said Jack, with some difficulty holding the yellow horse quiet, while he shook hands with Valencia. “Adios, Valencia. If you ever come near our mine, remember that what we have will be yours also.”
“Gracias, gracias—adios—” He stood staring regretfully after them when they started erratically down the slope; erratically, because Solano preferred going backward or sidewise, or straight up and down, to going forward. They were not two hundred yards away from the stable when Valencia overtook them, having saddled in haste that he might ride with them for a way.
“That caballo, he needs two to show him the way, Señors,” grinned Valencia, to explain his coming. “Me, I shall help to get him started, and we will say adios farther up the valley, unless the señors desire to ride to Señor Seem’son’s cabin.”
“That’s where we’re headed for, believe it or not!” laughed Jack, who at that moment was going round and round in a circle. “When he gets so dizzy he can’t tell up from down, maybe he’ll do as I say about going straight ahead.”
Eventually Solano did decide to move forward; and he did so at such a pace that speedily they reached Jerry’s claim and galloped furiously up the slope to the cabin.
“Must be asleep,” Dade remarked carelessly, when they faced a quiet, straight-hanging bullock hide.
But when a loud hallo brought no sign, even from Tige, he jumped off and went to investigate the silence.
“There ain’t a single s
oul here,” he announced, “and that’s funny, too. They always leave Tige to watch the place, you know—or they did before I went on rodeo.”
“They do yet,” said Jack. “Only Mrs. Jerry never goes anywhere. She stays at home to watch their garden. That’s it, over there; her ‘truck patch,’ she calls it.”
“Things are all upset here. Get off, Jack, and let’s see what’s up. I don’t like the looks of things, myself.” Dade’s face was growing sober.
Valencia, on the ground, was helping Jack with Solano. But he turned suddenly and cast an uneasy glance towards the quiet log hut.
“Señors, for these two who live here I am afraid! It is as I told you; that Manuel was speaking threats against the big señor, last night; and he had drunk much wine, so that he walked not steady. And with Carlos and perhaps one or two others—of that I am not sure—he rode away soon after dark. Dolt, that I did not tell thee at the time! But I was dancing much,” he confessed, “and the fiesta dance makes drunken the feet, that they must dance—”
“Well, tie up that mustang and never mind.” Dade was walking aimlessly about, looking for something—what, he did not know. “There’s tracks all around, and—” he disappeared behind the cabin.
In a minute he was calling them, and his tone brought them on the run. “Now, what do you make of that?” he wanted to know, and pointed.
Two fresh mounds of earth, narrow, long—graves, if size and shape meant anything at all. The form of a “T” they made there in the grass; for one was short and extended across, near one end of the larger one.
“What do you make of that?” Dade repeated, much lower than before.
“Señors, evil has been done here. Me, I think—”
“Don’t think! Bring that shovel, over there—see it, by the tree?—and dig. There’s one way to find out what it means.”
Valencia did not want to dig into those mounds, but the voice was that of his majordomo, whom he had for a month obeyed implicitly. He got the shovel and he dug. And since it seemed too bad to make him do all the work, Jack and Dade each took their turn in opening the grave.