“Señora, if you saw him ride side by side with Rotil, drinking from the same cup in the desert, would you not also think it?”
Tula rose to her feet, and moved closer to Kit.
“I too was seeing them together, señora,” she said. “It was at the Yaqui well; I drew the water, and they drank it. This man of the loud curses is the man.”
Doña Jocasta covered her eyes with her hand, and she seemed shaken. No one else spoke, and the silence was only broken by the muffled tones of Marto in the cell, and the brief bark of Clodomiro’s dog at the corral.
“God knows what may be moving forward,” she said at last, “but there is some terrible thing afoot. Take me to this man.”
“It may not be a pleasant thing to do,” advised Kit. “This is a man’s game, señora, and his words might offend, for his rage is very great against you.”
“Words!” she said with a note of disdain, and arose to her feet. She swayed slightly, and Valencia steadied her, and begged her to wait until morning, for her strength was gone and the night was late.
“Peace, woman! Who of us is sure of a morning? This minute is all the time that is ours, and––I must know.”
She leaned on Valencia as they crossed the patio, and Tula moved a seat outside the door of Marto’s room. Kit fastened a torch in the holder of the brick pillar and opened the door without being seen, and stood watching the prisoner.
Marto Cavayso, who had been pleading with Isidro, whirled only to find the barrel of another gun thrust through the carved grill in the top of the door.
“Isidro,” said Kit, “this man is to answer questions of the señora. If he is uncivil you can singe him with a bullet at your own will.”
“Many thanks, señor,” returned Isidro promptly. “That is a pleasant work to think of, for the talk of this shameless gentleman is poison to the air.”
“You!” burst out Marto, pointing a hand at Jocasta in the corridor. “You put witchcraft of hell on me, and wall me in here with an old lunatic for guard, and now–––”
Bing! A bullet from Isidro’s rifle whistled past Marto’s ear and buried itself in the adobe, scattering plaster and causing the prisoner to crouch back in the corner.
Jocasta regarded him as if waiting further speech, but none came.
“That is better,” she said. “No one wishes to do you harm, but you need a lesson very badly. Now Marto Cavayso,––if that be your name!––why did you carry me away? Was it your own doing, or were you under orders of your General Rotil?”
“I should have let the men have you,” he muttered. “I was a bewitched man, or you never would have traveled alive to see Soledad. Rotil? Do not the handsome women everywhere offer him love and comradeship? Would he risk a good man to steal a woman of whom José Perez is tired?”
“You are not the one to give judgment,” said a strange voice outside the barred window.––“That I did not send you to steal women is very true, and the task I did send you for has been better done by other men in your absence.”
Cavayso swore, and sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Outside the window there were voices in friendly speech, that of Clodomiro very clear as he told his grandfather the dogs did not bark but once, because some of the Mesa Blanca boys were with the general, who was wounded.
Kit closed and bolted again the door of Cavayso, feeling that the guardianship of beauty in Sonora involved a man in many awkward and entangling situations. If it was indeed Rotil–––
But a curious choking moan in the corridor caused him to turn quickly, but not quickly enough.
Doña Jocasta, who had been as a reed of steel against other dangers, had risen to her feet as if for flight at sound of the voice, and she crumpled down on the floor and lay, white as a dead woman, in a faint so deep that even her heartbeat seemed stilled.
Kit gathered her up, limp as a branch of willow, and preceded by Tula with the torch, bore her back to the chamber prepared for her. Valencia swept back the covers of the bed, and with many mutterings of fear and ejaculations to the saints, proceeded to the work of resuscitation.
“To think that she came over that black road and held fast to a heart of bravery,––and now at a word from the Deliverer, she falls dead in fear! So it is with many who hear his name; yet he is not bad to his friends. Every Indian in Sonora is knowing that,” stated Valencia.
Chapter 14
THE HAWK OF THE SIERRAS
“That is what we get, Tula, by gathering beauty in distress into our outfit,” sighed Kit. “She seems good foundation for a civil war here. Helen of Troy,––a lady of an eastern clan!––started a war on less, and the cards are stacked against us if they start scrapping. When Mexican gentry begin hostilities, the innocent bystander gets the worst of it,––especially the Americano. So it is just as well the latest Richard in the field does not know whose bullet hit him in the leg, and brought his horse down.”
Tula, who since their entrance to the civilized surroundings of Mesa Blanca, had apparently dropped all initiative, and was simply a little Indian girl under orders, listened impassively to this curious monologue. She evidently thought white people use many words for a little meaning.
“The Deliverer says will you graciously come?” she stated for the second time.
“Neither graciously, gracefully or gratefully, but I’ll arrive,” he conceded. “His politeness sounds ominous. It is puzzling why I, a mere trifle of an American ranch hand, should be given audience instead of his distinguished lieutenant.”
“Isidro and Clodomiro are talking much with him, and the man Marto is silent, needing no guard,” said Tula.
“Sure,––Rotil has the whole show buffaloed. Well, let’s hope, child, that he is not a mind reader, for we have need of all the ore we brought out, and can’t spare any for revolutionary subscriptions.”
Kit followed Tula into the sala where a rawhide cot had been placed, and stretched on it was the man of Yaqui Spring.
One leg of his trousers was ripped up, and there was the odor of a greasewood unguent in the room. Isidro was beside him, winding a bandage below the knee. A yellow silk banda around the head of Rotil was stained with red.
But he had evidently been made comfortable, for he was rolling a cigarette and was calling Isidro “doctor.” Two former vaqueros of Mesa Blanca were there, and they nodded recognition to Kit. Rotil regarded him with a puzzled frown, and then remembered, and waved his hand in salute.
“Good day, señor, we meet again!” he said. “I am told that you are my host and the friend of Señor Whitely. What is it you do here? Is it now a prison, or a hospital for unfortunates?”
“Only a hospital for you, General, and I trust a serviceable one,” Kit hastened to assure him. “More of comfort might have been yours had you sent a courier to permit of preparation.”
“The service is of the best,” and Rotil pointed to Isidro. “I’ve a mind to take him along, old as he is! The boys told me he was the best medico this side the range, and I believe it. As to courier,” and he grinned, “I think you had one, if you had read the message right.”
“The surprises of the night were confusing, and a simple man could not dare prophesy what might follow,” said Kit, who had drawn up a chair and easily fell into Rotil’s manner of jest. “But I fancy if that courier had known who would follow after, he would have spent the night by preference at Soledad.”
“Sure he would,––hell’s fire shrivel him! That shot of his scraped a bone for me, and put my horse out of business. For that reason we came on quietly, and these good fellows listened at the window of Marto before they carried me in. It is a good joke on me. My men rounded up Perez and his German slaver at Soledad today––yesterday now!––and when we rode up the little cañon to be in at the finish what did we see but an escape with a woman? Some word had come my way of a Perez woman there, and only one thought was with me, that the woman had helped Perez out of the trap as quickly as he had ridden into it! After that there was nothing to do
but catch them again. No thought came to me that Marto might be stealing a woman for himself, the fool! Perez made better time than we figured on, and is a day ahead. Marto meant to hide the woman and get back in time. It’s a great joke that an Americano took the woman from him. I hope she is worth the trouble,” and he smiled, lifting his brows questioningly.
“So that was the ‘trap’ that Marto raved and stormed to get back to?” remarked Kit. “I am still in the dark, though there are some glimmers of light coming. If Marto knew of that trap it explains–––”
“There were three others of my men on the Soledad rancho, drawing pay from Perez. It is the first time that fox came in when we could spread the net tight. To get him at another place would not serve so well, for if Soledad was the casket of our treasure, at Soledad we make a three strike,––the cattle, the ammunition, and Perez there to show the hiding place! It is the finish of four months’ trailing, and is worth the time, and but for Marto running loco over a girl, there would have been a beautiful quiet finish at Soledad ranch house last night.”
“But, if your men have Perez–––”
“Like that!” and Rotil stretched out his open hand, and closed it significantly, with a cruel smile in his black, swift-glancing eyes. “This time there is no mistake. For over a week men and stout mules have been going in;––it is a conducta and it is to take the ammunition. Well, señor, it is all well managed for me; also we have much need of that ammunition for our own lads.”
“And it was done without a fight?” asked Kit. “I have heard that the men picked for Soledad were not the gentlest band Señor Perez could gather.”
“We had their number,” said Rotil placidly. “Good men enough, but with their cartridges doctored what could they do? I sent in two machine guns, and they were not needed. A signal smoke went up to show me all was well, and in another minute I heard the horses of Marto and his girl. He must have started an hour before Perez arrived. It is a trick of Don José’s that no one can count on his engagements, but this time every hill had its sentinels for his trail, not anything was left to chance.”
“And your accident?” asked Kit politely.
“Oh, I was setting my own guards at every pass when the runaway woman and men caught my ear and we took a short cut down the little cañon to head them off. I knew they would make for here, and that houses were not plenty––” he smiled as if well satisfied with the knowledge. “So, as this was a friendly house it would be a safe bet to keep on coming.” He blew rings of smoke from the cigarette, and chuckled.
“The boys will think a quicksand has swallowed us, and no one will be sleeping there at Soledad.”
“Is there anything I can do to be of service,” asked Kit. “I have a good room and a bed–––”
But the chuckling of Rotil broke into a frank laugh.
“No, señor!” he said with humorous decision, watching Kit as he spoke, “already I have been told of your great kindness in the giving of beds and rooms of comfort. Why, with a house big enough, you could jail all the district of Altar! Not my head for a noose!”
Kit laughed awkwardly at the jest which was based on fact, but he met the keen eyes of Rotil very squarely.
“The Indians no doubt told you the reason the jail was needed?” he said. “If a girl picks a man to take a trail with, that is her own affair and not mine, but if a girl with chains on her wrists has to watch men throwing dice for her, and is forced to go with the winner––well––the man who would not help set her free needs a dose of lead. That is our American way, and no doubt is yours, señor.”
“Sure! Let a woman pick her own, if she can find him!” agreed Rotil, and then he grinned again as he looked at Kit. “And, señor, it is a safe bet that this time she’ll find him!––you are a good big mark, not easily hidden.”
The other men smiled and nodded at the humor of their chief, and regarded Kit with appreciative sympathy. It was most natural of course for them to suppose that if he took a woman from Marto, he meant to win her for himself.
Kit smiled back at them, and shook his head.
“No such luck for a poor vaquero,” he confessed. “The lady is in mourning, and much grief. She is like some saint of sorrows in a priest’s tale, and–––”
“The priests are liars, and invented hell,” stated Rotil.
“That may be, but sometimes we see sad women of prayers who look like the saints the priests tell about,––and to have such women sold by a gambler is not good to hear of.”
No one spoke for a little. The eyes of Rotil closed in a curious, contemptuous smile.
“You are young, boy,” he said at last, “and even we who are not so young are often fooled by women. Trust any woman of the camp rather than the devout saints of the shrines. All are for market,––but you pay most for the saint, and sorrow longest for her. And you never forget that the shrine is empty!”
His tone was mocking and harsh, but Kit preferred to ignore the sudden change of manner for which there seemed no cause.
“Thanks for the warning, General, and no saints for me!” he said good naturedly. “Now, is there any practical thing I can do to add to your comfort here? Any plans for tomorrow?”
“A man of mine is already on the way to Soledad, and we will sleep before other plans are made. Not even Marto will I see tonight, knowing well that you have seen to his comfort!” and he chuckled again at the thought of Marto in his luxurious trap. “My lads will do guard duty in turn, and we sleep as we are.”
“Then, if I can be of no service–––”
“Tomorrow perhaps, not tonight, señor. Some sleep will do us no harm.”
“Then good night, and good rest to you, General.”
“Many thanks, and good night, Don Pajarito.”
Kit laughed at that sally, and took himself out of the presence. It was plain that the Deliverer had obtained only the most favorable account of Kit as the friend of Whitely. And as an American lad who sang songs, and protected even women he did not know, he could not appear formidable to Rotil’s band, and certainly not in need of watching.
He looked back at them as the general turned on his side to sleep, and one of his men blew out the two candles, and stationed themselves outside the door. As he noted the care they took in guarding him, and glanced at the heavy doors and barred windows, he had an uncomfortable thrill at the conviction that it would serve as a very efficient prison for himself if his new friends, the revolutionists, ever suspected he held the secret of the red gold of El Alisal. It was a bit curious that the famous lost mine of the old mission had never really been “lost” at all!
Isidro, looking very tired, had preceded him from the sala, as Kit supposed to go to bed. The day and night had been trying to the old man, and already it was the small hours of a new day.
There was a dim light in the room of Doña Jocasta, but no sound. Tula was curled up on a blanket outside her door like a young puppy on guard. He stooped and touched her shoulder.
“The señora?” he whispered.
“Asleep, after tears, and a sad heart!” she replied. “Valencia thanks the saints that at last she weeps,––the beautiful sad one!”
“That is well; go you also to sleep. Your friends keep guard tonight.”
She made no reply, and he passed on along the corridor to his own rooms. The door was open, and he was about to strike a light when a hand touched his arm. He drew back, reaching for his gun.
“What the devil–––”
“Señor,” whispered Isidro, “make no light, and make your words in whispers.”
“All right. What’s on your mind?”
“The señora and the Deliverer. Know you not, señor, that she is sick with shame? It is so. No man has told him who the woman is he calls yours. All are afraid, señor. It is said that once Ramon Rotil was content to be a simple man with a wife of his own choosing, but luck was not his. It was the daughter of a priest in the hills, and José Perez took her!”
“Ah-h
!” breathed Kit. “If it should be this one–––”
“It is so,––she went like a dead woman at his voice, but he does not know. How should he, when Don José has women beyond count? Señor, my Valencia promised Doña Jocasta you would save her from meeting the general. That promise was better than a sleeping drink of herbs to her. Now that the promise is made, how will you make it good?”
“Holy smoke––also incense––also the pipe!” muttered Kit in the dark. “If I live to get out of this muddle I’ll swear off all entangling alliances forevermore! Come into the kitchen where we can have a fire’s light. I can’t think in this blackness.”
They made their way to the kitchen, and started a blaze with mesquite bark. The old Indian cut off some strips of burro jerke and threw them on the coals.
“That is better, it’s an occupation anyway,” conceded Kit chewing with much relish. “Now, Isidro, man, you must go on. You know the land best. How is one to hide a woman of beauty from desert men?”
“She may have a plan,” suggested Isidro.
“Where is Clodomiro?” asked Kit, suddenly recalling that the boy had disappeared. The old man did not answer; he was very busy with the fire, and when the question was repeated he shook his head.
“I do not know who went. If Tula did not go, then Clodomiro was the one. They were talking about it.”
“Talking,––about what?”
“About the German. He is caught at Soledad, and must not be let go, or let die. All the Indians of Palomitas will be asking the Deliverer for that man.”
“Isidro, what is it they want to do with him?” asked Kit, and the old Indian ceased fussing around with a stick in the ashes, and looked up, sinister and reproving.
“That, señor, is a question a man does not ask. If my woman tells me the women want a man for Judas, I––get that man! I ask nothing.”
“Good God! And that child, Tula––” began Kit in consternation, and old Isidro nodded his head.
The Treasure Trail Page 18