Vague drifting thoughts like this followed Kit’s shiver of repulsion at that Indian joy song over the promise of a veritable live Judas. On him they could wreak a personal vengeance, and go honestly to confession in some future day, with the conviction that they had, by the sufferings they could individually and collectively invent for Judas, in some vague but laudable manner mitigated the sufferings of a white god far away whose tribulations were dwelt upon much by the foreign priesthood.
He sensed this without analysis, for his was not the analytical mind. What brain Kit had was fairly well occupied by the fact that his own devoted partner was the moving spirit of that damnable pagan Come, all ye––drifting back to him from the glorified mesa, flushed golden now by the full sun.
Clodomiro came wearily up from the corral. The boy had gone without sleep or rest until his eyes were heavy and his movements listless. Like the women of Palomitas he also had worked overtime at the call of Tula, and Kit wondered at the concerted activity––no one had held back or blundered.
“Clodomiro,” he said passing the lad a cigarette and rolling one for himself from good new tobacco secured from Fidelio, “how comes it that even the women of years come in the night for prayers when you ride for them? Do they give heed to any boy who calls?”
Clodomiro gave thanks for the cigarette, but was too well bred to light it in the presence of an elder or a superior. He smelled it with pleasure, thrust it over his ear and regarded Rhodes with perfectly friendly and apparently sleepy black eyes.
“Not always, señor, but when Tula sends the call of Miguel, all are surely coming, and also making the prayer.”
“The call of Miguel? Why––Miguel is dead.”
“That is true, señor, but he was head man, and he had words of power, also the old Indians listened. Now Tula has the words, and as you see,––the words are still alive! I am not knowing what they mean,––the words,––but when Tula tells me, I take them.”
“O Tippecanoe, and Tyler too!” hummed Kit studying the boy. “What’s in a word? Do you mean that you take a trail to carry words you don’t understand, because a girl younger than you tells you to?”
The boy nodded indifferently.
“Yes, señor, it is my work when it is words of old prayer, and Tula is sending them. It would be bad not to go, a quicksand would surely catch my horse, or I might die from the bite of a sorrilla rabioso, or evil ghosts might lure me into wide medanos where I would seek trails forever, and find only my own! Words can do that on a man! and Tula has the words now.”
“Indeed! That’s a comfortable chum to have around––not! And have you no fear?”
“Not so much. I am very good,” stated Clodomiro virtuously. “Some day maybe I take her for my woman;––her clan talks about it now. She has almost enough age, and––you see!”
He directed the attention of Rhodes to the strips of red and green and pink calico banding his arms, their fluttering ends very decorative when he moved swiftly.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been admiring them. Very pretty,” said Kit amicably, not knowing the significance of it, but conscious of the wide range one might cover in a few minutes of simple Sonora ranch life. From the tragic and weird to the childishly inane was but a step.
Clodomiro passed on to the kitchen, and Kit smoked his cigarette and paced the outer corridor, striving for plans to move forward with his own interests, and employ the same time and the same trail for the task set by Ramon Rotil.
Rotil had stated that the escort of Doña Jocasta must be as complete as could be arranged. This meant a dueña and a maid at least, and as he had bidden Tula have her way with her “Judas,” it surely meant that Tula must go to Soledad. Very well so far, and as Rotil would certainly not question the extent of the outfit taken along, why not include any trifles Tula and he chanced to care for? He remembered also that there were some scattered belongings of the Whitely’s left behind in the haste of departure. Well, a few mule loads would be a neighborly gift to take north when he crossed the border, and Soledad was nearer the border!
It arranged itself very well indeed, and as Tula emerged from the patio smoothing out an old newspaper fragment discarded by Fidelio, and chewing chica given her by Clodomiro, he hailed her with joy.
“Blessed Indian Angel,” he remarked appreciatively, “you greased the toboggan for several kinds of hell for us this day of our salvation, but your jinx was on the job, and turned the trick our way! Do you know you are the greatest little mascot ever held in captivity?”
But Tula didn’t know what “mascot” meant, and was very much occupied with the advertisement of a suit and cloak house in the old Nogales paper in which some trader at the railroad had wrapped Fidelio’s tobacco. It had the picture of an alluring lady in a dress of much material slipping from the shoulders and dragging around the feet. To the aboriginal mind that seemed a very great waste, for woven material was hard to come by in the desert.
She attempted an inquiry concerning that wastefulness of Americanas, but got no satisfactory reply. Kit took the tattered old paper from her hand, and turned it over because of the face of Singleton staring at him from the other side of the page. It was the account of the inquest, and in the endeavor to add interest the local reporters had written up a column concerning Singleton’s quarrel with the range boss, Rhodes,––and the mysterious disappearance of the latter across the border!
There was sympathetic mention made of Miss Wilfreda Bernard, heiress of Granados, and appreciative mention of the efficient manager, Conrad, who had offered all possible assistance to the authorities in the sad affair. The general expression of the article was regret that the present situation along the border prevented further investigation concerning Rhodes. The said Rhodes appeared to be a stranger in the locality, and had been engaged by the victim of the crime despite the objections of Manager Conrad.
There followed the usual praise and list of virtues of the dead man, together with reference to the illustrious Spanish pioneer family from whom his wife had been descended. It was the first time Kit had been aware of the importance of Billie’s genealogy, and remembering the generally accepted estimates of Spanish pride, he muttered something about a “rose leaf princess, and a Tennessee hill-billy!”
“It’s some jolt, two of them!” he conceded.
Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are!
“They say bunches of stars and planets get on a jamboree and cross each other’s trail at times, and that our days are rough or smooth according to their tantrums. Wish I knew the name of the luminary raising hell for me this morning! It must be doing a highland fling with a full moon, and I’m being plunked by every scattered spark!”
Chapter 16
THE SECRET OF SOLEDAD CHAPEL
It took considerable persuasion to prevail upon Doña Jocasta that a return to Soledad would be of any advantage to anybody. To her it was a place fearful and accursed.
“But, señora, a padre who sought to be of service to you is still there, a prisoner. In the warring of those wild men who will speak for him? The men of Soledad would have killed him but for their superstitions, and Rotil is notorious for his dislike of priests.”
“I know,” she murmured sadly. “There are some good ones, but he will never believe. In his scales the bad ones weigh them down.”
“But this one at Soledad?”
“Ah, yes, señor, he spoke for me,––Padre Andreas.”
“And a prisoner because of you?”
“That is true. You do well to remind me of that. My own sorrows sink me in selfishness, and it is a good friend who shows me my duty. Yes, we will go. God only knows what is in the heart of Ramon Rotil that he wishes it, but that which he says is law today wherever his men ride, and I want no more sorrow in the world because of me. We will go.”
Valencia had gone placidly about preparations for the journey from the moment Kit had expressed the will of the Deliverer. To hesitate when he spoke seemed a fooli
sh thing, for in the end he always did the thing he willed, and to form part of the escort for Doña Jocasta filled her with pride. She approved promptly the suggestion that certain bed and table furnishings go to Soledad for use of the señora, and later be carried north to Mrs. Whitely, whose property they were.
As capitan of the outfit, Kit bade her lay out all such additions to their state and comfort, and he would personally make all packs and decide what animals, chests, or provisions could be taken.
This was easier managed than he dared hope. Clodomiro rode after mules and returned with Benito and Mariano at his heels, both joyously content to leave the planting of fields and offer their young lives to the army of the Deliverer. Isidro was busy with the duties of the ranch stock, and there was only Tula to see bags of nuggets distributed where they would be least noticed among the linen, Indian rugs, baskets and such family possessions easiest carried to their owner.
He marked the packs to be opened, and Tula, watching, did not need to be told.
The emotions of the night and the uncertainty of what lay ahead left Rhodes and Doña Jocasta rather silent as they took the trail to the gruesome old hacienda called by Doña Jocasta so fearful and accursed. Many miles went by with only an occasional word of warning between them where the way was bad, or a word of command for the animals following.
“In the night I rode without fear where I dare not look in the sunlight,” said Jocasta drawing back from a narrow ledge where stones slipped under the hoofs of the horses to fall a hundred feet below in a dry cañon.
“Yes, señora, the night was kind to all of us,” returned Kit politely. “Even the accidents worked for good except for the pain to you.”
“That is but little, and my shoulder of no use to anyone. General Rotil is very different,––a wound to a soldier means loss of time. It is well that shot found him among friends for it is said that when a wolf has wounds the pack unites to tear him to pieces, and there are many,––many pesos offered to the traitor who will trap Rotil by any lucky accident.”
“Yet he took no special care at Mesa Blanca.”
“Who knows? He brought with him only men of the district as guard. Be sure they knew every hidden trail, and every family. Ramon Rotil is a coyote for the knowing of traps.”
She spoke as all Altar spoke, with a certain pride in the ability of the man she had known as a burro driver of the sierras. For three years he had been an outlaw with a price on his head, and as a rebel general the price had doubled many times.
“With so many poor, how comes it that no informer has been found? The reward would be riches untold to a poor paisano.”
“It might be to his widow,” said Doña Jocasta, “but no sons of his, and no brothers would be left alive.”
“True. I reckon the friends of Rotil would see to that! Faithful hearts are the ones he picks for comrades. I heard an old-timer say the Deliverer has that gift.”
She looked at him quickly, and away again, and went silent. He wondered if it was true that there had been love between these two, and she had been unfaithful. Love and Doña Jocasta were fruitful themes for the imagination of any man.
Valencia was having the great adventure of her life in her journey to Soledad, and she chattered to Tula as a maiden going to a marriage. Three people illustrious in her small world were at once to be centered on the stage of war before her eyes. She told Tula it was a thing to make songs of,––the two men and the most beautiful woman!
When they emerged from the cañon into the wide spreading plain, with the sierras looming high and blue beyond, the eyes of Kit and Tula met, and then turned toward their own little camp in the lap of the mother range. All was flat blue against the sky there, and no indications of cañon or gulch or pocket discernible. Even as they drew nearer to the hacienda, and Kit surreptitiously used the precious field glasses, thus far concealed from all new friends of the desert, he found difficulty in locating their hill of the treasure, and realized that their fears of discovery in the little cañon had been groundless. In the far-away time when the giant aliso had flourished there by the cañon stream, its height might have served to mark the special ravine where it grew, but the lightning sent by pagan gods had annihilated that landmark forever, and there was no other.
The glint of tears shone in the eyes of Tula, and she rode with downcast eyes, crooning a vagrant Indian air in which there were bird calls, and a whimpering long-drawn tremulo of a baby coyote caught in a trap, a weird ungodly improvisation to hear even with the shining sun warming the world.
Kit concluded she was sending her brand of harmony to Miguel and the ghosts on guard over the hidden trail.––And he rather wished she would stop it!
Even the chatter of Valencia grew silent under the spell of the girl’s gruesome intonings,––ill music for her entrance to a new portal of adventure.
“It sounds of death,” murmured Doña Jocasta, and made the sign of the cross. “The saints send that the soul to go next has made peace with God! See, señor, we are truly crossing a place of death as she sings. That beautiful valley of the green border is the sumidero,––the quicksands from hidden springs somewhere above,” and she pointed to the blue sierras. “I think that is the grave José meant for me at Soledad.”
“Nice cheerful end of the trail––not!” gloomed Kit strictly to himself. “That little imp is whining of trouble like some be-deviled prophetess.”
Afterwards he remembered that thought, and wished he could forget!
Blue shadows stretched eastward across the wide zacatan meadows, and the hacienda on the far mesa, with its white and cream adobe walls, shone opal-like in the lavender haze of the setting sun.
Kit Rhodes had timed the trip well and according to instruction of the general, but was a bit surprised to find that his little cavalcade was merely part of a more elaborate plan arranged for sunset at Soledad.
A double line of horsemen rode out from the hacienda to meet them, a rather formidable reception committee as they filed in soldier-like formation over the three miles of yellow and green of the spring growths, and halted where the glint of water shone in a dam filled from wells above.
Their officer saluted and rode forward, his hat in his hand as he bowed before Doña Jocasta.
“General Rotil presents to you his compliments, Señora Perez, and sends his guard as a mark of respect when you are pleased to ride once more across your own lands.”
“My thanks are without words, señor. I appreciate the honor shown to me. My generalissimo will answer for me.”
She indicated Kit with a wan smile, and her moment of hesitation over, his title reminded him that no name but El Pajarito had been given him by his Indian friends. That, and the office of manager of Mesa Blanca, was all that served as his introduction to her, and to Rotil. With the old newspaper in his pocket indicating that Kit Rhodes was the only name connected with the murder at Granados, he concluded it was just as well.
The guard drew to either side, and the officer and Kit, with Doña Jocasta between them, rode between the two lines, followed by Tula and Valencia. Then the guard fell in back of them, leaving Clodomiro with the pack animals and the Indian boys to follow after in the dust.
Doña Jocasta was pale, and her eyes sought Kit’s in troubled question, but she held her head very erect, and the shrouding lace veil hid all but her eyes from the strangers.
“Señor Pajarito,” she murmured doubtfully. “The sun is still shining, and there are no chains on my wrists,––otherwise this guard gives much likeness to my first arrival at the hacienda of Soledad!”
“I have a strong belief that no harm is meant to you by the general commanding,” he answered, “else I would have sought another trail, and these men look friendly.”
“God send they be so!”
“They have all the earmarks,––and look!”
They were near enough the hacienda to see men emerge from the portal, and one who limped and leaned on a cane, moved ahead of the others and stood w
aiting.
“It is an honor that I may bid you welcome to your own estate, Doña Jocasta,” he said grimly. “We have only fare of soldiers to offer you at first, but a few days and good couriers can remedy that.”
“I beg that you accept my thanks, Commandante,” she murmured lowly. “The trail was not of my choosing, and it is an ill time for women to come journeying.”
“The time is a good time,” he said bluntly, “for there is a limit to my hours here. And in one of them I may do service for you.”
His men stood at either side watching. There were wild tales told of Ramon Rotil and women who crossed or followed his trail, but here was the most beautiful of all women riding to his door and he gave her no smile,––merely motioned to the Americano that he assist her from the saddle.
“The supper is ready, and your woman and the priest will see that care is given for your comfort,” he continued. “Afterwards, in the sala–––”
She bent her head, and with Kit beside her passed on to the inner portal. There a dark priest met her and reached out his hand.
“No welcome is due me, Padre Andreas,” she said brokenly. “I turned coward and tried to save myself.”
“Daughter,” he returned with a wry smile at Kit, and a touch of cynic humor, “you had right in going. The lieutenant would have had no pleasure in adding me to his elopement, and, as we hear,––your stolen trail carried you to good friends.”
Kit left them there and gave his attention to space for the packs and outfit, but learned that the general had allotted to him the small corral used in happier days for the saddle horses of the family. There was a gate to it and a lock to the gate. Chappo had been given charge, and when all was safely bestowed, he gave the key to the American.
The Treasure Trail Page 21