“So!” she murmured with a shrug of the shoulder. “It is then a bandit he is called in the words of the American newspaper?”
Cap Pike not comprehending the rapid musical Spanish, leaned forward fishing for a coal to light his pipe, noting her voice and watching her eyes.
“There you have it already!” he muttered to Kit. “All velvet, and mad as hell!”
Billie, much bewildered, turned to Kit as for help, but the slender hand of Doña Jocasta reached out pointing to the headlines.
“And––this?” she said coldly. “It is, you say, not victorious for Ramon Rotil, that––bandit?”
“It says, señora,” hesitated Billie, “that he is hid in the hills, and–––”
“That we know,” stated Doña Jocasta, “what other thing?”
“‘He has a wound and was carried by his men to one of his retreats, a hidden place,’” read Billie slowly, translating into Spanish as she went on. “That is all except that the Federals had to retreat temporarily because a storm caused trouble and washed out a bridge over which their ammunition train has to go. The place of the accident is very bad. Timber and construction engineers are being rushed to service there, but for a few days luck is with the Hawk.”
“So!––For a few days!” repeated Doña Jocasta in the cool sweet voice. “In a few days Ramon Rotil could cross Mexico. He is El Gavilan!”
Things were coming too fast for Billie. She regarded the serenity of Doña Jocasta with amazement, and tried to imagine how she would feel if enemy guns battered down the old walls of Granados, or––thought of terror––if Kit should be held in the hills and tortured for ransom!
“Speaking of floods,” remarked Pike in amiable desire to bridge over an awkward pause, “we’ve used half the water we brought, and need to make a bright and early start tomorrow. Rio Seco is no garden spot to get caught in short of water. Our La Partida mules are fresh as daisies right off a month of range, but yours sure look as if they had made the trip.”
“What does he say,––the old señor?” asked Doña Jocasta.
Billie translated for her, whereupon she arose and summoned Clodomiro by a gesture.
“My bed,” she said briefly, “over there,” and she indicated a thicket of greasewood the wagon had passed on their arrival. “Also this first night of safety you will be the sentinel to keep guard that Señor Rhodes may at last have sleep. All the danger trail he had none.”
Cap Pike protested that he do guard duty, but the smile of Doña Jocasta won her way.
“He is younger and not weary, señor. It is good for him, and it pleases me,” she said.
“The camp is yours,” he agreed weakly, and against his better judgment. He did not like Indians who were like “sulky slim brown dumb snakes”; that was what he muttered when he looked at Clodomiro. In his irritation at the Indian’s silence it didn’t even occur to him that he never had known any snakes but dumb ones.
But if the voice of Clodomiro was uncannily silent, his eyes spoke for him as they followed Doña Jocasta. Kit could only think of a lost, homesick dog begging for the scent of the trail to his own kennel. He said so to Billie as he made her bed in the camp wagon.
“Cap and I will be right here at the hind wheels,” he promised. “Yes,––sure, I’ll let the Indian ride herd for the night. Doña Jocasta is right, it’s his turn, and we seem to have passed the danger line.”
“Knock wood!” cautioned Billie.
So he rapped his head with his knuckles, and they laughed together as young happy things do at trifles. Then he stretched himself for sleep under the stars and almost within arm’s reach of the girl––the girl who had ridden to meet him in the night, the wonderful girl who had promised to wait until he came back from France … of course he could get into the army now! They would need men too badly to turn him down again. If there was a trifle of discrepancy in sight of his eyes––which he didn’t at all believe––he had the dust now, also the nuggets, to buy any and all treatment to adjust that little matter. He had nearly four hundred pounds, aside from giving all he dared give at once as Tula’s gift to those women of the slave raid. After the war was over he would find ways of again crossing over to the great treasure chest in the hidden cañon. The little information Pike had managed to convey to him about that sheepskin map told him that the most important indications had been destroyed during those years it had been buried for safe-keeping. The only true map in existence was the one in his own memory,––no use to tell Pike and Billie that! He could leave them in comfort and content, and when he got back from France––He wondered how long it would last––the war. Hadn’t the greatest of Americans tried three years ago to hammer the fact into the alleged brain pans of the practical politicians that the sooner the little old United States made guns, and ships, and flying machines for herself, the sooner she could help end that upheaval of hell in Europe?… and they wouldn’t listen! Listen?––They brought every ounce of influence they could round up to silence those facts,––the eternally condemned ostriches sticking their own heads in the sand to blind the world to the situation! Now they were in, and he wondered if they had even ten rounds of ammunition for the cartridge belts of the few trained soldiers in service? They had not had even three rounds for the showy grand review attempted in Texas not long since; also the transportation had been a joke, some of the National Guards started, but never did arrive––and France was a longer trail than Texas. God! they should be ready to fight as the French were ready, in twelve hours––and it would have to be months––a long unequal hell for a time over there, but only one finish, and the brown rats driven back to their den! After that the most wonderful girl would––would––would–––
Then all the sleep due him on the sleepless trail settled over him like a net weighted, yet very caressing, and the world war and the wonderful girl drifted far away!
Beyond, on the other side of the fire, and out of the circle of light, Clodomiro bore the serape of Doña Jocasta, and made clear the place for her couch. She had returned to the light of the fire and was scanning again the annoying paper of the Americanos. Especially that remembered face of the audacious eyes. They were different eyes in these latter days, level and cynical, and sometimes cruel.
“He calls,” said Clodomiro again beside her. She had not heard him, and turned in anger that he dare startle her.
“Who does he call?” she asked irritably tossing aside the paper.
“All Mexico, I think. All Mexico’s heart,” and he touched his breast. “Me, I do not sleep. I do your work and when the end of the trail is yours, I ask, Excellencia, that you send me back that I find him again,––the Deliverer!”
“What did Ramon Rotil ever do for you that you fret like a chained coyote because his enemies are strong?”
“Not anything, Excellencia. Me, he would not know if I told him my name, but––he is the Deliverer who will help the clans. Also, she would go,––Tula. Sangre de Christo! there would be no chain strong enough to hold her back if his wounds cried for help.”
“If––his wounds cried for help!” repeated Doña Jocasta mechanically.
“It is true, Excellencia, El Gavilan was giving help to many people in the lands he crossed. Now the many will forget, and like a hawk with the weight of an arrow in his breast he will fly alone to a high nest of the hills. Death will nest with him there some night or some day, Excellencia. And the many will forget.”
“Quiet you!” ordered Doña Jocasta angrily.
Abashed, Clodomiro went silent, and with a murmured apology took himself into the shadows.
She lifted the pictured face barely discernible now in the diminished light.
“And––the many will forget!” she repeated irritably. “The boy has the truth of it, but if she had lived, so terribly wicked,––so lost of God, I wonder if–––”
She lifted her face looking up at the still stars as if for light on a thought, then flung her hands out despairingly and turned a
way to the couch by the green bush of fragrant yellow bloom.
But not to sleep. Long after the Americanos were wrapped in slumber a little blaze sent glimmer of light through the undergrowth, and she saw Clodomiro stretched beside the fire. He had tossed a bit of greasewood on the coals that he might again study the face of El Gavilan.
She had heard him say that if no desert wind lifted the sand he could follow to that hidden nest of the Hawk. It was very dark now except for glimmer of stars through lacy, slow-drifting clouds,––there was no wind. Later there would be a waning moon! Much of every waking life is a dream, and her dreams were of the No Man’s Land of the desert,––the waterless trail from which she had been rescued for peace!
Twice during the night Kit roused from the depths sufficiently to realize that sleep is one of the greatest gifts to man. Once Clodomiro was stretched by the little fire inspecting the paper he could not read, the second time he thought Baby Bunting was nosing around trying to get close to human things. Both times he reached out his hands to the precious packs beside which he slept on the trail. All were safe, and he drifted again into a great ocean of slumber.
He was wakened at dawn by the voice of Cap Pike, keyed high for an ultra display of profanity.
“By the jumping Je-hosophat, I knew it!” he shrilled. “That’s your latest collection, begod! I hoped he wouldn’t, and knew he would! The all-firedest finest pair of mules on Granados, and every water bag in the outfit! Can you beat it?”
At the first shout Kit jumped to his feet, his eyes running rapidly over his pack saddle outfit. All was safe there, and as Billie lifted her head and looked at him drowsily over the edge of the wagon bed he realized that in the vital things of life all was well with his world.
“Let Sheba run your camp, and run it to hell, will you?” went on Cap Pike accusingly. He was thrashing around among the growth back of the Soledad outfit wagon where the mules had been tethered. “Two––four––six, and Baby Buntin’––yes sir! Lit out by the dark of the moon, and left neither hide nor hair,––”
“Oh, be reasonable, Cap!” protested Kit. “Buntin’ isn’t gone––she’s right alongside here, waiting for breakfast.”
“You’re shoutin’ she’s here; so is every dragged-to-death skate you hit camp with! It’s Billie’s crackerjack mules, the pick of the ranch, that the bare-legged greasy heathen hit the trail with! And every water bag!”
“Well,” decided Kit, verifying the water statement by a glance at the barrels, “no one is to blame. The boy didn’t want to come this trail. He stuck until we were over the rough of it, and then he cut loose. A pair of mules isn’t so bad.”
“Now, of course not!” agreed Cap sarcastically. “A mere A-number-one pair of mules belonging to another fellow is only a flea bite to offer a visitor for supper! Well, all I got to say–––”
“Don’t say it, Cap dear,” suggested Billie. “The Indian was here because of Doña Jocasta, and she can’t help it! As she doesn’t understand English, she’ll probably think you’re murdering some of us over here. Whist now, and put your muzzle on! We’ll get home without the two mules. I’ll go and tell her that the hysterics is your way of offering morning prayers!”
She slipped away, laughing at his protests, but when a little past the fire place she halted, standing very still, peering beyond at something on the ground under the greasewood where the serape of Doña Jocasta had been spread. No serape or sleeper was there!
Kit noted her startled pause, and in a few strides was beside her; then, without a word, the two went forward together and he picked up the package of papers laid carefully under the greasewood. He knew without opening them what they were,––the records made for her safety, and for his, in Soledad, place of tragedies.
“They are the papers I was to put on record for her in case––Well, I’ll do it, and you’ll take care of the copies for her, Billie, and––and do your best for the girl if a chance ever comes. We owe her a lot more than she will ever guess,––our gold come out of Mexico under the guard arranged for her, and when I come back–––”
“But Kit,” protested Billie, “to think of her alone with that thieving Indian! He took flour and bacon too! And if she hopes to find her husband–––”
“She doesn’t,” concluded Kit thoughtfully turning over the certificate signed by the padre and him, of the husband’s safe burial in the sands of Soledad. He glanced at Billie in doubt. One never knew how safe it was to tell things,––some things,––to a woman; also Billie was so enchanted by Jocasta’s sad beauty, and–––
“No, I reckon she doesn’t hope much along that line. She has probably gone back to the wilderness for another reason,––one I never suspected until last night. And Lark-child, we won’t talk about that, not at least till I return from the ‘back of beyond’ over there,” and he pointed eastward where shafts of copper light touched the gray veil of the morning.
After his first explosion of amazement Cap Pike regarded the elopement, as he called it, very philosophically, considering his disgust over lost mules and flour and bacon.
“What did I tell you right here last night?” he demanded of Kit. “Soft as velvet and hard as hell,––that’s what I said! She looks to me like a cross between a saint in a picture frame and a love bird in a tree, and her eyes! Yet after all no man can reckon on that blood,––she is only a girl of the hills down there, and the next we hear of her she’ll likely be leaden’ a little revolution of her own.”
The young chap made no reply, but busied himself hastening a scant breakfast in order that the worn mules be got to water before the worst heat of a dry day. Also the losses to the culinary outfit did make problems for the trip.
Cap eyed him askance for a space, and then with a chuckle wilfully misconstrued his silence and lowered his tone.
“I don’t blame you for feeling downhearted on your luck, Bub, for she sure was a looker! But it’s all in a lifetime, and as you ramble along in years, you’ll find that most any hombre can steal them, and take them home, but when it comes to getting a permanent clinch on the female affections–––”
Billie, who was giving a short ration of water to the burro, called across to ask what Kit was laughing at in that hilarious way. She also stated that she did not think it a morning for hilarity, not at all! That wonderful, beautiful, mystery woman might be going to her death!
After the packs were all on, Cap Pike swung the mules of the first wagon into the home trail and passed over the mesa singing rakishly.
Oh-h! Biddy McGee has been after me,
Since I’ve been in the army!
And Billie turned in the saddle to take a last look over the trail where the woman of the emerald eyes had passed in the night.
“All my life I have looked, and looked into the beautiful mirages of the south desert wondering what would come out of it––and she was the answer,” she said, smiling at Kit. “Tomorrow I’ll feel as if it was all a dream, all but the wonderful red gold, and you! Some fine day we’ll take a little pasear down there, I’ll follow that dream trail, and–––”
“You will not!” decided the chosen of her heart with rude certainty. “The dreams of that land of mirages are likely to breed nightmares. You are on the right side of the border for women to stay. Our old American eagle is a pretty safe bird to roost with.”
“Well,” debated the only girl, “if it comes to that, Mexico also has the eagle, and had it first!”
“Yes, contrary child,” he conceded, herding the mules into line, “so it has,––but the eagle of Mexico is still philandering with a helmeted serpent. Wise gamblers reserve their bets on that game, we can only hope that the eagle fights its way free!”
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The Treasure Trail Page 31