IN WHICH A MAN KEEPS HIS WORD AND ZORAIDA DARES AND LAUGHS
Kendric called to Bruce. Together they carried the unconscious Barlow
into the house. Kendric, once satisfied that his old friend's heart
still beat, scarcely breathed until he lighted a lamp and found the
wound. It was in the shoulder and not only did not appear dangerous,
but failed to explain the man's condition of coma. There was a trickle
of blood across the pale forehead; Kendric pushed back the hair and
found a cut there, ragged and filled with dirt. Plainly the impact of
the heavy bullet had sufficed to unseat the sailor who, pitching out of
the saddle and striking on his head, had been stunned by the fall.
Kendric bathed and bandaged both wounds while Bruce went for a bottle
of brandy.
"He's coming around," said Kendric as Barlow's throat received the
stinging liquor. "I don't want to be on hand when he opens his eyes,
Bruce; for ten years I've called Twisty by the name of friend. He's
down and out for a little and what we two have to say to each other can
wait a spell."
Bruce, stolidfaced now and morose, nodded. Kendric went outside and
stood watching the flames work their will with Bruce's barns, his heart
heavy within him. One friend down, a bullet hole in his shoulder, shot
as a raiding cattle thief; another friend looking to have lost his
boyish nature with the loss of his hope. And both rendered what they
were through the wickedness of a woman. Woman? As he brooded over the
devastation she had wrought he began to think of her as an evil spirit.
He recalled with a shiver the feel of her burning eyes, hidden but
potent; he thought of the nights at sea when he had felt her presence.
For the first time he allowed himself to wonder in all seriousness if
she had powers above a mere woman's as she had a character set apart.
And, after all that happened, he must return to her! He, Jim Kendric,
must leave Twisty Barlow, wounded, and Bruce West, ruined, and return
to Zoraida Castlemar who had set her brand upon both them. His
twenty-four-hour leave would expire at daybreak. He had meant to spend
the evening with Bruce and then to ride back during the night. Now,
for the first time, he realized that the raiders had set him on foot.
The twenty miles to the Montezuma ranch would have to be walked.
"And I'd better be on my way," he decided promptly. It did not enter
his head that he had an excuse to offer for making a tardy appearance.
He had pledged his word, and, while it was humanly possible, he would
keep it. Even were it impossible it would have been Jim Kendric's way
to try. And now he was not sorry for an excuse for leaving early. He
could do nothing for Bruce; what must be said between him and Twisty
Barlow could come later.
It was then, while he was returning to the house that he saw a steady
light shining out in the fields. He stopped, at first fearing that a
fresh fire was breaking out.
"Not thieves but cursed marauders," he named the crowd to which Bruce
had already lost so heavily. "They've fired the dry grass."
But while he watched it the light did not alter, neither flaring up nor
dying down, burning steadily like a lamp. When after two or three
minutes he observed this he left the house and walked out into the
field, keeping to the shadows when he could, watchful and suspicious.
Thus presently he came to see what it was: a lantern tied from a low
limb of a tree. Below the lantern he saw a dark object; it moved and
he heard the clink of a bridle chain. Again he went forward, puzzled
and curious. He made out that the saddle was empty; he could see no
one near. A man might be hiding behind the bole of the oak or might
even be above in the branches. Inwardly Kendric prayed that he was.
He was ready for a meeting with any loiterer of Zoraida's following.
His pulses stirred as he thought that it might even be Rios or Escobar.
But though he circled the tree and peered long into the shadows among
the branches, he still saw no one. At last he came close to the
tethered horse. It was his own, the sorrel El Rey he had ridden here
this morning, saddled and bridled, spurs slung to the horn. The
lantern shed its rays upon the saddle and Kendric saw something else at
the horn; a bunch of little blue field flowers, held in place by a bit
of white ribbon.
He snatched the flowers down angrily, trampled on them, ground them
under foot. They seemed to him a bit of Zoraida herself; they taunted
him, they bore the message she sent. They were her summons to come
back to her. He jerked free the tie rope and swung up into the saddle,
eager and anxious to go back to her the swiftest way in order that the
time might come the more swiftly when he could fulfil his word and be
free to leave her. He'd get a rifle from Bruce; with that and his
revolver he'd take his chance, let all of her infernal rabble bar the
way.
From the rear of the house he called to Bruce.
"I've found my horse; they left him behind," he said as Bruce came out.
"I've got to go back, so back I go the quickest I know how. Take
decent care of Barlow; he was a real man once and may be again, if he
can shake that damned woman off. Lend me a rifle if you can spare it.
I'll see you again as soon as the Lord lets me. So long."
"So long, Jim," returned Bruce drearily. He brought out a rifle,
holding it out wordlessly. And Kendric rode away into the night.
In the mountains, though in another narrow pass, he was stopped as he
had been this morning. A lantern was flashed in his face and over his
horse. Then he was allowed to go on while from the darkness a voice
cried after him:
"_Viva La Señorita_!"
From afar he saw lights burning down in the valley and recognized them
as the lamps in the four wall towers. The gates were closed but at his
call a man appeared from the shadows and opened to him. He rode in;
dismounting, he let the rifle slip into a hiding place in the
shrubbery; another man at the front corridor took his horse. At about
midnight he again entered the old adobe building. The main hall into
which he stepped through the front door was still brightly lighted with
its several lamps; through open doors he saw that nowhere in the house
were lights out. Yet it was very quiet; he heard neither voice nor
step.
He knew where Zoraida was; no doubt Rios and Escobar were with her. He
had kept his word and returned to his prison like a good dog; what
reason why he should not take advantage of what appeared an unusual
opportunity and make his attempt at escape? Zoraida would not have
counted on his returning so early; he carried a revolver under his arm
pit and hidden in the garden was a rifle. To be sure there were risks
to be run; but now, if ever, struck him as the time to run them.
If he could only find where Betty Gordon slept. He must give her a
word of hope before he left her here among these devils; assuring her
that he would return for her and bring the law with him. Or, if she
had the nerve and the desire to attempt escape with him now, that was
her right and he would go as far as a man could to bring her through to
safety. Noiselessly he crossed the room. He would pass through the
music room and down the hall toward the living quarters of the house.
If luck were with him he would find her.
It was only when he was about to pass out of the music room door going
to the hallway that he heard voices for the first time. They came from
a distance, dulled and deadened by the oak doors, but he knew them for
the voices of men, raised in anger. A louder word now and then brought
him recognition of Ruiz Rios's voice; a sharp answer might have been
from Escobar. He stopped and considered. If these men quarreled, how
would it affect him? Quarrel they would, soon or late, he knew. For
both were truculent and in the looks he had seen pass between them
there was no friendship. Two rebellious spirits held in check by the
will of Zoraida Castelmar. But now Zoraida was away.
Then for the moment he forgot them and his conjectures. He had heard a
faint sound and turning quickly saw for the first time that he was not
alone in the music room. In a dim corner beyond the piano was a
cushioned seat and on it, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes wide
with the sleeplessness and anxiety of the night, crouched Betty Gordon.
He took a quick step toward her. She drew back, pressed tight against
the wall, her look one of terror. Terror of him!
But he came on until he stood over her, looking down into her raised
face. He felt no end of pity for her, she looked so small and helpless
and hopeless. Big gray eyes pleaded with him and he read and
understood that she asked only that he go and leave her. An impulse
which was utterly new to him surged over him now, the impulse to gather
her up into his arms as one would a child and comfort her. Not that
she was just a child. She had done her shining brown hair high up on
her head; she fought wildly for an air of serene dignity; he judged her
at the last of her teens. But she was none the less flower-like, all
that a true woman should be according to the beliefs of certain men of
the type of Jim Kendric, a true descendant of her sweet, old-fashioned
grandmothers. Her little high-heeled slippers, her dainty blue dress,
the flower which even in her distress she had tucked away in her hair,
were quite as he would have had them.
"Betty Gordon," he said softly so that his words would not carry to
other ears, "I want to help you if you will let me. Will you?"
Her clasped hands tightened; he saw the lips tremble before she could
command her utterance.
"I--I don't know what to do," she faltered. Her eyes clung to his
frankly, filled with shining eagerness to read the heart under the
outer man. For the first time Jim was conscious of his several days'
growth of beard; he supposed that it was rather more than an even
chance that his face was grimy and perhaps still carried evidences of
the fight at Bruce West's ranch. To assure her of his honorable
intentions toward her he could have wished for a bath and a shave.
"You're in the hands of a rather bad crowd," he said when he saw that
she had no further words but was waiting for him. "I thought that at
least it would be a relief to know that you had one friend on the job.
And an American at that," he concluded heartily.
"How am I to know who is a friend?" She shivered and pressed tight
against the wall. "That terrible man named Escobar spoke to me of
friendship, and he is the one who gave orders to bring me here! And
the other man, Rios, he spoke words that did not go with the look in
his eyes. And you--you----"
"Well? What about me?"
"You are one of them. I find you staying in their house. You are the
lover of Señorita Castelmar and she is terrible! Oh, I don't know what
to do."
"Who told you that?" he demanded sharply. "That I was Zoraida's lover?"
"One of the maids, Rosita. She told me that Zoraida is mad about you.
And that you are a great adventurer and have killed many men and are a
professional gambler."
"Rosita lied. I am just a prisoner here, like you."
Sheer disbelief shone in Betty's eyes.
"You rode away, alone, this morning," she said. "I saw you through my
window. You come in alone tonight. You are not a prisoner."
"I was allowed to leave the house only when I promised to come back.
Can't you tell when a man is speaking the truth? Good Lord, why should
I want to lie to you?"
Betty hesitated a long time, her hands nervous, her eyes unfaltering on
his. She looked at once drawn and repelled, fascinated like a little
bird fluttering under the baleful eyes of a snake.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked finally.
"I, for one," he retorted, "refuse to squat here like a fool because
I'm told. I'm going to make a break for it. You can take the chance
with me or you may remain here and know that I'll do what can be done
outside."
Betty shook her head, sighing.
"I don't know what to do," she said miserably.
Jim pondered and frowned. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
"It's up to you, Betty Gordon," he said. "You're old enough to think
for yourself. I can't decide for you. But if you were mine, my sister
for instance, I'd grab you up and make a bolt for it. A clean bullet
is a damned sight more to my liking than the dirty paws of such as Rios
and Escobar and their following. They've got a guard around the house
which they seem to think sufficient" Again he shrugged. "I've got my
notion we can slip through and make the mountains at the rear."
"If I only knew I could trust you," moaned Betty.
A glint of anger shone in Jim's eyes.
"Suit yourself," he told her curtly. "I can promise you it will be a
lot easier for me in a scrimmage and a get-away without a woman to look
out for."
Immediately he was ashamed of having been brusque with her. For she
was only a little slip of a girl after all and obviously one who had
never been thrown out into the current of life where it ran strongest.
More than ever she made him think of the girl of olden times, the girl
hard to find in our modern world. All of her life she had had others
to turn to, men whom she loved to lean upon. Her father, her brothers
would have done everything for her; she would have done her purely
feminine part in making home homey. That was what she was born for,
the lot of the sweet tender girl who is quite content to let other
girls wear mannish clothing and do mannish work. Kendric knew
instinctively that Betty Gordon could have made the daintiest thing
imaginable in dresses, that she would tirelessly and cheerfully nurse a
sick man, that she would fight every inch of the way for his life, that
she would stand by a father driven to the wall, broken financially,
that she would put hope into him and bear up bravely and with a tender
smile under adversity--but that she would call to a man to kill a
spider for her. God had not fashioned her to direct a military
campaign. And thinking thus of her, he thought also of Zoraida. Betty
Gordon, just as she was, was infinitely more to his liking.
"I can only give you my word of honor, my dear," he said gently, and
again he felt as though he were addressing a poor little kid of a girl
in short dresses, "that I wouldn't harm a hair of your head for all
Mexico."
Betty, though this was her first rude experience with outlaws, was not
without both discernment and intuition. Perhaps the maid Rosita had
lied to her, carried away by a natural relish in telling all that she
knew and more. A look of brightening hope surged up in Betty's gray
eyes; her pretty lips were parting when a rude interruption made her
forget to say the words which were just forming.
Fitfully voices had come to them from the _patio_ where Ruiz Rios and
the rebel captain were arguing, but Jim and Betty with their own
problem occupying their minds had paid scant attention. Now a sudden
exclamation arrested both words and thought, a sharp cry of bitter
anger and more than anger; there was rage and menace in the intonation.
And then came the shot, a revolver no doubt but sounding louder as it
echoed through the rooms. Betty started up in terror, both hands
grasping Kendric's arm. His own hand had gone its swift way to the gun
slung under his coat.
They waited a moment, both tense. Then Jim patted her hand
reassuringly, removed it from his sleeve and said quietly:
"Wait a second. I'll see which one it was."
But before he could cross the room the door was thrown open and Ruiz
Rios stood looking in on them queerly.
"Señor Escobar has shot himself," he said. "Through the heart."
Betty fell back from him, step by step, her eyes staring, her face
white. Then she looked pleadingly to Kendric. When he went to her
side, she whispered:
"Take me away! Let's try to go now. Now!"
Ruiz Rios's eyes glittered, his mouth hardened. He closed the door
behind him, watching them keenly.
"It is in my mind to do you a kindness, Señor Kendric," he said,
speaking evenly and emotionlessly.
"You are a murderous cur," rapped out Kendric. "I'd do a clean job if
I shot you dead in your tracks."
Rios smiled.
"Let us speak business, _amigo_," he said. "Moralizing is nice when
there is plenty of time and nothing else to be done. You are kept here
against your will. It might not fit in ill with my plans to see you
go."
"I will have a look at Escobar first," said Kendric. Rios stepped
aside and again threw open the door. But he did not stir from the
spot, awaiting Kendric's return. Nor did Kendric tarry long. Escobar
was dead already, shot through the heart, as Rios had said. A revolver
lay on the ground, close to his right hand.
"You ought to hang for that," said Kendric as he came back into the
room. "But from the way you're going you won't last long enough for
the law to get you. Now, what have you to say to me?"
"A part I have said," returned Ruiz Rios. "I can guess much that my
fair cousin has said to you. I know her desires and--I know my own!"
His eyes flashed. "More, you appear interested in the charming Miss
Betty Gordon. If you would like to go yourself, if you would like to
take her with you, I think I can arrange matters. At a price, of
course."
"Naturally. And the price?"
"Escobar asked twenty-five thousand dollars. Surely she is worth that
and more? Ah! Well, what you came to Lower California to find may be
worth as much, may be worth nothing. The risk is mine. Tell me where
the place is and I will arrange that you and Miss Betty have horses and
an open trail."
"Rios," began Jim, speaking slowly.
But it was Betty who answered.
"No!" she cried. "No and no and no! You are a terrible man, Señor
Rios, and some day God will bring you to a terrible end. Be sure I
would be happy to see the last of you and your cousin and your kind.
But the thing you ask is impossible. Why should Jim Kendric, to whom I
am only a bothersome stranger, pay you a sum like that--for me? You
are crazy!"
Jim himself was perplexed. He had no desire to put Ruiz Rios in the
way of appropriating that which had brought both himself and Barlow
here. More than that, the secret was not solely his to give away, were
he so minded. Barlow had a claim to half and he knew there would be
nothing left for Barlow once Rios scented it. Of these matters he
thought and also of Betty. Her quick vehemence had surprised him.
Until now he would have thought her eager to consent to anything to
insure her immediate departure.
"Fine words, señorita," said Rios, his lips twitching so that the white
teeth showed. "But you had best think. Many things might happen to a
girl, a pretty girl like you, which are not pleasant for her to
experience. You had better throw your arms about your countryman's
neck and beg him to pay the price for you."
Betty shook her head violently, so violently that the white flower fell
from her hair. Rios was going on angrily, when there came into the
yard a clatter of hoofs.
"It is Zoraida," he said sharply. "Now be quick; is it yes or no!"
"No!" cried Betty.
"Little fool!" muttered Rios. Under his glare she drew back. "Before
again such help is offered you you will wish you were dead!"
Outside they heard Zoraida's laughter, low and rich with its music.
Then her voice as gay as though there were in all the world no such
shadows as those cast by destruction and death. And then she entered,
slender and graceful in her elaborate riding suit, her white plume
nodding, her eyes dancing, her red mouth triumphant. Behind her came
Bruce West.
Kendric stared at him in amazement. For Bruce came of his own free
will and his own eyes were shining. There was no sign of his recent
distress upon his face. Rather it looked more joyous, more boyish and
glad than Kendric had seen it for years. The boy hardly noted anyone
in the room but Zoraida. His eyes were for her alone and they were on
fire with adoration.