riding hard that day, and the prospect of a good bed was just then more
attractive than character study with a pair of strolling Mexicans for
subjects. The séance of fortune telling ended, I was glad to pay for my
entertainment and say good-night to them.
“_Gracias, Señor--buenos noches._ We are much thankful, my Chiquita and
I. Is it not so, my Chiquita?”
The old woman bowed gracefully, and echoed her companion’s expression
of appreciation and farewell greeting. As I turned to enter the inn the
landlord met me at the door, saying:
“Your room’s all ready, Mister. It’s been ready for more’n an hour.
I seen you was havin’ your fortune told, an’ as the old gal allus
dishes up as good ones for the money as can be had in these diggin’s, I
thought I wouldn’t disturb ye. I hope ye got all the trimmin’s that was
comin’ to ye,” and he grinned expansively.
“I have no fault to find with the fortune the old woman told me,”
I replied smilingly; “it was doubtless better than I deserve, and
I suspect much better than I will ever experience. I was far more
interested in Chiquita and Ramon, her companion, than in her skill as
a fortune teller. I am curious to learn something of them. Do you know
anything about them?”
“Why, no, leastwise not enough to hurt. The old gal is some sort of
a gypsy, I reckon. She sure is, if there’s any Mexican gypsies. The
feller with her is a Greaser all right, though I’ll allow I don’t know
nothin’ else agin him. They blew in on this town about ten years ago,
an’ have been comin’ here off an’ on, workin’ the fortune tellin’
racket ever since.”
“Well, they are not likely to get rich at it,” I said. “Vallecito does
not seem to be a very profitable field for their particular specialty.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied the genial Jim. “Of course, this
town ain’t what she was in the early days,” and the old “forty-niner”
sighed retrospectively. “But it ain’t so bad, after all. It’s a little
out o’ season now, but when strangers come through here on the way to
Mariposa and Calaveras, I reckon it’s pretty good pickin’ for the old
woman and her pal. The Big Trees and the Calaveras caves draw pretty
good crowds, and they’re the kind of people that’s got mighty tender
feet, too--an’ some money. I sort o’ like them kind, myself.”
“Is anything known of the history of those Mexicans before they came to
this part of the country?” I asked.
“No; we folks don’t ask questions much, an’ Ramon, the Greaser, aint
one of the talkative kind. Anyhow, he don’t talk much to us. I reckon
though, that some o’ them tourists knows how to make him loosen up.
There was a feller here once that writ stories for magazines an’ such,
who told me that Ramon had spun him some pretty wild yarns, an’ I
believe he writ some of ’em down in a book.”
“Ah, then a story has been published about them.”
“Well, I don’t reckon it was published none,” replied mine host,
facetiously. “That writer feller tumbled off the foot-bridge into the
Tuolumne Canyon about a week after that, an’ I’m afraid he didn’t go to
press.
“But I’m runnin’ a hotel, such as it is, an’ hain’t got much time for
fairy tales, an’ still less time for Greasers, which the same I don’t
like nohow.”
Needless to say, my conversation with the landlord had only served to
increase my curiosity. As I bade him good-night I resolved to seek for
Chiquita and Ramon in the morning. I had scented a romance; which meant
with me that I must take the trail and run the story to earth.
* * * * *
I found the fortune teller and her companion in the cabin of a Mexican
sheep herder, among the hills a little way out of town. This is the
story that Ramon told me:
“Our story, _Señor_? It is not much, our story. What you have seen,
that is all it is to tell. It is the story of Chiquita, my Chiquita,
there, that you should hear. I, Ramon, know the story. Alas! too well
do I know it. Listen, _Señor_:
“Many, many years ago, in the days when _los Americanos_--the
_mineros_--were by hundreds here in Calaveras and in the valley of
Tuolumne, a great _hacienda_ there was, and a great mansion, near
Sonora, just by the road that now runs to Vallecito. When the _Señor_
rides to Sonora, at the right hand of the road will he yet see the
stones of the crumbling walls of the house. He cannot mistake, for all
along the road is there none other like it.
“Don Pedro Salvia, the name was, of the owner of the _hacienda_. Many
broad acres of the hills and valleys were his, and over those acres
by the thousands grazed his cattle. All the land it was black with his
droves of the long-horned breed of _la España_. Horses too, there were
in vast herds. Never were seen mustangs so many and so fine and swift
as those of Don Pedro. Many cattle and many mustangs mean always much
money, and Don Pedro was _muy rico_--of great riches.
“The old Don was proud, oh, so proud, but not his great wealth was
it that made him so. Of a famous and haughty race he was. None older
was there in all Castile. His blood was what the _Americano_ would
call--what is it that they call the blood of the grandee? Ah, I
remember--he was of the blue blood. None was there in all Spain so blue.
“In Sonora for many years had the Salvias been--so long that no
_Americano_ could remember when the family was not there. Before Don
Pedro came, many, many generations of the Salvias had lived and died on
the _rancheria_.
“Fate had laid its hand heavy on the blood of the Salvias, for the Don
was of his race the last man. He had one child only--a daughter. La
Doña Teresa, her poor mother, had died when she came--the little one.
“Chiquita was of Don Pedro’s life the sun. He worshipped her even as
worships the good Catholic the Madonna. Never was maiden so beautiful
or so graceful. Ah! like the deer was she graceful. And she was no
plant of the hot house. There was none among all the herders who could
throw the _riata_ as could Chiquita. Of all the _caballeros_ of Sonora
there was not one who in riding could match her. There was no mustang
so wild that she could not tame him. And shoot! Not in all California
was there a better shot with rifle or pistol than Chiquita.
“And, _Señor_, she was not afraid--as any _caballero_ she was brave. As
free and fearless as the young eagle she came and went among the rough
hill people. Once only, was any man so bold as to give to Chiquita the
insult. Ah! _Señor_, beautiful to see it must have been! Almost dead
they found Léon Bodigo, the half breed. All of his blood it had run
out. The maiden’s little _cuchillo_, it was sharp, _Señor_.
“No companions had Chiquita, save the birds and flowers, and the trees
and brooks of the mountains,--and Juan, her cousin. But she was happy
and had never the--what you call it, eh? Ah, I have it, care. She
had not the care. She had never sorrow, and never had tears wet her
beautiful eyes since she was small--so very small.
“Juan it was, who was of Chiquita the slave. He was not so old as
Chiquita. He was a lad only--fourteen years of the age he was--but
there was no _caballero_ more strong of heart than he. Happy also, was
Juan, for loved he not Chiquita? Yes, with all his soul he loved her. A
thing wonderful to see was the love of Juan for the beautiful Chiquita!
“When the _vaqueros_ made of the cattle the round up, with them rode
Chiquita, and beside her was Juan--always Juan. You should have seen
the riding, and of the herds the gathering, _Señor_. Nothing so grand
is there now anywhere to see.
“Many times when the throw was made for the branding, and the fierce
long-horn to the ground was brought, it was with the _riata_ of
Chiquita. And, Juan, too, made his throw for the iron. The count of
Chiquita and Juan in the throwing of the cattle the best _vaquero_
could not beat.
“But Paradise it is never to last. Dark days there came to the
_rancheria_ of the Salvias. It was over again the story of--Eden, yes?
In the beautiful garden the serpent?
“One day to the _rancheria_ came _un Inglés_, an English Milord. A
letter he bring from a friend of Don Pedro’s, asking that he be made
welcome. That Englishman he was sick, very sick, _Señor_. Like a man
who is starved he looked. _Dios!_ he was white. He was so thin that
when the wind blew he trembled like a leaf that on the tree is dead,
and poof! poof!--how he had the cough! He could not sit the mustang,
and the _vaqueros_ they smile at him when he ride. So weak he was that
on the ground he fall off--bang!
“But _el Medico_ he have said that the Englishman he must ride, ride,
ride--or with the lungs he will surely die. And so he try and try, for
he had the pluck, that Englishman. By and by, he grow strong--strong
like the bull. The air of the hills is like the old wine of Oporto and
makes the great miracles. _Carramba!_--the air it did not know.
“When that Englishman he was strong to ride steady, Juan was happy no
more. Wherever Chiquita was, there was Milord. He learned to throw the
_riata_ and with the _vaqueros_ to ride the herd. They ride not badly,
these cursed _Inglés_. This fellow he ride bob! bob! bob! up and down,
always up and down--but he ride straight like the soldier.
“How Juan hated that English Milord! Little fool, that Juan! He did
not know that it was Juan that was too many in the riding of pleasure.
Ah! he was the great fool--he thought it was the Englishman! For many
days he thought this foolish thought. So it was, until one day Chiquita
sent him away on a mission that was useless. When he came back, he saw
her riding far away from the _hacienda_, far away in the hills. The
Englishman he was beside her; so close to her he was that together
their knees were touching. And then Juan knew! And then, so quick, like
the lightning, grew he from boy to man--and such a man!
“It runs hot, the blood of my people, _Señor_, and in the veins of none
of his race had it ever run hotter than it ran that day in the veins of
Juan. And bitter it ran, and everything it was red to the eyes of Juan.
One thing only was there to do; the Englishman must die, and Juan he
must kill him!
“The next day again into the hills rode Chiquita. Milord, the cursed
Milord, was as always beside her. Juan saw them at the corral in the
starting, and taking his rifle he crawl, like _una serpiente_, on the
belly through a gulch between the hills that open on the road at the
turning. In the chapparal he crouched and waited, like the panther that
is hungry. Nothing could save Milord, for when did Juan ever miss the
mark?
“But Chiquita made with the Englishman a race, and so swift was her
mustang that far behind she left him. To the turn of the road she came
alone. Juan heard the beating of the hoofs and thought it was time. He
stood straight up behind the brush of the greasewood and manzanita,
with his rifle at his shoulder--so! Chiquita saw, and all at once she
knew.
“So sudden it all was, and she ride so quick, that Juan was close--oh,
so close--to killing Chiquita before he saw who was the rider.
“Straight at him the mustang she rode, and then she stopped and looked
into his eyes; oh, so sad she looked. For a long time she looked at
him. He saw that she knew, and it was not the eyes of Chiquita that
fell--it was Juan’s. And then she spoke:
“‘It is not for me, that my cousin he waits. In his eyes is there
murder, but it is not for his Chiquita that he sees red. Is my cousin
Juan a coward, that he lies in ambush? Does he love me no longer? Is
it that he would kill one whom I love? Go, and go quickly, that he may
not see you--that he may not know that my little Juan has put upon
Chiquita and the house of Salvia the great shame.’
“The Englishman he was not come to the bend of the road before Juan
was gone. And Juan came not back to the _hacienda_ for the many, many
days. No one knew where he had gone, but he was not far. He was near
in the mountains; like the cougar and the grizzly he was hiding. Far
from Chiquita he could not go. Many the times she have passed him as
he crouched in the _mésquite_, but she did not know. Always was her
Englishman to ride beside her. Three, four, ten times could Juan have
killed him, but would not! Was it not that Chiquita had said she have
come to love the Milord? And she have said, too, that it is coward to
shoot from the ambush. Juan loved Chiquita; her heart he would not make
to ache, and, _Señor_, he was not coward, that little Juan!
[Illustration: “IS MY COUSIN JUAN A COWARD, THAT HE LIES IN AMBUSH?”]
“Every day, for many, many days, Juan, from his hiding could see of the
rides, the starting--Chiquita and the Englishman--always the cursed
_Inglés_! Not always would they ride near Juan. One way sometimes,
then next day another way, but every day some way they ride--Chiquita
and her Englishman. And they ride so close, so very close--so close
together they ride that Juan sometimes forgets almost, and then he
looks at the rifle. So hungry he looks at it, and how the itching it is
in the fingers! Always is it loaded, the rifle, and it carries far and
true the bullet when Juan fires it. He is fine shot, that little Juan.
“One day Chiquita and the Englishman they not ride together. The Milord
is alone. Next day is he alone once more. He does not ride the way of
Juan. That is good, for Chiquita is not there, and to remember is hard
when she is not there, and the gun it is loaded.
“Two days, then, the Englishman he ride alone. The second day, in the
evening, Juan sees the _vaqueros_ and the women run, and run--they run
about like jack-rabbits. And then they gather together and talk, talk,
always they talk; like _el loro_, the parrot, they talk. There is no
work. For two days, Juan has not seen Don Pedro.
“The third day, in the morning, everything is like dead at the
_hacienda_. No one is stir, only sometimes the dogs they bark. By and
by comes the Englishman out of the house, springs quick on his mustang
and like the wind he is off. He rides close by Juan, so near that the
boy he could have plucked him off his horse. And the Englishman’s face
it was white--white just like a corpse. He ride like he is scared--like
_el diablo_--like the devil he ride!
“Juan, too, was scared. He was sure something go bad, very bad, at the
_hacienda_. And so he is go down to the place and look all around, but
he is see nobody--they are all gone, the _vaqueros_ and the women.
“And then Juan go into the house. There he find Don Pedro dying with
_la viruela_, the smallpox, _Señor_! with nobody to care for him but
Chiquita, and one old woman that was call for the joke, La Bonita, the
beautiful, because she have the pest long before and was, oh, so ugly!
Ah! the face of Don Pedro! It was horrible; it made Juan to grow sick!
“But Juan stay and help the women. At first the boy he was afraid, but
he loved Chiquita, and soon the pest he forgot.
“Well, _Señor_, soon and sure the end was. In five days Don Pedro he
was dead. And Juan and La Bonita they bury him, with nobody to help.
Chiquita her heart is break. She cry and cry and cry, but Juan he knew
it was not all for that her father was dead. She would not tell Juan,
but he knew. The coward _Inglés_ that have run away--for him also were
the tears.
“A few days more and Chiquita too, was take sick with the pest. This
time it was not the black smallpox--but it is bad, very bad. _Jesu!_
How the old woman and the boy they make the fight for Chiquita! And
Chiquita she is not die--she get well. Her face it is scar--so bad is
it scar that La Bonita herself is not less beautiful than the poor
Chiquita. And Juan he is afraid--for some day she will know, so he take
away from the house all the bright things and the mirrors and tell
La Bonita the young _Señorita_ must not know. And the old woman she
understand, ah! too well she understand. She remember the sorrow of the
day she herself first saw the scar of her face, and she is careful of
Chiquita.
“When Chiquita she could once more walk about and breathe the sweet
air of the pines, everywhere with her went Juan. Once again it was
Juan--always Juan.
“When Chiquita she grew strong again, as before the pest came, the poor
boy he might have been happy, but for one thing--tears, tears, always
tears in the eyes of Chiquita! And Juan he knew they were not all for
Don Pedro. Always in her mind that cursed Milord! Her heart it still
ache for the coward Englishman.
“Long walks Chiquita and Juan they take together. She could again ride,
but never did she ask for her mustang. She for riding cared no more.
Always, you see, she is think of the Englishman. And Juan, he know why
she wished not to ride, and his heart it was lead.
“But Juan was kind, so very kind to Chiquita. Always he loved her, and
the scar of the face made to him no difference. But every day does he
fear the time when she must know. That time, so much does he fear it,
that the brooks he would not let her cross; he was afraid that in them
her face she might see; yet still did he know sure that sometime she
must see it.
“By and by the people is come back to the _rancheria_, and Juan he is
do the best he can to take care of the place, and the cattle and the
horses. For a little while things they go along like before the pest it
have kill Don Pedro.
“One day Juan he go into the hills for the round up, and for two days
he come not back. Before he go he tell La Bonita to keep good watch of
the poor Chiquita, but all the same he is afraid. All the time of the
riding after the cattle he is afraid it goes not well with Chiquita.
“When Juan he is get back from the round up, the great trouble it have
come. Chiquita she is mad--she have gone crazy, _Señor_, and she does
not know anything--not anybody does she know!
“From La Bonita Juan hears the story. The Englishman he has come back
to see what is happen at the _hacienda_. Chiquita is so glad she almost
die with the gladness, but _el Inglés_, he is see her poor face with
all the scar, and he is look, ‘Ugh!’ He say nothing, but he look the
‘Ugh!’
“La Bonita she hear the Englishman tell Chiquita he must say
_adios_--for the last time he must say it. She cry, and cry, and cry,
like the heart it is to break, and she hold tight to the coat of
Milord. And then he push her away hard, so! and tell her about the scar
on her face, and she not understand--she not believe. So he take from
his pocket _el espejo_, the looking-glass, and hold it before Chiquita!
“La Bonita she hear the great scream and run quick to Chiquita. She
find her on the floor like one who is dead. The Englishman he is not
there--he is gone, but on the floor is the devil looking-glass. La
Bonita made the curse, and crush the glass into the thousand pieces,
so! If the Englishman he had not gone she sure would have kill him,
that old woman! She with the poniard could aim true, that Bonita, and
for the blood of Milord was she thirsty.
“When he have the work to do, _el Mexicano_ make not the hurry,
but when he must kill his enemy, _Señor_, then does he never say
_mañana_--the to-morrow. To-day is the time he must kill.
“Juan stayed not long at the _hacienda_. He leave Chiquita with the old
woman, and saddle his mustang and ride--swift as the bird flies, rode
Juan. The _vaqueros_ they tell him the Englishman he have ride through
Sonora, and so Juan he go that way.
“Does _el Señor_ know where is the ferry on the Stanislaus?”
“Yes,” I said, “I know the place well.”
“Then, the _Señor_ he will remember that the mountains are at the ferry
high, very high and steep like the wall. The Stanislaus in the spring
is so swift that in it a man could not live one second. The rocks, ah!
_Señor_, the rocks in the canyon of the Stanislaus they are plenty, and
they are sharp and cruel.
“It was not then as now. There was no ferry, and one must cross by a
foot-bridge. The freshet of the spring-time it had washed the bridge
away. Very high was then the Stanislaus! When the foot-bridge it was
go, one must wait, and wait, and wait--he must wait for the going down
of the water and for the _mineros_ a new bridge to build.
“In the cabin of a _minero_ away up on the mountain side the Englishman
was wait for the water to go down and the bridge to be built. Here it
was that Juan find him.
“He could fight, could that cursed _Inglés_, and he was so strong that
in his hands only a child was that little Juan! But the boy he have the
courage, and the right--and, _Señor_, he have the poniard. It is the
poniard that makes the strength as nothing.
“In the cabin of the _minero_ the fight began, and so weak was Juan in
the hands of _el Inglés_ that he was by him push through the door and
to the edge of the canyon. It is very deep, that canyon, and to the
bottom a very long way, and Juan he know what happen if he is not quick
and sure.
“The wrist of Juan it is not strong, and his enemy he hold it tight
in his hand, so! But, when the Englishman he take the boy around the
waist for throw him over the side of the canyon, his foot it make the
slip and he fall back! As he fall he let go the wrist of Juan!
“Ah! now for Milord is there no more chance! He must sure die! Quick,
like the rattlesnake, struck the boy! One! Two! Three!--five times he
bury the knife in the Englishman!
“And when the Englishman fall limp on the ground, Juan is cover thick
with the hot red blood. It have spurt, and spurt--all over him it have
spurt!
“The Englishman he is not yet so dead that he does not understand when
Juan say: ‘My Chiquita, she have send her love to the Milord who was so
kind as to show to her in the looking-glass her face.’
“And then Juan laugh in the man’s face as he die.
“When the Englishman he was no more, Juan roll and roll him to the edge
of the canyon. He was not strong for the lift, but he could make the
push and the roll of the body. When the body was at the edge, Juan make
one grand push and crash! over the Englishman go!
“Perhaps _el Señor_ he not _comprende_--he have not the hot blood of
_un Español_. But, maybe, he too have enemies, and knows the hate, and
the feelings of Juan can understand.
“Never was music so sweet to the ear of that little Juan, as the sound
of the dead Englishman making the fall. Every time the body it strike
the rocks, it bound off like the ball, and spatter much blood! Very
beautiful to the eyes of Juan was the red trail of the body on the
canyon side.
“When the body of Milord reach the bottom, he look no more like a
man--he is like he is blown to the mince-meat by the blast of powder.
He fall into the Stanislaus in many pieces, splash! splash! and when
Juan saw this, he was happy--_Dios!_ for the one minute he forget.
“Of the story of Chiquita there is not much more to tell, _Señor_. When
Juan was get back to the _hacienda_, she was still not know anybody.
_El Medico_ say she have of the brain a bad sickness. She live, but she
no more can see--she is blind!
“And never has Chiquita remembered--_Gracios à Dios!_
“Not long was it before the _rancheria_ of the Salvias is go to
ruin. They all go away, the _vaqueros_ and the women. La Bonita,
she stay like the faithful dog till she die. And then was Chiquita
alone--alone, till she have found Ramon.”
Here the story-teller gazed tenderly toward the door of the herder’s
cabin, where in the quiet shadows just within, sat a pathetic
white-haired figure.
“But what became of Juan?” I asked.
There was a peculiar light in the Mexican’s eyes as he replied:
“Long, long ago he die--that little Juan. It was well that he die, for
when Ramon came, then was there no more need of Juan. Then, too, my
poor Chiquita did not know, and why was it then that Juan should live?”
A DEAD IDEAL
A ROMANCE OF THE DISSECTING ROOM
I had been practising medicine for some years, and had grown tired
of the hard daily grind of the general practitioner. I longed for
a vacation, but medicine is a hard task mistress and with the busy
physician economy of time is so essential that his so-called “rest”
is usually merely a change of work. I felt that it must be so with
me, and resolved to hie me to some of the eastern centers of medical
teaching and take a post graduate course in several special subjects.
Polyclinics and post graduate schools being then unknown, I went to New
York and matriculated at one of that city’s famous schools, one which
had attained a high reputation for practical bedside instruction and
abundant clinical material.
It was with all the enthusiasm of a school boy, that I enrolled my
name upon the college roster and settled down to earnest work in the
hospital wards and dissecting rooms.