The following Saturday evening Ramon was again riding across the _mesa_,
clad in his dirty hunting clothes, with his shotgun hung in the cinches of
his saddle. At the start he had been undecided where he was going.
Tormented by desire and bitter over the poverty which stood between him
and fulfilment, he had flung the saddle on his mare and ridden away,
feeling none of the old interest in the mountains, but impelled by a great
need to escape the town with all its cruel spurs and resistances.
Already the rhythm of his pony’s lope and the steady beat of the breeze in
his face had calmed and refreshed him. The bitter, exhausting thoughts
that had been plucking at his mind gave way to the idle procession of
sensations, as they tend always to do when a man escapes the artificial
existence of towns into the natural, animal one of the outdoors. He began
to respond to the deep appeal which the road, the sense of going
somewhere, always had for him. For he came of a race of wanderers. His
forbears had been restless men to cross an ocean and most of a continent
in search of homes. He was bred to a life of wandering and adventure. Long
pent-up days in town always made him restless, and the feel of a horse
under him and of distance to be overcome never failed to give him a sense
of well-being.
Crossing a little _arroyo_, he saw a covey of the blue desert quail with
their white crests erect, darting among the rocks and cactus on the
hillside. It was still the close season, but he never thought of that. In
an instant he was all hunter, like a good dog in sight of game. He slipped
from his horse, letting the reins fall to the ground, and went running up
the rocky slope, cleverly using every bit of cover until he came within
range. At the first shot he killed three of the birds, and got another as
they rose and whirred over the hill top. He gathered them up quickly,
stepping on the head of a wounded one, and stuffed them into his pockets.
He was grinning, now, and happy. The bit of excitement had washed from his
mind for the time being the last vestige of worry. He lit a cigarette and
lay on his back to smoke it, stretching out his legs luxuriously, watching
the serene gyrations of a buzzard. When he had extracted the last possible
puff from the tobacco, he went back to his horse and rode on toward
Archulera’s ranch, feeling a keen interest in the coarse but substantial
supper which he knew the old man would give him.
His visit this time proceeded just as had all of the others, and he had
never enjoyed one more thoroughly. Again the old man killed a fatted kid
in his honour, and again they had a great feast of fresh brains and tripe
and biscuits and coffee, with the birds, fried in deep lard, as an added
luxury. Catalina served them in silence as usual, but stole now and then a
quick reproachful look at Ramon. Afterward, when the girl had gone, there
were many cigarettes and much talk, as before, Archulera telling over
again the brave wild record of his youth. And, as always, he told, just as
though he had never told it before, the story of how Diego Delcasar had
cheated him out of his interest in a silver mine in the Guadelupe
Mountains. As with each former telling he became this time more
unrestrained in his denunciation of the man who had betrayed him.
“You are not like him,” he assured Ramon with passionate earnestness. “You
are generous, honourable! When your uncle is dead—when he is dead, I
say—you will pay me the five thousand dollars which your family owes to
mine. Am I right, _amigo?_”
Ramon, who was listening with only half an ear, was about to make some
off-hand reply, as he had always done before. But suddenly a strange,
stirring idea flashed through his brain. Could it be? Could that be what
Archulera meant? He glanced at the man. Archulera was watching him with
bright black eyes—cunning, feral—the eyes of a primitive fighting man,
eyes that had never flinched at dealing death.
Ramon knew suddenly that his idea was right. Blood pounded in his temples
and a red mist of excitement swam before his eyes.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Yes! When my uncle is dead I
will pay you the five thousand dollars which the estate owes you!”
The old man studied him, showing no trace of excitement save for the
brightness of his eyes.
“You swear this?” he demanded.
Ramon stood tall, his head lifted, his eyes bright.
“Yes; I swear it,” he replied, more quietly now. “I swear it on my honour
as a Delcasar!”