When Andres Pico and his men rode into San Juan with the doubtful
decoration of necklaces of human ears strung on rawhide strings, there
was a breath of relief from the natives: it meant that the bandits had
been "confessed," according to the General's naive explanation of the
absence of prisoners they knew he had taken; the backbone of the bandit
gang was broken.
The vigilantes were the heroes of the hour. As the band of outlaws
divided and fled in various directions, they were waited for at every
pass and hewn down by the dozen. Only two--Fontez, who had shot the
sheriff, and El Capitan, who had not been seen by any one at any time of
the raid--were still missing. One of the prisoners, on being
questioned, stated that Fontez had taken his share of the plunder and
started for Lower California; and when questioned as to El Capitan,
swore wrathfully, because El Capitan had disagreed with Flores over the
raid, refused to be counted in, and in consequence they would all go to
hell! If El Capitan had helped, things would have been different, very
different. He had voted against starting out with fifty men to drive the
gringos from Southern California; he had fought them before in the open,
and knew them. He had told Flores he was a fool, and left them in
Santiago Canyon, and ridden away, and after the slaughter of the sheriff
and his men he had ridden out of the mustard on a horse of the San
Joaquin brand, and told them to ride south and stop for nothing; and no
one had seen him since. They had not taken his advice--and now it was
all over! A little later, it certainly was over for that particular
unfortunate, and his ears were added to a string decorating a swarthy
ranchman, who was especially lionized because of his gruesome trophies.
In the plaza of San Juan Mission, Ana listened to the hero of the
necklace reciting all the glories of the campaign, and shuddered at the
ghastly witness of its veracity. Raquel, standing beside her horse,
listened also and felt a loathing of it all. Regular war, such as she
had heard of, had never appeared so awful as this series of slaughters
from ambush, where the victors of either side decked themselves like
savages.
"It is bad that we have no soldiers left who are hidalgos," she
remarked. "The wild Indians carry scalps at their belts; I did not know
people did so who had learned their religion from the padres."
She mounted and rode toward the sea, the only woman who dared venture
alone out of sight of the protecting walls of the Mission in those days.
The man with the necklace looked after her, and then up at the line of
grain-sacks still left as a barricade along the roofs of the corridor.
Behind them, men with rifles had lain through the days and nights when
the panic was at its worst, and women and children had huddled in dread
of massacre in the inner court.
"Does the senora forget all that," he asked, "or is there a caballero to
guard her where she rides?"
Ana turned on the hero, glad of an outlet for her pent-up anger.
"You--you butcher!" she said between her little white teeth. "You know
Rafael Arteaga is not here. What other man would ride with his wife?"
"Who knows?" he laughed, easily. "The lady is not afraid, that is clear;
and El Capitan is somewhere in the hills, or the willows."
She said nothing, realizing that he was watching her closely, for all
his apparent carelessness. When she continued silent, he laughed and
swept his sombrero to the ground and sauntered away. She knew then that
he had simply tried her, to see if by any chance she showed knowledge
of, or fear for, the outlaw she had never disowned as cousin.
Teresa, seated beside her, saw her changing color, and reached over,
patting her hand.
"Even when thou wert little the Capitan made a pet of thee," she said,
kindly; "and now every friend he ever had is being watched. If--if--in
any way you could warn him--"
"Warn him? How can we, when no one knows? I would walk barefoot across
San Juan Mountain if I knew where he was hidden. He may be dying, or
dead."
"That is so," decided Teresa, placidly; "and it would be better. They
will always hunt him if he is alive."
There was silence between them for a little while, and then she added,
"Well, there will be no mourning for him in the Arteaga family. Rafael
will be glad."
"Oh, he!" muttered Ana, with impatience. "He is hanging on the skirts of
Dona Maria these days, when he should be here with these other fine
gentlemen." She pointed to the plaza where the vigilantes and their
friends were gathered preparatory to starting on a new trail suggested
by an Indian who had seen a white man without a horse somewhere in the
hills.
"On the skirts of Dona Maria," repeated Teresa, her little eyes
twinkling with interest. "It is true, then--it is that English woman
still?"
"Still? How you talk! Is it so long since Los Angeles?"
"Oh, it was long, long before that! I was--Santa Maria!--I had a fright
for a while! I thought there would be no wedding. He was crazy as a boy
over her. It started, oh, with only a pin-point of a chance; for the
Americano Bryton was here, and her eyes were for him! And then--Basta!
All at once things changed, and Dona Angela and Don Rafael were never
apart; and if she had not been married, I think always Raquel Estevan
would have had no husband here in San Juan Capistrano."
"Raquel--does she know?"
"Raquel Estevan is too proud to show if she knows, just as she is now!
Never will she go along or follow him when he rides abroad, but if she
knew his time was with that heretic--she hates the heretics!"
"She is patient with him."
"Oh, sure; she is a good wife. But if she cared more, would she do as
she did when the girl Marta came to the Mission with her child? On my
soul, I think Rafael was afraid when she gave to Marta the bed and the
clothes, and counted out how many cattle she could have,--to say no word
as to how she stood herself as godmother at the baptism! The padre
laughs over that!"
"And Rafael--?"
"Rafael--God knows what he said to her! He tried to make her send some
one else as godmother, and she would not. Ysadora heard her say 'It is
for your soul's sake, and the souls of your children, Rafael,' and he
turned white and walked away."
"Poor Rafael," mocked Ana, "I do not think that he has much of a soul.
It is as when a man sees he is beloved for his bravery, and all the time
he is afraid of his own shadow, and hopes the one who loves him will not
discover his weakness: that is how Rafael feels when his wife does
penance, and prays for the soul he has not."
"How you talk! We have all a soul; the padre says so."
"Oh, the padre! The soul of our padre is also like a grain of mustard
seed--so small, and no soil to grow in! Never could I confess to him. I
wait until Padre Sanchez comes; no one but a Franciscan priest do I
believe in."
"Ai! and if you should get sick and die, and Padre Sanchez on some other
side of the world? He is always travelling; never will he settle and
gather 'dobe dollars like our padre. Suppose he should not come; you
would die without confession?"
"No; I would hang on to the edge of life by some thread of prayer until
he came."
"Padre Pedro of the north was here last month: that man makes me afraid.
He tries to be a saint, and is so often under vows. This time it was a
vow not to speak, and Padre Andros was glad when he took to the road. It
was like a black ghost to see him walk the plaza with a black hood over
his head, and never a word or look up from the ground. You would think
the saints he prayed to lived somewhere in the roads. We thanked God and
emptied some bottles with the padre when he was out of sight."
"But he is a good man."
"Oh, he is a saint; but we can't feel easy with saints in San Juan. That
is why your Raquel Estevan will always be outside."
"You mean above," retorted Ana. "The devil's face in the stone of the
Mission dome fits better this place of the necklace of ears."
Teresa shuddered.
"It is bad luck to say things of that face," she warned. "Some think
maybe it was an Indian god,--I heard an old Indio say so once. Never
will I go under the dome of that old vestry since that day."
"How would an Indian god be put in a Christian church?"
"No one knows," and Teresa crossed herself. "The old Indios say it is
bad luck to talk about it; so whatever the story is, it has been
forgotten, and that is better. When I was a little child the old Indios
told strange ghost and curse stories, and we were all much afraid; now
the old Indios are mostly dead, and no one else remembers, only all are
still afraid of the earthquake ruin at night."
"They are sheep; they are afraid of their shadows at night," retorted
Ana; "that is why Raquel will always be, as you say, 'outside'!"
"Well, she goes against the padre, and that is always bad. It is bad
luck to fight a padre; he can refuse absolution."
Ana made no reply. She was very weary of the endless, endless stories of
Raquel's unlikeness to the other women; and what they did not understand
they would like to condemn. She knew so well that in Mexico the Dona
Luisa and the Dona Raquel had met only the hidalgos when they went for a
brief visit to the world of people, but in San Juan there were no
hidalgos; only the mixed races without pride of birth or distinction,
apart from the lands and cattle around them on the ranges. Ana could
feel, better than any other, why the wife of Rafael rode alone to the
cliffs above the sea, seeking kinship there in the isolation.
In vain Ana had tried to solve the problem given her by the padre at the
San Joaquin ranch that strange evening: his quick change of attitude
toward the Americano,--even asking her friendliness and her welcome for
him if he crossed her path. The queer idea of the Americano's love
affairs was the most puzzling of all: it never occurred to her that he
meant Raquel--Raquel, who avoided all heretics! Still, it was strange
that she never thought of the Americano's love affair without
involuntarily trying to picture a woman who would look like Raquel. And
she did not dream those two had ever met.
As Pico and his men got into the saddles and started north she heard him
mention Bryton's name. The latter had evidently tired quickly of
vigilante work; at any rate he had disappeared as effectually as El
Capitan,--no one had seen him for over a week. And of course no one had
time to hunt him up.
At Trabuco Creek the vigilantes passed an Indian boy loping easily
along the valley road. When stopped and questioned, he stated he was
going to the Mission from San Joaquin ranch. The brand on the bronco
corroborated his story, and he was let pass with slight attention; yet
they would have found him quite worth while.
Ana had gone with Teresa to make a little visit to Don Juan Alvara, who
was still ill, and very impatient at being housed up when all the world
of San Juan was astir to see the cavalcade of avengers. He was asking
sharply why Rafael Arteaga was following his English partner's example,
and keeping out of the work of search or battle. It was to be expected
that Don Eduardo Downing, after being forced by El Capitan to pay over a
thousand dollars as tribute to the Flores bandits, would feel that he
was exempt from active service in pursuit of them; they had cost him
quite enough. And of course he had never anything but an alien's
interest in the country, the interest of dollars; but with Rafael
Arteaga it was different. What was he doing these days, when every man
who held stock and could fight rode abroad?
The women exchanged glances. Of what use to tell Alvara it was a woman?
He would only be more disgusted, and might say things to Dona Raquel,
and that would never do.
Teresa's curiosity as to results led her very close to it, for her new
sister-in-law was a thorn in the side of the bovine ponderous
Californian, by whom the "brown girls" had been accepted as a part of
domestic life. Ever since she had listened that day to the story of
vengeance in Old Mexico, she had resented everything about it, even the
child of that strange marriage, the child who had inherited--who knew
how much?--of the blood and instincts of that saintly, half-Indian nun.
Yes, Teresa would have dearly loved to watch Raquel Estevan when the
story was told; also the story of Rafael's latest infatuation; yet, all
the Arteaga boys had died violent deaths, and she had no wish to see the
last one of them murdered. She was certain that if it did happen, the
ghost of Dona Luisa would be at the foot of her bed every night, and she
would have to pay a lot for masses. They cost thirty-five dollars since
the padre was building new fences around his orchards. So she contented
herself with wishing as much as she dared without being held liable by
the ghost of Dona Luisa in case of accidents. And then Ana was always
there with her eyes, and if any one did tell Alvara, Ana would ferret it
out, and she had such a tongue!
While they reassured the old man, and told him the troublous days of
San Juan were nearly over, the Indian boy from the San Joaquin ranch
stopped at the gate.
"There is a letter for Dona Ana Mendez," he said. "It came last night.
Dona Refugia sent it."
"Dona Refugia?" Ana knew that her aunt could not write, and that the
accomplishments of her daughters in that line extended to the ability to
inscribe their own names. She glanced at the message, and her lips grew
suddenly white as she noted the writing.
It was in pencil, written very plainly. The envelope was folded from a
page of letter-paper and sealed with gum of some sort. When she opened
it, she found the written page was a communication to Mr. Bryton
concerning saddle-horses. But a pencil was drawn through the lines, and
around the Bryton letter was written the real message, and it was very
brief:
_"A man is hurt here. Can you in quiet help him to San Juan?"_
An arrow and a cross were the only signature.
Teresa watched Ana questioningly. Letters to women were rare in San
Juan, where few women could read; it must be of a death, or something of
great importance.
But Ana told nothing, only ordered the boy to go to Ysadora for some
lunch before he started back, and to tell Dona Refugia that all was
well at San Juan. Though Dona Teresa listened closely, that was all she
could hear that was said, and then she knew, of course, that Ana did not
intend to remain a widow. She had a lover who wrote letters, an
Americano perhaps; the Mexicans did not trouble themselves with such
useless learning, now that the old padres were gone.
Ana sat quietly on the veranda for a little while, speaking of matters
in general, and then arose languidly and confessed she wished she had
gone with Raquel. A ride to the beach was better than to stay shut up in
the town. Now that the vigilantes had gone, women would dare ride abroad
without growing gray with fear.
"Ai! it is not far you would ride, Ana Mendez. You are like other women
when it comes to riding alone these days."
"Raquel rides alone."
"Her mother was not of this country, or she would not be so bold,"
returned Teresa, tartly. "Men have little liking for women as strong as
themselves."
"Alas for me!" laughed Ana, "for I tell you now I am going to copy after
her. She makes the other women look like sheep. If she would go with me,
I would ride to the San Joaquin ranch this night and have no fear."
Teresa shrugged her shoulders.
"You grow like a child, Ana, as you get more years. Your letter makes
you young again--so?"
But Ana was out of the gate, and crossing the plaza with a light springy
step, as if indeed the days of girlhood had come back. In her eyes was a
smile, but back of the smile was a light of new determination. All at
once she seemed to have found herself: he was in danger, and had called
her.
At the Mission she found the Indian boy with a dish of frijolles.
"How did the letter come?" she asked, but he did not know. It was found
under the door, and it had frightened Dona Refugia, and she wanted it
out of the house when the men were away. She thought it, maybe, was a
demand for money, such as the outlaws had sent Senor Eduardo Downing,
and she asked Ana for the love of God to send word back quick what it
meant.
"It is only from the padre who borrowed the horse, and he thanks her,"
said Ana, coolly. "Ride straight home, and talk to no one, or you will
get a reata instead of frijolles."
The Indian boy nodded silently. He knew the Dona Ana always kept her
promises of that sort.
A little later, Teresa looked out at the sound of horse-hoofs
thundering by, and saw Ana on the road to the sea.
She let her horse have his head until she came to the Rancho de la
Playa, when she halted to scan the meadow and sand of the shore, and
then bent her attention to the ground, and paced slowly along until she
found the tracks of Raquel's horse turning to the right. There was only
one road to be followed to the right; she had gone through the little
canyon of the cactus and up to the heights above. More than once Dona Ana
halted to examine the ground, to be sure that no later tracks had been
made on a return trip. Then, away across the mesa she saw Raquel's horse
browsing among the sage-brush on the cliff above the sea. Raquel was
nowhere in sight; but, knowing she was near, Ana rode quietly along the
bluff, until right at the edge of the cliff she saw her stretched at
full length in the odorous grasses, her chin propped on her hands,
staring down the steeps where yellow poppies nodded to the surf below. A
cluster of the blossoms was beside her, and her skirt was torn. She had
evidently been down there after them, and was resting after her climb.
"What is it, Anita?" she asked after a brief upward glance. "Is there a
spirit of unrest with you also? Some say there is sleep and
forgetfulness in these little cups of gold. I have gathered some and
lain here a long time, but it is not true, Anita. There is no
forgetting."
Ana slipped from the saddle and came closer. Never before had so much of
confession been heard from Raquel Arteaga.
"What, then, do you try to forget, my darling?" she asked, caressingly.
"Your love and happiness?"
"Love is not happiness," said Raquel, and laid her cheek against the
sheaf of poppies. "Why do people say so? Do they wish to lie, or do they
not know? The heart does not laugh with love; it aches. The light and
the glory of it comes, and after that comes the earthquake; and the life
is shaken out of us, and all we can do is to make ourselves a
sacrifice."
"Holy saints! I never knew love was all that!" acknowledged Ana. "It
means also to dance, to listen to your lover's songs in the night under
your window, and to go to sleep satisfied that he is not with some other
girl. It means stolen looks like kisses. I never am sure but that they
are sweeter than the kisses themselves, though they do not make one
mad."
[Illustration: "THERE IS NO FORGETTING"]
Raquel looked at her, and smiled strangely, and rose to her feet.
"Ai! you are right, Anita; it is without doubt more wise to love like
that. All the girls in the willows think so." As she saw Ana's face
flush, she turned in quick contrition. "Ah, forgive me! You do not love
as they do, I am sure--those fat brown animals; but, Anita darling, I am
a tired soul, and rest is somewhere far beyond the ranges, and--ah,
well,--forgive me!"
Ana smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
"Why should I not?" she asked; "for, after all, you are right. All human
things are much alike when they love--the brown girls in the willows
also. They nurse their babies and thank the Virgin they are not
childless, as I am."
"And you--?"
"I am thankful to be as I am. When I have children, I want to love the
father of them. My people did not ask if I loved my husband. They made
the marriage, and God made me a widow. I thank God always that when I
marry again I can do my own choosing."
"Oh, when you marry again! Good! When is it to be?"
Ana laughed and then grew grave.
"You may help me to decide," she said, a trifle nervously. "I am going
to elope to-night. Will you ride along?"
"Anita!"
"It is up there," and Ana waved her hand toward the blue mountains above
Trabuco. "It is a long ride, but the moon shines, and--I am trusting
you!"
"And the man?"
"Your husband hates him, and will find fault if you go."
"And he does not come to you?"
"He is--I think he is hurt," said Ana. "And I am going, though I go
alone."
"You shall not go alone," and Raquel whistled to her horse. "Come! I
needed something of this sort to rouse me from poppy dreams. I ride with
you, my Anita; and the man, whoever he is, has my blessing."
They galloped together through the sweet-smelling grasses, and a load
was lifted from Ana's heart. With Raquel beside her, she could ride
care-free from danger to the man who had called her.
"I have not been told to take any one along," she confessed, "so I
cannot mention names; but there is a man hurt, and we must manage to get
extra horses away from the Mission, and things to eat, perhaps, for we
go where no people live; and--I--that is all I dare tell you."
"It is enough, my Anita. We will ride together like nobles of old Spain
seeking adventures, only we will storm no castles, and wear no colors to
denote our caballeros!"
She was elated as a child over the secret journey they were to take over
unknown roads. The poppy dreams were left at the edge of the cliff, and
she rode lightly across the divide, where at other times she ever halted
for the picture of ocean and valley stretching from San Mateo at the sea
to San Jacinto of the ranges.
"I knew it was love in thy heart for some one, Anita," she said,
smiling. "Religion alone does not make a woman comprehend heartaches for
other women. You are the only one of all of them who asks no questions,
yet you put your arms around me that crazy night when I rode from Los
Angeles, and all at once I felt that I need not hold with tired hands a
mask to my face for you."
"Holy Mary! I know, and why not? My family married me to the wrong man,"
said Ana, easily. "But I was lucky in one thing, and I know enough now
to thank the saints for it,--I had not learned what love meant, so the
other man had not come."
"And if he had?"
They had checked their speed to descend the steep ravine cut in the
heart of the mesa, and giving outlet to the blue sea. Raquel was
intent, apparently, on finding the best footing for her horse, and did
not look up at once, but when no reply came she tried to laugh, and
repeated the question.
"I did not answer," said Ana, after a moment, "because, Raquelita, when
you made me think of it, truly it seemed as if my heart stopped beating
that minute. Poor Jose, my husband! It would have gone hard with him,
and my relatives would have cursed me."
"And why?"
"I think I should have risked the purgatory they would have sent me to,
but I would ride as we are riding now, straight to the man--the one
man."
"And suppose--suppose, Anita, you were bound by a vow to the dead--could
you ride away from that? Suppose that so long as you lived you were set
to guard one living soul--that each day when you awoke, your prayers
were to keep worthy for the task; suppose--"
"No, no! I will not suppose. A woman can endure just so much, no more. I
know you are doing all this, my Raquel, and I see that it is forever one
big fight and sacrifice, and all your life it will be the same. But,
Raquel, when you awake and pray each morning, thank the Virgin at the
same time that the other man has not yet ridden into your heart. I know
you do not think of men--that it is to live ever in cloisters! But pray
God that the man may never come, Raquel--for a girl is only a girl,
after all!"
"Of course, but--"
"Oh, you would argue, because you do not know!" burst out Ana, with
impatience. "Raquel, you are so good you are always beautiful; but I
tell you truly, that if it should happen--all the saints could not help
you. Between your vow for the soul of Rafael and your love for the one
man--"
"Well, my Anita?"
"Well, you could not live through it and remain what you are. Any woman
would go mad--any woman."
Raquel touched her horse and galloped up the steep hill ahead of Ana.
Down the longer one to Boca de la Playa she rode in the same reckless
way, and it was not until they had reached El Camino Real that she
pulled her horse in, and allowed Ana to come alongside.
"Jesusita! how you ride away from me!" gasped her friend. "Wait until I
braid up my hair. Look at it--all the new pins lost, the pretty ones you
brought me from Los Angeles. We will send a boy back to hunt them."
Raquel sat silent on her panting horse, looking out on the wide sea and
saying nothing. Ana glanced at her white face while braiding her hair,
and thought it looked cold and determined, almost angry; and as they
started on once more, she reached across and touched her hand.
"Do not make your eyes like cold agates of violet," she entreated.
"Truly, I meant not to anger you, and I know you are good always, and
think only of your vows. But even the saints have known temptation, my
Raquel, and some who might have been saints have lost souls for a man or
a woman."
"Oh, my own soul!" and Raquel shrugged her shoulders with a dreary
smile. "It is the soul of Rafael I am set to guard. Only that must I
think of every day of my life. My own! Only Mother Mary knows what my
own may become."
"His mother knew the power of the heretics; it was not fair, Raquelita."
"It is judgment," said Raquel, steadily. "I asked God to give me some
work for the Church in the world, instead of within the convent walls.
It was brought to me; I accepted it on my knees. What any of us think
now does not change that in the least. I must live till I die with that
thought."
"So I know," conceded Ana, "and so I thank God the other man does not
come. You would know then how to feel sympathy for the women who fail,
or the women who do mad things such as I mean to do to-night."
"Do I not understand? Do I not go with you? Yes, ahead of you, for my
horse beats yours," replied Raquel; and from that to the Mission plaza
there was only the sound of hoof-beats on the hard road, and no more
words of love or lovers.
A man had come from San Diego with a message from Rafael Arteaga. He
would be at San Juan in a few days, and was bringing guests for a
barbecue. Strange word had come from the vigilantes of the disappearance
of Bryton, the Americano. It had been learned that he had not returned
to Los Angeles, neither had he gone south. To free Mrs. Bryton from
anxiety, Rafael and Don Eduardo meant to find him and make a holiday
while doing it.
Raquel Arteaga listened, and Ana noticed all at once how white and tired
she looked from the little gallop.
"Get down from the saddle, my dear," she said, appealingly. "Lift her,
you, Victorio. Mother Mary! Do not faint, Raquel!"
Raquel did not faint. She thanked the muscular Victorio, who lifted her
from the saddle as though she had been but a little child, and placed
her on one of the long seats of brick, while Ana ran for water, and old
Polonia crouched beside her and looked up in her face, but did not
speak. She had heard the name of the hated Americano, and she had no
need to ask questions. It was the witchcraft come over her again; even
the sound of his name could bring it!
"No, I am not ill, Ana. I really am not," she persisted. "You say I turn
white. Well, it may be I had no dinner--I think I forgot it, or those
heroes the vigilantes took my appetite. See! I can stand; I am quite
well. I am ready for the San Joaquin ride when the sun goes down."
"But, if harm should come?"
"Never fear. To go will not harm me. I am very strong--stronger than you
think. Ai! I shall live long--a long, long time, Anita!"
She arose and passed through the door of the carved Aztec sun and little
half-crescents, and Ana looked after her doubtfully.
"It is the Americana?" said Victorio, with a shrug and lifted brows.
"Rafael Arteaga is mad after that baby woman--just mad. I think it makes
Dona Maria afraid. It would not be well to have the wrong things happen
in her house; so they jump at the chance to ride north together, for any
reason at all, and bring Don Rafael to his own wife. That is all the
reason they come: Dona Maria is afraid."
"But to bring them here! The Dona Raquel is not fond of heretics."
"I think myself it is the woman and not the religion she will think of
when they come," said Victorio; "and she must have heard
something,--what else made her look like that?"
"Who knows? A woman may be tired, may she not? You talk a great deal for
a man of your years!"
"Oh, it is only to you, Senora. It is as well some one knows who is a
friend,--that pretty white baby of a woman has the 'money eye.' Some one
should warn Dona Raquel, for who knows where it will end? You know the
Arteaga men."
Ana nodded her head.
"We all know them; but, thanks to God, the right woman has come into the
family. I do not know what she will do--Estevan's daughter; but Rafael
will learn what a curb-bit means if he go too far. Women who do not care
whether they live or die are more reckless than the wildest man,
Victorio; and Rafael will do well to say good-bye to heretic pets."
Victorio shrugged his shoulders, and did not quite believe. Of course a
woman could do a lot with a man if he was not so foolish as to marry
her, but after that what could she do but keep the home and obey? Some
of them found other amusements when their husbands rode abroad, but what
more could they do than that, even the most powerful?
Of course if Dona Raquel were not his wife, Rafael might be faithful:
Victorio acknowledged he knew how that was himself. There was a woman
who kept his house, and now after four years of content, the padre was
at him for a marriage fee, and was putting the devil in the woman's
head, and there was discord. All had been content for all those years,
but when the marriage was even talked of, there was trouble; and
Victorio had no use for it except, of course, if the woman was dying, or
if he was--then the padre could get the marriage made. The money was
saved up in case of such need for absolution, but otherwise--
Ana interrupted him angrily, though she knew he voiced the masculine
opinion of the valley. She had heard the padre complain that the women
had also refused marriage for the same reason; so there was little could
be done, and she knew that if Rafael Arteaga should fail openly within
the year of his marriage, there would be laughs and shrugs, and the
marriage fees would be fewer than ever. The example of their superiors
was all that was needed to break all the little invisible bonds told of
in the prayer-books, but remembered so little in the everyday life.
"Oh, you need not rail at me, Dona Ana," protested Victorio; "I am only
one--and I feed my children! You do not believe so much in Rafael
Arteaga yourself; and, after all, it may come right. It depends most on
the woman."
"Dona Raquel Arteaga?"
"Never! She is only a wife; it is the other who is still _the_ woman."
Ana flung an angry look at the pessimistic, philosophic vaquero, and
followed Raquel, slamming the door after her to emphasize her impatience
with his all-too-true statements.
She checked her tempestuous entrance at sight of the wife they were
discussing, kneeling at the little altar in the corner of her own room.
The tall candles were lit, and before the shrine of the Virgin Raquel
was prostrate.
Ana crossed herself and went out softly, half afraid that the argument
in the corridor had been heard through the thick adobe walls. This new
sign of Raquel's disfavor at every mention of the Americanos gave Ana
several unpleasant moments. The letter now in her pocket had belonged to
the Americano whom they were coming to search for: dare she mention it
to the girl kneeling there at the shrine? Or did not the news brought by
Victorio Lopez make more imperative the need for secrecy? In riding the
hills for Bryton, what others hidden there might be discovered for
death?
Ana sent an Indian with a pack-mule of provisions to the sheep-herders'
cabin in Trabuco canyon, with instructions to wait there until the men
came for it, and in every way made smooth the details for the journey of
the night.
Don Antonio, the major-domo for the Arteagas, had ridden north with the
vigilantes, so there was no one to oppose or question the order of Ana,
given in the name of Dona Raquel.
Teresa shrugged her shoulders and said some things when the two mounted
and rode gaily northward. She hoped Dona Refugia would say some things
to them for the good of their souls when they reached the ranch. Ana had
always been a little rebel; it was well they married her when they did!
No one gave much heed to Ana's vagaries or strange whims, but with
Raquel it was different. The opinions of Dona Luisa concerning the
convent novice secured as a daughter were well known in the San Juan
valley: she was a saint, no less. But Teresa watched the slender girlish
form riding away on the black horse, and hated the grace and daring of
her as only gross creatures can hate refined ones, and had her own ideas
of two women who were young, riding like that toward darkness,--the
darkness where even men scarcely dared ride alone these days. One might
be saintly in soul, yet do indiscreet things in this mundane world. And
Teresa wished them a lesson, from the centre of her fat heart.
[Music: _Mi Memoria._]
Mi memoria en ti se ocupa
No te olvida un solo instante,
Y mi mente delirante En ti piensa,
en ti piensa sin cesar.
[Music]