George Mechlin's wound was not mortal, but it made it necessary to
convey him to town to have medical attendance near at hand, and no doubt
it would be of a long and painful convalescence, with the danger, almost
a certainty, of leaving him lame for life. This danger was to him far
more terrible than death, but he concealed in the deepest recesses of
his heart the horror he felt at being a cripple, for he knew the keen
anguish that Elvira suffered at the thought of such a probability. Her
lovely black eyes would fill with tears, and her lips would tremble and
turn white, when he or any one else spoke of the possibility of his
being lame. So he had to be consoler, and soothe her grief, and be the
one to speak of hope and courage.
There was no possibility of his being able to return to his duties at
their bank in New York at present, and he, to cheer Elvira's desponding
heart, would say that he could attend to a bank in San Diego.
"Don't be despondent, my pet," he said one day, when she looked very
sad; "things will not be so bad, after all, for in the spring I will be
well enough to attend to bank business here, even if I cannot stand the
trip to New York. With the money that Clarence sent, and with what I
will put in myself, we can start quite a solid bank. Gabriel will have
learned a good deal by that time, and though I will not walk much, I can
be a very majestic President, and give my directions from my arm-chair.
All we want is the success of the Texas Pacific--and my uncle writes
that Tom Scott is very confident, and working hard."
"But will he succeed?" Elvira asked.
"He has powerful enemies, but his cause is good. The construction of the
Texas Pacific ought to be advocated by every honest man in the United
States, for it is the thing that will help the exhausted South to get
back its strength and vitality."
"Will it really help the South so much?"
"Certainly. Don't we see here in our little town of San Diego how
everything is depending on the success of this road? Look at all the
business of the town, all the farming of this county, all the industries
of Southern California--everything is at a stand-still, waiting for
Congress to aid the Texas Pacific. Well, the poor South is in pretty
much the same fix that we are. I am sure that there are many homes in
the Southern States whose peace and happiness depend upon the
construction of the Texas Pacific. Look at our two families. All the
future prosperity of the Alamares and Mechlins is entirely based upon
the success of this road. If it is built, we will be well off, we will
have comfortable homes and a sure income to live upon. But if the Texas
Pacific fails, then we will be financially wrecked. That is, my father
will, and Don Mariano will be sadly crippled, for he has invested
heavily in town property. For my part, I'll lose a great deal, but I
have my bank stock in New York to fall back upon. So my poor father and
yours will be the worst sufferers. Many other poor fellows will suffer
like them--for almost the entire San Diego is in the same boat with us.
It all depends on Congress."
"But why should Congress refuse to aid the Texas Pacific, knowing how
necessary the road is to the South? It would be wicked, George,
downright injustice, to refuse aid."
"And so it would, but if rumors are true, the bribes of the Central
Pacific monopolists have more power with some Congressmen than the sense
of justice or the rights of communities. The preamble and resolution
which Luttrell introduced last session were a 'flash in the pan,' that
was soon forgotten, as it seems. In that document it was clearly shown
that the managers of the Central Pacific Railroad Company were guilty of
undeniable and open frauds. Enough was said by Luttrell to prove those
proud railroad magnates most culpable, and yet with their record still
extant, their power in Congress seems greater every year. Still, uncle
writes that Tom Scott is to make a big fight this winter, and that his
chances are good. I am bound to hope that he'll win."
"But why has he to _fight_? What right have those men of the Central
Pacific to oppose his getting Congressional aid? Does the money of the
American people belong to those men, that they should have so much to
say about how it should be used? Is it not very audacious, outrageous,
to come forward and oppose aid being given, only _because they don't
want to have competition_? Isn't that their reason?"
"That's all. They have not an earthly _right_ to oppose the Texas
Pacific, and all their motive is that they _don't want competition_ to
their Central Pacific Railroad. They have already made millions out of
this road, but they want no one else to make a single dollar. They want
to grab every cent that might be made out of the traffic between the
Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and they don't care how many people are
ruined or how many homes are made desolate in the South or in
California."
"Oh, George, but this is awful! If those men are so very rapacious and
cruel, what hope have we? They will certainly sacrifice San Diego if
their influence in Congress is so great! Poor San Diego! my poor,
little, native town, to be sacrificed to the heartless greed of four or
five men."
"And what claim have these men upon the American people? Think of that!
Have they or their fathers ever rendered any services to the nation?
None whatever. All they rely upon is their boldness in openly asking
that others be sacrificed, and backing their modest request with money
earned out of the road they built with Government funds and Government
credit. But they have tasted the sweets of ill-gotten gain, and now
their rapacity keeps increasing, and in a few years--if they kill the
Texas Pacific--they will want to absorb every possible dollar that might
be made on this coast. The only thing that will put a check upon their
voracity is the Texas Pacific. If this is killed, then heaven knows what
a Herculean work the people of this coast will have to destroy this
hydra-headed monster, or in some way put a bit in each of its many
voracious mouths."
"I am awfully discouraged, George. I am so sorry that papa put all his
money into town property."
"Let us yet hope Tom Scott might succeed."
And thus this young couple went on discussing San Diego's chances of
life or death, and their own hopes in the future. They were not the only
couple who in those days pondered over the problem of the "_to be or not
to be_" of the Texas Pacific. It is not an exaggeration to say that for
nearly ten long years the people of San Diego lived in the hope of that
much-needed and well-deserved Congressional aid to the Texas Pacific,
which _never came_! That aid which was to bring peace and comfort to so
many homes, which at last were made forever desolate!
Yes, aid was refused. The monopoly triumphed, bringing poverty and
distress where peace might have been!
Yet in those days--the winter of '74-'75--everybody's hopes were bright.
No clouds in San Diego's horizon meant misfortune. Not yet!
And of all of San Diego's sanguine inhabitants, none surpassed in
hopefulness the three friends who had invested so heavily in real
estate, viz.: Mr. Mechlin, Senor Alamar and Mr. Holman. They exhorted
all to keep up courage, and trust in Tom Scott.
----
Many of the cattle sent to Clarence's mines had returned to the rancho
from the mountains, and now it was necessary to collect them again and
send them back.
Don Mariano himself, accompanied by Victoriano and two of his brothers,
would start for the Colorado River, intending to see that the cattle got
to the mines safely.
The evening before leaving Victoriano enjoyed the great happiness of
seeing Alice by herself and talking to her of his love. For three long
months her illness had kept her a close prisoner in her bedroom, and she
had not seen Tano.
Now they enjoyed a two hours' _tete-a-tete_, which was very sweet to
them, and which pleasure they had not had since Clarence left.
Mercedes' convalescence was very slow. Her despondency at Clarence's
absence retarded her recovery. The wounding of George had also impressed
her painfully, for she was devotedly attached to him; and now she was
worrying about her father having to go away.
Don Mariano told her that as soon as the cattle were on the other side
of the mountains he would not feel any apprehension of their running
away; that once in the desert they would go straight to the river, but
that while in the mountains there was danger of their "_stampeding_" and
being lost. She heard all this, but still she dreaded her papa's going
out of her sight. She could not forget that had he been at home when
Clarence came that last evening all might have been right. She had no
faith in human calculations any more. She was sick, and wanted her papa
near her.
"I think the best thing you can do is to send Mercita to town, to remain
with us while you are away," George had said to Don Mariano, hearing how
badly she felt at his going.
"Yes, you are right. The surroundings at the rancho bring to her painful
thoughts which will be gloomier when Tano and myself are away. She will
have the two babies, of whom she is so fond, to amuse her here," said
Don Mariano.
"Besides all of us, the Holman girls will be good company for her,"
added George.
Mercedes, therefore, was told by her papa that she was to remain with
Elvira and Lizzie in town during his absence.
"Papa, darling, I shall not cease to be anxious about you and Tano until
I see your dear faces again. I am a thoroughly superstitious girl now.
But still, I do agree with you and poor, dear George, that the babies
will be a sweet source of consolation to me. Yes, take me to them. I'll
play chess or cards with George, and we'll amuse each other. He will
read to me; he is a splendid reader; I love to hear him."
Mercedes, therefore, was conveyed to town by her loving father, who went
away with a much lighter heart, thinking that she would be less
desponding.
The _mayordomo_, with about twenty _vaqueros_, were nearly at the foot
of the mountains with twenty-five hundred head of cattle, when Don
Mariano and Victoriano overtook them, and as the cattle had been resting
there for two days, their journey to the Colorado River would be resumed
at daybreak.
The weather had been intensely cold for the last two days, so that the
benumbed animals could scarcely walk in the early morning, but now the
air felt warmer.
"I fear it is going to rain. We must try to reach the desert and leave
the storm behind us," said Don Mariano to his _mayordomo_.
A good day's journey was made that day, and night overtook them as they
descended into a small valley, which seemed to invite them to rest
within its pretty circumference of well-wooded mountain slopes, from
which merry little brooks ran singing and went to hide their music among
the tall grasses that grew in rank solitude.
The bellowing of cattle and shouts of the _vaqueros_ soon awoke the
mountain echoes, and the silent little valley was noisy and crowded with
busy life. Camp-fires were quickly lighted, from which arose blue
columns of smoke, making the lonely spot seem well populated.
"With a good supper and good night's rest, we will make a long march
to-morrow," said the _mayordomo_ to Don Mariano. "There is plenty of
feed here for our cattle."
"But the weather looks so threatening. I wish we were out of this," said
Don Mariano.
"And I, too. We are going to get a wetting," added Tano.
About midnight Don Mariano awoke, startled; he had heard nothing, and
yet he awoke with a sense of having been summoned to arise. He sat up
and looked around, but saw nothing. The darkness of the sky had changed
from inky black to a leaden hue, and the clouds hung down among the tall
trees like curtains of ashy gray, draping them entirely out of view. The
fires were out, and yet he did not feel cold. He thought it strange that
all the fires should have burned out, when they had put on such heavy
logs before going to sleep. He struck a light to look at his watch, for
he had no idea what the hour might be. By the light he saw that his
blankets seemed covered with flour. He brushed off the white dust, and
found that snowflakes had invaded even their retreat under the shelter
of oak trees.
"There must have been some wind to blow this snow under the thick
foliage of these oaks," said he, hurriedly putting his coat and shoes
on, these being the only articles of his dress he had removed, "and I
did not hear it. How stealthily this enemy came upon us. I fear it will
be a winding-sheet for my poor cattle." He now proceeded to awake
everybody, and a hard task it was, for the treacherous drowsiness spread
over them with that snow-white coverlet was hard to shake off. But he
persisted, and when he made believe he was losing his patience, then all
arose, slowly, reluctantly, but they were on their feet.
"Come on, boys, let us build fires, fires! Fires under every tree, if we
have to put up barricades to keep off snow-drifts. Come on; we must
drink coffee all night to keep us awake."
In a short time several fires were started under oak trees which had
widely-spreading branches or under pines which clustered together.
Don Mariano had a consultation with his _mayordomo_, and both agreed
that it would be best to drive the cattle back for a few miles and wait
until the snow had melted sufficiently for them to see the trails, else
all might plunge unawares into hidden pitfalls and gulches covered over
by snow-drifts.
"Yes, this is our only course," said Don Mariano, "and now we must start
them up. Sleep under snow cannot be any better for cattle than it is for
men. Let us have some coffee, and then we must whip up and rouse the
cattle; they seem dead already; they are too quiet."
He was going back to the tree where he had slept, when he was met by his
brother Augustin, who came to say that Victoriano wished to see him.
"What? Still in bed?" said he, seeing Victoriano lying down. "This won't
do. Up with you, boy."
"Come here to me, father," said Victoriano's voice, very sadly. His
father was quickly by his side.
"What is the matter, my boy?" asked he.
"Father, I cannot stand up. From my knees down I have lost all feeling,
and have no control of my limbs at all."
"Have you rubbed them to start circulation? They are benumbed with the
cold, I suppose."
"I have been rubbing them, but without any effect, it seems. I don't
feel pain though, nor cold either."
This was the saddest perplexity yet. There was nothing to be done but to
wait for daylight to take Victoriano home. In the meantime, a fire was
made near his bed. His limbs were wrapped in warm blankets; he drank a
large cup of warm coffee and lay down to wait for the dawn of day to
appear.
As soon as all the herders had drank plenty of warm coffee, all mounted
their horses, and the work of rousing the cattle began.
The shouts of the _vaqueros_, bellowing of cattle and barking of dogs
resounded throughout the valley, the echo repeating them from hill to
hill and mountain side. In a short time everything living was in motion,
and the peaceful little valley seemed the battle-ground where a fiercely
contested, hand-to-hand fight was raging. The great number of fires
burning under the shelter of trees, seen through the falling snow as if
behind a thick, mysterious veil, gave to the scene a weird appearance of
unreality which the shouts of men, bellowing of cattle and barking of
dogs did not dispel. It all seemed like a phantom battle of ghostly
warriors or enchanted knights evoked in a magic valley, all of which
must disappear with the first rays of day.
Don Mariano and his two brothers also mounted their horses, but remained
near Victoriano's bed to keep him from being trampled by cattle that
might rush in that direction.
About four o'clock the _vaqueros_ had a recess. They had put the cattle
in motion, and could conscientiously think of cooking breakfast. By the
time that breakfast was over, daylight began to peep here and there
through the thick curtains of falling snow. Giving to the _mayordomo_
the last instructions regarding the management of the cattle, Don
Mariano got Victoriano ready to start on their forlorn ride homeward. It
was no easy task to put him in the saddle, but once there, he said he
was all right.
"I am a miserable chicken from my knees down, but a perfect gentleman
from my knees up. Don't be sad, father; I'll be all right again soon,"
said he, cheerfully.
The snow had not ceased falling for one moment, and if the _mayordomo_
had not been so good a guide they might not have found their way out,
for every trail was completely obliterated, and no landmarks could be
seen. After a while, Don Mariano himself, aided by a pocket compass, got
the bearings correctly. The entire band of cattle were driven back, so
that all began their retreating march together, preceded by Victoriano,
with his limbs wrapped up in pieces of blanket, an expedient which he
found very ridiculous and laughable, suggesting many witticisms to him.
About ten o'clock they came to a grove of oak trees which covered a
broad space of ground and afforded good shelter for man and animals. Don
Mariano told his _mayordomo_ that he thought this would be a good place
for him to stay with the stock until the storm had passed, for although
the snow might fall on the uncovered ground, there would be shelter for
all under the trees.
After resting for an hour and eating a good luncheon, Don Mariano, aided
by his brothers, again put Victoriano on horseback and started homeward,
all the country being still enveloped in snow. About nightfall the snow
was succeeded by rain, and this was much worse, for it came accompanied
by a violent wind which seemed as if it would blow them away with their
horses. Having left the _mayordomo_ and all but one _vaquero_ with the
cattle, Don Mariano had with him only this one _mozo_ to wait on them,
and his two brothers to assist him in the care of Tano. The night was
passed again under the friendly shelter of trees, but in the morning it
was found necessary to ride out into the storm, for now Victoriano's
limbs ached frightfully at times, and it was imperative to reach home.
This was not done until the following day, when Victoriano's malady had
assumed a very painful character, and when Don Mariano himself had taken
a severe cold in his lungs. A doctor was immediately sent for, and now
Dona Josefa had two invalids more to nurse.
For six weeks Don Mariano was confined to his bed with a severe attack
of pneumonia, followed by a lung fever, which clung to him for many
days. In the latter part of January, however, he was convalescing. Not
so Victoriano; his strange malady kept him yet a close prisoner. When
his father was out already, driving and riding about the rancho, poor
Tano had to be content with sitting by the window in an arm-chair, and
looking at that other window which he knew was in Alice's room. Everett
came daily to sit with him, to read to him, or play chess or cards, and
he helped the invalid to take a few steps, and little by little, Tano
began to walk.