When Coronado proposed to Clara, she was for a moment stricken dumb with
astonishment and with something like terror.
Her first idea was that she must take him; that the mere fact of a man
asking for her gave him a species of right over her; that there was no
such thing possible as answering, No. She sat looking at Coronado with a
helpless, timorous air, very much as a child looks at his father, when the
father, switching his rattan, says, "Come with me."
On recovering herself a little, her first words--uttered slowly, in a tone
of surprise and of involuntary reproach--were, "Oh, Coronado! I did not
expect this."
"Can't you answer me?" he asked in a voice which was honestly tremulous
with emotion. "Can't you say yes?"
"Oh, Coronado!" repeated Clara, a good deal touched by his agitation.
"Can't you?" he pleaded. Repetitions, in such cases, are so natural and so
potent.
"Let me think, Coronado," she implored. "I can't answer you now. You have
taken me so by surprise!"
"Every moment that you take to think is torture to me," he pleaded, as he
continued to press her.
Perhaps she was on the point of giving way before his insistence. Consider
the advantages that he had over her in this struggle of wills for the
mastery. He was older by ten years; he possessed both the adroitness of
self-command and the energy of passion; he had a long experience in love
matters, while she had none. He was the proclaimed heir of a man reputed
wealthy, and could therefore, as she believed, support her handsomely.
Since the death of her father she considered Garcia the head of her family
in New Mexico; and Coronado had had the face to tell her that he made his
offer with the approval of Garcia. Then she was under supposed obligations
to him, and he was to be her protector across the desert.
She was as it were reeling in her saddle, when a truly Spanish idea saved
her.
"Muñoz!" she exclaimed. "Coronado, you forget my grandfather. He should
know of this."
Although the man was unaccustomed to start, he drew back as if a ghost had
confronted him; and even when he recovered from his transitory emotion, he
did not at first know how to answer her. It would not do to say, "Muñoz is
dead," and much less to add, "You are his heir."
"We are Americans," he at last argued. "Spanish customs are dead and
buried. Can't you speak for yourself on a matter which concerns you and me
alone?"
"Coronado, I think it would not be right," she replied, holding firmly to
her position. "It is probable that my grandfather would be better pleased
to have this matter referred to him. I ought to consider him, and you must
let me do so."
"I submit," he bowed, seeing that there was no help for it, and deciding
to make a grace of necessity. "It pains me, but I submit. Let me hope that
you will not let this pass from your mind. Some day, when it is proper, I
shall speak again."
He was not wholly dissatisfied, for he trusted that henceforward her head
would be full of him, and he had not much hoped to gain more in a first
effort.
"I shall always be proud and gratified at the compliment you have paid
me," was her reply to his last request.
"You deserve many such compliments," he said, gravely courteous and quite
sincere.
Then they cantered back in silence to meet the advancing train.
Yes, Coronado was partly satisfied. He believed that he had gained a
firmer footing among the girl's thoughts and emotions than had been gained
by Thurstane. In a degree he was right. No sensitive, and pure, and good
girl can receive her first offer without being much moved by it. The man
who has placed himself at her feet will affect her strongly. She may begin
to dread him, or begin to like him more than before; but she cannot remain
utterly indifferent to him. The probability is that, unless subsequent
events make him disagreeable to her, she will long accord him a measure of
esteem and gratitude.
For two or three days, while Clara was thinking much of Coronado, he gave
her less than usual of his society. Believing that her mind was occupied
with him, that she was wondering whether he were angry, unhappy, etc., he
remained a good deal apart, wrapped himself in sadness, and trusted that
time would do much for him. Had there been no rival, the plan would have
been a good one; but Ralph Thurstane being present, it was less
successful.
Ralph had already become more of a favorite than any one knew, even the
young lady herself; and now that he found chances for long talks and short
gallops with her, he got on better than ever. He was just the kind of
youngster a girl of eighteen would naturally like to have ride by her
side. He was handsome; at any rate, he was the handsomest man she had seen
in the desert, and the desert was just then her sphere of society. You
could see in his figure how strong he was, and in his face how brave he
was. He was a good fellow, too; "tendir and trew" as the Douglas of the
ballad; sincere, frank, thoroughly truthful and honorable. Every way he
seemed to be that being that a woman most wants, a potential and devoted
protector. Whenever Clara looked in his face her eyes said, without her
knowledge, "I trust you."
Now, as we have already stated, Thurstane's eyes were uncommonly fine and
expressive. Of the very darkest blue that ever was seen in anybody's head,
and shaded, moreover, by remarkably long chestnut lashes, they had the
advantages of both blue eyes and black ones, being as gentle as the one
and as fervent as the other. Accordingly, a sort of optical conversation
commenced between the two young people. Every time that Clara's glance
said, "I trust you," Thurstane's responded, "I will die for you." It was a
perilous sort of dialogue, and liable to involve the two souls which
looked out from these sparkling, transparent windows. Before long the
Lieutenant's modest heart took courage, and his stammering tongue began to
be loosed somewhat, so that he uttered things which frightened both him
and Clara. Not that the remarks were audacious in themselves, but he was
conscious of so much unexpressed meaning behind them, and she was so ready
to guess that there might be such a meaning!
It seems ridiculous that a fellow who could hold his head straight up
before a storm of cannon shot, should be positively bashful. Yet so it
was. The boy had been through West Point, to be sure; but he had studied
there, and not flirted; the Academy had not in any way demoralized him. On
the whole, in spite of swearing under gross provocation, and an
inclination toward strictness in discipline, he answered pretty well for a
Bayard.
His bashfulness was such, at least in the presence of Clara, that he
trembled to the tips of his fingers in merely making this remark: "Miss
Van Diemen, this journey is the pleasantest thing in my whole life."
Clara blushed until she dazzled him and seemed to burn herself.
Nevertheless she was favored with her usual childlike artlessness of
speech, and answered, "I am glad you find it agreeable."
Nothing more from Ralph for a minute; he was recovering his breath and
self-possession.
"You cannot think how much safer I feel because you and your men are with
us," said Clara.
Thurstane unconsciously gripped the handle of his sabre, with a feeling
that he could and would massacre all the Indians of the desert, if it were
necessary to preserve her from harm.
"Yes, you may rely upon my men, too," he declared. "They have a sort of
adoration for you."
"Have they?" asked Clara, with a frank smile of pleasure. "I wonder at it.
I hardly notice them. I ought to, they seem so patient and trusty."
"Ah, a lady!" said Thurstane. "A good soldier will die any time for a
lady."
Then he wondered how she could have failed to guess that she must be
worshipped by these rough men for her beauty.
"I have overheard them talking about you," he went on, gratified at being
able to praise her to her face, though in the speech of others. "Little
Sweeny says, in his Irish brogue, 'I can march twic't as fur for the
seein' av her!'"
"Oh! did he?" laughed Clara. "I must carry Sweeny's musket for him some
time."
"Don't, if you please," said Thurstane, the disciplinarian rising in him.
"You would spoil him for the service."
"Can't I send him a dish from our table?"
"That would just suit his case. He hasn't got broken to hard-tack yet."
"Miss Van Diemen," was his next remark, "do you know what you are to do,
if we are attacked?"
"I am to get into a wagon."
"Into which wagon?"
"Into my aunt's."
"Why into that one?"
"So as to have all the ladies together."
"When you have got into the wagon, what next?"
"Lie down on the floor to protect myself from the arrows."
"Very good," laughed Thurstane. "You say your tactics well."
This catechism had been put and recited every day since he had joined the
train. The putting of it was one of the Lieutenant's duties and pleasures;
and, notwithstanding its prophecy of peril, Clara enjoyed it almost as
much as he.
Well, we have heard these two talk, and much in their usual fashion. Not
great souls as yet: they may indeed become such some day; but at present
they are only mature in moral power and in capacity for mighty emotions.
Information, mental development, and conversational ability hereafter.
In one way or another two or three of these tête-à-têtes were brought
about every day. Thurstane wanted them all the time; would have been glad
to make life one long dialogue with Miss Van Diemen; found an aching void
in every moment spent away from her. Clara, too, in spite of maidenly
struggles with herself, began to be of this way of feeling. Wonderful
place the Great American Desert for falling in love!
Coronado soon guessed, and with good reason, that the seed which he had
sown in the girl's mind was being replaced by other germs, and that he had
blundered in trusting that she would think of him while she was talking
with Thurstane. The fear of losing her increased his passion for her, and
made him hate his rival with correlative fervor.
"Why don't you find a chance at that fellow?" he muttered to his bravo,
Texas Smith.
"How the h--l kin I do it?" growled the bushwhacker, feeling that his
intelligence and courage were unjustly called in question. "He's allays
around the train, an' his sojers allays handy. I hain't had nary chance."
"Take him off on a hunt."
"He ain't a gwine. I reckon he knows himself. I'm afeard to praise huntin'
much to him; he might get on my trail. Tell you these army chaps is resky.
I never wanted to meddle with them kind o' close. You know I said so. I
said so, fair an' square, I did."
"You might manage it somehow, if you had the pluck."
"Had the pluck!" repeated Texas Smith. His sallow, haggard face turned
dusky with rage, and his singularly black eyes flamed as if with
hell-fire. A Malay, crazed with opium and ready to run _amok_, could not
present a more savage spectacle than this man did as he swayed in his
saddle, grinding his teeth, clutching his rifle, and glaring at Coronado.
What chiefly infuriated him was that the insult should come from one whom
he considered a "greaser," a man of inferior race. He, Texas Smith, an
American, a _white man_, was treated as if he were an "Injun" or a
"nigger." Coronado was thoroughly alarmed, and smoothed his ruffled
feathers at once.
"I beg your pardon," he said, promptly. "My dear Mr. Smith, I was entirely
wrong. Of course I know that you have courage. Everybody knows it.
Besides, I am under the greatest obligations to you. You saved my life. By
heavens, I am horribly ashamed of my injustice."
A minute or so of this fluent apologizing calmed the bushwhacker's rage
and soothed his injured feelings.
"But you oughter be keerful how you talk that way to a white man," he
said. "No white man, if he's a gentleman, can stan' being told he hain't
got no pluck."
"Certainly," assented Coronado. "Well, I have apologized. What more can I
do?"
"Square, you're all right now," said the forgiving Texan, stretching out
his bony, dirty hand and grasping Coronado's. "But don't say it agin.
White men can't stan' sech talk. Well, about this feller--I'll see, I'll
see. Square, I'll try to do what's right."
As Coronado rode away from this interview, he ground his teeth with rage
and mortification, muttering, "A _white_ man! a _white_ man! So I am a
black man. Yes, I am a greaser. Curse this whole race of English-speaking
people!"
After a while he began to think to the purpose. He too must work; he must
not trust altogether to Texas Smith; the scoundrel might flinch, or might
fail. Something must be done to separate Clara and Thurstane. What should
it be? Here we are almost ashamed of Coronado. The trick that he hit upon
was the stalest, the most threadbare, the most commonplace and vulgar that
one can imagine. It was altogether unworthy of such a clever and
experienced conspirator. His idea was this: to get lost with Clara for one
night; in the morning to rejoin the train. Thurstane would be disgusted,
and would unquestionably give up the girl entirely when Coronado should
say to him, "It was a very unlucky accident, but I have done what a
gentleman should, and we are engaged."
This coarse, dastardly, and rather stupid stratagem he put into execution
as quickly as possible. There were some dangers to be guarded against, as
for instance Apaches, and the chance of getting lost in reality.
"Have an eye upon me to-day," he suggested to Texas. "If I leave the train
with any one, follow me and keep a lookout for Indians. Only stay out of
sight."
Now for an opportunity to lead Clara astray. The region was favorable;
they were in an arid land of ragged sandstone spurs and buttes; it would
be necessary to march until near sunset, in order to find water and
pasturage. Consequently there was both time and scenery for his project.
Late in the afternoon the train crossed a narrow _mesa_ or plateau, and
approached a sublime terrace of rock which was the face of a second
table-land. This terrace was cleft by several of those wonderful grooves
which are known as cañons, and which were wrought by that mighty
water-force, the sculpturer of the American desert. In one place two of
these openings were neighbors: the larger was the route and the smaller
led nowhere.
"Let the train pass on," suggested Coronado to Clara. "If you will ride
with me up this little cañon, you will find some of the most exquisite
scenery imaginable. It rejoins the large one further on. There is no
danger."
Clara would have preferred not to go, or would have preferred to go with
Thurstane.
"My dear child, what do you mean?" urged Aunt Maria, looking out of her
wagon. "Mr. Coronado, I'll ride there with you myself."
The result of the dialogue which ensued was that, after the train had
entered the gorge of the larger cañon, Coronado and Clara turned back and
wandered up the smaller one, followed at a distance by Texas Smith. In
twenty minutes they were separated from the wagons by a barrier of
sandstone several hundred feet high, and culminating in a sharp ridge or
frill of rocky points, not unlike the spiny back of a John Dory. The
scenery, although nothing new to Clara, was such as would be considered in
any other land amazing. Vast walls on either side, consisting mainly of
yellow sandstone, were variegated with white, bluish, and green shales,
with layers of gypsum of the party-colored marl series, with long lines of
white limestone so soft as to be nearly earth, and with red and green
foliated limestone mixed with blood-red shales. The two wanderers seemed
to be amid the landscapes of a Christmas drama as they rode between these
painted precipices toward a crimson, sunset.
It was a perfect solitude. There was not a breath of life besides their
own in this gorgeous valley of desolation. The ragged, crumbling
battlements, and the loftier points of harder rock, would not have
furnished subsistence for a goat or a mouse. Color was everywhere and life
nowhere: it was such a region as one might look for in the moon; it did
not seem to belong to an inhabited planet.
Before they had ridden half an hour the sun went down suddenly behind
serrated steeps, and almost immediately night hastened in with his
obscurities. Texas Smith, riding hundreds of yards in the rear and
concealing himself behind the turning points of the cañon, was obliged to
diminish his distance in order to keep them under his guard. Clara had
repeatedly expressed her doubts as to the road, and Coronado had as often
asserted that they would soon see the train. At last the ravine became a
gully, winding up a breast of shadowy mountain cumbered with loose rocks,
and impassable to horses.
"We are lost," confessed Coronado, and then proceeded to console her. The
train could not be far off; their friends would undoubtedly seek them; at
all events, would not go on without them. They must bivouac there as well
as might be, and in the morning rejoin the caravan.
He had been forethoughted enough to bring two blankets on his saddle, and
he now spread them out for her, insisting that she should try to sleep.
Clara cried frankly and heartily, and begged him to lead her back through
the cañon. No; it could not be traversed by night, he asserted; they would
certainly break their necks among the bowlders. At last the girl suffered
herself to be wrapped in the blankets, and made an endeavor to forget her
wretchedness and vexation in slumber.
Meantime, a few hundred yards down the ravine, a tragedy was on the verge
of action. Thurstane, missing Coronado and Clara, and learning what
direction they had taken, started with two of his soldiers to find them,
and was now picking his way on foot along the cañon. Behind a detached
rock at the base of one of the sandstone walls Texas Smith lay in ambush,
aiming his rifle first at one and then at another of this stumbling trio,
and cursing the starlight because it was so dim that he could not
positively distinguish which was the officer.