THE LORD OF THE VALLEY
Scattered, grazing herds of wild, long-horned cattle that ran from
their approach gave place to feeding mustangs with the mark of the
saddle upon them. Later, an adobe wall confronted them; and this they
followed through a grove of great live oaks and up a grassy slope
beyond, to where the long, low adobe house sat solidly upon a natural
terrace, with the valley lying before and the hills at its back;
a wide-armed, wide-porched, red-roofed adobe such as the Spanish
aristocracy loved to build for themselves. The sun shone warmly upon
the great, latticed porch, screened by the passion vines that hid
one end completely from view. To the left, a wing stretched out
generously, with windows curtained primly with some white stuff that
flapped desultorily in the fitful breeze from the south. At the right,
so close that they came near being a part of the main structure and
helped to give the general effect of a hollow, open-sided square,
stood a row of small adobe huts; two of them were tiled like the
house, and the last, at the outer end, was thatched with tules.
Into the immaculate patio thus formed before the porch, Dade led the
way boldly, as one sure of his welcome. Behind the vines a girl's
voice, speaking rapidly and softly with a laugh running all through
the tones, hushed as suddenly as does a wild bird's twitter when
strange steps approach. And just as suddenly did Dade's nostrils
flare with the quick breath he drew; for tones, if one listens
understandingly, may tell a great deal. Even Jack knew instinctively
that a young man sat with the girl behind the vines.
After the hush they heard the faint swish of feminine movement. She
came and stood demurely at the top of the wide steps, a little hoop
overflowing soft, white embroidered stuff in her hands.
"Welcome home, Señor Hunter," she said, and made him a courtesy that
was one-third politeness and the rest pure mockery. "My father will
be relieved in his mind when he sees you. I think he slept badly last
night on your account."
Wistfulness was in Dade's eyes when he looked at her; as though he
wanted to ask if she also were relieved at seeing him. But there was
the man behind the lattice where the vines were thickest; the man who
was young and whom she had found a pleasant companion. Also there was
Jack, who was staring with perfect frankness, his eyes a full
shade darker as he looked at her. And there was the peon scampering
barefooted across from one of the huts to take their horses. Dade
therefore confined himself to conventional phrases.
"Señorita, let me present to you my friend, Jack Allen," he said.
"Jack, this is the Señorita Teresa Picardo."
His nostrils widened again when he looked casually at Jack; for Jack's
sombrero was swept down to his knees in salute--though it was not
that; it was the look in his face that sent Dade's glance seeking
Teresita's eyes for answer.
But Teresita only showed him how effectively black lashes contrast
with the faint flush of cheeks just hinting at dimples, and he got no
answer there.
She made another little courtesy, lifting her lashes unexpectedly
for a swift glance at Jack, as he dismounted hastily and went up two
steps, his hand outstretched to her.
"We Americanos like to shake hands upon a new friendship," he said
boldly.
The señorita laughed a little, changed her embroidery hoop from her
right hand to her left, laid her fingers in his palm, blushed when his
hand closed upon them eagerly, and laughed again when her gold thimble
slipped and rolled tinkling down the steps.
Dade picked the thimble out of a matted corner of a violet bed, and
returned it to her unsmilingly; got a flash of her eyes and a little
nod for his reward, and stood back, waiting her further pleasure.
"You have had adventures, Señor, since yesterday morning," she said
to him lightly. "Truly, you Americanos do very wonderful things!
José, here is Señor Hunter and his friend whom he stole away from the
Vigilantes yesterday! Did you have the invisible cap, Señor? It was
truly a miracle such as the padres tell of, that the blessed saints
performed in the books. José told us what he heard--but when I have
called my mother, you yourself must tell us every little bit of it."
While she was talking she was also pulling forward two of the easiest
chairs, playing the hostess prettily and stealing a lash-hidden glance
now and then at the tall señor with such blue eyes and hair the like
of which she had never seen, and the mouth curved like the lips of a
woman.
The young man whom she addressed as José rose negligently and greeted
them punctiliously; seated himself again, picked up a guitar and
strummed a minor chord lazily.
"Don Andres is busy at the corrals," José volunteered, when the girl
had gone. "He will return soon. You had a disagreeable experience,
Señor? One of my vaqueros heard the story in town. There was a rumor
that the Vigilantes were sending out parties to search for you when
Carlos started home. Señor Allen is lucky to get off so easily."
Jack held a match unlighted in his fingers while he studied the face
of José. The tone of him had jarred, but his features were wiped clean
of any expression save faint boredom; and his fingers, plucking a
plaintive fragment of a fandango from the strings, belied the sarcasm
Jack had suspected. Don Andres himself, at that moment coming eagerly
across from the hut at the end of the row, saved the necessity of
replying.
"Welcome home, amigo mio!" cried the don, hurrying up the steps,
sombrero in hand. "Never has sight of a horse pleased me as when Diego
led yours to the stable. Thrice welcome--since you bring your friend
to honor my poor household with his presence."
No need to measure guardedly those tones, or that manner. Don Andres
Picardo was as clean, as honest, and as kindly as the sunshine that
mellowed the dim distances behind him. The two came to their feet
unconsciously and received his handclasp with inner humility.
Don Andres held Dade's hand a shade longer than the most gracious
hospitality demanded, while his eyes dwelt solicitously upon his face,
browned near to the shade of a native son of those western slopes.
"I heard of your brave deed, Señor--of how you rode into the midst of
the Vigilantes and snatched your friend from under the very shadow of
the oak. I did not hear that you escaped their vengeance afterwards,
and I feared greatly lest harm had befallen you. Dios! It was
gallantly done, like a knight of olden times--"
"Oh, no. I didn't rescue any lady, Don Andres. Just Jack--and he was
in a fair way to rescue himself, by the way. It wasn't anything much,
but I suppose the story did grow pretty big by the time it got to
you."
"And does your friend also call it a little thing?" The don turned
quizzically to Jack.
"He does not," Jack returned promptly, although his ears were
listening attentively for a nearer approach of the girl-voice he heard
within the house. "He calls it one of the big things Dade is always
doing for his friends." He dropped a hand on Dade's shoulder and
shook him with an affectionate make-believe of disfavor. "He's always
risking his valuable neck to save my worthless one, Don Andres. He
means well, but he doesn't know any better. He packed me out of a nest
of Indians once, just as foolishly; we were coming out from Texas at
the time. You'd be amazed at some of the things I could tell you about
him--"
"And about himself, if he would," drawled Dade. "If he ever tells you
about the Indian scrape, Don Andres, ask him how he happened to get
into the nest. As to yesterday, perhaps you heard how it came that
Jack got so close to the oak!"
"No--I heard merely of the danger you were in. José's head vaquero
was in town when the Vigilantes returned with their Captain and those
others, and there were many rumors. This morning I sent Valencia to
learn the truth, and if you were in danger--Perhaps I could have done
little, but I should have tried to save you," he added simply. "I
should not like a clash with the gringos--pardon, Señors; I speak of
the class whom you also despise."
José laughed and swept the strings harshly with his thumb. "The clash
will come, Don Andres, whether you like it or not," he said. "This
morning I saw one more unasked tenant on your meadow, near the grove
of alders. What they call a 'prairie schooner.' A big, red-topped
hombre, and his woman--gringos of the class I despise; which
includes"--again he flung his thumb across the guitar string--"all
gringos!"
Jack's lips opened for hot answer, but Don Andres forestalled him
quietly.
"One more tenant does not harm me, José. When the American government
puts its seal upon the seal of Spain and restores my land to me, these
unasked tenants will go the way they came. There will be no clash."
But he sighed even while he made the statement, as if the subject were
neither new nor pleasant to dwell upon.
"Why," demanded José bitterly, "should the Americanos presume to
question our right to our land? You and my father made the valley what
it is; your shiploads of hides and tallow that you sent from Yerba
Buena made the town prosper, and called adventurers this way; and now
they steal your cattle and lands, and their government is the biggest
thief of all, for it tells them to steal more. They will make you
poor, Don Andres, while you wait for them to be just. No, I permit
no 'prairie schooner' to stop, even that their oxen may drink. My
vaqueros ride beside them till they have crossed the boundary. You,
Don Andres, if you would permit your vaqueros to do likewise, instead
of shaking hands with the gringos and bidding them welcome--"
"But I do not permit it; nor do I seek counsel from the children I
have tossed on my foot to the tune of a nursery rhyme." He shook
his white-crowned head reprovingly. "He was always screaming at his
duenna, one child that I recollect," he smiled.
"Art thou scolding José again, my Andres? He loves to play that thou
and Teresita are children still, José; it serves to beguile him into
forgetting the years upon his head! Welcome, Señors. Teresita but told
me this moment that you had come. She is bringing the wine--"
On their feet they greeted the Señora Picardo. Like the don, her
husband, honest friendliness was in her voice, her smile, the warm
clasp of her plump hand. The sort of woman who will mother you at
sight, was the señora. Purple silk--hastily put on for the guests, one
might suspect--clothed her royally. Golden hoops hung from her ears,
a diamond brooch held together the lace beneath her cushiony chin; a
comfortable woman who smiled much, talked much and worried more lest
she leave some little thing undone for those about her.
"And this is the poor señor who was in such dreadful danger!" she
went on commiseratingly. "Ah, the wicked times that have come upon us!
Presently we shall fear to sleep in our beds--Señor Hunter, you have
been hurt! The mark of blood is on your sleeve, the stain is on your
side! A-ah, my poor friend! Come instantly and I will--"
"Gracias, Señora; it is nothing. Besides, Manuel put on a poultice of
herbs. It's only a scratch, but it bled a little while I rode to the
hut of Manuel." If blushes could have shown through the tan, Dade
might have looked as uncomfortable as he felt at that moment.
The señorita was already in the doorway, convoying a sloe-eyed maid
who bore wine and glasses upon a tray of beaten silver; and the smile
of the señorita was disturbing to a degree, brief though it was.
Behind the wine came cakes, and the señorita pointed tragically to
the silver dish that held them. "Madre mia, those terrible children
of Margarita have stolen half the cakes! I ran after them in the
orchard--but they swallow fast, those niños! Now the señors must
starve!"
Up went the hand of the señora in dismay, and down went the head of
the señorita to hide how she was biting the laughter from her lips.
"I ran," she murmured pathetically, "and I caught Angelo--but at that
moment he popped the cake into his mouth and it was gone! Then I ran
after Maria--and she swallowed--"
"Teresita mia! The señors will think--" What they would think she
did not stipulate, but her eyes implored them to judge leniently the
irrepressibility of her beautiful one. There were cakes sufficient--a
hasty glance reassured her upon that point--and Teresita was in one of
her mischievous moods. The mother who had reared her sighed resignedly
and poured the wine into the small glasses with a quaint design
cut into their sides, perfectly unconscious of the good the little
diversion had done.
For a half-hour there was peaceful converse; of the adventure which
had brought the two gringos to the ranch as to a sanctuary, of the
land which lay before them, and of the unsettled conditions that
filled the days with violence.
José still strummed softly upon the guitar, a pleasant undertone to
the voices. And because he said very little, he saw and thought the
more; seeing glances and smiles between a strange man and the maid
whom he loved desirefully, bred the thought which culminated in a
sudden burst of speech against the gringos who had come into the
peaceful land and brought with them strife. Who stole the cattle of
the natives, calmly appropriated the choicest bits of valley land
without so much as a by-your-leave, and who treated the rightful
owners with contempt and as though they had no right to live in the
valley where they were born.
"Last week," he went on hotly, "an evil gringo with the clay of his
burrowings still upon his garments cursed me and called me greaser
because I did not give him all the road for his burro. I, José
Pacheco! They had better have a care, or the 'greasers' will drive
them back whence they came, like the cattle they are. When I, a don,
must give the road to a gringo lower than the peons whom I flog for
less impertinence, it is time we ceased taking them by the hand as
though they were our equals!" His eyes went accusingly to the face of
the girl.
She flung up her head and met the challenge in her own way, which was
with the knife-thrust of her light laughter. "Ah, the poor Americanos!
Not the prayers of all the padres can save them from the blackness of
their fate, since Don José Pacheco frowns and will not take their
hand in friendship! How they will gnash the teeth when they hear the
terrible tidings--José Pacheco, don and son of a don, will have none
of them, nor will he give way to their poor burros on the highway!"
She shook her head as she had done over the tragedy of the little
cakes. "Pobre gringos! Pobre gringos!" she murmured mockingly.
"Children, have done!" The hand of the señora went chidingly to
the shoulder of her incorrigible daughter. "This is foolish and
unseemly--though all thy quarreling is that, the saints know well. Our
guests are Americanos; our guests, who are our friends," she stated
gently, looking at José. "Not all Spaniards are good, José; not all
gringos are bad. They are as we are, good and bad together. Speak not
like a child, amigo mio."
The guitar which José flung down upon a broad stool beside him hummed
resonant accompaniment to his footsteps as he left the veranda. "Thy
house, Señora, has been as my mother's house since I can remember.
Until thy gringo guests have made room for me, I leave it!"
"Señor Allen, would you like to see my birds?" invited Teresita
wickedly, her glance flicking scornfully the reproachful face of José,
as he turned it towards her, and dwelling with a smile upon Jack.
"Wicked one!" murmured the señora, in her heart more than half
approving the discipline.
José had humiliation as well as much bitterness to carry away with
him; for he saw the señor with the bright blue eyes follow gladly the
laughing Teresita to her rose garden, and as he went jingling across
the patio without waiting to summon a peon to bring him his horse, he
heard the voice of Don Andres making apology to Dade for the rudeness
of him, José.