WHAT IS LOVE WORTH?
Valencia swung down from his belathered horse as lightly as though he
had not spent seven hours in the saddle and during those seven hours had
covered more miles than he would have years to live. His smile was wide
and went as deep as his emotions had thus far plumbed his nature, and
his voice had the exultant note of a child who has wonderful news to
tell. He gave Dade a letter, and his very gesture was triumphant; and
the eyes were eager that watched his majordomo read. He bubbled with
words that he would like to say, but he waited.
"So you didn't get there in time, after all," Dade observed, looking up
from Jack's characteristic signature, in which the tail of the "k"
curled around the whole like a mouse lying asleep. "Manuel came back
this morning, and the whole camp is talking nothing but duelo. I thought
you said--"
"Señor, the saints would not permit that I should arrive first,"
Valencia explained virtuously. "A stick tripped Noches and he fell, and
broke his neck in the fall. The señor knows well the saints had a hand
in that, for hundreds of horses fall every day thus without hurt. Never
before in my life have I seen a horse die thus, Señor! I was compelled
to walk and carry the saddle, yet such haste I made that Manuel met me
by the stone wall as he was leaving. And at least twelve miles I
walked--"
"Oh, all right," Dade waved away further apology. "I reckon you did your
best; it can't be helped now. They're going to fight with riatas, Manuel
says. Is that right?"
"But not the duelo, Señor--no, but in the contest. For sport, that all
may witness, and choose who is champion, after the bull-fighting, and
the--"
"What are you talking about, man?" Dade's hand fell heavily upon the
shoulder of Valencia, swaying his whole body with the impact. "Are you
loco, to talk of bull-fightings?"
"It is the fiesta, Señor! The patron himself has proclaimed the grand
fiesta, such as they have in Monterey, only this will be greater; and
then those two will fight their duelo with riatas, yes; but not to the
death, Señor. The patron himself has declared it. For the medalla oro
and also for a prize will they fight; and the prize--what think you,
Señor?"
Valencia, a-quiver with eagerness, laid a slim hand upon the braided
front of Dade's close-fitting buckskin jacket.
"The prize will be Solano! That beautiful caballo--beautiful even as thy
Surry--which the patron has not permitted rawhide to touch, except for
the branding. Like the sunshine he is, with his hair of gold; and the
tail that waves to his heels is like the ripples on the bay at sunrise.
Who wins the duelo shall have Solano for his own, and shall ride him
before all the people; for such is the patron's word. From his own lips
I heard it! Me, I think that will be the greatest sport of all, for he
is wild as the deer on the mountain slopes--that yellow caballo, and
strong as the bull which the patron will choose to fight the grizzly he
will bring from the mountains.
"Listen, Señor! The mother of Solano was a she-devil under the saddle,
and killed two men by throwing herself upon them; and the sire was
Satanas, of whom stories are told around the camp-fires as far south as
San Luis Obispo.
"Ah, he is wise, the patron! 'Then let them also prove their courage in
other ways. Let the victor pray to the saints and ride Solano, who is
five years old and has never felt the riata since he left his mother's
side--who was a devil.' Me, I heard the soul of the patron speak thus,
while the lips of the patron said to me:
"'Go back to the rodeo, Valencia, and proclaim to all that I will give
the grand fiesta with sports to please all. Tell them that already two
have agreed to contest with riatas for a prize--' Look you, Señor, how
wily is the patron!--'And for the prize I name the gelding, Solano, who
has never known weight of saddle. Tell them, Valencia, that the victor
shall ride his prize for all the crowd to see. And if he is thrown, then
Solano will be forfeit to the other, who must ride him also. There will
be other sports and other prizes, Valencia, and others may contest in
riding, in the lassoing and tying of wild steers, in running. But say
that Don José Pacheco and the Señor Jack Allen will contest with riatas
for the possession of Solano.' Ah, Señor--"
"Ah, Valencia, why not scatter some of your enthusiasm over the other
camp-fires?" Dade broke in quizzically. "Go and proclaim it, then. Tell
the San Vincente men, and the Las Uvas, and all the other vaqueros."
Valencia, grinned and departed, leaving behind him in the loose sand
tracks more than three feet apart to show how eager was his obedience;
and Dade sat down upon a dead log that had been dragged to the Picardo
camp-fire, to consider how this new phase of the affair would affect the
temper of the people who owned such warm hearts and such hot heads.
A fiesta, with the duelo fought openly under the guise of a contest for
the medal and a prize which was well worth any man's best
efforts--surely, Don Andres was wily, as Valencia said. But with all the
people of the valley there to see, their partisanship inflamed by the
wine of festivity and the excitement of the sports themselves--what
then?
Dade thoughtfully rolled a corn-husk cigarette, and tried to peer into
the future. As it looked to him, he and Jack were rather between the
devil and the deep sea. If Jack were beaten, they would be scorned and
crowed over and humiliated beyond endurance. Neither was made of the
stuff to stand much of that, and they would probably wind up with both
hands and their hats full of trouble. And to himself he admitted that
there was a fair chance of that very result. He had not been blind, and
José had not shrunk into the background when there was riata-work and
riding to be done on the rodeo ground. Dade had watched him as jealously
as it was in his nature to do, and the eyes of jealousy are keen indeed;
and he had seen José make many throws, and never a miss. Which, if you
know anything of rope-work, was a remarkable record for any man. So
there was a good chance of José winning that fight. In his heart Dade
knew it, even if his lips never would admit it.
Well, supposing José was beaten; suppose Jack won! What then? Dade blew
a mouthful of smoke towards the camp-fire, deserted except for himself,
while his vaqueros disported themselves with their neighbors, and shook
his head. He had a little imagination; perhaps he had more than most men
of his type. He could see a glorious row, if José were beaten. It would,
on the whole, be more disastrous than if he won.
"And she's just fickle-minded enough to turn up her nose at Jack if he
got beat," Dade grumbled, thinking of a certain señorita. "And if he
don't, the whole bunch will pile onto us. Looks to me like a worse
combination than that Vigilance row, for Jack. If he wins, he gets
knifed; if he don't, he gets hell. And me the only one to back him up!
I'll wish I was about forty men seven foot high and armed with--"
"Pardon, Señor. The señor has of course heard the news?" José came out
of the shadows and stood with the firelight dancing on his face and
picking out the glittery places on his jacket, where was the braid. "I
have a letter from Don Andres. Would the señor care to read it? No? The
señor is welcome to read. I have no wish to keep anything hidden which
concerns this matter. I have brought the letter, and I want to say
that the wishes of my friend, Don Andres, shall be granted. Except," he
added, coming closer, "that I shall fight to the death. I wish the Señor
Allen to understand this, though it must he held a secret between us
three. An accident it must appear to those who watch, because the duelo
will be proclaimed a sport; but to the death I will fight, and I trust
that the Señor Allen will fight as I fight. Does the señor understand?"
"Yes, but I can't promise anything for Jack." Dade studied José quietly
through the smoke of his cigarette. "Jack will fight to please himself,
and nobody can tell how that will be, except that it won't be tricky. He
may want to kill you, and he may not. I don't know. If he does, he'll
try his damnedest, you can bank on that."
"But you, Señor--do you not see that to fight for a prize merely is to
belittle--" José waved a hand eloquently.
"I see you're taking life pretty serious," Dade retorted, moving farther
along the log. "Sit down, José, and be sociable. Nothing like seeing the
point of a joke, if there is one. Do you reckon anything's worth all the
heart-burnings you're indulging in? Some things are tough; I've waded
kinda deep, myself, so I know. But there's nothing you can't get over,
with time and lots of common sense, except being a sneak--and being
dead. To me, one's as bad as the other, with maybe first choice on
death. You aren't a sneak, and I don't see why you hanker to be dead.
What do you want to fight to the death for?"
[Illustration: "An accident it must appear to those who watch"]
José did not sit down beside Dade, but he came a little closer, "Why do
I want to fight to the death? I will tell you, Señor; I am not ashamed.
Since I was a child I have loved that señorita whom I will not name to
you. Only last Christmas time the señora, her mother, said I must wait
but a year longer till she was a little older. They would keep their
child a little longer, and truly her heart is the heart of a child. But
she knew; and I think she waited also and was happy. But look you,
Señor! Then comes a stranger and steals--
"Ah, you ask me why must I fight to the death? Señor, you are a man;
perchance you have loved--for of a truth I see sometimes the sadness in
your eyes. You know that I must fight thus. You know that to kill that
blue-eyed one is all there is left to do. Me, I could have put him out
of the way before now, for there are many knives ready to do me the
service. Kill him I shall, Señor; but it shall be in fight; and if the
señorita sees--good. She shall know then that at least it is not a
coward or a weakling who loves her. Do you ask why--"
Dade's hands went out, dismissing the question. "No, I don't ask another
blamed thing. Go ahead and fight. Fight to kill, if that's the only
thing that will satisfy you. You two aren't the first to lock horns over
a woman. Jack seems just as keen for it as you are, so I don't reckon
there's any stopping either one of you. But it does seem a pity!"
"Why does it seem a pity?" José's tone was insistent.
"It seems a pity," Dade explained doggedly, "to see two fine fellows
like you and Jack trying to kill each other for a girl--that isn't worth
the life of either one of you!"
In two steps José confronted him, his hand lifted to strike. Dade,
looking up at him, flicked the ashes from his cigarette with his
forefinger, but that was the only move he made. José's hand trembled and
came down harmlessly by his side.
"I was mistaken," he said, smiling queerly. "You have never loved any
woman, Señor; and I think the sadness I have seen in your eyes is for
yourself, that life has cheated you so. If you had known love, you could
never have said that. Love, Señor, is worth everything a man has to
give--even his life. You would know that, if you had ever loved." He
waited a moment, closed his teeth upon further words, turned abruptly on
his heel and went away into the fog-darkened night.
Dade, with a slight curl to his lips that did not look quite like a
smile, stared into the fire, where the embers were growing charred for
half their length, and the flames were waving wearily and shrinking back
to the coals, and the coals themselves were filmed with gray. The
cigarette went cold and clammy in his fingers, and in his eyes was that
sadness of which José had spoken; and something else besides.
They would fight, those two, and fight to kill. Since the world was
first peopled, men had fought as they would fight--for love; for the
possession of a pretty thing--warm, capricious, endearing, with possibly
a heart and a soul beneath; possibly. And love--what was love, after
all? What is love worth? He had loved her, too; at least, he had felt
all the emotions that either of them had felt for her. He was not sure
that he did not still feel them, or would if he let himself go. He did
not believe, however, that those emotions were worth more than
everything else in the world; more than his life, or honor, or
friendship. He had choked love, strangled it, starved it for sake of
friendship; and, sitting there staring abstractedly into the filming
coals, he wondered if he had done wrong; if those two were right, and
love was worth fighting for.
The man who fought the hardest, he felt, would in this case win that for
which he fought. For he felt in his heart, that Teresita was only a
pretty little animal, the primitive woman who would surrender to
strength; and that he would win in the end who simply refused to yield
before her coquetries.
With a quick, impatient gesture he threw his cigarette into the coals,
kicked viciously a lazily smoking brand which sent up a little blaze and
a spurt of sparks that died almost immediately to dull coals again.
"Love's like that," he muttered pessimistically, standing up and
stretching his arms mechanically. "And the winner loses in the end;
maybe not always, but he will in this case. Poor old Jack! After all,
she ain't worth it. If she was--" His chin went down for a minute or
two, while he stared again at the fire. "If she was, I'd--But she ain't.
Love's worth--what is love worth, anyway?"
He did not answer the question with any degree of positiveness, and he
went to bed wishing that he had never seen the valley of Santa Clara.