A COYOTE HOWLS
Adjoining the quarters of the padres was a long adobe building used as
a storehouse, and sounds indicated that a man was at work inside. It
was towards the storehouse that the caballero now hurried, something of
anger in his manner, his face still flushed, his dark eyes snapping and
his chin thrust out in aggressive fashion.
Seeing a face peering at him from one of the windows, he gave it scant
attention, but lifted the latch, and the door of the storehouse flew
open at his touch.
For an instant he stood in the doorway trying to see, for the sun
outside was bright, and inside there was a semi-gloom. Then he made out
a rough counter, piles of skins from cattle and sheep, sacks of grain,
casks of tallow, bolts of imported goods, and a man who paced back and
forth before a rough desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his head
bowed on his breast.
“Good day, _señor_!” said the caballero.
The other stopped and raised his head, looked the caballero straight in
the eyes, then, without a word, stepped behind the counter and busied
himself arranging some bolts of cloth on a shelf.
“I greeted you good day, _señor_!”
Still there was no reply, nor did the man behind the counter turn to
face the one who spoke.
“Is there man, woman or child in the mission who can speak Spanish,
native or the sign language?” demanded the caballero now, angrily,
stepping up to the counter and placing both his hands upon it. “Is this
the hospitality of which San Diego de Alcalá has been so proud? Those
persons I met in the plaza refused to answer my polite salutations. And
you--I take it you are a sort of manager here, or superintendent, or
clerk to the padres, or something of the sort--seem to have no word for
me, not even the one common courtesy demands you should use in response
to a greeting!”
He waited; but an answer did not come. The man behind the counter had
finished with the bolts of cloth, and now was taking from the shelf
jars of honey and olives and oil, and putting them back exactly as they
had been before, showing plainly that he was busying himself merely to
avoid making a reply.
“Has life in the bright sun dulled your wits?” demanded the caballero,
now thoroughly angry. “Have you all taken a vow not to speak until such
and such a time? Could I get your kind attention, perhaps, if I made
a purchase? One would think an Indian attack had left you all without
tongues in your heads!”
Still there came no reply from the man behind the counter.
The door opened, and a giant of a neophyte entered. He gave the
caballero a glance, seemed to throw back his shoulders, and hurried up
to the counter.
“A quarter of mutton, Señor Lopez,” he said. “The padre said I was to
have it until the grain is harvested.”
“Certainly, Pedro,” came the reply.
Señor Lopez turned and smiled at the man he had called Pedro, and went
to the rear of the room, from where he carried the meat. Pedro took the
mutton upon his shoulder, and Señor Lopez followed him to the door,
opening it and holding it wide so that the other could pass out. For
a moment they talked in low tones, then Pedro hurried away, and Lopez
closed the door and went back behind the counter.
“So you can use your voice when it pleases you to do so, it seems,”
said the caballero. “Suppose you use a portion of it now, in answer to
some questioning of mine. If it is necessary, I’ll pay for it. Give me
this much voice, Señor Lopez!”
He threw a gold coin down upon the counter so that it rang. Lopez
turned slowly and faced him, looked him straight in the eyes a moment,
then went back to the shelf and began arranging the jars again.
If the eyes of the caballero had snapped before, they blazed now. He
placed both hands upon the counter as if to spring over it and throttle
the man who refused to speak, but he seemed to decide against that, and
the smile came upon his face again, only the quality of the smile was
not the same.
On one end of the counter was a heap of small stone jars, filled,
evidently with fruit and oil. The caballero picked up a bar of metal
from the counter, walked deliberately to the heap of jars, and crashed
the heavy bar down among them.
Señor Lopez jumped as if he had been shot, and turned to see the
caballero standing before the ruin, the inscrutable smile still upon
his lips. He raised the bar again, and again he crashed it among the
jars, sending fruit and oil to the floor.
“_Señor!_” Lopez cried.
“I thought that would make you find your voice. As for the damage,
I’ll pay it. Now suppose you open your lips and explain this strange
conduct, before I get genuinely angry and carry on the work of
destruction.”
Their eyes clashed for a moment, and then Lopez spoke:
“I open my lips this once, and after that, _señor_, perhaps you will go
back up El Camino Real and admit yourself a beaten man. San Diego de
Alcalá has a name for hospitality, it is true, but there is none even
here for Captain Fly-by-Night.”
“It seems to me,” said the caballero, “that I have heard that name
before.”
“It is known from San Francisco de Asis to San Diego de Alcalá,
_señor_, without credit to the man who bears it.”
“Indeed?”
“We play at words, _señor_, and that is not necessary. News of your
coming was received several days ago. When the news went up El Camino
Real that the good Señor Fernandez had gone the way of all flesh and
left to his fair daughter, Anita, and her very distant relative,
Rojerio Rocha, the fortune and broad acres he had acquired by a
lifetime of hard work and danger, you boasted, before the body of the
_señor_ was scarcely cold in the ground, that here was a fair maid and
a fortune to be won, and that you could and would win them.”
“I boasted that, eh?”
“’Tis well known, Captain Fly-by-Night. You boasted loudly. Even when
it became known that Rojerio Rocha was to come down El Camino Real from
distant San Francisco de Asis and wed his distant relative, and be the
head of the great rancho, you boasted that, betrothal or no, you’d win
Señorita Anita and the rancho would be yours.”
“Indeed, _señor_?”
“Many a mission and presidio, and many a rancho, you have visited
during your career, Captain Fly-by-Night, always to leave behind you
broken hearts and empty purses. Your skill with the cards and dice,
it is said, is such as to be almost supernatural. There is another
explanation for it, of course. Your way with women, too, has been made
notorious. But never did you come near San Diego de Alcalá while Señor
Fernandez was alive, knowing well what to expect if you did. Now that
he is dead, you dare to come, after making your boasts.”
“I am learning things regarding myself,” said the caballero.
“When we heard of your boast, we considered what to do,” Lopez went
on. “Did the padres let the men of the mission whip you and send you
back up El Camino Real, as they should, you could say that you had no
chance, one man against so many score, and, moreover, the well-known
hospitality of San Diego de Alcalá would be outraged. So we decided
upon another course, Captain Fly-by-Night.
“The country is both long and broad, and we do not say you cannot
live in it. But so far as San Diego de Alcalá and its people are
concerned--ranch owner, fray, neophyte or soldier--you do not exist,
_señor_. No man, woman or child will speak to you. You can purchase
neither food nor wine here. The sweet _señorita_ whose name you have
insulted with your boasts will pass within half a dozen feet of you and
see you not. You will be a nothing, not given as much consideration as
a coyote. Do you understand me, _señor_?”
“You speak plainly enough,” the caballero replied.
“If you wish to remain under those conditions, we will make no effort
to prevent you. When Rojerio Rocha arrives--and he is expected within
a few days--and weds our fair Anita, being then in the position of a
husband, he may see fit to chastise you for your ill-timed boasts. If
you care to admit that you boasted once too often, and wish to return
to the north, there is grain and hay for your horse at the end of the
wall, and we will not call it theft if you feed your animal. Your
absence would be well worth the price of a few measures of grain.”
“That is all you have to say, Señor Lopez?”
“I have opened my lips to tell you how things stand, Captain
Fly-by-Night. Hereafter they shall remain closed in your presence.”
“If there should be some mistake about that boast----”
Lopez looked at the caballero, then turned toward the shelf and began
arranging the jars again. The anger was dying out of the face of
the caballero now, and the smile that came upon his lips was more
inscrutable than before.
“At least, I leave the coin in payment for the damage I have caused,”
he said; and started toward the door.
He heard the quick step of Lopez behind him, but did not turn. He threw
the door open wide, and stepped out. Something whizzed past his head
and struck the ground before him. He looked at it--the coin he had left
on the counter.
As he walked back across the plaza to where he had left his horse, the
caballero chuckled like a man well pleased. There was no anger in his
face or bearing now, no resentment, rather lively satisfaction. He
passed the giant Pedro talking with another neophyte, and when they
turned their backs to him and continued their conversation as if he had
not been near he laughed outright.
He led his horse from the plaza and down the slope, and there he
removed saddle and bridle and picketed the animal where green grass
grew along a trickling brook. Walking some distance from the mission
he shot a rabbit, and, carrying the game back to where he had left the
horse, he cleaned it with his knife, washed it in the creek, and hung
it up on a forked stick.
Then he arranged dry moss and grass for a fire, being particular to
build it where it could be seen easily from the guest house of the
mission and from the padres’ quarters; and he knew that every action
was being watched, that men and women might keep silent, but could not
curb their curiosity.
He had no flint and steel, neither did he know how to make fire by the
Indian method, and he found himself now facing a predicament. But there
were glass buttons on his cloak, and from one of them he made a burning
glass, and crouching over the dry grass focused the sun’s beams and in
time had a blaze.
He cooked the rabbit, ate it without salt, put more fuel on the fire,
then spread his cloak on the ground, picked up the guitar, and began
playing softly. Presently he sang, his voice ringing out across the
plaza and reaching the ears of those in the mission.
Now and then an Indian child came to the end of the adobe wall and
watched and listened. Men and women passed from hut to hut, but none
paid the slightest attention to him. Smoke poured from chimneys, and
there were odours of meals being prepared. His singing and playing
over for a time, the caballero sat with his back against a rock, his
sombrero tilted over his eyes, and rested.
Presently he saw the door of the guest house open, and out of it came
a vision of female loveliness that caused the caballero to catch his
breath. Behind her walked an elderly _duenna_ of proud carriage.
“This will be the fair Anita, with some _señora_ in attendance,” the
caballero chuckled. “I wonder if they intend paying me a visit?”
It looked it, for the girl led the way down the slope and toward the
creek, walking with head proudly lifted, the elderly _señora_ tripping
at her heels. They passed within twenty feet of the caballero, but the
girl did not look his way. The other woman, however, glanced at him
from the corners of her eyes, and he smiled at her curiosity.
They stopped beside the creek, and the girl filled a small jar with
water, and began arranging wild flowers in it, while the _señora_ stood
beside her, looking down the valley toward the presidio.
“To think,” voiced Anita Fernandez, “that a husband is to come to me up
El Camino Real all the way from San Francisco de Asis--a husband and
distant relative at one and the same time! To marry a man I never have
seen before--is that not a hardship, Señora Vallejo?”
“Rojerio Rocha,” Señora Vallejo replied, “undoubtedly will be a
gentleman, a pattern of a man and an excellent husband. There will be
ample time for courtship after he arrives; there is no need for rushing
the marriage ceremony. You do not have to wed him if he is not a proper
man.”
“But my father wished it,” Anita said.
“Your father knew that Rojerio Rocha had been left without much of the
world’s goods. He is of a very distant branch of the family; yet your
father desired to see him better equipped with wealth. He desired your
marriage to Rojerio Rocha, knowing the man’s good blood, but above all
things he would desire, were he still on earth, your happiness. You can
make up your mind, my dear Anita, after Rojerio Rocha arrives.”
“I wonder what he will be like, how he will appear, whether he can
smile and sing, and speak kindly.”
“All of that, whether it be Rocha or Fernandez blood in his veins,”
said Señora Vallejo.
“I shall, indeed, be glad to see him. How long it has been since a
stranger of quality came to us out of the north!”
The man beside the fire chuckled at that, and got up to walk slowly
down the slope toward them. Six feet away he swept his sombrero from
his head and bowed his best, and he smiled when he spoke.
“I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Señorita Anita Fernandez?”
he said.
“Señora Vallejo, did you speak?” asked the girl, without looking at the
man beside her.
“’Twas a coyote barked,” Señora Vallejo replied.
“Indeed, my poor voice may seem like the barking of a coyote to one
with a true musical ear,” the caballero said, “though some have said it
is near perfect in tone.”
“Are you mumbling, Señora Vallejo?” Anita demanded.
“I am not, Anita, dear. It is the wind whistling through the olive
trees.”
“Ah! We grow with acquaintance!” said the caballero, lightly. “At first
my voice sounded like the barking of a coyote, and now it sounds like
the whistling of the wind through the trees. We grow more musical,
indeed.”
Señora Vallejo bit her lip, and resolutely kept her face from that of
the man standing beside her.
“Do you suppose, Señora Vallejo,” asked Anita, “that the odious Captain
Fly-by-Night will have the audacity to come to San Diego de Alcalá, as
he boasted he would do? Has the man no brains at all, no sense of the
fitness of things? San Diego de Alcalá is no place for gamblers such as
he. He pollutes the plaza if he walks across it!”
“No doubt the creature is senseless enough to come,” said Señora
Vallejo. She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, and, in
dabbing, dropped it. In an instant the caballero was down upon one
knee, had picked up the handkerchief, and, remaining on one knee,
tendered it.
“Permit me, _señora_,” he said.
Señora Vallejo’s hand went out, but there flashed from the eyes of
Anita Fernandez a warning, and the hand was withdrawn. The caballero
arose and tendered the handkerchief again, to have Señora Vallejo turn
her back and face the girl.
“Perhaps, Anita dear, we should return now,” she said. “Evening
approaches, and there will be a fog rolling up the valley.”
“As you please, Señora Vallejo.”
The girl turned from the creek and started walking up the slope. The
caballero stood in the path before her, determined. Anita Fernandez
stopped, and seemed to look through him and at the mission beyond. From
the adobe wall hurried Pedro, the giant neophyte, who had been watching
and feared an affront to the women.
“You are being annoyed, _señorita_?” he asked.
“How could that be?” she demanded, laughing lightly. “There is none
here to annoy me, unless it be Señora Vallejo.”
“I beg your pardon, _señorita_. I thought I heard someone speak.”
“’Twas but the distant barking of a coyote, Pedro. You may follow us to
the guest house, if you wish. I will give you something for your little
girl.”
They started toward the caballero again and for a moment it seemed that
they must recognise his presence. But Anita Fernandez had a subterfuge
to prevent that. Just before reaching him, she turned aside, and the
others followed.
“I must speak to the padre about the neophytes allowing rubbish to
collect so near the mission,” she said. “It always should be burned.
Look at the stuff here!”
She pointed to the caballero’s cloak, and with one tiny foot she kicked
scornfully at the guitar. Then she swerved back toward the path again,
and the others followed her toward the plaza. The caballero picked up
the guitar and pressed his lips to the place where her foot had struck,
knowing well that Señora Vallejo was watching him, though she pretended
not to be.
He looked after them until the girl and woman had passed around the
end of the adobe wall and Pedro had gone to his own hut. Darkness was
gathering rapidly now; lights appeared in the buildings; before the
door of the storehouse sat a circle of men, talking and laughing,
sipping bowls of wine. Sitting on the ground, his back against a rock,
the caballero watched the scene.
“A beautiful woman,” he mused. “Proud, spirited, kind though she does
not suspect it, naturally intelligent, very much to be desired.”
One by one the lights in the buildings disappeared. The men before the
storehouse crept away to rest. A fray called to a neophyte standing
guard. And then there was no noise save for the singing of the breeze
through the orchard, and the distant howling of a coyote.
Presently the caballero arose and picked up his guitar, and crept up
the slope until he reached the adobe wall. He followed it to the end of
the plaza; made his way slowly through the darkness to the guest house.
There he stationed himself below an open window and began playing
softly. Several minutes he played, knowing a neophyte stood a score
of feet away, watching; and then he began to sing a love song of Old
Spain, a song of strong men and fair women. Between two verses he heard
the voice of Señora Vallejo.
“Anita, child, do you hear?”
“Yes, Señora Vallejo,” the girl replied, clearly. “The coyotes are
growing bold again. One is howling now beneath my window.”