TWO GOOD SAMARITANS
It is a matter of history--that big rain of a certain year. The
torrents poured from the sky at an unexpected time until the country
was drenched and tiny streams swollen, and watercourses that had
been dry were turned into turbulent yellow floods that carried on
the surface brush and grass and logs from the hills, menacing many a
rancho, undermining huts and adobe houses, ruining wells.
Returning from his ineffectual serenade, the caballero observed that
the stars were disappearing, but believed it was because of a fog that
came from the sea. As he reached the place where he had picketed his
horse and built his fire, a drop of water splashed on his cheek. At the
most, he anticipated nothing worse than half an hour’s shower, and so
he merely built up his fire and put some dry moss and grass to one side
under his cloak, and prepared to sleep on the ground.
He slept soundly after his long journey and the unexpected events of
the past two days. He awoke to find the fire out and a chill in his
body, to find that water was flowing down the slope about him, and the
ground but a sea of mud, with the torrent continuing to pour from the
sky.
It was not more than midnight and the storm gave no indication of
ceasing. The caballero stood up and threw aside his sodden cloak,
picked up guitar and sword and pistol, and left the camp to hurry in
the direction of the mission orchard.
It was so dark he could see nothing, and he could not locate a path.
Roots half washed from the ground tripped him, water flowed down the
back of his neck. On and on he stumbled, until he ran against the
orchard wall. He managed to get over it, carrying his property, and
searched for a place where the trees would shield him partially from
the storm.
He came to a giant palm and crept close to the bole where the wind
drove the rain against him, but where it was not quite so bad as in the
open. And there the caballero stood, hour after hour, gradually getting
colder and more miserable, hugging his guitar under one arm and his
sword under the other.
Dawn came, a grey dawn that made the world look dismal. He left the
semi-protection of the palm, went over the wall, and hurried back to
his camp. His horse was standing with back to the tempest, his head
hanging low, his tail tucked between his legs. Water was pouring down
the slope; the dry grass he had gathered was drenched; the little creek
was a roaring torrent rushing down the valley toward the sea.
The caballero was cold, hungry, miserable. Across the plaza he could
see smoke pouring from the chimneys, and to his nostrils came the odour
of food being prepared. The mission bells rang. Neophytes left their
huts to hurry toward the chapel. Señor Lopez came from the storehouse
and went to the guest house, carrying a huge umbrella made from skins,
and there Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo joined him and walked
across the plaza to the church beneath the protecting parasol. A fray
was placing stepping stones in the mud before the chapel door.
“I must have a fire!” the caballero remarked, to nobody in particular.
He walked some distance up the swollen creek, until he came to a
ledge of rock, and there he found some dry grass; but there was no
possibility, of course, of using the glass-button again, since the sun
was not shining. He collected a quantity of the grass and fired into it
with his pistol, but no spark caught. Again and again he fired, without
success, finally ceasing in disgust.
He went back and stood near the horse, looking up at the heavens. The
clouds were black, ominous; there was no decrease in the volume of
water that poured from the sky. There was no place near where he could
make a dry camp. And it was fire he needed--fire at which to warm
himself and dry his clothing and cook another rabbit, if he could kill
it.
For the remainder of his life he remembered that day and the two
following. Such misery he never had known before, nor knew afterward.
Now he crept into the wet orchard; now he braved the open on the slope.
At times he ran back and forth beside the raging creek, trying to warm
his blood by the exertion. Men and women of San Diego de Alcalá went
about their business, but none gave him attention.
Each hour seemed a day and each day a lifetime. His clothing was
soaked, his boots covered with muddy clay. He stood beside the horse
and looked at the mission buildings and at the smoke pouring from the
chimneys until he could bear to look no longer. Once he heard a child
laugh, and the laugh plunged him into the depths of despair.
He rattled the coins in his purse. Worthless they were here in San
Diego de Alcalá; and he would have traded them all for five minutes of
bright sunshine.
He began to grow desperate. Playing the game as the men and women of
the mission played it, they could not recognise his presence; so he
decided to walk boldly into the storehouse, to warm and dry himself
there, ignoring them as they ignored him. He would take what food he
desired, and throw money in payment for it down on the counter, and
walk out. They would have to recognise him to prevent it.
The caballero laughed wildly as he reached this decision and started up
the slope toward the plaza. He reached the door of the storehouse and
tried the latch, but the door was locked, for Señor Lopez had seen his
approach. He tried a window, and found that locked also. He went to the
guest house, to find the door fastened there.
For a moment he considered raiding one of the Indian huts, sword in
hand, but his pride came to him then; and he walked back down the
slope, his face flushed with shame because of what he already had done.
He would last it out, he determined! If he died of the cold and misery,
then he would die, but he would fight the battle alone without any
help from those of the mission.
And then he remembered the presidio.
Fool, not to have thought of it before! He laughed again, this time in
relief, as he put saddle and bridle on his horse, and then, waving his
hand in derision at the group of mission buildings, he galloped toward
the bay. There was the presidio only six miles away, where a caballero
could get food and wine and have companionship while he dried his
clothes before the roaring fire!
He rode like the wind along the highway, facing the storm as it blew in
from the sea, his horse running gladly, plunging down wet embankments,
splashing through the mud, wading streams where there had been no water
twenty-four hours before. Up the road toward the structure on the crest
of the knoll, the caballero forced his steed. Before the gate stood a
sentry with a musket on his arm. The sound of laughter came from the
barracks-room, and it carried cheer to the caballero’s heart. Smoke
poured from the chimney, the odour of cooking meat was in the damp air.
The sentry’s musket came up and his challenge rang out. Through the
gate the caballero could see an officer standing in the door of the
nearest building.
“Your business?” the sentry demanded.
“Take me to your commanding officer! Call an Indian to care for my
horse!”
The sentry’s cry was answered. A corporal came running across the
enclosure, an Indian at his heels. They stopped short when they saw the
caballero; the Indian looked frightened, the corporal grinned.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I want to see your commanding officer,” the caballero said. “I have
had enough rain without waiting here for you to make up your mind.”
“Dismount and follow me,” the corporal said.
The Indian went forward and took the horse by the bit. A muddy and
bedraggled caballero got stiffly out of the wet saddle and paced
through the sticky clay to the door of the barracks-room. The officer
was still standing there; he had scarcely moved.
“I want food, wine, a chance to dry my clothing and get warm,” the
caballero said. “There seems to be a superabundance of rain just now at
San Diego de Alcalá.”
“Did you ask hospitality at the mission?” the lieutenant wanted to know.
The caballero’s face flushed as he met the other’s eyes.
“Your manner,” he replied, “tells me you know of my reception at the
mission. I did not look for the same sort of reception here. I have a
pass from his excellency that should command respect.”
The caballero handed over the pass, which was wet, and the officer
glanced over it.
“The pass is regular, caballero,” he said, “except that it does not
name you. It cannot, therefore, have weight with me.”
“Do you mean to say you will not extend the ordinary hospitality of the
road?”
“In a few words I can tell you where this presidio stands regarding
yourself,” the lieutenant answered. “Your recent boast concerning an
estimable young lady is well known, Captain Fly-by-Night. Also is your
general reputation. Soldiers, ordinarily, welcome a man of your ilk, if
he is merry and given to gambling, even if he cheats with the cards.
But Señorita Anita Fernandez stands in the relation of daughter of our
company, _señor_. Not a man of the post who would not die for her.
And when the priests and people of the mission decide you are beneath
their notice, we of the presidio stand with them, even though in other
matters the mission and the presidio are as far apart as north and
south.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed, caballero. In regard to the pass--so far as I know, it may
have been stolen. I’ll stand any consequences that may come from
refusing to honour it.”
They faced each other while a man could have counted ten, the eyes
of neither flinching, hands clenched, breath coming in quick gasps,
each waiting for the other to make the first move. Like lightning the
caballero’s mind acted then.
He looked into the future and into the past, considering things of
which the lieutenant did not know. And in that instant of time he
decided that it would be the honourable thing to accept a slight now
for the good that might come from it later.
“You refuse me hospitality?” he asked again.
“I do, _señor_.”
“There may come a time when I shall call you to account for it,
officer.”
“You cannot taunt me into a quarrel, caballero. It was expected that
such would be your method when you found yourself ostracized, and it
was agreed that none would accommodate you. An officer of standing,
moreover, does not fight with an adventurer who lives by his wits and
his ability to insult women and swindle men.”
The caballero choked in sudden rage and his hand went toward the hilt
of his sword. But thoughts of the future came to him again, and he took
a step backward and swept off his sombrero in a stately bow.
“For the time being, it shall be as you say, officer,” he said. “But
do not doubt that there will be a reckoning, and when it comes I shall
take the matter into my own hands, not hand you over to court-martial
for ignoring his excellency’s pass.”
He turned his back and started toward the gate.
“A moment, caballero,” the lieutenant called. “While we have decided
not to hold intercourse with you in a social way, it does not follow
that you are entirely ignored. There are alert eyes about you, _señor_.
And treason has a merited reward!”
“May I ask your meaning?”
“Leave a picketed horse long enough, _señor_, and he’ll throw himself
with his own rope. I trust my meaning is clear?”
“As clear as the sky at present, _señor_,” the caballero replied. “I
shall recommend to his excellency, when next I greet him, that he
place an officer with brains at San Diego de Alcalá!”
He sprang to the saddle and spurred the horse cruelly. Back along the
road toward the mission he urged the animal at utmost speed, careless
of the treacherous ground and of what a stumble might mean. Once more
he reached the slope before the mission, and picketed the horse. He
stacked the saddle and bridle together, got his guitar from a corner by
the orchard wall and put it with them, and covered all with his cloak.
Then he started up the slope, walking swiftly.
He had but a remnant of his pride left and did not think it necessary
under the circumstances to conserve that. He went around the end of the
wall and splashed across the plaza, scarcely looking at the neophytes
and frailes. Straight to the church he went, opened the door, and
entered. He made his way to the chapel. There was sanctuary; there none
could molest him without special order; and here he stubbornly decided
to remain.
But there was no warmth, no food, no drink. A couple of candles glowed.
A padre knelt. Two neophytes were at work patching a hole in the wall.
The caballero paced back and forth in the narrow aisle, listening to
the beating of the storm outside, wondering whether a fray would speak
to him and offer relief.
The neophytes went out, and in time the padre followed. The caballero
did not speak as he passed, for he felt that the other would not
answer. He wondered whether the entire world had turned against him. He
contrasted his present condition with the hospitality he had received
at Santa Barbara and San Fernando, and in the adobe house of Gonzales
at Reina de Los Angeles. He longed for the companionship of the aged
Indian at San Luis Rey de Francia, for his poor hut and coarse food and
hard bunk.
And then his pride returned to him in a surge. He would seek sanctuary
in no chapel where his presence was not welcomed by all!
Out into the rain he went again, across the plaza, down the slope
to where he had picketed his horse. Back and forth he ran to warm
his blood. The sky darkened, the night came. He saw the lights in
the buildings again, and the odours of cooking food almost drove him
frantic. In the guest house, someone was singing. He guessed that it
was Señorita Anita Fernandez.
He spent that night in the orchard under the big palm, shivering
because of the cold and his wet clothes, miserable because of his
hunger, and when the dawn came, and the storm had not abated, he went
back to the horse with an armful of dry grass he had found in the
corner by the orchard wall.
Bravado came to him now. He took the guitar from beneath his cloak,
and, standing out on the slope where all could see, he played and sang
at the top of his voice.
Still it rained, and the creek grew broader, flooding the highway and
threatening the plaza wall. The caballero sat on the muddy ground, his
cloak over his head, huddled forward, grim, awaiting the end of the
rain.
“The poor man!” observed Señora Vallejo, watching from a window of the
guest house.
“He has brought it upon himself,” Señor Lopez reminded her. “Had he
returned when I warned him he would have been in comfort somewhere
along the highway long since.”
“If the rain could but wash his soul as it does his body!” sighed
Anita, standing closer to the big fireplace.
“The man will die,” Señora Vallejo said. “His clothing is soaked, and
he cannot build a fire and cook food.”
“Perhaps it will teach him a lesson,” Lopez snarled. “We must watch; he
may try to break into the storehouse to-night.”
“Listen! He is singing again,” Anita called.
“Oh, the man has courage enough!” Lopez said. “They tell a thousand
stories of his daring. The men at one of the missions were going to
whip him down the highway once, and he sang them out of it. Moreover,
he got them to play at cards, and finally went down the highway with a
drove of mules loaded with goods he had won.”
“You are certain all the stories are true?” the girl asked.
“More stories are true than you may be told, _señorita_. It is best not
to ask too much,” Señora Vallejo put in; and she frowned a warning at
the storekeeper.
They sat down to the evening meal, to a table loaded with food as if
for a feast. The man down on the slope was still singing.
“Perhaps he will go away after the storm,” Anita suggested. “He will be
too miserable to remain.”
“And when the story gets up and down El Camino Real, he will be forced
to leave the country,” Lopez added. “He is the sort of man who cannot
stand ridicule.”
Darkness descended swiftly that night, and down beside the swollen
creek the caballero, now downhearted, tried to think of some expedient
that would make his lot better. When the lights were burning brightly
in the guest house, he took his guitar and slipped across the plaza, to
stand beneath Anita’s window again and play and sing. The howling of
the wind almost drowned his voice, and he doubted whether those inside
could hear. Once the giant Pedro walked within a dozen feet of him, but
did not speak, and the caballero knew that he was being watched.
He crept into the orchard again, and for a time slept on the wet ground
because of his exhaustion, and as he slept the rain pelted him and
water dripped upon him from the fronds. Awaking to face another dawn,
the third day of the downpour, his face and hands were tender from the
continual washing of the water, and his hunger had become a pain.
The rain ceased about midday, but the sun did not come from behind
the clouds. Behind a jumble of rocks half a mile up the valley, the
caballero removed some of his clothes and wrung the water from them
as well as he could before he put them on again. He scraped the clay
from his boots; and searched beneath the rocks until he found a small
quantity of dry grass and sticks, getting them ready for his fire when
the sun should shine.
But the drizzle continued, and the sun did not show its face. The
caballero stood beside the creek and watched the rushing stream,
one arm around the neck of his horse. Less than a hundred feet away
neophytes were toiling to strengthen the adobe wall where the water had
undermined it, a couple of frailes giving them orders; but none spoke
to the caballero or looked his way.
Again night came. He sat on a rock at the edge of the creek, thoroughly
miserable, hoping that the sun would shine on the morrow, that he’d be
able to kill a rabbit for food. He thought he heard someone splashing
through the mud, and looking around, saw a dark shape approach.
Something struck the ground at his feet, and he saw the dark shape
retreat again. The caballero took a few steps and picked up a package;
he tore away the wrapper--and found flint and steel!
The caballero chuckled now and hurried to the pile of dry grass and
twigs he had collected. Soon the welcome blaze sprang up. He threw on
more fuel, stretched his hands to the fire, spread his cloak to dry. He
was too busy now to speculate as to the identity of his benefactress;
for he had guessed that it was a woman who had befriended him, else a
gowned fray, and he doubted the latter.
The fire roared, and the caballero stood near it, first facing the
blaze and then letting it warm his back, while the steam poured from
his wet clothes. The fire was good, but he needed food also--he would
have to wait for morning for that, he supposed.
Another sound of someone slipping on the wet ground, and the caballero
whirled around and looked up the slope. But there was silence, and
he did not hear the sound again. Once more he faced the fire, and
presently the sound of footsteps came to him, and this time he did not
turn.
The steps stopped, retreated, and he felt sure that he heard a bit of
laughter carried to him on the rushing wind. He waited an instant,
then walked slowly up the slope toward his horse. He came upon another
package. Hurrying back to the fire, he opened it. There was a roast leg
of mutton, a bottle of wine, cold cakes of wheat-paste, a tiny package
of salt, a jar of honey!
With the roast leg of mutton in his hands he did not stop to wonder as
to the good samaritan who had left the package there. He ate until the
last of the roast had been devoured; drank deeply of the invigorating
wine; stored honey and cakes and salt away in his cloak, and then he
sat before the fire thinking the world considerably better than it
had been an hour before. Now and then he chuckled, and his eyes were
sparkling.
For, when he had gone to pick up the second package, he had carried a
brand from the fire to light his way, and he had seen footprints in the
soft clay.
They had not been made by Señora Vallejo, for he had noticed three
evenings before down by the creek that the feet of Señora Vallejo were
not of the daintiest. Neither had they been made by some Indian woman
from one of the huts, since those women always wore moccasins.
They had been made by two tiny shoes with fashionable heels, such as
might have been imported from Mexico for the daughter of a wealthy
rancho owner!