TWO TALKS, AND A TUNNEL
The siesta hour was over; the caballero had spent it in proper fashion
in his teepee; and now, standing out in the open, he was feeding tufts
of hay to his horse and caressing the animal’s neck and nose.
Half a hundred yards away the two soldiers from the presidio regarded
him with animosity, holding him to blame for their assignment at the
mission, where none had love for them, and their absence from the
barracks-room and its wine and cards, tales and laughter.
Neophytes and frailes had finished their work of repairing the adobe
wall; men were grouped about the plaza; children played about the huts
of tule and straw; the door of the storehouse was open and Señor Lopez
stood in it talking to Pedro, the giant neophyte apparently in the
service of the guest house.
Though it appeared so, yet it was not bravado that drove the caballero
to cross the plaza then. It was necessity; for he had given his horse
the water that remained in the jug, and needed more, and remembered
that there was a well in the orchard.
Swinging the jug by one hand, he started briskly up the slope toward
the wall, realising that one of the soldiers was following him at a
distance, and that the other remained behind to watch the teepee.
An Indian lounging beside the chapel called to another, and the
word was passed along. Señor Lopez straightened up and observed the
caballero’s advance; Pedro followed him inside, and the door was
closed. Indian women called their children into the huts; the men
remained standing in groups, but closer together, and as they talked
they watched the caballero from beneath shaggy brows. Frailes went
about their business as if he did not exist.
“It is a pleasant thing,” he mused, “to be treated in this manner by
human beings.”
He did not betray what he felt, however. Singing under his breath as
he walked around the end of the wall, he started diagonally across the
plaza, looking neither to right nor left. Neophytes turned their backs
upon him, and as he passed within half a dozen feet of a fray, and
called a greeting in a cheery tone, the Franciscan did not answer, did
not even lift his head.
He came to the wall around the orchard and swung upon it--and there
stopped, poised, facing the unexpected. Señorita Anita Fernandez,
Señora Vallejo and a neophyte were walking toward the well.
It was not a time for hesitation, however. He sprang down on the inside
and started forward, whistling, knowing they were aware of his approach
and that the girl was whispering warnings to her _duenna_. The neophyte
had filled a water jug and would have turned back, but the girl
instructed him to wait, and remained standing near the well, looking
down the valley toward the bay. Her face was flaming, her black eyes
snapped.
“Pardon, _señorita_,” the caballero said. “Perhaps it may look badly
to you, but I give you my word of honour I did not see you enter the
orchard and purposely follow you here, even though your _duenna_ is
present. I am of a family that observes the conventions, _señorita_, no
matter what may be said of me.”
“Señora Vallejo, when will you cease mumbling to yourself?” the girl
demanded.
“I? Mumbling? ’Tis but a frog croaking in the well.”
“That comes from sleeping on the wet ground,” the caballero observed.
“When last we met my voice resembled the sighing of the gentle wind
through the olive trees, if memory serves me right.”
Señora Vallejo had turned her back, but the caballero could see that
her shoulders were shaking, and not with anger. Señorita Anita was
deeply interested in the distant flashing of sun on the water.
“Even such rain as we have had recently could not drown my ardour,” the
caballero continued. “Yet it was growing almost unbearable--the storm
and the cold and misery. How can I ever find thanks enough to give the
angel who fetched me flint and steel under cover of the darkness, when
I had about given up hope?”
The girl whirled suddenly, suspiciously, looking not at the caballero,
but at her _duenna_; and Señora Vallejo’s face resembled the sunset.
“Nor is that all,” went on the caballero. “Flint and steel might have
given me fire, but naught but an angel could have furnished me, at that
moment, with cold meat and wine and other supplies.”
Now Señora Vallejo whirled in her turn, and Señorita Anita turned
suddenly to look down the valley again, her face flaming red. A choking
sound came from her throat.
“Some fray of San Diego de Alcalá must have been a holy man, since
angels make dwelling here,” the man said. “For two visited me last
night within the space of half an hour and left material evidences of
their visits behind. It is true I had other visitors later, who left
me even a teepee, but scarcely would I call them angels, knowing their
breed as I do.”
Sombrero in hand, he waited, hoping the girl would speak to him, if
even in rebuke. There was silence for a moment, during which the two
women did not look at each other, and the neophyte wondered whether he
should call for aid.
“Señora Vallejo,” said the girl, presently, “do you not think we should
be returning to the guest house? The evening air is cold, and I would
not contract a cough, since I must be at my best when Rojerio Rocha
comes.”
“It would be the proper thing to do; the orchard is wet.”
“And I always did dislike a croaking frog,” Anita added. “Tell that
Indian to throw out the water in his jar. Nobody except a senseless
being would draw water from the well now, since the storm has filled
it with the surface flood.”
The caballero felt his face growing red as he glanced down at the jug
he held in his hand. The girl had scored again. He looked up quickly,
hearing them start to move away, and for an instant their eyes met
squarely.
“Bullet nor arrow can harm me now!” he exclaimed. “My heart already is
pierced!” And, with that last shot, he turned toward the curb of the
well, put his jug down upon it, and stood with his back turned toward
them, laughing to himself.
He heard the girl gasp in exasperation, and exchange whispered
sentences with her _duenna_. There was a step on the ground at his
back, but not for the world would he turn.
“_Señor_,” a soft voice said.
He turned now, and swept his sombrero from his head again, and bowed
low before her. Her face was still flaming, but she looked him bravely
in the eyes.
“_Señorita?_”
“I feel that I must speak to you this once, _señor_. For the boasts you
made concerning me, I forgive you freely, believing that they would
not have been made unless you were in your cups. But surely you must
realise that nothing can be accomplished by remaining at San Diego de
Alcalá. The people dislike you, _señor_, and your presence is very
annoying because of that. Will you not go back up El Camino Real?”
“That you forgive anything I may have said pleases me, _señorita_,” the
caballero replied. “It shows you have a gentle heart, as was shown
last night when you carried me food. I am desolated to think you have
such an ill opinion of me. As for leaving San Diego de Alcalá--I cannot
think of that just now, _señorita_.”
“Not even if I ask it as a kindness, _señor_?”
“Not even though you ask it, _señorita_--and I would do it for you
sooner than for anyone else I know.”
“It is not pretty compliments I wish, _señor_. Will you not forget your
foolish boast, and go?”
“If ever I made a boast, _señorita_, it was not a foolish one.”
“I urge you again, _señor_, to go before Rojerio Rocha comes. He is
expected to become my husband, and when he hears of your boast he may
take it upon himself to do something unpleasant. Will you not do as I
request, since I have disobeyed my _duenna’s_ orders and lowered myself
to speak with you?”
“_Lowered_ yourself, _señorita_?” Surprise, astonishment, a bit of pain
was in the voice, and the caballero’s face went white for an instant
as his fingers gripped the rim of his sombrero until it was torn. But
quickly he recovered his composure, and bowed before her again. “I
beg your pardon, _señorita_. But you mistake. It would be impossible
for you to lower yourself, since angels are above punishment and
accusation; it is myself--or any other man--who is elevated when you
condescend to take notice of his existence.”
“I--I should not have spoken as I did,” she stammered.
“You should speak exactly as you desire, _señorita_--always. It is your
privilege. As for me--it is my privilege to remain at San Diego de
Alcalá, not in opposition to your wishes, but because I--I have reason
to remain. And you yourself have made it impossible for me to leave
now.”
“I?”
“There was some question, I believe, of my punishment at the hands of
this Rojerio Rocha if I remained. That in itself is a very good reason
why I should not depart, _señorita_. Have you ever heard it said that I
am a coward?”
“I am sure you are not,” she replied, searching his face. “It takes a
brave man to depart in the face of a charge of cowardice, _señor_. Will
you not show your courage?”
“The point is well taken,” he observed. “But I have reason for
remaining, though mission and presidio and neophytes and gentiles turn
against me--a twofold reason, _señorita_. One part of it concerns that
of which, happily, you know nothing; and the other----”
“Well, _señor_?”
“I have seen you, _señorita_; I have heard your voice and looked into
your eyes. And I intend to win you for my wife, else have no wife at
all!”
“_Señor!_ You dare?”
“To speak the truth----?”
“I might have known insults would be my pay for speaking to you!”
“Is it an insult to have a gentleman say that he loves you above all
women he ever has seen, that he loved you when first he saw you, that
he hopes one day to call you wife?”
“It is an insult coming from such as you, _señor_!”
“Ah! I beg your pardon! I had forgotten for the time being my name and
station.”
“Captain Fly-by-Night would do well to always remember those things,
especially in the presence of reputable persons. I forgave you the
boast concerning myself, _señor_; but I cannot forgive you this latest
insult to my face. Go or remain as you will, your affairs are no
concern of mine longer, _señor_. Though you starve on the doorstep of
the chapel, I’ll not recognise your presence!”
Señora Vallejo had been calling in a soft voice for the past five
minutes. Now the girl turned from the caballero and hurried after her
_duenna_. Leaning against the curb of the well, he watched her until
she had disappeared through a hole in the wall and across the plaza.
He laughed softly to himself then, and picked up the water jug,
swinging it foolishly at his side, chagrined to think he had not
remembered that the water in the well would be ruined for the time
being, wondering if Señorita Anita really thought the jug a mere
subterfuge of his to follow her and seek conversation.
Turning, he looked down into the well. Surface water was seeping
through the rocks of the curb, and a few feet below the level of the
ground a torrent poured into the hole to splash far below.
“Where is that coming from?” the caballero wondered.
He walked to the other side of the curb and bent over to look better.
Ten feet from the top was the mouth of a small cavern in the side of
the well, and from this the water was pouring in a stream half a foot
deep and a _vara_ wide.
“Persons do not turn a drain into a well,” he observed, watching the
downpour. “There is something here that needs to be investigated.”
He glanced around. No other person was in the small orchard; none was
peering at him over the wall. It was almost dusk. Perhaps the soldier
who had followed him from the teepee was watching through a crack in
the adobe, but he could not be sure.
He picked up the jug and sauntered toward the wall, stopping where a
breach had been made, instead of springing over in the usual place. The
soldier had turned back, and was standing at one corner of the plaza
talking to a fray, and waiting.
The caballero ran back to the wall again, looked around quickly, and
let himself over the curb. Jutting rocks gave holds for his feet and
hands. He lowered himself rapidly, until he was at the mouth of the
small cavern.
The volume of water pouring out was not so great now. The cavern
was not a small storage-place for tallow, as he had half suspected,
but a tunnel. Now the spirit of exploration was on him, and he drew
himself inside. Foot by foot he made his way through the narrow gorge,
splashing in water and mud to his knees, the water dripping upon him
from the dirt roof.
Soon he had gone so far that light from the well did not penetrate, and
now he journeyed slowly, putting a foot out and feeling around before
attempting a step, fearing to be plunged into a pit or another well.
He had covered a distance of fifty yards when he came to a turning, and
there he stopped for a moment, hesitating whether to go on.
Then he heard voices, faintly at first, the voices of women, and
they seemed to come from above. He heard Señora Vallejo’s deep tones
raised in rebuke, the softer syllables of Señorita Anita Fernandez in
justification of her act. He put out his hand to touch the wall, and
found it dry and warm. The cracking of burning wood could be heard. The
tunnel ended against a wall of the guest house.
“Some wise old padre did this in the earlier days,” the caballero
observed. “I doubt whether half a dozen men in the mission know of its
existence now.”
But there was another tunnel that branched away from this, and in a
diagonal direction. The caballero followed it, determined to gather
what knowledge he could. Less than a hundred feet, and he came up
against another wall. There were no sounds here, but there was a thin
streak of light entering at the end.
He crept near the streak of light and applied his eyes to the crack.
The day was dying, and he could see but dimly, but enough to show that
he was looking into the mortuary chapel of the mission. Here, then, was
another way of escape in case of danger, provided by the frailes of
Serra’s time.
His exploration was at an end now, and he faced the long, wet return
journey through the tunnel to the well. He shivered at the thought
of it, and decided it should not be made. Again he looked through
the crack; there was no one in the chapel, and, moreover, the tunnel
entrance was in a dark corner. He put his fingers in the crack and
tried to pull. A section of the wall gave a little. He braced himself
against the side of the tunnel, exerted his strength, and a square of
adobe swung inward.
For a moment he waited, listening, then slipped into the chapel and
swung the section of wall back into place, even scattering dust along
the crack where his hands had gripped. Walking silently, he made
his way to the main part of the church, meeting no one, arousing no
suspicion. Presently he opened the door and stepped out into the
plaza. He was seen only by neophytes, and his presence there did not
arouse much curiosity among them, for even Captain Fly-by-Night, they
supposed, attended to his devotions and confessed his many sins.
At the corner of the plaza he came face to face with an agitated
soldier, who had looked back into the orchard, missed the caballero,
and searched frantically and without result. The caballero grinned in
the man’s red face, and walked slowly down the slope.
“Now from where, in the name of evil, did that man come?” the soldier
gasped. But he got no answer then, though he gathered a solution at a
later day.
The caballero was building up his fire and preparing the evening meal
when the soldier joined his companion beside the creek. Two neophytes
hurried down the slope and made camp for the men from the presidio,
building a fire and stretching a shelter of skins, and giving them food
and wine. Darkness came swiftly, and to those at the mission the two
fires beside the creek looked like the eyes of a giant beast about to
spring on the settlement.
The caballero did not attempt a serenade this night. He sat before his
fire, wondering what would occur at midnight, when the Indians were to
come. The presence of the soldiers complicated matters. He knew that
at least one of them was watching him, and that, if he started to move
away, one would follow.
The hours passed, slowly it seemed to the caballero. One by one the
lights in the mission buildings disappeared. The heavy fog obscured the
light of the moon and stars. A cold wind crept up the valley, and the
caballero wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and sat nearer the
fire.