A VICTOR RUNS AWAY
An hour after sunrise an Indian rode a mule furiously up the valley
from the presidio. The beast was covered with lather and dust, and
the rider appeared half exhausted. His screeching awoke the sleeping
caballero, who went out of the teepee and looked toward the plaza to
note the cause of the uproar.
Frailes and neophytes crowded around the mule’s rider and questioned
eagerly. Señor Lopez came from the storehouse to hear the news, and the
caballero could see that his face was illuminated with a smile as he
hurried across to the guest house, where he knocked on the door.
The door opened and Señora Vallejo appeared, Señorita Anita Fernandez
beside her. Words were passed. Señora Vallejo turned and clasped the
girl in her arms; the _señorita_ hid her face against the _duenna’s_
shoulder; Señor Lopez laughed loudly, and a passing fray raised arms in
blessing.
Indian women and children began running about, busy at nothing in
particular. Lopez began giving wine to any who asked it. Straw was
thrown on the mud near buildings where the sun had not penetrated
enough to turn the wet clay to dust. One by one, men walked to the end
of the wall and gazed down El Camino Real toward the bay.
“One would think San Diego de Alcalá expected a visit from His
Excellency the Governor!” the caballero gasped. “Nothing like this
transpired when I came off the highway and graced the mission with my
presence.”
And then, an hour before noon, a dust cloud approached from the north.
It did not stop at the presidio, this dust cloud, but continued up the
valley, and in time it was dispelled enough for the caballero to see
that the riders were two in number, and that they were followed by a
pack mule compelled to cover the ground at a gallop.
Neophytes covered the top of the adobe wall to watch; frailes ran here
and there about the plaza calling orders that were given no attention;
and Señor Lopez, standing in the doorway of the storehouse beside
the giant Pedro, jested loudly as he quaffed wine, but in words the
caballero could not hear. The two soldiers who had been the caballero’s
guards partook of the excitement, and left the shore of the creek to
climb the slope and join in the enthusiasm.
The riders came nearer; one was a man well dressed, with his
bright-coloured zarape flowing behind him; the other was an Indian who
rode a mule. The red dust of the highway covered them, but they sat
their saddles like men newly mounted, though it was evident they had
travelled the forty miles from San Luis Rey de Francia that morning.
And now the neophytes were sending their cries down the valley:
“Rojerio Rocha! A welcome to Rojerio Rocha! Welcome to the _señorita’s_
husband-to-be!”
Suddenly the caballero began to give more interest in the proceeding.
“Rojerio Rocha, eh?” he mused. “The husband-to-be of Señorita Anita?
Upon my soul, this is to be interesting. I presume I’ll have an
interview with the gentleman before the end of the day. Well, I am
prepared for it. Have at you, Señor Rojerio Rocha!”
He laughed aloud like a man enjoying an excellent joke, and standing
beside the teepee watched the arrival with wide and glistening eyes.
The riders stopped at the end of the adobe wall in a cloud of dust, the
Indian a short distance in the rear to handle the pack mule. His master
swept sombrero from head, bowed, and dismounted. Neophytes held back,
but the frailes crowded forward and around him, and Señor Lopez, making
his way through the crowd like a ship through tossing waves, stalked
toward the new-comer with arms extended and moustaches lifted by a
broad smile.
“A welcome, Rojerio Rocha!” he called. “Welcome to San Diego de Alcalá!
No man is more welcome than you!”
“I thank you,” the new arrival said. He stood beside his horse, one arm
over the animal’s neck. Señor Lopez noted that he had broad shoulders
and a high brow, that he was handsome, that his moustache was curled
in the approved fashion and his clothing bore the stamp of mode. He
appeared such a man as those at San Diego de Alcalá had hoped he would
be, for it was fitting that the co-heir of old Señor Fernandez should
have appearance and dignity.
“How like you his looks, _señorita_?” Señora Vallejo asked of the girl,
as they stood in the doorway of the guest house, and the crowd parted
for an instant so they could see.
“Splendidly! If his disposition is as good----”
“Tut! Is he not a Rocha, a distant relative of the Fernandez family?
You can see it in the way he stands beside his horse. Blood always will
tell, dear child.”
The rider’s piercing eyes swept the company, passed over the heads of
those nearest, and rested for a moment on the girl in the doorway.
Señor Lopez hurled a neophyte out of his way and took a step forward,
while all fell silent and waited for the first words to fall from the
lips of the old _señor’s_ heir.
“It gives me great pleasure, Rojerio Rocha,” Lopez said, “to welcome
you to San Diego de Alcalá. I am Señor Lopez, and was Señor Fernandez’s
manager at the rancho for many years before he passed away. It was I
who wrote you the letter the _señor_ signed telling that he wished you
to inherit his property, together with his fair daughter, Anita, and
expressing the hope that you two would find it in your hearts to wed.
So I welcome you to San Diego de Alcalá on behalf of every man and
woman here, and may you be pleased with your inheritance.”
It was a glorious smile that illuminated the face of the man addressed.
For a moment he looked them over again, then extended his hand, and
Lopez grasped it warmly.
“Your welcome overcomes me,” he said. “I had scarce expected it.”
“You might have known, Rojerio Rocha, that we would be glad to welcome
you,” Lopez replied.
“I was not certain, not knowing the goodness of your heart. Now, as to
my inheritance----?”
“The rancho of many broad acres lies five miles to the west, _señor_.
Neophytes and gentiles are employed there, and we have, indeed, a happy
family. Since the old _señor_ died his daughter and _duenna_ and myself
have been residing in the guest house here at the mission awaiting your
coming, but I have gone out every few days to observe how things are
being cared for on the rancho. You will find storehouses full, _señor_,
and the flocks and herds doing well, and besides, you inherit the good
will of every man, woman and child in and around San Diego de Alcalá.
And now--the _señorita_----”
“To be sure--the _señorita_!”
He continued smiling as Lopez took him by the arm and led him through
the throng to the door of the guest house. His eyes met those of
Anita as Lopez introduced them, and the girl’s face flushed. It was
disconcerting for her thus to meet this man for the first time, knowing
he was to be her husband.
She responded to his formal bow, and then would have taken Señora
Vallejo by the arm and led the way into the guest house, but found it
impossible, for the new-comer stepped forward quickly and took her
hand and bent and kissed it.
“In all the length of El Camino Real, _señorita_,” he said, “I am sure
there is not as much grace and beauty as I find here and now in this
one little spot. The sight of you is worth a journey of hundreds of
miles.”
And then, before she guessed what he intended, he had bent forward
swiftly and pressed a kiss upon her cheek. The red flamed in her face
and throat, and Señora Vallejo gasped in dismay and Señor Lopez looked
surprised, but the men and women of the mission cheered.
Up the steps and into the guest house they made their way, while the
caballero, down by the creek, turned to enter the teepee. The smile was
gone from the caballero’s face now; his eyes were narrowed as if he
were thinking deeply. And so he took stock of his rival, who had gained
the first kiss, although it was no better than a stolen one.
In the guest house there was a welcoming feast, because the old
_señor’s_ heir was just off the highway and fatigued, with the
new-comer sitting at the head of the table presiding with as much
dignity as old Señor Fernandez at his rancho ever had.
Señorita Anita was at his right hand, Señora Vallejo at his left; four
frailes sat at table, and Señor Lopez contented himself with a place
at the foot of it, looking upon the others with a solemn face, like a
man bowed under the heavy responsibilities of a big business. He was
wondering whether the old _señor’s_ heir would retain him as manager.
Señora Vallejo yearned for news of San Francisco de Asis, where once
she had been a toast, and was accommodated with a rambling story of
the doings of persons of quality there. Señor Lopez spoke of the old
branches of the Fernandez and Rocha families, and thought nothing of
it when the subject was changed adroitly, for he knew that the Rocha
branch had fallen upon evil days the past two generations, and retained
little of their once great fortune, though they retained their stiff
pride.
Anita, now smiling, and laughing at times, watched the guest keenly,
trying to estimate him, and found herself puzzled. Old wine was
opened by one of the frailes, and she saw the man at the head of the
table drink long and deeply. Little by little his dignity and poise
slipped from him. His laugh became louder and not so merry, for there
was sarcasm in the sound of it. His jests too, were not strictly in
accordance with good taste.
Señora Vallejo bit her lips and frowned; the face of Lopez remained
inscrutable--for who was he to question the conduct of the old
_señor’s_ heir? But little Anita Fernandez, excusing herself prettily,
arose and left the table, to go to a window and stand there looking out
across the plaza, with dread in her heart, a feeling she neither could
understand nor explain.
For some time she stood there with her back to the table, biting her
red lips, watching the neophytes going about their work, and then she
heard the others get up, and turned to see the old _señor’s_ heir
stagger toward her.
“Most beautiful _señorita_, I am going out with this Señor Lopez
to meet the men of the mission,” he said. “’Twill be lonesome,
nevertheless, until I am again with you. This evening, _señorita_, we
shall take a walk in the orchard, with your _duenna_ dodging about our
heels, and at such a time a man may talk of things other than business.”
He lurched forward as if to kiss her again, but she avoided him and
stepped back to bow.
“_Señor_,” she said, “I dislike to mar your welcome, yet there is a
thing that should receive attention at once.”
“And that----?” he questioned.
“Has not Señor Lopez told you of Captain Fly-by-Night and his boast?
The man is here, has been here for several days, though he is treated
as a nothing.”
“Captain Fly-by-Night? Here?”
“He has received a teepee and supplies from gentiles, and is camped
down by the creek. His presence is an insult to me, _señor_, but we
had decided to do nothing about the matter until your arrival. In the
orchard last evening he was even bold enough to speak to me, and his
words were words of--love. Shall this be allowed to pass?”
“He is camped down by the creek, eh?”
“He is, _señor_,” Lopez put in.
“Captain Fly-by-Night, you said?”
“It is the name he is called.”
“What would you have me do?”
Anita’s face flamed again.
“If it is necessary to tell you that, _señor_, then I am disappointed
in you,” she said. “Rojerio Rocha should know how to protect the woman
he is expected to make his wife.”
“I shall interview the _señor_ immediately. The boast he made is known
to me.”
“Allow me to accompany you, _señor_,” Lopez said.
“Thank you, but this is my private business. I’ll take my Indian
servant, and go at once!”
He spoke as a caballero should speak, and the girl’s eyes grew
brighter; and while the look in his face was not one of fear, yet it
was scarcely one of determination, and that puzzled her a bit.
He seemed to throw off the effects of the heavy wine with a shrug of
his shoulders as he walked to the door. Señor Lopez followed him out
and called for the neophyte, and went with them to the end of the adobe
wall. There they spoke for a moment, and then the guest hurried down
the slope toward the teepee, the Indian at his heels. His hand was on
the hilt of his sword, his head held high, his shoulders thrown back.
Anita and Señora Vallejo watched from the window.
The soldiers had returned to the post beside the creek, and the
caballero watching them from the door of his teepee, saw them get up
and glance toward the plaza. His own attention thus being attracted in
that direction, he observed the advance of the latest new-comer to the
mission.
He remained sitting on the skin before the doorway polishing the silver
on his saddle, and did not look up as the other approached. Steps
stopped beside him, there was a chuckle, then a voice:
“By all the good saints! It is Claudio!”
“Even so, _señor_,” replied the caballero, raising his head now, and
getting slowly upon his feet, “and you owe me two pieces of gold. That
was the wager, I believe, that you would be at San Diego de Alcalá
before me.”
“So it was, caballero, and here are the coins. Ill luck attended me,
while good fortune attended you.”
“Indeed?”
“This neophyte who trots at my heels--the same who served us at the
Santa Barbara presidio--had a brother who possessed a horse, and I
purchased it, also a mule, and got the neophyte for guide. I was not
more than four hours behind you, _señor_, in starting.”
“But--in arriving----?”
“Things came to pass, _señor_. At San Fernando I made the acquaintance
of a fray who wined and dined me so well that I slept overlong,
afterward telling me, while I cursed, that he had done it because he
feared I would kill my horse with riding. Arriving at the pueblo of
Reina de Los Angeles, I made my way quickly to the inn----”
“Expecting to find me with my throat slit?” asked the caballero.
“Um! By rare good fortune, for you, it appears you did not visit the
inn. I was somewhat surprised to hear it. But I felt that my chagrin
was appeased when I met a certain man named Gonzales, a jovial fellow
who insisted in playing host to me, purchasing wine, and playing cards.”
“And losing?”
“I believe I was the more fortunate in the game. Afterward I felt sure
this same Gonzales had been losing his wealth purposely, to delay me on
my journey.”
“Who can tell?” said the caballero.
“I was well received at San Juan Capistrano--then came the storm. By
the good saints, how it did rain!”
“I can swear as to that, _señor_, having been out in all of it.”
“I managed to reach San Luis Rey de Francia in time, and there the
storm held me up again. These things, _señor_, delayed me so that I
could not win my wager, but even these things would not have caused me
to lose had you spent the night in the inn at Reina de Los Angeles.”
“I can well imagine that.”
“And now they tell me here at the mission that you are Captain
Fly-by-Night, somewhat of a notorious personage.”
“So they call me, _señor_.”
“You perhaps heard them hail me as Rojerio Rocha? I have inherited a
great rancho, it seems, and am to wed a fair _señorita_.”
“Would it not be better, _señor_, to leave the lady out of our
conversation?” the caballero asked.
“Perhaps; there are weightier things to be discussed. It seems, dear
Claudio, that your presence here displeases those of the mission. They
tell me you made certain ill-timed boasts concerning a young lady and
her fortune, and the lady mentions you went as far as to speak to her
of love.”
“Enough, _señor_! We are not discussing a lady here.”
“Let us talk, then, of yourself, Captain Fly-by-Night. Do you take me
for an imbecile? Do you not fear, playing both hands as you do? Do you
not dread a day of reckoning? Can it be possible you do not observe
that you are caught in a trap? But enough of that! It is your own
affair.”
“Exactly, _señor_.”
“Even now, I presume, they are watching from the mission buildings to
see how I face you. It is expected that I’ll run you away, _señor_, or
run you through.”
“Either will be difficult, I fear.”
“Yet I have my position to maintain, _señor_, and must attempt one or
the other. It would suit me better to have you out of the way. If I can
accomplish that myself, I may gain in the estimation of those at the
mission. If I fail, there are friends of mine----”
“Why waste language, _señor_?” the caballero wanted to know.
“Will you pack up and leave, then? Will you go back up El Camino Real
and attend to your own affairs?”
“I must decline, _señor_. Your own removal from this vale of tears
would please me, understand.”
As he spoke, the caballero threw aside his zarape; his opponent did
likewise. Face to face they stood, blades out, sleeves turned back,
both grim, determined. The neophyte crouched half a score of feet away,
watching every move the men before him made. Men crowded the plaza
wall, others came running from the orchard, frailes knelt in prayer,
but none approached down the slope, for here was a matter to be settled
between two gentlemen without interruption from another source.
In the window of the guest house, Señorita Anita Fernandez turned
quickly and hid her face on the ample bosom of Señorita Vallejo, and
put fingers in her ears.
The two men engaged, neither a novice at the art of battling with a
blade, each firm of wrist and quick of foot and eye. Now the caballero
advanced, now he retreated. The steel hissed and sang and rang aloud.
The minutes passed. Perspiration streamed from the faces of the
combatants; their breaths were expelled in quick explosions.
“’Tis a pretty battle!” cried Señor Lopez from the top of the wall.
“Have at him, Rojerio Rocha, for your own honour and your lady’s fair
name! Flinch, dog of a Fly-by-Night! Ah----”
The old _señor’s_ heir began a furious attack, the caballero fell back
step by step. And then the recovery came! What he had done before was
but clumsy fencing to what the caballero did now. He had felt out his
man, he knew every trick at his command, he was ready now to put an end
to it. His teeth were sunk into his lips, and his eyes flashed as he
drove his opponent backward.
The neophyte gave a cry of fear and crept along the ground, fearing for
his master’s life. Something flashed in his hand. The caballero, from
the corner of his eye, observed it in time. Once his blade went aside,
to tear through the neophyte’s shoulder, and returned to the engagement
in time to ward off a thrust from the other man.
“Treachery, eh?” the caballero cried, above the ring of the blades.
“Your dog of a neophyte fights for you, eh? That is the sort of man you
are?”
“He did it by no order of mine,” the other gasped.
“I pollute my sword if I touch you with it! But I find it necessary,
_señor_! Run me away or run me through, eh? You? Fight, hound! Stand
your ground! Your wrist weakens, eh? Bah! ’Tis not worth a gentleman’s
time to meet you foot to foot!”
Those on the wall were standing now, and some of them had sprung to
the ground. Lopez was growling beneath his breath. The caballero drove
his antagonist up the slope for a space of ten yards, laughing at him,
taunting him, rebuking him, for the neophyte’s treachery.
“Do you cry for me to cease?” he demanded.
“Never, by the saints----”
“Then----!” His blade bit deep into the other’s shoulder. The old
_señor’s_ heir staggered, clapped a hand to his sword-arm, whirled
and crashed to the ground. And the caballero, stepping back, ran his
blade thrice into the turf to clean it, wiped it on his trousers, and
returned it to its scabbard. He spurned the treacherous neophyte with
his foot and hurried back toward his teepee.
He had anticipated what would follow, and he had scant time. From the
plaza wall had come a chorus of shrieks and howls. He heard the voice
of Señor Lopez raised in raging anger. Neophytes started down the
slope, some of them running, armed with knives, clubs and stones, to
avenge the downfall of Rojerio Rocha. The frailes called after them in
vain. Half a hundred strong, urged on by Lopez and led by the giant
Pedro, they rushed toward the teepee beside the creek.
The caballero had no idea of dying there, beaten by stones in the hands
of Indians. He yet had work to do, he told himself, and when death
did come, he wanted it more honourable than this--at least a bit more
fashionable.
He picked up saddle and bridle and ran to his horse, and, putting on
the bridle first, whirled to draw a pistol from his belt. The charge
hesitated, stopped.
“Back hounds!” he cried. “At least one of you will fall if you come on!
Who’ll be that unfortunate, eh? Back!”
He threw the saddle over the horse’s back and worked furiously to cinch
it. The voice of Lopez roared out again, and once more the neophytes
moved forward. Those behind crowded; their speed increased. Stones flew
through the air.
The crash of the pistol came, and an Indian fell to screech in fear and
pain. The caballero leaped to his saddle. His spurs raked his horse’s
flanks. Straight at them he dashed, blade out and ready, and as they
scattered to right and left he rode through them, slashing, and dashed
away up the valley toward the distant cañon, turning in the saddle just
before he disappeared behind a jumble of rocks to remove his sombrero
and wave it in derision.
“Now I am surely cut off from all reputable persons,” he said, aloud;
and laughed until the cañon walls sent the echoes of his merriment
ringing down the gorge.