THE EAVESDROPPER
Watching from the distance, Sergeant Cassara observed that the Indians
of the rancho were leaving their adobe buildings in groups, and,
instead of going into the fields to work, were hurrying down the slope
toward a cañon.
The neophyte who waited in front of the ranch-house mounted his mule
after a time, and went toward the cañon himself, urging on his steed as
soon as he was a short distance from the building, until the animal was
running with head down, covering the ground with great leaps.
Already the sergeant had seen the soldiers and Señor Lopez run into the
ranch-house, and he was contented no longer to remain a hundred yards
away and speculate as to what was transpiring. Sergeant Cassara was a
man who enjoyed getting all his information at first hand.
He put spurs to his horse, therefore, and galloped up the road to the
ranch-house, to stop at the corner of the veranda and sit there on his
mount for a moment, listening. He heard the low whimpering of a woman,
and the excited voices of men, and finally dismounted and walked around
the corner of the house, and so came to the patio.
“So! There has been murder done here?” he exclaimed, after surveying
the scene. “Are you all struck dumb and thoughtless? Why stand like so
many statues and do nothing? By the saints, there seems to be not an
ounce of decision amongst you all! You who call yourself Rojerio Rocha
would do well, it seems to me, to carry the _señorita_ into the house
where she will not have to face this bloody scene when she comes from
her faint. One of you troopers assist the _señora_, also. And you, who
are named Lopez, why not start in to investigate this matter?”
“What can be done?” Lopez asked.
“First, who are the victims?”
“The overseers.”
“They have been beating the Indians, I suppose, and some have taken
revenge while the overseers took their siesta. A long siesta they are
enjoying now! Get the bodies away, in the saints’ name! Help him,
soldiers! And then it will be time to deal with the gentiles.”
Lopez called for the house servants, but none answered. There was not
an Indian woman near the place; no children played about the huts in
the rear; and the men, of course, had gone toward the cañon. Sergeant
Cassara stood at the end of the patio and sneered as Lopez began to
realise these things.
“This man who calls himself Rojerio Rocha and takes such a high hand
with affairs evidently was not well informed as to conditions,” the
sergeant suggested.
“I asked him not to come to the rancho to-day,” Lopez returned, “but he
would have it so.”
“He insisted, eh?”
“_Si, señor._”
“But why bring the ladies into danger? Do they not have brains at the
mission in these days?”
“He insisted, also, that the ladies make the journey.”
“Ah! He did? Well, the thing that appeals most to me now is for you
to start your carreta back toward the mission as soon as possible,
and make as good time as you can getting there. The ladies will have
to get over their fright first, of course. I do not like the air
hereabouts--it smells rank of conspiracy and murder.”
“I agree with you, _señor_,” Lopez admitted.
“And while we are waiting for these same ladies to settle their nerves,
why not round up some of these gentiles and propound a few leading
questions? Perhaps we can beat an answer or two out of the dogs.”
“As soon as Señor Rocha returns from the house, sergeant. He is master
here now, and must supervise this business. I do not care to make a
move without his permission.”
“You do not, eh? I am an independent being, thank the good saints! I
suggest you prepare the carreta for the return journey, while I ride
after these gentiles I saw sneaking down into the cañon, and see what
can be discovered. You may follow later if this Señor Rocha is kind
enough to allow you to do so.”
The face of Lopez flushed at the sergeant’s tone, for Cassara was
not careful to refrain from expressing his contempt for a man who
would await the permission of another in such business. He ran to
his horse, sprang to the saddle and galloped down the slope, leaving
Lopez to glare after him. He did not follow the trail taken by the
Indians, however, but rode far to the right and circled a butte, and so
approached the cañon from the opposite side, warily, stopping his horse
now and then to listen.
After a time he dismounted and crept forward, dodging from rock to
rock, bush to bush, until he reached the edge of a precipice and found
the floor of the cañon stretched far below him.
He saw an Indian camp where fully half a thousand warriors had
gathered. They seemed to feel secure in their strength, for they made
no attempt at secrecy now. Some were dancing about their fires, others
were donning war paint, others guarded a herd of ponies. The Santa
Barbara neophyte was talking to a throng of them, throwing out his arms
in passionate gesture, and his hearers shrieked their approval.
“This looks like a bad business,” Sergeant Cassara admitted to himself.
“So Fly-by-Night did not tell an untruth, eh? What object the rogue can
have in betraying his poor dupes is more than I can fathom. To-morrow
night they will attack, he said. I wonder if that is the truth, too?”
For several minutes he watched the camp, trying to estimate the number
of men there, and to see what they possessed in the way of weapons,
gathering information that would be of value to the _comandante_.
He got up from the ground to make his retreat then, and in so doing
glanced across the cañon to the slope beyond.
Señor Lopez and the four troopers were galloping toward the cañon.
Two ideas flashed through the sergeant’s brain--that Lopez and the
soldiers were riding unexpectedly into great danger, and that they had
left the two women and Rojerio Rocha alone at the ranch-house.
There was not time for him to reach his horse and ride to intercept
them, to warn them of their danger. To screech an alarm would avail
nothing--it was doubtful if the others would hear, and if the Indians
heard they would guess someone approached and prepare for the meeting.
It would be worse than useless for him to charge down the side of the
hill, if trouble came, and attempt to aid the others--such a course
would be suicide in the face of such a throng; and Sergeant Cassara
was a good enough soldier to realise his duty to his comrades and
superiors, to realise that it was for him to carry an alarm to mission
and presidio.
Helpless to warn or aid, he crouched behind the rocks at the top of the
hill and watched the drama unfold below him. Lopez and the troopers
reached the crest of the hill and dashed down toward the cañon proper.
Cassara saw an Indian sentinel flash a warning back to the others. A
few commands, and the dancing around the fires stopped, and gentiles
crept up the slope, dodging behind shrubs and rocks, weapons in their
hands.
With Lopez in the lead, the little cavalcade swept around the end
of the butte and into the cañon, into the midst of a swarm of
half-frenzied natives, and stopped with gentiles grasping at the
bridles. Cassara could hear Lopez shrieking something above the din,
saw the troopers draw sabres, rein back their horses, and try to clear
a space around them. The Indians crowded forward, menacing, screeching
their cries, more and more of them gathering about the five riders,
until only the heads of the mounted men could be seen above the horde.
Striking with their sabres, the troopers were trying to clear a space
in which to wheel their horses and retreat. An arrow flew from the side
of the hill--a trooper reeled in his saddle and fell over his horse’s
neck, and a chorus of shrieks arose at this first blood.
The troopers drew their pistols and, firing in the faces of the savages
nearest; several Indians fell; and then the riders were the centre of a
maelstrom of raging, fighting, bloodthirsty gentiles and neophytes who
fought with one another to pull the troopers from their horses, to lay
hands on the manager of the Fernandez rancho, a man many of them had
reason to hate.
“It is the beginning,” Sergeant Cassara heard himself muttering.
He closed his eyes for an instant, for it is one thing to be in the
centre of a savage combat and quite another to view one at close range
and yet have no part in it, and when he opened them again the Indians
had scattered, the five horses were running wild with gentiles trying
to capture them for the loot of silver-chased saddles they presented,
and on the floor of the cañon were five mutilated things that so short
a time before had been men.
Now the Indians were dancing about their fires again, this first small
victory having added to their frenzy, and their shrieks could be
heard a great distance. Cassara knew his duty now--to mount and ride,
to reach the ranch-house and aid in saving the women there, if he
could; to continue to the mission and spread the alarm, and have those
soldiers seeking Captain Fly-by-Night recalled from the hills before
they were cut off one by one and slaughtered.
He saw the Santa Barbara neophyte mount his mule again, and heard
him shrieking at the others, though he could not catch the words. He
started to slip away, back from the edge of the precipice to his horse,
and as he got upon his feet he saw another horseman galloping from the
ranch-house toward the cañon.
Loud curses came from the throat of Sergeant Cassara then, curses at
what he considered the man’s foolishness, for the rider was Rojerio
Rocha.
“The fool has left the women alone!” he gasped. “By all the saints, I’d
like to run him through for the worthless, senseless thing he is! Let
them alone in the ranch-house, he has, and rides toward danger like an
imbecile! Can’t he hear those yells, the fool? Can’t he tell something
is wrong?”
Crashing through the brush, stumbling over the rocks, Cassara rushed
toward his horse and vaulted into the saddle. His spurs raked the
beast’s sides cruelly; with a snort of pain and surprise the animal ran
wildly around the butte, sending showers of gravel down into the cañon.
The sergeant bent low and gripped the reins, lifting the horse in its
great jumps. On and on he rode, circling the knoll so as to approach
the house from the opposite side.
He came within view of it--and pulled up his mount sharply. He was too
late. Rojerio Rocha was in the centre of a horde of shrieking Indians.
They did not pull him from his horse, and they seemed to be making no
effort to attack him. But they had turned the animal’s head, and fully
two hundred of them were rushing it back toward the houses running
alongside, some mounted on ponies and some afoot. In an instant Cassara
had judged distance. The Indians were within fifty yards of the adobe
buildings, within one hundred yards of the house. And he was fully
three hundred yards away.
Sergeant Cassara hesitated a moment. He never knew fear, and was not
the sort of man to surrender another man and two women to a savage band
without making an effort to rescue them, even if it was certain he
would die in the attempt.
But he could not save these people, he knew, and would only lose his
own life. And if he died in the patio of the ranch-house at the hands
of frenzied gentiles who hated the uniform he wore, there would be none
to carry the alarm to the mission.
And now the throng had reached the house and rushed into the patio,
Rojerio Rocha still mounted on his horse. A bedlam of shrieks and
screams assailed the sergeant’s ears. He thought of the two women who
had ridden out in the carreta--the dignified _señora_, the dimpling
_señorita_--and cursed the man whose obstinacy had brought them there.
“Torture--and worse!” he exclaimed. “May the saints see that this
Rojerio Rocha suffers thrice for every bit of pain those women are
caused!”
And then he wheeled his horse, sent home the spurs, and dashed down the
road toward the distant mission.
* * * * *
The _comandante_, back from his fruitless search of the hills for
Captain Fly-by-Night, saw the flying horse in the distance, caught the
glint of sun from the sergeant’s sword and called to his soldiers.
Frailes ran to the end of the adobe wall to watch the approaching
horseman.
Less than twenty neophytes remained at the mission now--all day they
had been sneaking away one at a time and hurrying to the camp on the
rancho--and of those who remained it was a question which were loyal.
“’Tis our famous sergeant from Santa Barbara!” the _comandante_ cried.
“He rides like that because the matter is urgent, you may be sure.”
The foam-flecked horse stopped at the end of the wall with forefeet in
the air as the sergeant swung himself backward in the saddle and sprang
to the ground. Even as his feet struck the turf his hand snapped to
his cap in salute. He was breathing heavily, but he was a soldier of
experience, and did not shout his news aloud like a frightened child.
“Something of moment to report, _comandante_,” he said.
The _comandante_ drew himself up and returned the salute--he was a
soldier of experience, too.
“Regarding hostiles?” he asked, while the frailes hung on his words.
“Regarding hostiles, _señor_.”
“Follow me to the guest house, sergeant; you can give me your report
there. Have one of the men attend to your horse. Is it of a military
nature only, or should the frailes hear?”
“They can hear it, _comandante_.”
They crossed the plaza, the lieutenant leading the way. There was no
haste in their manner. If there were disloyal neophytes about, they
would learn nothing from the way in which these soldiers conducted
themselves. Behind the lieutenant and sergeant walked four frailes,
their heads hanging, sensing what they were to hear. Another fray
remained in the plaza, and every neophyte there knew he was being
watched.
The lieutenant threw open the door of the guest house, and they
entered, and the door was closed again. The frailes stood against the
wall in a row awaiting the blow they expected. The _comandante_ threw
back his shoulders and took a deep breath, and snapped out his order:
“Report, sergeant!”
“Five hundred or more hostiles are camped on the Fernandez rancho. They
are dancing and putting on their paint. I followed when Señor Lopez and
Rojerio Rocha took the women there. Four troopers escorted them.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Two rancho overseers were found knifed. I made an investigation and
found the hostile camp. Lopez and the four soldiers rode into the cañon
where the camp is located and were slain----”
“All?”
“All,” said Cassara.
“The others?”
“Señor Rocha rode toward the cañon as I was starting to return to the
house to make an attempt to rescue the women. The hostiles seized him
and took him back to the house. Before I could cover the distance
they were in the patio--fully two hundred of them. I knew it would be
useless to attempt a rescue then, so rode to report.”
“And the women----”
“Were in the house, _comandante_!” Sergeant Cassara said.
The frailes groaned and bowed their heads in resignation. Further
explanation was not needed. They realised the situation fully; such
situations had been met by frailes since the sainted Serra first set
foot in California and began his great work of creating the mission
chain.
“There remains one thing to do, then--prepare for defence,” the
_comandante_ said. “We have twenty soldiers, eight frailes, about a
score of neophytes believed to be loyal, and half a dozen ranchers who
happen to be in the mission. Ensign Sanchez and his squad from Santa
Barbara should be here in the morning. The squad is a small one, but
every man is a man in such times. At least, we can put up a pretty
battle. If we can hold out until the Governor arrives”--a pause--“Hah!
Five or more to one, eh? How like you the odds, sergeant? Frailes, you
know your duties, I believe. If you feel like hesitating in the work of
preparing for carnage, remember those two women!”
But they were fighting priests, those men. The expressions that came
into their faces now were not such as come into the countenances of
cowards and weaklings. Their gowns remained, but beneath them the
priests had been transformed into soldiers in an instant of time. They
passed before the lieutenant and sergeant, walked to the door, opened
it and went out, each to do what he could in the plan for defence.
The _comandante_ and Sergeant Cassara faced each other for an instant,
like men who understand without resorting to words, then Sergeant
Cassara saluted and followed the frailes out of the guest house and
into the plaza.
And back of the fireplace, against the guest house wall in the old
tunnel, crouched Captain Fly-by-Night, who had heard all that had been
said; who remembered a proud, flushed face, a dimple, two snapping
black eyes, a voice so sweet and low that it struck to the heart like
the breath of a song--and who prayed now that the black night would
come quickly!