FOES IN WAITING
A grey dawn came that morning to San Diego de Alcalá, for the heavy fog
hung like a pall over the valley, rolling in great billows against the
hills. The mission bells rang, and into the church trooped frailes,
soldiers, ranch owners, loyal neophytes, none appearing more devout
than those same soldiers whose license and cruelty had done much
to make the Indians dissatisfied and undo the work of the frailes.
Collectively they may have been a boisterous, fighting, drinking,
gambling lot--but individually they were properly religious.
The _comandante_ had taken charge and done everything possible in
preparing the defence. It had come to a question of deciding between
presidio and mission, for there were not men enough to defend both.
It was a question, too, which the hostiles would attack first--the
presidio offered arms and ammunition, food and wine; the mission
offered more loot. Did the savages have greater hatred for the soldiers
or the “long gowns”?--that was the question the _comandante_ would have
liked to have had answered.
Sergeant Cassara, pacing the plaza after service, pulled at his long
moustache and waited for his officer to appear. There were some things
Cassara had not fathomed. With his own eyes he had seen the savages
take Rojerio Rocha to the house at the rancho, and he knew that the
women had been there. And now, so he had been told, both women were
back at the mission, and unharmed. This was something new in Indian
warfare.
The _comandante_ came from the church, two of the older frailes with
him, and went toward the padres’ quarters, Cassara falling in behind.
Since there was no other officer here, Cassara, by virtue of his long
experience, had been appointed a temporary second in command.
Inside the building, with the door closed and a man on guard outside
to prevent interruption, the frailes sat down at a long table, the
_comandante_ at the head of it, Sergeant Cassara at the foot. There
was silence for a moment, and then the lieutenant lifted his head and
looked down the length of the table, ignoring the frailes and gazing
straight into Cassara’s eyes when he spoke.
“Ensign Sanchez of Santa Barbara is due this morning with twenty men,
unless he has met with disaster on the highway. I understand from the
courier who arrived late last night that Sanchez has picked up some
good fighters along the way, especially at Reina de Los Angeles, where
the old pirate, Gonzales, now a godly man, and some of his cronies
joined the standard.”
“Give me a score of men like this Gonzales and we sweep the hostiles
into the sea!” Cassara exclaimed.
The lieutenant rebuked him with a glance, and the sergeant, his face
flushing, turned to look through the window.
“Not a man among us but is worth a dozen Indians,” the _comandante_
went on. “Yet we are not more than a hundred if Sanchez arrives in
time. We can expect no help from San Luis Rey de Francia--on the other
hand, Sanchez may see fit to leave a part of his force there. Two
hundred good men are coming south with the Governor, who has taken care
of things in the north and now hopes to stamp out the rebellion here.
But they cannot arrive for perhaps two days more. _Señores_, we must
hold out until then! And my scouts report that the savages number at
least a thousand now, and are well supplied with arms and ammunition.”
No man made answer; there seemed no answer to make. The _comandante_
had stated the gist of the matter, and it was for him to make any
decisions he wished.
“Is it to be the presidio or the mission?” a fray asked, after a time
of silence.
“The mission,” the _comandante_ said. “I have decided that. I am having
arms and ammunition moved here from the presidio.”
“I thank you, _señor_,” the fray returned. “We would rather die on the
steps of the church, if we are to die in this manner.”
“Now who prates of dying?” Cassara burst out. “Is this a council of war
or a funeral? If we are going into this fight already whipped, then I
mount my horse and trot up to San Luis Rey de Francia in search of men
of spirit!”
“Peace, sergeant!” the _comandante_ cried. “There will be fighting
enough! I believe all our plans are made, _señores_. It desolates
me to think we have not sufficient force to make a sally and carry
the fighting to the enemy, but we dare not risk it. The renegade who
commands the hostiles probably has prepared for that.”
“And what renegade commands?” Cassara desired to know. “Name him, for
the love of the saints, so I’ll know him when we meet face to face!”
“The matter appears to be undecided,” returned one of the frailes.
“We had thought this Captain Fly-by-Night was the renegade, and think
so yet, knowing his character, but it seems the Indians have turned
against him----”
“Or have pretended to turn against him and are playing a deep trick,”
Cassara interrupted. “What has become of the scoundrel?”
“’Twas he fetched the women back to the mission unharmed,” the
_comandante_ replied.
“_Dios!_ ’Twas he? Will someone explain this business?”
“Señora Vallejo appears to be on the verge of hysterics and will say
little,” a fray responded, “except that this Fly-by-Night invaded a
room occupied by the women at the rancho, and forced them to accompany
him. He conducted them here in safety. His object in so doing is not
known fully.”
“Hah! And this Rojerio Rocha--what became of him?”
“I can learn nothing from the women regarding Señor Rocha, except that
Señorita Anita gasped out he is still at the rancho, and that it is too
horrible to mention. The hostiles are holding him for torture, perhaps.
There is deadly enmity between Señor Rocha and Captain Fly-by-Night.”
“Hah! Is there, by any chance, a possibility that this Señor Rocha
himself is a renegade and leads the hostiles?” Sergeant Cassara
demanded.
“_Señor!_” the fray cried. “Rojerio Rocha is of a distant branch of the
Fernandez family, heir to the old _señor_, and is to wed the Señorita
Anita. Moreover, I happen to know that he is a personal friend to the
Governor.”
“The trunk of a tree cannot always control its branches,” the sergeant
observed, “and most certainly cannot prevent any foul bird from
building nest in them. That is a deep saying--eh, fray? Ponder over it
while you are waiting for the fighting to begin.”
“I think your suspicion is an injustice,” the fray returned. “It is
more likely this Fly-by-Night has held Rojerio Rocha for torture, since
he knows Señor Rocha is expected to wed our Anita, and he himself has
made boasts that he would win her.”
“At any rate, this Captain Fly-by-Night is a clever rogue,” the
sergeant declared. “Hah! I have a score or two to settle with that fine
caballero when next we meet!”
“And I!” the _comandante_ added.
“May the saints give him to my blade!... Is there more to be done
before the imps of Hades descend upon us?”
A fray reported.
“I have had all water casks filled, as was ordered, for human use and
to fight fire. There is not a break on the four sides of the plaza
except at the end of the adobe wall; and there we left room for Ensign
Sanchez and his men to enter.”
Cheers came to them now from the plaza, and the sergeant rushed to a
window, then whirled toward the others with a glad cry.
“Sanchez has come!” he shouted. “And that dear pirate of a Gonzales is
with him. Now bring on your gentiles and disloyal neophytes and your
renegades and your Captain Fly-by-Night! Hah! My ensign has come!”
He ran to the door, hurled it open, and sprang out into the plaza, his
sword clattering at his heels.
“Hah! I am myself again!” he roared. “Ensign I salute you! Comrades, it
is a treat to see you again! How like you El Camino Real in haste, eh?
Gonzales, good pirate, come to my arms!”
They laughed as they surged forward and around him, slapping him on his
broad shoulders, grasping at his hands, crying jests and strange oaths
at their happiness in seeing him again.
“Look around you, comrades!” the sergeant invited. “What you see
you like, take it! While our ensign greets the _comandante_ here--a
fine fellow, by the way, but not quite up to our Santa Barbara
standard--I’ll show you what has been done in the way of defence. There
is a corner from where a man can command the slope----”
Gonzales interrupted him with a slap on the back so hearty that it took
away the sergeant’s breath.
“A truce to your blabbing!” cried the former pirate. “Thrice have I
opened jaws to ask a question, and always you spoke again before I
could have a word. Where is this precious Captain Fly-by-Night? If
already you have slain him, then--by the saints!--I’ll have at you
myself! Hah! Where is the rogue?”
“Ah, wouldst see Captain Fly-by-Night?” the sergeant asked. “A rogue,
is he? Now when did he cross your path, good pirate? Is he your friend
or foe?”
“Is he? There’ll be one sergeant less for the hostiles to combat if you
dare intimate the man to be friend of mine! A pretty scoundrel! Where
crossed he my path? Hah! Like a whirlwind he descended upon the pueblo
of Reina de Los Angeles one night, as you know very well, Cassara mine!
‘Fray Felipe of San Fernando says I am an honest man, and that you are
one,’ he states. ‘I would sleep until an hour before dawn,’ he states.
‘You will care for my animal and give me a couch and food?’ he states.”
“I dare say he got what he requested,” Cassara put in, trying to choke
back a laugh.
“Did he? The rogue! Did I not sit up all night, musket in hand, pistol
at belt, sword ready, to guard the wretch? Did I not have my Indian
prowling around the house alert for sneaks? Did I not rub down the
scoundrel’s horse? And in the morning did I not ride with him a short
distance on his way and give him my blessing? Hah! ‘These are turbulent
times,’ I suggested to him. ‘So I have understood,’ he states.
‘Perhaps you think me a man I am not,’ he states. To my face, the
rogue! And, in my wisdom, I wink one eye and slap him on the back and
send him on his way. _Dios!_”
“We all make mistakes,” Cassara observed.
“He warned me of another traveller, and I play with this same other
man and lose good gold, seeking to delay him. I do delay him--to find
I have hindered the Governor’s good messenger and given aid to the
renegade. And you ask me why I want to see him? Hah! Where is he to be
found?”
“Answer me that, good pirate, and I bless you! My blade waits for him!”
“After I am through,” Gonzales suggested.
“I have first claim,” Cassara declared.
“The man is mine, I say. If he dares show his face, all must stand
aside and let me at him!”
“Hah! Stand aside for you, pirate?” Cassara cried. “Captain
Fly-by-Night comes to me, and I would have all men know it!”
“Now, by all the good saints, this passes a jest! I say the man comes
to my blade. Have I not the better right?”
“There are three of us,” Cassara said. “The _comandante_ here at San
Diego de Alcalá has a score to settle with the rogue. Yet I think I
shall spit him----”
“By what right? Wherein has he put shame upon you?” demanded Gonzales.
“Hah! As to that----”
“Speak, Sergeant Cassara, and let these men judge. Why have you the
better right?”
Cassara’s face grew purple suddenly, for there came to him a vision
of the barracks-room at the presidio, himself and two soldiers bound
hand and foot and fastened to stools, a grinning gentile watching
them--while Captain Fly-by-Night slept in an adjoining room.
“Let the men judge!” Gonzales was shouting.
Cassara choked in embarrassment. Tell the outrage this Caballero had
put upon him--tell it to the grinning troopers? A courageous man was
the Santa Barbara sergeant, but not courageous enough for that.
“I fight you for him!” he roared, and started to draw blade. Nor was
Gonzales a bit backward. In an instant their swords had crossed, in
another they would have been at it. But Ensign Sanchez, who had come
from the guest house with the _comandante_, interposed his own blade
and separated them.
“A truce to such quarreling!” he ordered. “This Fly-by-Night is my
quarry, _señores_! He is to be left to me, I would have all men know.
Did he not make a dunce of me at Santa Barbara? ‘Can you conceive a
reason why a gentleman might not want his name shouted for all men to
hear?’ he asked. ‘You know the state of the times, I take it.’ Hah! Did
I not wine and dine him? He comes to my blade!”
“Now, by the saints! If this rogue appears at any of the four points of
the compass, he meets a _señor_ awaiting him!” Cassara said. “’Tis to
be a matter of luck, then.”
A fray entered the conversation.
“Were Rojerio Rocha with us, no doubt he would want to claim this
Fly-by-Night,” he said.
“Rojerio Rocha had his chance at him,” Cassara replied.
“And did not you?” Ensign Sanchez demanded. “Did he not stand up to you
at Santa Barbara?”
“Devil and Hades!” the sergeant cried. “I shall go mad! Hah! May the
imps of evil, even, pity the scoundrel when I meet him! The more I
think of it--Juan and Claudio, eh? Hah! Play cards for a mule? ‘Not
that pack of cards, _señor_,’ the wretch says. ‘This is to be a game
of chance, not of skill,’ he says. Fury! ‘Do you keep up your fencing
practice,’ he says. _I shall go mad!_”
Cassara swept his naked blade in a great circle at arm’s length, and
the others sprang out of his way roaring with laughter. Across the
plaza stamped the irate man, stopping before the store house to lift a
water jug and drink deeply.
And then a neophyte stopped before the _comandante_ and ensign and
bowed respectfully.
“_Señores_,” he begged, “allow me to say it is an easy matter to settle
this quarrel. I am Pedro, servant at the guest house, and I swear by
the saints I am a loyal neophyte and ready to die for the frailes and
the _señores_. Moreover, I have been servant to the Señorita Anita
since she has abided at the mission----”
“But the quarrel, man! How settle it?” laughed the _comandante_.
“This Captain Fly-by-Night boasted concerning the _señorita_, thus
insulting her; did he not? Do you four _señores_ fight bravely against
the others--and let me kill this Fly-by-Night!”
A roar of laughter answered him. He bowed again, but did not turn away,
and they saw he was sincere in his request.
“This Fly-by-Night appears to be loved with an enduring affection,”
Ensign Sanchez said, sarcastically. “I suppose we must leave the matter
to chance, and each of us pray the rogue falls to his blade.”