A FIGHT IN AN OLIVE ORCHARD
Several days afterward, just at dawn, El Mojoso was returning from
Cordova to his tavern, when, at a turn in the road, he came upon a small
cavalcade made up of six men--five of whom were soldiers, and the other,
an elegantly dressed young man.
El Mojoso, who had little liking for evil encounters, pricked up his
beast in order to get into the paths ahead of the group, but the chief,
who wore the insignia of a sergeant, when he noticed the innkeeper’s
intention, shouted to him:
“Hey, my good man, wait a moment!”
El Mojoso stopped his donkey.
“What do you want?” he asked ill-humouredly.
“We’ve got something to say to you.”
“Well, I can’t lose anything by listening to it.”
“You are the owner of the Cross-roads Store, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir: what else do you want?”
“Why, just don’t go so fast, friend, we feel like going along with you.”
“Are you going to Pozo Blanco?”
“No, sir.”
“To Obejo, perhaps?”
“No. We’re going to the Store.”
“To the Store!” exclaimed El Mojoso, overcome with astonishment. “Whom
are you looking for in my house?”
“We’re looking for the Marquesito.”
“The Marquesito? What Marquesito?”
“Don’t you know him?”
“Upon my word I do not! I hope to die if I’m not telling you the truth.”
“Well, it seems that your daughter knows him very well,” replied the
soldier meaningly.
El Mojoso’s face darkened, not that it had ever been exactly light, and
looking back at the sergeant, he murmured in a dull voice:
“You’ve either said too much or too little.”
“I’ve said all that was necessary,” answered the soldier gruffly.
El Mojoso fell silent and urged on his donkey, while the soldiers and
the unknown young gentleman followed him.
The sun came out from behind the mountain; in the distance they could
see a series of low-lying hills and the Cross-roads Store in its little
green clearing near the ravine.
When they reached the Store, El Mojoso dismounted from his donkey and
began to pound furiously upon the door. He beat frantically with hands
and feet.
“Open! Open!” he shouted impatiently.
“Who is it?” came from within.
“Me,” and El Mojoso ripped out a string of angry oaths.
A lock screeched, the door opened, and La Temeraria appeared
half-dressed on the threshold.
“Why didn’t you open sooner?” El Mojoso vociferated.
“What’s the matter?” she asked as she drew a short skirt over head and
fastened it rapidly about her waist.
“A whole lot’s the matter. Are there any travellers in the house?”
“The young man who was here a few days ago passed the night here.”
The unknown gentleman and the chief of the soldiers exchanged a look of
understanding. El Mojoso entered his house, and La Temeraria followed
behind him.
“Go and see if there is a horse in the stable,” said the sergeant to one
of his men, “and if there is, bring it here.”
The soldier dismounted, went into the stable, and returned after a
little, leading a horse by the bridle.
La Temeraria, who had heard the noise, intercepted the soldier.
“Where are you taking that horse?” she asked.
“The sergeant ordered me to bring him out.”
“What for?”
“So the man who is here can’t escape.”
“What has the young man done?” asked La Temeraria, looking
contemptuously at the soldier.
“He killed a man in Cordova about a month ago.”
At this moment, the innkeeper, who had been inside the house, returned
shouting to the vestibule.
“Where is Fuensanta?” he asked his wife.
“She must be in her room.”
“She isn’t there.”
“Not there?”
“No. I just looked.”
El Mojoso and La Temeraria looked at each other furiously and
understandingly.
Meanwhile the sergeant, followed by one of his soldiers, went up the
stairs to the garret. When the fugitive heard the noise their boots and
spurs made, he must have realized his danger, for they heard the thud of
a body as he threw himself against the door, then the turning of a key
in the lock, and then a murmur of voices.
The sergeant drew his sword, went up to the door behind which he had
heard the voices, and knocked with the hilt of his weapon.
“Open in the name of the law!” he shouted in a thundrous voice.
“Wait a moment, I’m dressing,” came the answer from within.
After a minute had elapsed, the sergeant exclaimed impatiently:
“Come, come! Open the door!”
“Wait just a second.”
“I won’t wait a minute longer. Open: I promise not to hurt you.”
“Words are air, and the wind carries them all away,” replied the
fugitive ironically.
“Will you open, or will you not?”
“I will not; and he who contradicts me is in danger of his life. You’ll
have to kill me here.”
At the risk of breaking his neck, the sergeant ran down the stairs three
steps at a time, and addressing his soldiers, said:
“Boys, come upstairs with your guns. We’ve got to break down the door.
One of you stay here on guard, and if any one tries to escape, fire on
him.”
Two of the men dismounted rapidly, crossed the vestibule, and, preceded
by the sergeant, rushed headlong upstairs, reached the garret, and
began to beat upon the door with the butts of their heavy guns.
“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant again and again.
No one answered.
“Quick now! Throw down the door.”
The door was new and did not yield to the first blows, but little by
little the panels gave way, and at last, a formidable blow with the butt
broke the lock....
The soldiers entered:--stretched upon the floor lay a half-dressed
woman. The window was open.
“The scoundrel escaped through that,” said one of the men.
“My God! We can’t let him escape,” shouted the sergeant, and sticking
his head through the window, he saw a man running across a field half
hidden among the olive trees. Without making sure whether it was the man
they were after or not, he drew a pistol from his belt and fired.
“No--he’s gone. We’ve got to catch him.”
They all left the room; there came a devilish noise of boots and spurs
on the stairs, and they crossed the vestibule.
“To your horses,” said the sergeant.
The order was obeyed instantly.
“You, Aragonés, and you, Segura, get behind that hay-stack,” and the
chief indicated a great pile of black straw. “You two, ride around that
field, and this gentleman and I will go and look for the Marquesito face
to face.”
The two pairs of troopers took their appointed places, and the sergeant
and the unknown gentleman advanced through the middle of the olive
orchard.
Aragonés and Segura were the first to see the fugitive, who was running
along hiding behind the olive trees, with a gun in his hand. The two
soldiers cocked their guns and advanced cautiously; but the youth saw
them, stopped and waited for them, kneeling upon one knee. The soldiers
attempted to make a detour in order to get near their game, but as they
described an arc, the youth kept the trunk of an olive tree between him
and them. Seeing that he was making sport of them, the soldiers advanced
resolutely. The Marquesito aimed his gun and fired, and one of the
horses, that of Aragonés, fell wounded in the shoulder, throwing his
rider. Segura, the other soldier, made his horse rear, in order to guard
against a shot, but the Marquesito fired a pistol with such good aim,
that the man fell to the ground with blood pouring from his mouth.
Then the youth, realizing that the other pursuers would immediately come
to the spot where they had heard the shots, ran until he came to a
century-old olive tree with a great, deformed trunk whose gnarled roots
resembled a tangled mass of snakes. He took advantage of the respite to
load his gun and pistol. Then he waited. Presently a shot was fired
behind him, and he felt a bullet enter his leg. He turned rapidly and
saw the sergeant and the gentleman approaching on horseback.
“My death will cost you dear,” murmured the Marquesito angrily.
“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant, and approached the fugitive at a
trot.
The Marquesito waited, and when the sergeant was twenty paces from him,
he fired his gun and pierced him with a bullet.
“Hey, boys!” shouted the sergeant. “Here he is. Kill him!” Then he put
his hand to his breast, began to bleed at the mouth, and fell from his
horse murmuring, “Jesus! He’s killed me!”
One of the sergeant’s feet caught in the stirrup, and the horse,
becoming frightened, dragged his rider’s body for some distance over the
ground.
“Now it’s your turn, coward!” shouted the Marquesito, addressing the
gentleman.
But that person had turned on his croup and couldn’t get away fast
enough.
The youth began to think that he was safe: the blood was flowing
copiously from his wound, so he took the handkerchief from about his
neck and bound his leg firmly with it. Next, he reloaded his weapons,
and limping slowly, sheltering himself behind the olive trees and
glancing from side to side, he advanced.
When he had reached a little plaza formed by a space that was bare of
trees, he saw one of the soldiers in ambush. Perhaps it was the last
one.
When they saw each other, pursuer and pursued immediately took refuge
behind the trees. The soldier fired; a ball whistled by the Marquesito’s
head; then he rested his gun against a tree trunk, fired, and the
soldier’s helmet fell to the ground.
They both concealed themselves while they reloaded their weapons, and
for more than a quarter of an hour, they kept shooting at each other,
neither of them making up his mind to come out into the open.
The Marquesito was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood; so he
decided to risk all for all.
“Let’s see if we can’t finish this business,” he murmured between his
clenched teeth; and he advanced, limping resolutely toward the soldier.
After a few steps he discharged his gun point blank, and immediately
after, his pistol.
When he saw that his enemy had not fallen, that he was still standing,
he tried to escape, but his strength failed him. Then the soldier took
aim and fired. The Marquesito fell headlong ... he was dead. The ball
had struck him in the back of the neck and had come out through one of
his eyes, shattering his skull.
“He was a brave chap,” murmured the soldier as he gazed at the corpse;
then he kneeled by his side and searched his clothes. He wrapped his
watch and chain, his shirt studs, and his money, in a handkerchief, tied
it in a knot, and made his way back to the tavern.
As he drew near, he heard a voice wailing in despair:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother! Oh, my dearest mother!”
In the clearing before the house was Fuensanta, half-undressed, livid,
with her face black and blue from the beating her father had given her.
The girl was moaning upon the ground, terror-stricken. La Temeraria,
with her arms lifted tragically, was shouting:
“She has dishonoured us! She has dishonoured us!”
The innkeeper’s other daughter stood in the doorway, watching her sister
as she dragged herself along the ground, exhausted by her beating.
“Don’t beat the girl like that,” said the soldier.
“Don’t beat her!” shouted El Mojoso. “No, I won’t beat her any more,”
and seizing his daughter by the arm he pushed her brutally from him,
shouting:
“Go ... and never come back!”
The bewildered girl hid her face in her hands, and then the poor little
thing began to walk away, weeping, and not knowing what she was doing,
nor where she was going.
Months later, a woman from an Obejo mill came to El Mojoso and announced
that Fuensanta had given birth to a son, and that she desired to be
forgiven and to return home; but the innkeeper said that he would kill
her if she ever came near him.
* * * * *
“The scoundrel! The bandit!” exclaimed Quentin, striking the table a
blow with his fist.
“Who is a scoundrel?” asked Señor Sabadía in surprise.
“That Mojoso fellow, the dirty thief ... his daughter dishonoured him
because she loved a man, yet he did not dishonour himself, though he
robbed every one that came along.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes, it’s different,” cried Quentin furiously. “To the hidalgos of
Spain it is a different matter; to all those commonplace and thoughtless
men, a woman’s honour is beneath contempt. Imbeciles!”
“I see that you are enraged,” said Don Gil with a smile. “Does the story
interest you?”
“Very much.”
“Shall I proceed?”
“Please do.”
“Then kindly call Señora Patrocinio and ask her to bring more bottles of
wine, for my throat is very dry.”
“But you are a regular cask, my dear Don Gil.”
“Yes I’m the Cask of the Danaides. Call her, please.”
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Patrocinio!” called Quentin.
“Isn’t she coming?”
“No. She is probably busy with her witchcraft. Perhaps this very minute
she is burning in her magic fire the sycamore torn from the sepulchre.”
“Or the funereal cypress, and the feathers and eggs of a red owl soaked
in toad’s blood,” added Don Gil.
“Or the poisonous herbs which grew in such abundance in Iolchos, and in
far-off Iberia,” continued Quentin.
“Or the bones torn from the mouth of a hungry bitch,” added the
archæologist.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” shouted Quentin.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” echoed Señor Sabadía.
“What do you want?” asked the old woman as she suddenly entered the
room.
“Ah! She _was_ here!” exclaimed Quentin.
“She _was_ here!” echoed Señor Sabadía. “We want some more bottles.”
“What kind do you want?”
“I believe, venerable dame,” Quentin ejaculated, “that it is all the
same to my friend here, whether it be wine from the vines of Falernus,
Phormio, or Cécube, as long as it is wine. Is that not true, Don Gil?”
“Of course. I see that you are a sagacious young man. Bring them, old
woman,” said the archæologist, turning to Señora Patrocinio, “bring
fearlessly forth that excellent wine that you have guarded so jealously
these four years in the Sabine pitchers.”
The old woman brought the bottles, Quentin filled Don Gil’s glass and
then his own, they emptied them both, and Señor Sabadía went on with his
story in these words: