AN ELOPEMENT
Once again Felipe waited patiently for the setting of the moon, in the
dark corner between the mud oven and the wall where we saw him first.
Thoughts keen almost as sensations chased each other through his mind as
he crouched there watching. Dominant was the feeling of the eternal
sense of need: "I want her and I'll have her." All this trouble, and
strife, and disappointment only made him more obstinate. "I will
succeed," he said to himself. "I will. If I fail now I shall be a loser
all my life--always wanting, never getting. If I win I shall have what I
desire all my life and be happy." This was frank egoism. Felipe's moral
standpoint may be guessed from the fact that had he been told he was
egoistic he would not have understood the implied reproach. To himself
his position was simply natural.
But it would be wrong to suppose that generous and unselfish impulses
did not run side by side with self-regarding ones. He thought of Josefa,
lonely and sad in her father's house. His anger rose as he thought of
the unkindness and the threats she had to endure, and of the heartless
way in which she was being disposed of. He longed to save her from the
present trouble and from the hateful future that threatened her. How
sweet she was and how beautiful! Every fibre in his frame thrilled at
the thought of becoming her protector, at the delicious idea of her
seeking safety in his arms, while he acted as her shield against tyranny
and wrong. And through her sweet eyes there looked out, he knew, the
faithful soul of a true and loving woman. She was good. He felt as sure
of that as he did of his own existence. Her kindness and dutiful spirit
he knew, for he had seen her behaviour in the daily life of the village.
What a shame it was that she should be so ill-treated just because she
was by nature gentle and obedient! Poor girl, she would want to be
comforted a great deal to make up for all the trials she was undergoing
now. He would have to be very good to her in every way, and he swore to
himself that he would be so; he would do his best to make her happy. Ah,
if they could but once get to the padre at Ensenada and be married by
him, it would be all right; and at the thought his pulse beat high.
At last the welcome hand appeared at the hole in the wall he had been
watching so long, and he flew to the spot.
"Is that you, sweetheart?" he whispered as he stretched his hand along
the wall to meet the little fingers. "I always tell myself you will not
come, just to tease myself, for I know all the time that you will. And
at last I see the signal and I know it is all right."
"You know I always do come," she returned, "you bad boy, as soon as I
feel sure they are sound asleep. But now tell me what news you have."
"Bad enough," said he despondently. "I asked the American--I begged hard
of him; but he would not lend me one of his beasts. I waited till he was
in a good temper, after he had blasted the rock; but it was no use. I
will go to-morrow to the sierra for my father's horse and I will come
back for you in the night. He is thin and cannot travel fast, so you
must come early before the moon sets or we shall not have time enough;
but we must take our chance as we can get it. I will tie him away off on
the edge of the mesa, so that there will be no horse tracks for them to
follow close here. You must come afoot so far."
"Stay, Felipe," said she. "I have been thinking. Can you get a
saddle--now--to-night?"
"I can get one of the American's," he said. "He has an old one he never
uses. He would lend me that, I know."
"Yes, but can you go to him to-night, Felipe?"
"Oh, yes," he answered. "I would wake him--he doesn't mind what I do.
But what horse are you thinking of? One of his?"
"No, no," she cried; "I have a better plan than that. We must take my
father's horse. I got the key this evening after he went out. Go first
and get the saddle, and then here is the key."
His fingers tightened eagerly on hers. "You darling!" he whispered. "How
clever you are! Ten times cleverer than I. Why didn't I ever think of
that before? Wait. I'll be back in a moment." He gave her hand one more
rapturous pressure, and loosing it, darted off like the wind to
Stephens's house.
Stephens was a sound sleeper, but in the middle of the night he was
waked by a sudden angry growl from Faro. He opened his eyes, but it was
pitch-dark. A low knock was heard at the door. "Who is it?" he cried,
first in English, then in Spanish.
A voice answered, likewise in Spanish. "Oh, Don Estevan, it's me,
Felipe."
"Felipe!" he exclaimed. "Why, what the mischief are you up to now? But
come in, the door isn't locked."
He heard the latch pulled, and seized the collar of Faro, who was
snarling savagely. The door opened and the cool night air blew freshly
in. A figure was dimly seen in the starlight. Felipe approached the bed.
"Oh, Don Estevan!" he began at once, "do be kind to me; lend me your
saddle--the old saddle, not the good one. You know the old one hanging
on the wall in there."
"Why, what's up, Felipe?" said Stephens, surprised at being roused by
this request in the middle of the night. "What do you want with it? What
makes you come bothering me now?"
"Oh, please don't be angry, but lend it me," pleaded the boy. "I will
bring it you back, and I know you don't want it; you never use it."
"What mischief are you after?" said Stephens. "You want to go off
sweethearting somewhere--that's what it is, you young rascal. That's
what you wanted my mare for to-day. I know what you are up to."
"Oh, Don Estevan," begged the boy,--"the saddle, please. If you won't
lend it to me, sell it to me. I have money,--five dollars."
"Hold on till I strike a light, and shut the door, will you?" said
Stephens. "Lie down, Faro, and be quiet." The prospector got out of bed,
struck a match, and lit a candle. "You're a pretty sort of fellow, to
come roaming around this time of night!" he went on as, candle in hand,
he stepped cautiously across the floor in his bare feet to the door of
the inner room, which he unlocked. "Sensible people are in bed and
asleep at this time of night," he grumbled. "Come in here and get your
saddle."
Felipe followed him instantly to the storeroom where he kept his
powder-keg, mining-tools, pack-saddles, and provisions.
"There it is," said Stephens, pointing to an old saddle hanging by one
stirrup from a peg in the wall. "Get it down. And the bridle; yes,
that's it"--and the pair emerged again into the outer room.
Stephens locked the door again, and turning round encountered Felipe's
hand with a five-dollar bill in it. "Here it is, Don Estevan; five
dollars," said the young Indian.
"Tut, tut, I don't want your money," said the American cheerfully. "Keep
it or give to your sweetheart to keep for you. She'll do that fast
enough"--and he chuckled at his own wit. "Now don't you smash that
saddle," he continued; "and mind you bring it back when you've done with
it."
"Oh, thank you, Don Estevan, a thousand times!" cried the young Indian.
"God will reward you for it."
"Likely story," growled his employer, "when I guess it's the devil's
business you're riding on. There, that'll do; be off with you," he
added; and he escorted Felipe, still protesting his gratitude, to the
door.
As the boy stepped outside, Stephens asked through the half-shut door,
"Who's going to look after my stock to-morrow?"
"Oh, Don Estevan, my brother, my little brother Tomas. He will see to
them. I have told him."
"Much good he'll be!" retorted the Californian. "Whom did I hire, him or
you?"
"Why, me, Don Estevan, but my little brother will----"
"Yes, your little brother will play the mischief," said Stephens,
cutting him short. "I know you. There, get along with you. I'm tired of
you,"--and the sarcastic prospector turned growling to his blankets
again. "Who is she? for there's some woman at the bottom of it, as sure
as fate," said he to himself as he turned over on his bed before going
to sleep. "One of the young squaws I suppose. Felipe used to be a pretty
good sort of a boy, but durn my skin if I don't believe he's going to
turn out just as ornery as the rest of 'em. Who is she, I wonder,
anyway?" He was just dropping off to sleep when the thought struck him,
"Maybe he's gone to the corral to get the mare!" He half rose at the
idea, but lay down again, soliloquising slowly, "No, he never would have
come here to borrow the saddle if that had been his game; he dursn't.
I'd break every bone in his confounded young carcass if he dared do such
a thing"; and comforting himself with this hypothetical revenge, he
finally dropped asleep.
With the saddle safely tucked into the fold of his blanket, Felipe flew
round the corner and down the street to the back of the cacique's house.
When he came to the place he stooped down and picking up a tiny pebble
he tossed it through the hole. Josefa was waiting inside and answered
his signal instantly.
"Have you got the saddle?" she whispered.
"Yes, yes, all right," answered her lover.
"Here is the key," said she rapidly; "take this and go to my father's
stable and get out the horse and take him away outside the pueblo and
tie him, and then come back for me. I mustn't risk being caught getting
out unless we are quite sure to succeed; it would prevent our ever
having another chance."
"Good!" said Felipe shortly; and without a moment's delay he started
off.
"Stop, Felipe, stop an instant," she whispered. "Don't tie him near the
corrals; he'll neigh to Don Estevan's animals."
"As if I didn't know that!" returned the boy almost indignantly, and he
turned again and darted away. It was all plain sailing now. How clever
of Josefa! How thoughtful she was!
He reached the cacique's stable, looked stealthily round to be sure he
was not watched, and then turned the key in the lock and entered. The
horse, a noble and intelligent creature, was standing there quietly. In
a minute Felipe put the saddle on him and brought him out, locking the
door again behind him. He led him straight away from the pueblo, up
along the acequia; a few dogs began to bark at the unwonted sound of
hoofs in the night. He tied him to a tree in a peach orchard, and gave
him a handful of corn fodder which he had brought from the stable to
keep him quiet. Then he flew back to the village.
"All right, Josefa, come! I have him tied ready," he whispered.
The little hand met his once again through the hole in the wall, and he
pressed it. It trembled in his clasp. "You will always be good to me,
always?" she said. "I shall have nobody but you now."
"Yes, I swear it, my heart's joy, I swear it!" he cried earnestly. "But
come, come quick!" The clasped hands unlocked, and the Indian boy sank
down once more to wait; this was to be the end of his waiting.
It was not for long. Three minutes later, a head peeped over the edge of
the terrace above him, and in a moment more Josefa dropped into her
lover's arms. One long kiss, one long, rapturous embrace, was all they
dared delay for; and then without a word, hand in hand and side by side,
they fled with stealthy steps up the street.
Perhaps it was the fact of a woman's being abroad at that hour of the
night that excited the suspicions of the dogs; but whatever it was, the
whole hundred-and-odd of them belonging to the pueblo seemed to begin to
bark just then. The clamour brought one or two Indians to their doors,
but they saw nothing; the lovers had already disappeared.
Up along the acequia they ran. They reached the peach orchard. The horse
was there all right. Felipe bridled him in a moment and then sprang
across the acequia with the lariat in his hand. He pulled at the rope,
but the horse refused to follow. "Hit him, Josefa," said he to the girl,
"hit him." She shook the fold of her blanket at the animal, and with a
snort he sprang across after Felipe. She bounded over lightly and stood
beside him.
He lifted her to the saddle and vaulted on to the croup behind her. He
slipped his arms round her waist, both to hold her securely and to grasp
the reins, and striking the horse's sides with his feet, he urged him
forward. The noble creature made nothing of his double burden, and
bounded forward.
"It's no use trying to dodge," said he as he guided the animal straight
towards the trail that led to the Rio Grande. "They'll track us anywhere
to-morrow; but they can't see to trail before daylight, and by that time
we must be at Ensenada."
"Hark to those dogs," said she, as the chorus of barkings from the
village rose and fell upon the night wind.
"Never mind; we're off now," said he, holding her closer to him. "The
dogs are always barking anyhow. They'll think it's only some Mexican
going down the valley. Why, if they did wake up and miss us now, they
must wait till morning to know which way we've gone, so don't you be
frightened, sweetheart."
They struck into the trail at last--a well-marked bridle-path, which led
across the mesas. There was no fear of their missing it, dark as it was
after the moon had set, for both the horse and his rider knew the trail
well enough. On they pushed, on, on, the keen night wind from the east
blowing freshly in their faces, and causing them to fold their blankets
more closely to them. The stout little Indian horse was used to carrying
double, as indeed most horses in those parts are, and he travelled
onward without flinching or staggering under his burden, cantering where
the ground was not too rough, and picking his way with wonderful
sure-footedness up and down the steep sides of the ravines, which here
and there intersected the broad table-lands.
Felipe had to tell Josefa of his vain attempts to borrow the mare of the
American, and he gave her a laughing description of the way in which he
had roused him at midnight to borrow the saddle. "I'm glad, though, he
didn't take the five dollars from me," said the boy. "Perhaps I should
not have had money enough left for the padre if he had."
"But you have enough?" inquired Josefa eagerly. "How much have you?"
"Oh, I have fifteen dollars," replied he. "I have saved my wages, every
cent, since Don Estevan came here last autumn, and my father let me keep
half. Fifteen dollars is more than enough. It is only the rich people
who pay twenty and twenty-five dollars. Why, lots of poor people pay
only ten. I am sure we are poor enough."
"I am afraid we are indeed," sighed she sadly.
"Never mind," said he cheerfully, trying to keep up her spirits, which
were failing somewhat at the strangeness of this lonely ride over lands
unknown to her, under the immense vault of night. "Never mind that. Why,
I have sown six bushels of wheat more than last year, and I am going to
put in plenty of corn too. There is plenty of land, and if we have not
enough the head Turquoises must give us some more. There is lots of
water now in the ditch to sow a thousand bushels more than we used to."
"Yes," said Josefa thoughtfully. "I know how hard you have worked, dear
Felipe, and that you will not be slack now, but are you quite sure of
your father? Will he not turn us out?"
"How can he?" said the boy scornfully. "You know he is too poor to hire
anyone to work for him. He cannot do without me. He is getting old and
cannot put in a crop by himself, and Tomas is too young to be much good.
It is I who do the work on the land. You know, Josefa, I would work ten
times harder for you," and he pressed her closer to him again.
"Yes, yes, Felipe," she cried, "I know that. I am sure of that. I never
could have trusted you so if I had not known you were good at home. But,
Felipe dear, if they are cross to me at your house I shall hate it."
"They sha'n't be cross to you," he cried hotly. "I am a man now, and
they must listen to me. If I support them they must do what I say--at
least sometimes," he added, correcting himself. "Besides, my mother
loves me, and when she sees how I love you, and how you are all the
world to me, she will love you too; I know she will."
"Ah, perhaps not, Felipe," said the girl doubtfully. "You talk like a
man. Women are not always like that, you know."
"But she will; she must," said Felipe decidedly. He had a comfortable
masculine conviction that women's feelings were something that could
always be put down or got round. He felt that he was acting a man's part
now, and that it was time for him to assert himself. How could he feel
otherwise with his arms round his sweetheart's waist, with the free sky
above them and the broad mesas around, fifteen dollars in his pocket to
pay the padre, and a good horse (he did not stop to think whose) to
carry them to Ensenada! For the first time in his life he felt himself a
man and free. They had left behind them the village with its narrow,
cramping laws and customs, its parental tyrannies, and its hateful
distinction of rich and poor. To Felipe, Ignacio with thirty cows was an
odious monopolist. How delightful it was to have hoodwinked the watchful
guardian of Josefa and baffled his miserly rival!
While the fugitives thus sped onward through the night, peace once more
reigned supreme over the pueblo. The barking of the dogs at their
departure had soon ceased, and no one took the trouble to inquire
seriously into the source of their wrath. They might have been barking
at a hungry coyote, come to explore the heaps of household refuse
deposited day by day outside the village by the tidy squaws, or at some
belated Mexican passing up or down the valley, or even at some stray
donkey escaped from his owner's corral. At any rate, no one cared enough
to prosecute his inquiries, and no movement was perceptible in the
village till the first grey dawn.
Dawn caught the lovers descending the long hill that leads from the
mesas down to the wide flats of the Rio Grande valley. The light was too
dim as yet to do more than show vaguely the broad line of the wooded
banks of the river, still some distance ahead of them. The sun rose as
they were pushing across the sandy flats and passing through the
poverty-stricken hovels of the Mexican village of La Boca, past a
surprised-looking, unkempt peon, who blinked drowsily at the couple from
his doorway. On they pressed and still onward, making for the point
where the road forded the river.
But what roar was this that met their ears as they neared the grove of
cottonwood trees through which the road to the ford ran,--a dull strong
roar as of the rushing of many waters? Felipe recognised it, and on the
instant his heart felt like lead in his breast.
"_Valgame Dios_, Josefa!" said he, "I believe the river is up. Oh! what
luck! what luck!"