A GIRL'S TEARS
At the girl's outburst Stephens was completely taken aback. Tears, a
woman's tears, were a novelty to him, and he felt the quick leap of his
heart in response. But it was ten years since he had heard a woman sob,
and his practical sympathy, or at least the power of expressing it, had
become blunted. He did not know what to say; half a dozen phrases
struggled to be born in his throat; he wanted to explain at once to the
pretty creature that it was all right; to tell her that there was
nothing to cry about; to say there was no use in getting into a fuss
over it; that after all a man had to take his chances; and that anyhow
the milk wasn't spilt yet; that it would be time enough to begin to cry
when something really happened. But he felt the brutal stupidity of such
remarks, and they remained unspoken, while there arose in him at the
same instant the urgent desire to do something; to take her by the hand
like a frightened child; to smooth her ruffled hair and staunch her
tears; to console her, and, by some means or other, stay the sobs that
shook the slender body. But he had no right to do any such thing, and he
hesitated to intrude himself on her grief, which, moreover, appeared to
him, like a child's, a trifle exaggerated. To him who had lived so many
years on the frontier, a violent death had come to seem almost the
natural end. Few pioneers expected to die in their beds. Along the
trails and around the mining-camps were many mounds, each one of which
marked a six-by-two claim that was the last that the holder would ever
occupy, one that he needed no ever-ready Winchester to defend. Nameless
graves they were for the most part, or if there slanted at the head some
rude board with a name and date roughly scribbled to say who lay
beneath, the brief legend that gave all that would ever be known of how
he came there repeated with monotonous regularity the tale of
misadventure or of wrong. "Shot, stabbed, stripped and mangled by
Thugs," "Killed by Indians," "Murdered by road-agents," "Lynched by
Vigilantes," "Blown up by dynamite", "Crushed by a fall of rock," "Died
of starvation," "Died of thirst," "Died of cold,"--these and such as
they were the forms of death with which his Odyssey of toils had made
him familiar. Small wonder, then, if he who had lived so long face to
face with the possibility of such an end, taking the chances of it
freely himself, and seeing them taken as freely by others, now felt as
if the young man Don Andrés was a trifle overpitied. He was sorry for
him himself, he was trying to help him all he knew, and he was ready to
turn out and fight for him at any minute, but he could not see why
anybody should want to cry about it. And yet here was this startlingly
agitating, insistent noise of a girl sobbing beside him that gripped his
heart with an emotion he hardly knew the meaning of.
"Don't you fret yourself," he repeated; "we'll see him through,
señorita, never fear."
Instinctively he had risen to his feet and was standing by her; and
presently she recovered herself and began to speak, though brokenly at
first.
"It is very foolish of me, I know, but I cannot help it. It makes me
think how my two uncles were killed by the Indians eight years ago up in
the mountain. My grandfather found them both lying dead in the trail;
the cruel Navajos had shot them both with arrows from an ambush. My poor
grandfather was alone, so he could not carry them down; he had to leave
them there, while he came back to San Gabriel for help. He cried so much
that he grew blind and could hardly find his way to San Gabriel. And
then their bodies were brought down here; I was only a child like
Altagracia, but I remember it so well, and indeed this was a house of
mourning; and now if they kill my brother too, I don't know what I shall
do."
Again Stephens felt the odd sense of surprise at the strength of her
feelings. Don Andrés was a fine young fellow enough in his way, but why
all this display of emotion because he was now to run rather more risk
than usual? Dimly he became conscious that her trouble was due to family
affection, and that he himself had forgotten what it was like. His mind
fled back to his boyhood, when he and a brother and sister, from whom he
had now been long parted, used to play together; memories of that early
fondness came back with a curious vividness. A hard crust had formed
over the gentler side of his nature during the years of isolation and
severance from those natural ties; it seemed ready now to dissolve in a
moment at a few tears shed by a girl for a brother's peril. Habituated
as he was to hold himself firmly in hand, he was half angry with himself
for minding anything so much as he minded her sobs.
"Why, how fond you must be of him!" he remarked crudely; and without
his intending it, his secret surprise showed itself in his tone.
"But he is my brother," she returned, and her wet eyes met his half
indignantly; "don't you understand that I must care for him very much
indeed?"
"Surely yes," he rejoined. "Of course I understand that"; but in his
heart came a denial that he did really understand it, or had any right
to understand it. "If I had been clubbed to death for witchcraft in the
ditch yesterday by those Santiago idiots," he thought, "not one human
soul would have cared like this about me." Yes; it was quite true. There
was no one now who cared for him in this way, with this warmth of
feeling, and there was no one for whom he cared or could care. Thence
came a new sense of something lacking in his life; even supposing that
all his hopes deferred were to be realised at last, supposing that
to-morrow, for instance, he became master of a mine worth a million, who
would rejoice? No one, unless it were Rocky, his old pard, who really
wasn't a bad-hearted sort of fellow, though he could play the fool at
times to such exasperating effect. But now he felt a sudden vacancy in
his heart; the need of a comradeship that should be entire, absolute,
and inalienable.
"And have you no family, Don Estevan?" she asked; "no brother or
sister?"
"Yes," he answered, "I have both, but I haven't seen them in ten years.
They are married and settled down away back there in the States; they
must have half forgotten me by this time; I was no more than a boy when
I started for the West, and I've never been back." And at the
recollection his lips parted, and his breast heaved gently. An
involuntary sigh escaped him before he knew what it was. The sighing
mood had not been much in his line. Manuelita looked at him with a
question in her eyes.
"But you love them still?" she said.
"Well, yes," he replied, "I suppose I do, if it comes to that. But it is
a long time since I saw them, and much water has run under the bridges
between then and now."
"Have the Americans no feelings?" she said; "perhaps it is a good thing
for some people to have the heart hard."
"Oh, I guess we've got our feelings right enough," he replied, with an
uneasy smile, "but it isn't our way to say much about them; at least,
with us, the men don't like to show them. As for the American women, I
think they show theirs freely enough; but upon my word it is so long
since I have seen any of them that I hardly know. No, señorita, our
hearts are not hard."
At this moment, Don Nepomuceno entered, bringing with him one of the
three Mexicans who had been sitting with him outside. "Here is my
brother-in-law, Don Estevan," he began, "who says that he will gladly
let me have the pony that ate poison-weed. He says, too, that the
Navajos have gone over to the store, and that he suspects the Texan will
sell them whiskey. It is very wrong of him, for whiskey makes them very
dangerous."
"It's dead against the law," said Stephens bluntly.
"I know," rejoined the other, "but it is not easy to prove it. But you
have eaten no breakfast, my friend. Sit down and have your meal." At the
entrance of her father, Manuelita had retired to the kitchen, leaving
the sitting-room to the men.
"Thank you," answered Stephens, "I will, then, by your leave"; and he
sat down and helped himself, while he continued to discuss with the
others the conduct of Mr. Backus and the chances of coming to an
arrangement with Mahletonkwa. The conversation went on after he had
finished his meal, when the sudden sharp report of a rifle-shot was
heard not far away. All stopped and listened; a minute or two later it
was followed by a second, and then at pretty regular intervals by a
number of others.
"It sounds like somebody practising at a mark," said the American; "do
you suppose it's Mr. Backus?" He had risen to his feet and stood intent.
"Who knows?" said his host. "For my part I know not much about this
Texan. It may be so; they are unaccountable people." To throw away
powder and bullets on practice seemed to him a piece of wanton
extravagance.
Stephens caught up his rifle into the hollow of his arm. "I think," said
he, "I'll just step across and get that paper and envelopes, and I'll be
able to see what they're up to over there as well." The Mexicans
accompanied him to the big door, which was carefully unbarred to allow
of his departure.
The occasional shots continued as the American walked down towards the
stage station, and he presently discerned Mr. Backus and the Navajos in
a group behind the store. He went up and joined them. They had set up an
empty box against a blank wall, and fastened a piece of white cardboard
against it with a nail through the centre, and several black circles in
different parts of the cardboard showed where bullets had struck. The
Indians were laughing and chaffing one another freely about their
shooting; their manner had noticeably altered from the moody and sullen
attitude they had exhibited at the pow-wow.
Mahletonkwa came close up to Stephens excitedly.
"Now, then, Don Americano, let's see you take a shot."
Stephens smelt him; there was whiskey in his breath. "Not at present,
thank you," said he shortly. "Mr. Backus," and he turned abruptly on the
storekeeper, "this Indian has had something to drink. I presume you know
it is against the law."
"Well, if he has nobody knows where he got it," said the storekeeper
defiantly, "nor nobody need know."
He knew very well himself that there were now two beautiful Navajo
blankets rolled up in his store which had not been there an hour ago;
also that his stock was diminished to the extent of two bottles of
whiskey. The whiskey stood him in exactly one dollar. The pair of Navajo
blankets were cheap at ten. Nine hundred per cent. profit was good
enough business for any man.
It was a good enough profit, at all events, to tempt Mr. Backus; and it
needed to be a good one, for he was not ignorant of the risk that he
ran. To give, trade, or sell spirituous liquor to an Indian is a
penitentiary offence in the United States. The law is a wise one, and,
what is more, is approved by popular feeling. A drunken Indian is about
as pleasant to meet with as a mad wolf; he is possessed by a demon that
prompts him to fly at the throat of any white man, woman, or child he
comes across; and an Indian who has tasted liquor will go any length
till he has obtained enough of it to throw him into this horrible
frenzy, if he can by any means procure it. Trading whiskey to an Indian
is like playing with a tiger. Up to a certain point it is pleasantly
exciting. Go one step beyond it and his fangs are in your jugular. Mr.
Backus was not a novice at the game; he had been there before. For nine
hundred per cent. he would let them have just enough to whet their
appetites. Two bottles of whiskey to eleven Indians was about the right
dose; while half a dozen would send them crazy, he knew.
"I'm just letting them have a few shots at the mark with my rifle," he
continued. "It tickles them to death to shoot with a breech-loader; they
aint hardly got any themselves, and it's mighty well worth my while to
keep in with them." He winked deliberately. "I've been talking with
them, and they know all about this mine upon the Cerro de las Viboras,
just as well as those stingy Santiago folks. I believe I'll get 'em to
show it me. I tell you I understand Indians, I'm an old hand at dealing
with them"; he gave a self-satisfied chuckle.
"I should say that last statement of yours was highly probable,"
returned the prospector. "Personally, I should have said that with this
unsettled difficulty on hand with Don Nepomuceno the very worst thing
possible was to let them have any drink, and the next worst was to
encourage them to go letting off a gun like this right close to where he
lives."
"And why the deuce should I be so cursedly particular about the Don?"
replied the storekeeper; "he's an uncommon close-fisted old hunks, if it
comes to that; he does most of his trading in Santa Fé anyway, and don't
encourage local talent. And I'll warrant you he's got a thumping big
hoard of silver dollars buried under the floor somewhere in that old
_casa_ of his. I don't see why he shouldn't pay a decent compensation to
this Mahletonkwa here." The chance of some of those silver dollars
passing from Mahletonkwa's hands over his counter had considerably
quickened Mr. Backus's sense of "justice for the poor Indian" in this
matter. Also he had had a couple of drinks as well as Mahletonkwa, and
they had loosened his tongue a little.
"Well, sir," replied Stephens, "I don't propose to argue the matter with
you here, but if you can afford to leave those precious customers of
yours I should like to have you come into the store and supply me with
some paper and envelopes."
He hated to have to ask this man for anything, but he must procure these
things, and there was no other house in San Remo where he could get
them. There would not be time before the mail passed to return to the
pueblo and get them from his own stock.
At this moment Mahletonkwa fired again with Backus's rifle, and a
triumphant exclamation followed the shot. The Indians ran to the target,
pointing with pride to a bullet-hole within half an inch of the central
nail. Mahletonkwa swaggered up to the American. "Now, you shoot," he
exclaimed familiarly, "and show us what you can do."
Stephens had not intended to do anything of the sort. He thought the
Indian's familiarity, due to the couple of drinks he had taken, most
offensive, and he had meant to leave them to their sport with the least
possible delay; but there was something irritating about his swagger
that put the American on his mettle. He swung himself half round and
took a good look at the target, which stood there in a strong light,
beautifully distinct, at some five-and-twenty paces distance.
Up came the rifle to his shoulder; for one instant it remained there,
poised level, as he glanced down the sights and got a bead on the
centre; "bang!" came the report, and down fell the piece of cardboard.
He had driven up the nail.
The Navajos dashed in eagerly to pick up the paper, and were loud in
their expression of wonder and admiration. But Mahletonkwa's eyes were
still fixed on the Winchester; he came forward and touched it lightly
with his hand, and turned with a loud laugh to the others who came
crowding round them. Mahletonkwa told them a story in the Navajo
language which produced roars of laughter from them all, and Stephens's
curiosity was excited.
"What's the joke, Mahletonkwa?" said he. "Why can't you tell it in
Spanish so the rest of us may have a chance to join in the fun?" The
drinks had made the Indian reckless, and he needed but little urging to
repeat the story.
"Once there was a man out in the mountains over yonder," said he,
pointing to the west, "and he had a 'heap-shoot' gun like this."
"What sort of a man do you mean?" asked Stephens; "an American?"
The Indian looked at him with eyes that were both bold and cunning. "I
didn't ask him," said he; "he was just a man."
"I'll bet he was a lone American prospector," returned Stephens.
The Navajo laughed, and there was insolence in his laugh. "He was
alone," he continued, "and the people there got after him----"
"What people do you mean?" asked Stephens; "the Navajos?"
The Indian laughed the same laugh as before.
"Oh, leave him finish," interjected Backus in English. "You can bet he
means Navajos. Probably he was there himself."
"The people got after him," repeated the redskin, "and he fired away at
them a long time with his 'heap-shoot' gun; but he couldn't do them any
harm." An insolent chuckle accompanied this last remark.
"Couldn't he!" rejoined Stephens. "If he was an American prospector, and
there's no other sort of man ever went there with a Winchester, I'll bet
he laid some of them out."
"And then," continued Mahletonkwa, "one of the people shot him with a
common rifle here across the face," he drew his hand across his
forehead, "and the blood ran into his eyes and he couldn't see, and the
blow of the bullet made him stupid, and then the people went up to him
and he was a prisoner. And they took his gun and looked at it with much
awe, for they had never seen a 'heap-shoot' gun before. But they did not
understand how to make it work. So they gave him some water, and wiped
the blood from his face so that he could see, and they asked him to show
them the secret of the 'heap-shoot' gun. And he was very happy then, and
thought that they were going to make friends with him, so he told them
how to work the gun, and showed them how to load it and unload it. And
then, when they had found out all they wanted to know about it, one of
them took the 'heap-shoot' gun and loaded it just as the Amer-- the man
had shown them how to do, and pointed it at him and pulled the trigger,
and it killed him quite dead." He exploded again in a great roar of
laughter, and the rest of the party roared in chorus with equal mirth.
Stephens flushed a dark red, and swore under his breath. "They were a
d----d treacherous, sneaking lot of coyotes, that's what they were," he
said defiantly to Mahletonkwa, who only laughed the more. "A pretty lot
of friends you seem to have been making, Mr. Backus. I wish you joy of
them."
The latter looked rather uncomfortable. "It was a low-down, dirty mean
trick to play," he said, starting to go towards the store, "but
Mahletonkwa aint said as he had any hand in it himself."
"I reckon he was there, though," retorted Stephens, "for it was the
sight of my Winchester that set him off to tell it. Rifles like that
aint quite as common as blackberries around this country. I wish I knew
who that prospector was that they murdered," he added meditatively, as
he moved off to the store after Backus; "I'd go and bury him decently,
anyway, if I could find the place. I hope he laid out a score of them
before they got him, the mean hounds. And that's their idea of a funny
story!" He ground his teeth in his anger.
In the store Mr. Backus soon supplied the prospector with writing
materials, and promised to bring over the post-office stamp presently to
stamp Don Andrés's affidavit. He seemed nervously anxious now to
conciliate Stephens, and to rub out, if possible, the bad impression his
conduct with regard to the Navajos had left. He fetched round Captain
Jinks from the stable with profuse thanks for the loan, and even
reclaimed his rifle from the Navajos and put a stop to their target
practice on the ground that he could not spare any more cartridges.
"Mahletonkwa," said Stephens, gathering up the lariat of his mule and
addressing the chief, "I give you notice that I'm going to have you put
back on the reservation. Take my advice and lose no time in accepting
Don Nepomuceno's offer."
"I want a thousand dollars," said the Indian doggedly.
"And I very much doubt your getting it," said Stephens, turning on his
heel and walking off.
But as the prospector made his way towards the Sanchez house the thought
of Manuelita's tears came back to him. After all, what was a thousand
dollars? It was a lot of money to be sure, but if it would guarantee
young Andrés's safety, and put an end to her anxiety, it might be worth
while to part with it. The brutal laughter of the Indians over the cruel
deception they had so cunningly practised on the wounded American who
had the ill fortune to fall into their hands had angered him deeply. He
had from the first kicked against the idea of paying them anything, but
if some blackmail was to be paid to them, he saw no difference in
principle between a thousand dollars and a hundred and twenty-five. And
it came into his head Rocky had just offered to repay him the thousand
dollars he had lent him in Montana. The idea occurred to him, why not
pass it on? He might lend it to Don Nepomuceno to pay off the Navajos
with, and the Mexican might repay him at his leisure, or pass it on
again on a fitting occasion to some other man in a bad strait. Backus's
idea of Don Nepomuceno possessing a great hoard of buried silver dollars
seemed to him a wild and improbable conjecture, considering what a stew
he was in about raising a hundred and twenty-five.
He stabled his mule alongside the mare, and, after knocking, was
admitted to the _casa_ with the same precaution as before. A table and
ink were set before him, and a full statement of the case written for
the benefit of the governor and also of the general at Santa Fé. An
affidavit by Don Andrés was duly drawn up in Spanish and English, and
according to his promise Mr. Backus arrived with the stamp of the San
Remo post-office to stamp it. Stephens sealed up the letters, and
accompanied him to the door and put them in his hands to be forwarded.
"Them Indians have gone off down the river a mile, to where there's
grass, to let their horses feed, and to eat a bite themselves," said the
storekeeper; "and I reckon likely they'll be more amiable when they get
back here again later on. Anyways, I hope as they will. I told that
Mahletonkwa as he'd orter be reasonable." All the time Backus had been
in the house he had fawned on Don Nepomuceno in a way that had made
Stephens sick when he remembered how he had called him a "close-fisted
old hunks" an hour before, and he watched the storekeeper returning to
his own abode with a feeling of absolute disgust.
Turning back into the patio he found himself in the presence of
Manuelita, who was crossing it on some errand. As all the doors gave on
the patio, it acted, so to speak, as the passage by which everybody went
from any one room to any other, except where two or three rooms opened
into each other _en suite_. "Señorita," he said, "one word with you, if
I may. It would really make you very happy, it would make your heart
quite free of sorrow, if this money were paid and things settled in that
way?"
"Oh, _Madre de Dios_!" she exclaimed, "but can you doubt it for an
instant? I would dance for joy"; and her eyes grew brighter on the
instant with the thought.
"Very well," answered Stephens cautiously, "I'll see what can be done.
I'll promise you to do my best to bring about a peaceful settlement. I
can't say more."
He went back into the sitting-room and wrote a third letter to the
cashier of the First National Bank at Santa Fé, where he kept a small
balance. He asked the cashier to telegraph to Rockyfeller at Denver to
say that he, Stephens, was unavoidably detained at Santiago, and to ask
Rockyfeller to send the thousand dollars to his account at the Santa Fé
bank, and he likewise wrote a cordial answer to Rocky's letter,
explaining matters at length. As soon as he had finished these he
hastened with them to the post-office. The ambulance which brought the
mail from Fort Wingate stood before the door, and a fresh team was being
harnessed to it, while Mr. Backus was in the act of bringing out the
little San Remo mail-bag, and at sight of Stephens stowed it hastily
inside.
For the little San Remo mail-bag was all but empty. The two fat letters
Stephens had entrusted to him for the governor and the general were not
inside it; their thin papery ashes lay amid the glowing coals of the
cedar-wood fire on Mr. Backus's kitchen hearth, and had helped to cook
the stage-driver's dinner. The impeccable United States postmaster had
opened and read them; decided on the spot that he did not want these
Navajos interfered with just at present; and had taken this summary
method of blocking the game.
"Here's a couple more letters," exclaimed Stephens, running up. "Can't
you put them in?" and he held them out to Backus in total ignorance of
his perfidy.
"Bag's sealed up now," said the postmaster officially. "Contrary to U.S.
regulations to open it again."
Stephens turned instantly to the mail-driver. "I wish you'd oblige me
by posting these for me when you get to Santa Fé. They're stamped all
right."
The driver held out his hand for the letters and shoved them carelessly
into the pocket of his overcoat.
"Mind you don't forget to post them," repeated Stephens; "they're
important." At this instant there came into his mind a thing that he had
forgotten, so absorbed had he become in the troubles of the Sanchez
family. Some stage-driver had libelled him to Sam Argles, and he had
intended to find out who it was. Probably this was the man. "Say," he
began, "do you remember driving a man named Sam Argles, a miner from
Prescott, over this line a month or two back?"
"Can't say, I'm sure," replied the driver, who was shortening a trace
with some difficulty. "You don't suppose as I can remember the names of
all the passengers I take?"
"Well, Argles was over this line recently," said Stephens, "and he
reports that a driver on it told him something about me."
"Likely he did," said the driver unconcernedly; "like as not, too, 't
warn't me. I aint the only driver on this line."
"Then you deny having told him I was a squawman?" said Stephens.
"Dunno nawthin' about it," replied the driver, gathering up the lines
and climbing to his perch. "It's no concern of mine." But he avoided
meeting Stephens's eye.
"Well, so long," said the latter; "I'm obliged to you about the
letters," and without further comment on the matter he started back
towards the Sanchez house.
"A d----d highfalutin, tonified cuss he is," said Backus as soon as the
prospector was out of earshot. "If you was to drop them letters in the
Rio Grande it'd serve him right for bouncing you like that."
"He dursn't say nuthin' to me," said the driver, "or I'd mash his face
in a minute. What do I know about his Sam Argleses? I reckon he is a
squawman, aint he?"
"Wal', if he aint, what does he live with them Injuns for? That's what I
say," said Backus with an evil laugh. "And I think, if I was you," he
added, "I'd be apt to have an accident with them letters crossing the
Rio Grande."
"There's a chance for it anyway," said the stage-driver; "the river was
rising fast day before yesterday, and I judge 't will be booming by now.
I've got to rustle around, for I'm going straight across to San Miguel.
I can cross there with the mail, anyway. Get up there, mules." He raised
the reins, cracked his whip and departed.