THE FEE IS ACCEPTED
The whole party came into Stephens's room and settled themselves round
the wall on the floor, much as they had done the night before. Stephens
seated his prisoner on a stool in the middle, and taking the cacique's
revolver from his belt laid it on the table. As he did so, he drew the
attention of Tostado, who was next to him, to the two recently
discharged chambers in the cylinder. "Those were the shots," said he.
"Maybe so, Don Estevan," answered the Indian suavely. "Doubtless you are
right in what you say, as you always are. We know that your honour is
very wise and very just. But before we do anything about it we want to
know what Salvador has to say; we have not heard him yet."
"I do not want to conceal anything," said the cacique abruptly. "I saw
them from the top of the hill that leads down from the mesas to La Boca.
I went straight to the river to them. He was on foot driving my horse,
trying to drive him into the river. I fired at him once, twice. He ran
away and stopped. I took my horse and my daughter, and I brought them
home. He ran after us, but he fell down. I saw him lying there the last
thing from the hill. If he is dead, he is dead. I do not know any more."
His story was so straightforward and simple that it was convincing.
"Where did you say all this happened?" asked Stephens.
"On the river, down below La Boca a league," answered the Indian.
The chiefs began to question him about the details of the affair. He
described to them the position of the fugitives when he overtook them,
and the refusal of the terrified horse to enter the swollen river.
"Then Felipe was not riding your horse," observed Stephens, who was
listening, for in deference to him they spoke in Spanish for the time
being.
"No, he was on foot. He was driving the horse," was the reply of the
cacique.
"I suppose your daughter was on the horse?" said Stephens.
"Yes, he was taking them both along," answered the Indian.
"How old is she?" asked the prospector. "She looks almost a woman
grown."
The Indian reflected a little while. "She was a little child so high,"
he answered at last, "when there was the great war in the States," and
he held his hand at a height to indicate a child of ten years old.
"She must be eighteen now, then," said Stephens.
"I suppose so. Yes, if you say so," admitted the Indian.
"Then she is not a child," said Stephens, "and she can marry him or
anyone she likes. You have no right to prevent her. Understand that.
This is a free country. By the law a woman is as free as a man; she may
go where she likes and marry whom she likes. She is not a slave, and
don't you think any such thing. No American can strike a woman; that is
the deepest of shames."
He paused after this, for him, unusually long speech, which was intended
quite as much for the benefit of the other Indians as the cacique. The
American felt a little elated at the thought that single-handed he had
been able to arrest their cacique in their midst, and he could not
resist improving the occasion.
There was a minute's silence, and then Tostado fixed his keen black eyes
on the American's face. "Listen to me, Señor Don Estevan," he said. "The
Americans have their way; that is good for them. The Mexicans have their
way; that is good for them. And the wild Indians,--the Utes, and the
Comanches, and the Navajos too,--they have their own ways. And we, we
have our laws. We don't change them. I know if one Indian kills another,
then the law of the Americans is to judge him; but the rest of the
things we manage among ourselves. The Government gives us that right. We
have our own alcalde. We have our own customs. And when men and women do
wrong together we beat them. Then they are afraid. That is why our women
are so good. Not like the Mexicans. That is good for us. We do not want
to change."
"But," cried Stephens, "if it is your custom to beat the women like
dogs, you ought to change it. Everybody knows that that it is shameful."
"For the Americans," said the old Indian, with the air of a man making
an extremely reasonable concession, "I do not say anything. Let them
have their ways, and treat their women as seems good to them. So they
are content; that is right. But we have our ways; we do not want to
change; we are content to be as we are."
Stephens felt nonplused. It seemed to him that he was not much of a
success as a missionary on the rights of women, and he felt, too, that
in this discussion he had wandered from the main point. After all, he
had arrested his man for the murder of Felipe, and not for beating his
daughter, though his motive in doing so had been to rescue the helpless
woman.
"You have heard Salvador's story," he said to the chiefs abruptly.
"Suppose we go and hear that of the witness, if she is able to speak."
They assented at once, and Stephens, bidding Salvador himself remain
where he was, led the way. On arriving at the house, they found the girl
laid on some skins in an inner room. Stephens went into the room and
knelt down beside her, the others remaining beyond the open door.
She opened her eyes, and perceiving who it was gave him a meaning look.
"You have saved me once," she whispered; "can you save me again? _She_
is making poison for me. I have seen"; and her eyes turned towards her
step-mother, who was mixing something in a gourd at the end of the room.
Stephens gave a low whistle. "This is a queer business," he muttered to
himself. "I wonder if the girl's telling lies. Maybe she's off her nut.
Likely enough, after such a hammering. The old woman doesn't look such a
bad lot. After all," he went on thinking, "perhaps I had better get her
away. These folks can be pretty low-down when they try."
"Can you move?" said he to the girl. "Can you walk?"
"Yes," she answered; "I am quite strong. Only I am looking how to
escape."
Neither fatigue, nor bodily pain, nor mental torture, had robbed her of
her senses, or tamed her spirit. Since the blows which she had endured
with such stoical courage had ceased, she had been collecting herself,
conquering the pain, and trying to think. She had recognised a friend in
the touch of Stephens's hand, and in the tones of his voice. She had
made up her mind to appeal to him if possible for aid, and now here he
was at her side.
"Can you take me away?" she whispered.
"All right," he answered. "I'll see what I can do."
"Probably," he mused, "they will say all sorts of ugly, low-down things
about me for this, but I can't leave her here at the mercy of these
woman-beaters, and that's all there is to it. If I can take two or three
of the principal men along, I don't see why she shouldn't come to Santa
Fé with us, if she's up to it; but I don't want any more confounded
scandal than I can help."
He got up and went to the door and addressed Tostado. "She is able to
get up, and to talk," he said. "It will be best to have her come over to
my room there and hear what she has to say."
They assented. The American felt all through that though the chiefs did
not directly oppose him, their feeling was against him. He led the way,
and they followed reluctantly. Josefa, a blanket thrown over her, and
drawn over her head so as to conceal her face all but the eyes,
accompanied Stephens, but so stiffly and painfully did she walk from the
effects of the violence she had suffered, that the idea of her being
able to undertake a journey became out of the question.
They entered the American's room, and sat down as before, the girl
sitting on the ground near the fireplace. She answered the questions
put to her in a low but firm voice.
Her statement tallied exactly with the cacique's. She had seen her
lover's blood flow, and the last she had seen of him as she looked back
was his figure stretched on the sand. After hearing her evidence,
Stephens felt no doubt that Felipe had been murdered.
"I must secure her somehow," he said to himself. "She'll be wanted as a
witness. I suppose his confession alone won't be enough. And she
certainly believes the cacique's wife'll kill her if I leave her there.
She aint fit to go to Santa Fé, and it would be simply brutal to ask it
of her. No, I'll have to try another plan. The only way to save her is
to have them acknowledge that I have the right to protect her."
"Tostado," said he, addressing the fine old man whose wisdom and force
of character made him by far the most influential of the chiefs, "you
told me just now that you had your own customs that you did not want
ever to change."
"Yes, señor," said he.
"Well, it is your custom, is it not, that an unmarried woman belongs to
her father, and that he can give her to anyone he pleases?"
"Yes," said Tostado; "that is, he can give her to any man in the pueblo
that is not of her family. But we should not allow him to give her to
any man in another pueblo. We do not allow the women of Santiago to go
away."
"Well," continued Stephens, "last night when I had blasted the ditch for
you, you all came here and wanted me to stay with you always; and you
said that everything you had was mine, and that whatever I asked you for
you would give me. Is not that so?"
"Yes," said Tostado simply. "You speak the truth." A general murmur of
assent confirmed his statement.
"Now," said Stephens, "I'm going to ask you for something, and I shall
see whether Indians mean a thing when they say it. I ask you for the
daughter of Salvador--for Josefa."
There was a general movement of surprise. The Indians talked eagerly to
one another, but in their own language, so that they were unintelligible
to the American. Presently Tostado spoke.
"How do you mean?" said he, addressing Stephens. "As your wife?"
"As wife, as servant, as anything I like," he answered. "You say now she
belongs to Salvador. I want her to belong to me."
The Indians again conversed among themselves.
"But she's promised to Ignacio," said her father to the others. "The
padre's coming to-morrow."
"That makes no odds," said one. "Ignacio doesn't want her now she has
run off with Felipe."
"It doesn't make any difference if he does," said another. "He's a
cowardly old creature; he won't do anything."
"Give him another daughter," said a third, "instead. One that won't run
away," he added in an aside for the benefit of the rest. "Perhaps he
will give you six cows if you warrant her to stop." The three cows of
old Ignacio's bargain were no secret in the pueblo.
The general opinion seemed to be that after the affair of last night
both Salvador and Ignacio would be well rid of Josefa on any terms.
"Besides," said the first speaker, with a meaning look towards the
American, "if he really wants her, so much the better for you. He will
be as good as your son-in-law. He will never give you up to the agent
and the governor then. Much better do it at once."
Salvador rose from his seat, and going towards the fireplace took the
girl by the shoulder.
"Come here," said he.
She winced at his touch, but she got up and obeyed him. He took her to
the American. "Here she is," he said aloud before them all. "I give her
to you. Keep her and do what you like with her. From now on she is not
mine any longer but yours."
"Do you all agree to that," said Stephens, turning to the chiefs.
"Yes," was the reply. "Yes; it is good."
Stephens turned to the crowd who were peeping in at the door. "Tell
Reyna I want her, some of you," said he.
In a minute the old squaw was fetched, and pushed, looking rather
sheepish and surprised, into the middle of the room. While she was
coming, Stephens had disappeared into the inner room and now came out
again with some bags in his hands.
"Look here, Reyna," he began. "They have given Josefa to me. She belongs
to me now. I want you to take care of her for me. I'll pay you for your
trouble. Here is flour and meat and coffee and sugar for the present."
Reyna was taken aback, and looked shyly round at the company. The
Indians at once confirmed what Stephens had told her. She took the bags
from his hands, and made her way out again through the crowded doorway
with a queer look on her puzzled face. She did not quite know what this
unaccountable American was up to.
Stephens followed her with the girl. They entered the house of Reyna
together.
"You will be quite safe here with her," he said in a kindly voice. "I'll
see that you come to no harm."
The girl turned to him to thank him, but no words would come. She was
fairly worn out with the strain of this last trying scene, added to her
fatigue and cruel anxiety about Felipe's fate.
"Here, Reyna," said the prospector, noticing her condition, "this girl's
about played out. You had better see to her at once," and turning on his
heel he left the house, closing the door carefully behind him.
As soon as he was outside he looked closely at the group of young men.
"Tito," he called.
Tito came to him, and they walked together a little apart from the rest.
"Look here, Tito," began Stephens, "I've got a job for you. I know you
are a friend of Felipe's. I want you to go and look for him. Take my
little mule and put your saddle on him. Go over to the Rio Grande and
look along near the river about a league below La Boca. If you find him
dead, get a man from there to help you with the body. If he's only
wounded, have him taken care of, or bring him back if you can. Tell him
he need not be afraid now. Here's two dollars for expenses. Mind you get
some corn for the mule at La Boca. Off with you as soon as you can."
Tito did not need telling twice. "I'll do just what you say, Don
Estevan," he said, as he stowed the money in a little pouch on his belt,
and away he flew like the wind.
The American returned to his own house. He found Tostado awaiting him
at the door. The other chiefs had disappeared. Salvador's wife had come
with food which she had prepared for her husband.
"It was time for breakfast, Don Estevan," explained Tostado, "and they
have gone home. The woman has brought Salvador's here."
"He could have eaten with me for all that," said Stephens, "but we
hadn't decided about who was to go to Santa Fé with me. Will you?"
"Well, I have no horse here, Don Estevan," said the old man. "After
breakfast we will see about it."
"Very well," said Stephens in a grumbling tone. "I suppose we must wait
their pleasure. It isn't much running off to breakfast there'd be if it
was anything they wanted to do."
However, there was nothing to do but wait, and Stephens had plenty of
time to do his own cooking in the interval. It was nearly an hour before
the chiefs were reassembled--having, indeed, to be sent for by Stephens
individually; but by persistence he got them together at last and
proceeded to business.
"Now, friends," he began, "who is going with me to Santa Fé? Don't all
speak at once," he added in English for his own benefit, smiling grimly
as he saw the blank look on their faces as he renewed his unwelcome
proposal.
"Will you go, Benito?" he said, determined to press them one by one.
The Indian instead of replying conversed rapidly with the others. They
had hoped that the transfer of Josefa to Stephens might have modified
the American's absurd passion for what he considered to be justice.
"Look here, Don Estevan," began Benito, "it is better to wait.
To-morrow, when Tito gets back, then----"
"Oh, nonsense!" broke in Stephens impatiently, "Tito mayn't be back for
a week, and it makes no odds about him anyhow."
"But," interrupted Ramon, another of the chiefs, "we have got no horses
here. You have your own mare, and the mule for Salvador, but we have
none. When Tito comes back with your other mule----"
"Oh, Tito be bothered!" said the American. "I tell you we don't want
him."
Suddenly there was a shout outside. A Mexican rider came tearing up the
village, and reined his reeking horse on to his haunches at Stephens's
door. Flakes of bloody foam flew from the bit, and the horseman's rowels
were red. He sprang into the room, covered with sweat and dust from the
road.
"The Señorita Sanchez!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "the Señorita Sanchez
has been carried off by the Navajos in the night." All present leapt to
their feet.
"What!" cried Stephens, "Manuelita?" He stood aghast.
"Yes," repeated the Mexican; "the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez is in the
hands of those villains."
"Of that Mahletonkwa!" the American exclaimed, seizing his rifle; "but
how? and where are they?"
"_Quien sabe?_" said the Mexican, "_esperate, Don Estevan_; wait a
moment, señor, till I tell you," for Stephens had caught up his saddle
and was making for the door. "All we know is that she is gone; the
tracks of the Navajos are all round the house and on the roof, and it is
guessed that they entered so, in the night, while everybody was asleep,
and carried her off."
"What idiots!" exclaimed Stephens. "Why didn't they keep a watch?"
"Who could have dreamed of such an attempt?" replied the Mexican. "The
doors were fastened safe. No one thought of their getting over the roof.
But it is proved that they must have done so; their moccasin tracks are
there on the roof to show it. And they have fled with her to the
westward; the tracks of their horses go all up the valley of the Agua
Negra. They have got a long start. But Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés
have raised a party; they have got all the men they could in San Remo
and gone on their trail: they are hoping to overtake them."
"Can I catch up with them?" asked Stephens hoarsely. "By George! but I
wish I had stayed down there last night; but how could I or anyone have
imagined such a thing as this? Poor, poor girl!"
He forgot the cacique, his prisoner for having shot down Felipe; he
forgot Josefa, lying there next door dependent on his protection; for
the moment all these things vanished from his mind before this dreadful
catastrophe.
"Yes," answered the Mexican, "you will be able to catch them--they have
but an hour's start of you; you will, that is, if you can follow their
trail, for you have a good mare. But what they want you to do--what I
came here to say, what Don Nepomuceno begged me to urge on you--is to
bring with you some of these Indians of the pueblo to assist him in
following the trail of the Navajos. Our friends here of Santiago did
good service as trailers for Coronel Christophero Carson during the war
against the Navajos; Don Nepomuceno is sure they will follow you, too,
against the Navajos if you will ask them."
Stephens paused and pondered a moment. His first impulse had been to
mount at once and gallop straight in pursuit. But there was wisdom in
Don Nepomuceno's counsel; most assuredly the Indians would be invaluable
if they came, and clearly there was nothing else he could do that would
be half so useful as to bring them. And with reflection came back the
image of the helpless Josefa, and he instantly realised that if he could
take the cacique along with him her position would become ever so much
safer; for he could not be blind to the fact that as soon as he was gone
she might yet be in danger supposing that the cacique remained behind.
Yes, in every way it would be better to enlist the cacique for the
pursuit; he decided to try and do so on the spot.
"This is a shocking thing that the Navajos have done," he said to the
Indians around him, "and they will have to smart for it. You have all
heard the suggestion made by this gentleman," he looked at the Mexican
as he spoke, "and I entirely agree with it. Cacique, will you and a
party of your warriors come with me on the war-trail against these
scoundrels? You will do a public service if you can succeed in
recovering the señorita from them; and in that case, whatever you may
have done to Felipe, the rescue of the captive would count for much in
your favour. In short, Cacique, if you will render good service in
recovering her, I will appeal to the governor to pardon you. There is my
offer."
The Indians talked it over rapidly among themselves. All joined in
urging Salvador to seize the opportunity given him of escaping from the
consequences of his rash act. Nor did he want much urging; he had fought
the Navajos before, and was personally no ways loath to take the field
against them again, and pride made him ardently desire to shine before
his people in the character of a leader. In five minutes the matter was
settled among them and his companions selected.
"Yes, Don Estevan," said he, "your offer is accepted. I will go with you
on the trail of these Navajos, and I will take with me Miguel, who is
our best tracker, and Alejandro, who is very good also. And it is agreed
that you stand my friend in the matter of Felipe."
"Agreed," cried Stephens; "and now let us be off. You have weapons and
ammunition."
"My horse is tired," said the cacique; "and how about horses for the
young men?"
"My mule can carry one," said Stephens. "Could we have your horse,
señor," he asked, turning to the Mexican, "and let you ride Mr. Backus's
horse back to San Remo?--for I presume he isn't fit for another journey,
either."
"Alas," said the Mexican politely, "I fear I cannot accommodate you in
this. I have to ride now post-haste to Rio Grande and warn Don
Nepomuceno's friends there of the trouble that has befallen him. They
will doubtless send a party from there also on the trail. Were it not
for that I would ride with you myself with pleasure."
"Look, now," interrupted the cacique, "at the plan which I propose. Let
us go to the horse herd beyond the Cerro de las Viboras. My horse is
tired indeed, but he can take me there; your mule is strong,
Sooshiuamo,"--he took the first opportunity to call Stephens by his
Indian name as a sign of renewed amity,--"let him carry our two young
men also as far as the herd; when we get to the herd we will choose
fresh horses for each of us, and we will take one of the herders along
with us, young Ignacio, who is very clever at trailing, and knows the
country; and besides, it is possible that the herders may have seen
something of Mahletonkwa's band, and can give information. In any case
we will start afresh from the horse herd and cut the trail of
Mahletonkwa, and perhaps of Don Nepomuceno's party a good way off from
here." Stephens looked up doubtfully at this suggestion. "Oh, never
fear," continued the cacique boastingly, "we can leave a trail and find
it again; I will show you what our men are like as trailers. There is no
one equal to the Santiago men on a trail."
The cacique was known for a man of skill and resource in all these
things of practical importance. He had indeed aroused the indignation of
the prospector by his cruelty to Felipe and to his daughter, but in that
after all he did but act according to his nature; Indians were cruel
anyhow. The savage, even in the best of them, was close to the surface.
When it came to going on the war-path the value of the peculiar powers
of the savage was manifest, and Stephens felt satisfied with his own
action in turning them to a good purpose. The cacique's proposal was
unquestionably sound, and he accepted it without hesitation.
"Tell me," he said, "before you go," turning to the Mexican who had
brought the news, and was standing there, quirt in hand, ready to start
as soon as their plans were decided upon, "what more is there known
about this matter?"
"_Pues, nada, señor_," answered the young man--"nothing--absolutely
nothing. We know neither at what hour of the night they took her away,
nor with what object they have done it, but it is doubtless to extort
the money from her father, the money that they have been demanding for
the Navajo killed by Don Andrés."
"Does the postmaster know anything about it?" asked Stephens; "I thought
he acted very ill yesterday with regard to the Indians. If he's had any
hand in it, by George!----" he broke off with a sudden fury of
suspicion.
"Nothing is known either about him, señor," replied the Mexican; "Mr.
Backus declares that he had no idea of their doing such a thing. They
were at his store during the afternoon, but they went off again to a
distance to camp before sunset. Doubtless they would conceal their
scheme from him as from everybody else. And now, señor, with your
permission I am for the road. I have near twenty leagues to ride to-day.
I report, then, to all my friends that you, with the Indian trailers of
Santiago, are going to take the trail. Believe me, we relied on you
confidently to assist." He grasped Stephens hand warmly, sprang to his
saddle, and was presently galloping for the Rio Grande.
The Indians ran to their houses for their guns and for the provision of
dried meat and parched maize they would require for the journey, while
Stephens brought his mare to the door and saddled her, tying a blanket
for himself on behind, and filling his saddle-bags with as much victuals
as he could stuff into them. Before starting he ran into Reyna's house
to take one look at Josefa. She was lying on a rug spread on the ground.
In a few words he told her of his summons to pursue Mahletonkwa, and his
acceptance of the cacique's services for the purpose. "But don't you be
afraid," he continued; "you're all right now. He shall never lay his
hand on you again. Reyna will look after you, and nurse you, and feed
you. You just stick by her as if she was your mother. And if anyone
tries to bother you while I'm gone, you just tell them to go to blazes.
You tell them that you belong to me now, and that if they go to try any
nonsense on with you I'll know the reason why. They'll have me to reckon
with. See? That's my talk, and don't you forget it." He gave her limp
hand a reassuring pressure as she lay there, and turned away. Three
minutes later he was riding north-westward from the pueblo in the
company of Salvador, Miguel, and Alejandro.