A WOUNDED MAN
When the triumphant cacique rode off with the daughter he had recaptured
on the banks of the Rio Grande, he left Felipe stretched upon the
ground, breathless from his last desperate rush and half stupefied with
despair. The angry voice of the cacique sounded farther and farther off;
the hoof-beats of the horses died away in the distance. Felipe lifted
his head from the sand; he was alone under the wide sky by the great
river. The monotonous rush of the water seemed to intensify the
stillness; the sun blazed down out of the blue sky; everything was at
peace except the despairing, rebellious heart of the boy alone in the
desert. How could everything go on so quietly when such a wicked thing
had just been done? Why did not the cacique's horse stumble and fall and
kill him as he deserved? Why was life so full of injustice and cruelty?
Poor Felipe! The first time that it is brought home to us that the
scheme of events has not been arranged for our personal satisfaction,
nay, that it may involve our extreme personal misery, is a hard
trial--too hard sometimes for a philosopher; how much more so for a
poor, untaught Indian boy.
"Cruel, savage, barbarous," he groaned, as he thought of the blows that
had rained down upon the shrinking form of his sweetheart. "Poor little
thing! Poor little Josefa! I can do nothing for you now; I had best go
and drown myself--there is nothing left to live for."
He got up and walked deliberately towards the river.
But before he reached the brink he had had time to reflect. "Nothing
left to live for?" he thought. "Yes, there is. I could kill Salvador
first. I could get my father's gun and do it. I don't care if they do
hang me afterwards."
He knelt down on the river-bank, and bending his head over the water he
dipped his left hand in, and by a quick throwing movement of the wrist
tossed a continuous stream of water into his mouth in the wonderful
Indian fashion which gives quite the effect of a dog lapping. As he
quenched his burning thirst, and felt the cool, refreshing dash of the
water against his face, his spirit rose.
"I'll go straight back," he said to himself, with a dangerous expression
on his set face. "I don't need any rest. I'll be there before the sun's
much past noon, and he'll be dead before night."
He washed the blood from his right arm and examined the wound. The
bullet had struck him between the elbow and shoulder and had passed out
again without touching the bone. The second shot had missed him. He tore
some strips from his shirt, and bound it up as well as he could with his
left hand aided by his teeth.
He drew his belt tighter to keep off hunger, and drank again before
facing the long leagues of waterless desert between him and Santiago. He
looked at the rolling river and at the farther shore where he had so
longed to be. "_Rio maldito!_" he cried. "Accursed stream, what
happiness you have robbed me of! what misery you have wrought us! Why
could you not wait only one day longer?" He turned away, set his face
towards the pueblo, and began his weary journey.
He soon found the weight of his arm grow more and more painful as his
pulse beat faster with movement, and he had to carry it across his body,
supporting it with the other. But he pushed on with a steady, untiring
gait, showing the marvellous power of his race to bear pain and fatigue
and hunger and thirst. On all the Western frontier there is no white man
that is not proud to be credited with "Indian endurance."
Curiously enough, he felt no fear. The cacique's threat to kill him did
not affect his purpose in the slightest. He had recoiled from instant
death when the pistol cracked in his face, but that was only
instinctive, defenceless as he was against a man with firearms. He felt
no shame at having done so. It did not seem to him cowardly to avoid
being killed if he could. But he did not flinch for a moment when he
thought of returning to the pueblo. No doubt Salvador would try to carry
out his threat. "Well," thought he, "I must be beforehand with him. If I
can't hold my father's gun with this sore arm, I must get Tito's pistol;
Tito is my friend; he will not be afraid to let me have it."
The sun rose high in the heavens and beat down upon him as he toiled
along, parching him with thirst. He was travelling the same trail back
to Santiago that he had traversed the night before. The tracks of the
horses going and returning were plainly visible. But what a change for
him! A few hours before he had ridden that way feeling every inch a
man, with his sweetheart in his arms and the happiness of a lifetime
within his grasp; and now--As the thought stung him he pulled himself
together and forced his weary feet to carry him on faster.
But anger had made him overestimate his own powers, in declaring that he
would be back, and the cacique dead, before night. His strength gave
out, and he had to lie down time and again to recover force enough to go
on at all. Night overtook him, and he was compelled to stop and light a
fire under the lee of a cedar bush, and rest himself in the warmth of it
till dawn. Then he set forward, once more, slowly and stiffly, but ever
pressing onwards, with his face turned towards the village that was his
home, the village where his sweetheart must now be lying at the mercy of
her pitiless father. What might not he have done to her ere this! That
torturing thought goaded him to renewed efforts.
When he reached the edge of the mesa he was crossing, he looked down
into the sandy valley that separated him from the next one; and there
right below him, coming at brisk pace, was a mounted Indian. He
instantly crouched down to watch if the new-comer were friend or foe;
but in a minute he sprang from his concealment. It was Tito,--Tito on
the mule of the American.
With a joyful cry he ran to meet him. Tito knew him and shouted back in
welcome. "Why, Felipe!" he cried, "I was looking for your body, and here
you are alive. Jump up and I'll take you right back. But you're
wounded," he added, seeing his arm bound up. "Is it bad? Let me help you
up," and he jumped off to help his friend to mount to the saddle.
"Salvador gave me a shot," answered Felipe as he got on with Tito's
help; "but it's not very bad."
Tito turned the mule's head round towards Santiago, and jumping on
behind struck out for home. The tough little mule made light of the
double burden, and rejoicing in the prospect of going back to his
beloved mare set off briskly.
"Now tell me all about it," said Tito eagerly.
"Tell me first," answered Felipe, "where is Salvador? What has he done
with Josefa?"
"Salvador is made prisoner by the Americano," replied Tito, "for killing
you. They think you're dead over there, and they've given Josefa to
Sooshiuamo, hoping to keep him from taking the cacique to Santa Fé. He
asked for her." Felipe's heart gave a sudden bound. He knew of course
that there were white men in many of the Indian tribes with half-breed
families, but he had never thought of Don Estevan as that sort of man.
"_Valgame Dios!_" he cried. "What does he want her for?"
"Who knows?" replied Tito guardedly. "Perhaps he wants someone to cook
for him and to take care of the house when he is away. It was he that
stopped the cacique from beating her."
"_Valgame Dios!_" said Felipe again. He hardly heard the rest of Tito's
story. He was filled with new fears. Was everyone against him? Was the
Americano, of all men in the world, to be the one to supplant him? He
remained silent a while, but his suspicions were too strong to be
entirely concealed.
"How did he ask for her?" he inquired. "Tell me, Tito."
"He said the pueblo had agreed to give him anything he wanted for
blasting the rock," answered Tito; "and he said that he wanted her. So
Salvador gave her to him. They all told Salvador to do it, for they
thought then he wouldn't take him to Santa Fé. They all agreed to it.
Sooshiuamo has put her with Reyna. She's there now."
"Tito," said Felipe very earnestly, "will you lend me your pistol?"
"What for?" said Tito.
Felipe hesitated. Two conflicting plans of vengeance were struggling
within him. Then he answered, "The cacique said he'd kill me if I came
back. If he has a pistol, I ought to have one. It wasn't fair there by
the river."
"Nonsense," said Tito; "he's not going to kill you. Didn't Sooshiuamo
make him a prisoner because he thought he had? Why, he was going to take
him to Santa Fé to be hanged for it. The cacique was frightened, I can
tell you. He won't touch you now, Felipe. Sooshiuamo won't let him."
"Oh, I'm sick of hearing of Sooshiuamo," broke in Felipe impatiently.
"Why won't you lend it to me, Tito? You used to."
"That was to go after wild cows," said Tito. "Now I don't know what you
want."
"I want to defend myself," said Felipe in a hurt tone.
"But there's no need to," said Tito. "Never mind what Salvador said. He
was angry then. He is frightened now. Don't you mind him. It'll be all
right. I'm taking you straight back to Sooshiuamo, just as he told me.
He'll manage it."
It was easy to see who was Tito's hero now.
They came to the edge of the last mesa and looked down upon the
Santiago Valley. Tito jumped off to ease the mule, who cleverly picked
his way down the steep, rocky escarpment. At the bottom he sprang on
again, and they cantered in the last league over the lowlands.
Felipe resigned himself to fate. "If he wrongs her, I'll have his
heart's blood," he thought, but the imaginary "he" was not the cacique.
They reached the corrals, and they heard the cry raised of "Tito's
coming! Tito's here!" They pushed on through the crowd to the American's
house, and Tito, proud of his success, sprang off before the door.
"See, Sooshiuamo, I have brought him," he shouted out joyfully, thinking
he was there, as he aided his friend to dismount. "Here's Felipe. He's
not dead, but he has a bullet wound."
He pulled the latch-string, but the door refused to open. It was locked.
"I reckon you must shout a bit louder if you want Mr. Sooshiuamo, as you
fellers call him," remarked a man who lounged against the wall near
Reyna's door, which was only a few yards from Stephens's. "He aint to
home just now."
"Why, where is he?" cried the boys in concert.
"Gone off with the cacique," answered Backus, for it was he; "mebbe he
thought change of air would be wholesome after all that rumpus they're
bin having this morning"; he laughed an evil laugh.
"Oh," cried Tito, "I suppose he's done as he said he would, taken him to
Santa Fé for killing Felipe. But why couldn't he wait a little? Here
I've brought him back Felipe no more dead than I am."
"No, nor he aint taken him to Santa Fé, neither," rejoined the Texan,
with a malicious pleasure in mystifying the boys. He had gone straight
to the cacique's house in his dripping garments after his fall into the
ditch, and had waited there, meditating revenge, while they were being
dried for him, during which interval he had obtained a full account of
all that had taken place, including the fact that Josefa had been
transferred to the prospector and was now under his protection at
Reyna's. He had just walked over to Reyna's, in the hope of interviewing
the girl, when the mule with the two boys on his back came in sight.
"All that gas of his about Santa Fé was nothing but a blind," he went
on; "what he wanted was to get Miss Josefa for himself. And he's done
it, too." He noted the flash in Felipe's eyes as he said this. "Yes,
he's got her bottled up tight, inside here." He jerked his thumb over
his shoulder to indicate the house against which he was leaning.
"But that's only to save her from her father," exclaimed Tito hotly. "He
was thrashing her like fury, and Sooshiuamo stopped him and took her
away from him." Tito did not feel quite sure himself what Stephens's
ultimate object might have been,--Americans were such very unaccountable
people anyhow,--but he was not going to have this other American saying
things about the man who was his particular hero at the moment, without
sticking up for him.
"Jes' so," rejoined the Texan, "he's got her away from her daddy, and
he's got her for himself. That's the size of it exactly."
Felipe said nothing, but the rage and despair which had taken possession
of his heart made him perfectly convinced that the base innuendo of the
Texan was only the simple truth. Tito made another effort to withstand
the sinister meaning of the words.
"But he hasn't taken her to live with him," he said. "She's not in his
house; it's locked up."
"Yes," said Backus, "for a very good reason. He's gone off hunting
Navajos, and he's too jealous of her to leave her there by herself. So
he's stowed her away, nice and handy, with his most particular friend
next door. See? Why, it's as clear as mud."
"What's he gone hunting Navajos for, though?" asked the puzzled young
Indian.
"What, don't you know?" said the Texan. "Oh, I suppose the news came
after you'd started. Well, there's a pretty kettle of fish. The Navajos
have bagged Miss Sanchez, and run her off Lord knows where, and Mr.
Sooshiuamo, instead of taking his newly made father-in-law off to jail,
is using him as a smell-dog to run their trail. He and Miss Josefa's
daddy are as thick as thieves now. Aint it so, what I've said?" and he
appealed to the other Indians standing round for confirmation.
The incredulous Tito appealed to them, too; but the Texan had stated the
fact correctly enough; and as for the interpretation he put on them,
well, that was a matter where everyone must judge for himself. Opinions
varied as to that, but the general verdict was in Backus's favour.
Felipe threw up his unwounded arm in adjuration. "If he takes her from
me," he cried, "my curse upon him from the bottom of my heart."
"You seem to take it hard, young man," said Backus eyeing him keenly.
"Say, though, you're looking rather dilapidated. What's wrong with you
anyway?"
"He's got a bullet in his arm," answered Tito for him.
"Then why the mischief couldn't you say so before, you plumb idiot?"
exclaimed the Texan, who instantly divined that here was a chance to
make friends with the youth who would now and henceforward be Stephens's
bitterest enemy. "Come in here, young 'un, and let me look at it," he
said, addressing Felipe; "it's a pity if I don't know a thing or two
about gunshot wounds." He knocked at Reyna's door, and when she appeared
he said apologetically, "Won't you let me bring in a wounded man who
wants seeing to?"
Reyna did not want either him or Felipe, seeing that she had already one
invalid in the house, in the shape of Josefa, whom she was nursing in an
inner room, and she particularly objected to any complications with
Felipe in Stephens's absence. But to be hospitable is a cardinal virtue
of the race, and she admitted them in spite of the difficulties she
felt. After all, Josefa was safely stowed away out of sight and hearing.
The Texan placed the boy on the ground close to the light, and with the
rude skill of the frontier undid the makeshift bandage. The wound was
naturally somewhat inflamed; he cleansed it with water and clean rags
supplied by Reyna, and did it up again for the patient. "There aint no
bullet in that," he said, "or I'm a Dutchman. But you're liable to have
an ugly arm, if you don't look after it properly. Now you listen to me.
You go right home to your mammy, and have a bite to eat, and lie down
and keep quiet. Keep plumb still, d'you mark me, and don't go talking.
Rest's what you're wanting this minute. But I can't dress your wound
properly here, for I haven't the right stuff with me. I've got some rare
good stuff at the store, though, that works like a charm. Now, you come
down to me there, this evening when you're rested, and I'll fix it for
you good. You do jes' as I tell you, and I'll make a well man of you
yet. _Sabe?_" He helped the boy to his feet and led him to the door.
"But I want to see Josefa," said the boy, addressing Reyna; "I've got
something to say to her. Where is she?"
"You'd better go right along and lie down," said Backus, disregarding
the interruption; "you aint fit to talk to her now, nor she aint fit to
talk to you."
"Let me see her," cried the boy passionately. "I must."
"Hush!" said the old squaw severely, "she's asleep. You'll disturb her.
Do what the kind gentleman says, and go home."
Backus had said not a word to a soul as to his fracas with Stephens, nor
had it been observed by any of the Pueblo people, so that Reyna had no
idea of his hostility to Stephens, to whom she was devoted. Had she
known of it she would not have called him "kind gentleman," nor even let
him inside her door. Now, however, she backed him in starting Felipe for
home under Tito's charge, the Texan reiterating his injunctions to keep
quiet when he got there. Then he turned quickly to the mistress of the
house. "And how's the other invalid getting on? How's the new Mrs.
Stephens?"
"She does very well, now," said the squaw cautiously.
"Don't you think I'd better prescribe for her?" asked the Texan; "I'm a
boss doctor, me, for wounds and bruises"; in saying which he did but
speak the truth. "Come on, let's have a look at her."
"She's resting now," said the squaw. "Better she try to go to sleep."
"Oh, pshaw!" said the storekeeper; "it'll do her all the good in the
world to see me. Come along, old lady, trot her out."
But though Mr. Backus had had reason for his boast when he declared that
he had had a good deal of experience of Indians, and that too of
different sorts, he found now that he knew precious little of Pueblo
Indians, and next to nothing of the nature of the Pueblo squaw. This
stout, jolly, comfortable-looking old lady (not so very old, either),
whom he had imagined he could order about by virtue of his position as
one of the superior sex as well as of the superior race, proved to have
a decided will of her own. It was her house he was in, her very own,
and, what was more, she was mistress in it, and did not for one moment
mean to abdicate. She had no notion of being told to do this or that by
anybody so long as she was inside her own door, and this she let him
know. She was a woman of the Turquoise clan, and the Turquoise women
owned that block of buildings, and their motto was, "What's mine's my
own."
The astonished storekeeper found he had to swallow the fact that Josefa
was invisible to him for the present, and he was sharp enough to see
that it would do him not the slightest good to bluster. So he kept a
civil tongue in his head, thanked Reyna profusely for allowing him to
dress Felipe's wound in her house, and promised to call again soon. Then
he went off to the cacique's stable and got his own horse, which was
waiting for him there, and rode slowly home revolving fresh schemes of
revenge.