rifles into the air, shrieking defiance at their invisible foes, and
voicing insulting invitations to combat. This ferocity, however, served
only to terrify further the civil population and to close the shutters
of San Antonio the tighter. Meanwhile, the loyal troops remained safely
in their blockhouses, pouring a steady fire into the town. And despite
this admirable display of courage the visitors showed a deep respect
for their enemies' markmanship, taking advantage of whatever shelter
there was.
Leslie Branch, of course, proved the solitary exception; as usual, he
exposed himself recklessly and rode the middle of the streets,
regardless of those sudden explosions of dust beneath his horse's feet
or those unexpected showers of plaster from above.
He had spent his time assiduously ransacking the deserted shops, and in
addition to his huge bundle of bedding and his long string of straw
hats he now possessed a miscellaneous assortment of plunder, in which
were a bolt of calico, a pair of shoes, a collection of
cooking-utensils, an umbrella, and--strangest of all--a large
gilt-framed mirror. The safety of these articles seemed to concern him
far more than his own. Spying O'Reilly, he shouted:
"Say! What's the Spanish word for 'clothing-store'? I need a new suit."
"Don't be an idiot!" Johnnie yelled at him. "Keep under cover."
But Branch only shook his head. "They couldn't hit anything," he cried.
The next instant, as if to punctuate his remark, a spent bullet smashed
the mirror and sprinkled the speaker with particles of glass. It was
only by a miracle that he escaped injury. Branch reined in his horse,
examined the wreck, then with a petulant exclamation cast the useless
frame away.
"Come on, Johnnie," Judson growled. "The damn fool wants to get shot."
The sick man's bravado roused in O'Reilly a feeling of mingled
resentment and apprehension, but further warning would obviously be a
waste of breath. Nevertheless, being a little too tender-hearted to
follow Judson's nonchalant example and ride on, O'Reilly held in his
horse, meanwhile keeping an anxious eye upon his friend.
The latter was in no hurry; he jogged along leisurely, evidently on the
lookout for an opportunity to replenish his wardrobe. Truth to say,
this needed replenishing--Leslie resembled a scarecrow clad in a suit
of soiled pajamas. But by this time most of the shops had their
shutters up. When the last one had been left behind O'Reilly spurred
his horse into a gallop, relieved to know that the worst was over.
The raiders had approached San Antonio de los Banos across the fields
at the rear, but Colonel Lopez led their retreat by way of the camino
real which followed the riverbank. This road for a short distance was
exposed to the fire from one fort; then it was sheltered by a bit of
rising ground.
O'Reilly, among the last to cross the zone of fire, was just
congratulating himself upon the fortunate outcome of the skirmish when
he saw Colonel Lopez ride to the crest of a knoll, rise in his stirrups
and, lifting his cupped hands to his lips, direct a loud shout back
toward the town. Lopez was followed by several of his men, who likewise
began to yell and to wave their arms excitedly.
Johnnie turned to discover that Leslie Branch had lagged far behind,
and now, as if to cap his fantastic performances, had dismounted and
was descending the river-bank to a place where a large washing had been
spread upon the stones to dry. He was quite exposed, and a spiteful
crackle from the nearest blockhouse showed that the Spaniards were
determined to bring him down. Mauser bullets ricocheted among the
rocks--even from this distance their sharp explosions were
audible--others broke the surface of the stream into little geysers, as
if a school of fish were leaping.
While Johnnie looked on in breathless apprehension Branch appropriated
several suits that promised to fit him; then he climbed up the bank,
remounted his horse, and ambled slowly out of range.
Now this was precisely the sort of harebrained exploit which delights a
Cuban audience. When Leslie rejoined his comrades, therefore, he was
greeted with shouts and cheers.
"Caramba! He would risk his life for a clean shirt. ... There's a
fellow for you! He enjoys the hum of these Spanish bees! ... Bravo!
Tell us what the bullets said to you," they cried, crowding around him
in an admiring circle.
O'Reilly, unable to contain himself, burst forth in a rage: "You
infernal fool! Do you want to be shot robbing a clothes-line?"
"Rats!" ejaculated Leslie, sourly. "I TOLD you I had to have some
clothes."
"Lopez ought to court-martial you. What are you going to do with that
junk, now that you have it? You can't take it with you on the march."
"You wait and see," said the other. "I'm going to be comfortable, if--"
He paused, with a peculiar, startled expression on his face. "Did you
hear anything?" he queried after a moment. "No. What?"
"Oh, nothing." The two men rode on in silence for a time, then Leslie
said: "Queer thing happened back there while those Romeos were popping
at me. I heard a baby crying."
"A baby?"
"Sure. I suppose it was the washerwoman's kid. When we flushed her she
probably vamped out and left it in the grass. Anyhow, it let up an
awful holler."
Jacket and the other loot-laden soldiers had been sent on ahead,
together with those troopers who were sharing mounts with the rescued
prisoners; they were now waiting perhaps two miles from town for their
companions to overtake them. As the column came up and halted, O'Reilly
addressed a remark to Leslie Branch, but in the middle of it the faint,
unmistakable complaint of a child came to his ears.
"Listen!" he exclaimed. "What on earth--"
"I've been hearing it right along," Branch said. "I--I thought I had
the willies."
The nearest riders abruptly ceased their chatter; they questioned one
another mutely, doubting their own ears. Again came that thin, muffled
wail, whereupon O'Reilly cried in astonishment:
"Leslie! Why, it--it's in YOUR BUNDLE!" He pointed to the formless roll
of bedding which hung from his friend's saddle-horn.
"G'wan! You're crazy!" Branch slipped to the ground, seized the bundle
in his arms, and bore it to the roadside. With shaking hands he tugged
at the knotted corners of the comforter. "Pure imagination!" he
muttered, testily. "There's nothing in here but bedclothes. I just
grabbed an armful--" The last word ended in a yell. Leslie sprang into
the air as if his exploring fingers had encountered a coiled serpent.
"Oh, my God!" He poised as if upon the point of flight. "Johnnie! Look!
It's ALIVE!"
"What's alive? What is it?"
With a sudden desperate courage Branch bent forward and spread out the
bedding. There, exposed to the bulging eyes of the onlookers, was a
very tiny, very brown baby. It was a young baby; it was quite naked.
Its eyes, exposed to the sudden glare of the morning sun, closed
tightly; one small hand all but lost itself in the wide, toothless
cavity that served as a mouth. Its ten ridiculous toes curled and
uncurled in a most amazing fashion.
"Oh, my God!" Branch repeated, aghast. "It's just b-born! Its eyes
aren't open."
The Cubans, who had momentarily been stricken dumb with amazement,
suddenly broke into voluble speech. The clamor served to attract
Colonel Lopez, who was riding past.
"What's the matter here?" he demanded, forcing his horse through the
ring which had formed about El Demonio and his bundle. One startled
look and the colonel flung himself out of his saddle. "Whose baby is
that?" he demanded.
"I--I--Why, it's mine. I mean, I--" Branch's eyes were glued upon the
child in horrified fascination. He choked and stammered and waved his
hands impotently.
"Come, come! Speak up! What does this mean?" Lopez's voice grew stern.
"She must have be-been asleep. I just grabbed--You know. I--" Branch's
face became suddenly stricken. "Look out!" he shouted, hoarsely. "She's
going to cry, or something."
He was right; the baby showed every sign of a firm determination to
voice her indignation at the outrage she had suffered. Her hand stole
out of her mouth, her fists closed, her face puckered ominously. Lopez
stooped, wrapped her in a sheet, then took her awkwardly in his arms.
He bent a blazing glance upon the kidnapper, but he had no chance to
speak before the storm of wailings broke.
News of Leslie's exploit was spreading. Men were shouting and
gesticulating to their comrades to come and see El Demonio's spoils.
There was a great chattering and crowding and no little smothered
laughter. Meanwhile, Colonel Lopez was using every desperate device to
soothe the infant, but without success. At last he strode up to Leslie
and extended his burden.
"Here," he said, harshly, "she's yours. I surrender her."
Leslie drew back. "No, you don't! I wouldn't touch her for a thousand
dollars!" he cried.
But Lopez was firm. He spoke in a tone of command: "Do as I tell you.
Take her. A fine outrage, to steal a baby! What are we going to do with
her? We can't send her back--the town is crazy. I've no doubt I shall
hear from this."
In spite of Leslie's choking protests, in spite of his feeble
resistance, Lopez pressed the noisy stranger into his arms, then turned
to his men and directed them to be off.
Branch remained motionless. He was stupefied; he held the baby
gingerly, not daring to put it down, dreading to keep it; his eyes were
rolling, he began to perspire freely. Stretching a timid, detaining
hand toward Lopez, he inquired, huskily, "What shall I do with her?"
"God knows. I don't," snapped the officer. "I shall have to think, but
meanwhile I hold you responsible for her. Come now, we must be going."
Leslie swallowed hard; his face became overspread with a sicklier
pallor. "What'll I do--when she gets HUNGRY?"
Lopez could not restrain a smile. "You should have thought about that,
compadre. Well, I know where there is a milk cow not three leagues from
here. I'll send a man to borrow it from the owner and drive it to our
camp. Or perhaps"--his handsome face hardened again--"perhaps you would
prefer to take this child back where you found it?"
"No--I--Oh, they'd tear me limb from limb!"
"Exactly."
Branch turned his head from side to side in desperation. He wet his
lips. "It's the youngest one I ever had anything to do with. Maybe it
isn't used to cow's milk," he ventured.
"Unfortunately that is the only kind I can offer it. Take care of it
until I find some way of notifying its people."
O'Reilly had looked on at his friend's embarrassment with malicious
enjoyment, but, realizing that Branch would undoubtedly try to foist
upon him the responsibility of caring for the baby, he slipped away and
rode over to where Captain Judson was engaged in making a litter upon
which to carry the sick prisoner they had rescued from the jail. When
he had apprised the artilleryman of what Branch had found in his roll
of purloined bedding the latter smiled broadly.
"Serves him right," Judson chuckled. "We'll make him sit up nights with
it. Maybe it'll improve his disposition." More seriously he explained:
"This chap here is all in. I'm afraid we aren't going to get him
through."
Following Judson's glance, O'Reilly beheld an emaciated figure lying in
the shade of a near-by guava-bush. The man was clad in filthy rags, his
face was dirty and overgrown with a month's beard; a pair of restless
eyes stared unblinkingly at the brazen sky. His lips were moving; from
them issued a steady patter of words, but otherwise he showed no sign
of life.
"You said he was starving." Johnnie dismounted and lent Judson a hand
with his task.
"That's what I thought at first, but he's sick. I suppose it's that
damned dungeon fever."
"Then we'd better look after him ourselves. These Cubans are mighty
careless, you know. We can swing him between our horses, and--"
Judson looked up to discover that Johnnie was poised rigidly, his mouth
open, his hands halted in midair. The sick man's voice had risen, and
O'Reilly, with a peculiar expression of amazement upon his face, was
straining his ears to hear what he said.
"Eh? What's the matter?" Judson inquired.
For a moment O'Reilly remained frozen in his attitude, then without a
word he strode to the sufferer. He bent forward, staring into the
vacant, upturned face. A cry burst from his throat, a cry that was like
a sob, and, kneeling, he gathered the frail, filthy figure into his
arms.
"ESTEBAN!" he cried. "ESTEBAN! This is O'Reilly. O'Rail-ye! Don't you
know me? O'Reilly, your friend, your brother! For God's sake, tell me
what they've done to you! Look at me, Esteban! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!
Oh, ESTEBAN!"
Such eagerness, such thankfulness, such passionate pity were in his
friend's hoarse voice that Judson drew closer. He noticed that the
faintest flame of reason flickered for an instant in the sick man's
hollow eyes; then they began to rove again, and the same rustling
whisper recommenced. Judson had heard something of O'Reilly's story; he
had heard mention of Esteban and Rosa Varona; he stood, therefore, in
silent wonderment, listening to the incoherent words that poured from
his friend's lips. O'Reilly held the boy tenderly in his arms; tears
rolled down his cheeks as he implored Esteban to hear and to heed him.
"TRY to hear me! TRY!" There was fierce agony in the cry. "Where is
Rosa? ... Rosa? ... You're safe now; you can tell me. ... You're safe
with O'Reilly. ... I came back ... I came back for you and Rosa. ...
Where is she? ... Is she--dead?"
Other men were assembling now. The column was ready to move, but Judson
signaled to Colonel Lopez and made known the identity of the sick
stranger. The colonel came forward swiftly and laid a hand upon
O'Reilly's shoulder, saying:
"So! You were right, after all. Esteban Varona didn't die. God must
have sent us to San Antonio to deliver him."
"He's sick, SICK!" O'Reilly said, huskily. "Those Spaniards! Look what
they've done to him." His voice changed. He cried, fiercely: "Well, I'm
late again. I'm always just a little bit too late. He'll die before he
can tell me--"
"Wait! Take hold of yourself. We'll do all that can be done to save
him. Now come, we must be going, or all San Antonio will be upon us."
O'Reilly roused. "Put him in my arms," he ordered. "I'll carry him to
camp myself."
But Lopez shook his head, saying, gently: "It's a long march, and the
litter would be better for him. Thank Heaven we have an angel of mercy
awaiting us, and she will know how to make him well."
When the troop resumed its retreat Esteban Varona lay suspended upon a
swinging bed between O'Reilly's and Judson's horses. Although they
carried him as carefully as they could throughout that long hot
journey, he never ceased his babbling and never awoke to his
surroundings.
XX
EL DEMONIO'S CHILD
During the next few days O'Reilly had reason to bless the happy chance
which had brought Norine Evans to Cuba. During the return journey from
San Antonio de los Banos he had discovered how really ill Esteban
Varona was, how weak his hold upon life. The young man showed the marks
of wasting illness and of cruel abuse; starvation, neglect, and disease
had all but done for him. After listening to his ravings, O'Reilly
began to fear that the poor fellow's mind was permanently affected. It
was an appalling possibility, one to which he could not reconcile
himself. To think that somewhere in that fevered brain was perhaps
locked the truth about Rosa's fate, if not the secret of her
whereabouts, and yet to be unable to wring an intelligent answer to a
single question, was intolerable. The hours of that ride were among the
longest O'Reilly had ever passed.
But Norine Evans gave him new heart. She took complete charge of the
sick man upon his arrival in camp; then in her brisk, matter-of-fact
way she directed O'Reilly to go and get some much-needed rest. Esteban
was ill, very ill, she admitted; there was no competent doctor near,
and her own facilities for nursing were primitive indeed; nevertheless,
she expressed confidence that she could cure him, and reminded O'Reilly
that nature has a blessed way of building up a resistance to
environment. As a result of her good cheer O'Reilly managed to enjoy a
night's sleep.
Leslie Branch was later than the others in arriving, for the baby
proved to be a trial and a handicap. His comrades had refused him any
assistance on the homeward journey. They expressed a deep, hoarse
condemnation of his conduct, and pretended to consider that he had
sacrificed all claims to their friendship and regard.
Branch took this seriously, and he was in a state bordering upon
desperation when he reached camp. In the hope of unloading his
unwelcome burden upon Norine Evans he hurried directly to her tent. But
Norine had heard the story; Lopez had warned her; therefore she waved
him away.
"Don't ask me to mother your stolen child," she said.
"Oh, but you've GOT to," he declared in a panic. "You've just GOT to."
"Well, I won't. In the first place, I have a sick man in my tent."
"But look! Listen! This baby dislikes me. I've nearly dropped it a
dozen times. I--I'm going to leave it, anyhow."
But Norine remained firm in her refusal. "You sha'n't leave your
foundling at MY door. If you intend to steal babies you should make up
your mind to take care of them." She was itching to seize the hungry
little mite, but she restrained the impulse. "Go ahead and keep it
amused until the cow arrives," she told him.
"Keep it AMUSED! Amuse a starving brat!" tragically cried the man. "In
Heaven's name, how?"
"Why, play with it, cuddle it, give it your watch--anything! But don't
allow it to cry--it may injure itself."
Branch glared resentfully; then he changed his tactics and began to
plead. "Oh, Norine!" he implored. "I--just can't do it. I'm all fagged
out now, and, besides, I've got the only watch in camp that keeps time.
I didn't sleep any last night, and it'll keep me awake all to-night.
It's a nice baby, really. It needs a woman---"
Norine parted the flaps of her tent and pointed inside, where Esteban
Varona lay upon her cot. His eyes were staring; his lips were moving.
"Mrs. Ruiz and I will have our hands full with that poor chap. For all
we know, he may have some contagious disease."
Branch was utterly shameless, utterly selfish and uncompassionate. "I'm
sick, too--sicker than he is. Have a heart! Remember, I risked my life
to get you something nice to eat---"
"Yes! The most ridiculous procedure I ever heard of. What ever made you
do such a crazy thing?" Norine was honestly indignant now.
"I did it for you. It seems to me that the least you can do in
return---"
"The least, and the most, I can do is to try and save this poor man's
life," she firmly reasserted. "Now run along. I'd take the baby if I
could, but I simply can't."
"It'll die on me," Branch protested.
"Nonsense! It's the healthiest little thing I ever saw. Wait until it
has its supper. You'll see." She disappeared into her tent and Branch
reluctantly turned away.
Next he bore the infant to Judson and O'Reilly in turn; but both
gruffly refused to assume the least responsibility for it. In the
matter of advice concerning its welfare, however, they were more
obliging. They were willing to discuss the theory of child-rearing with
him as long as he would listen, but their advice merely caused him to
glare balefully and to curse them. Nor did he regard it as a mark of
friendship on their part when they collected an audience that evening
to watch him milk the cow--a procedure, by the way, not devoid of
excitement and hazard, inasmuch as Branch's knowledge of cows was even
more theoretical than his knowledge of babies.
Leslie had begun by this time to realize that there existed a general
conspiracy against him; he met it with sullen resentment. He deeply
regretted his ignorance of the Spanish language, however, for a
thousand epithets and insults clamored for translation.
Now there are cows which an amateur can milk, and there are other
kinds. This particular cow was shy, apprehensive, peevish; Branch's
unpractised fumbling irritated her. Being herself a nomad of the
savannas, she was accustomed to firm, masterful men, therefore when
Leslie attempted courteously, apologetically, to separate her from her
milk she turned and hooked him.
El Demonio's audience, who had been looking on with rapt attention,
applauded this show of spirit. Branch was unwontedly meek. He
acknowledged his total inexperience, and begged his friends, almost
politely, to call for a substitute.
Judson explained, gravely, "These Cubans don't know any more about cows
than you do."
O'Reilly agreed, "They're good bull-fighters, but they can't milk."
Leslie eyed the speakers, white with rage; he was trembling. "You think
you're damned funny, don't you? You're having a jubilee with me. Well,
I'm game. I'll go through with it. If you'll hold her, I'll milk her.
I'll milk her till she hollers."
Obligingly, O'Reilly took the animal by the horns and Judson laid hold
of her tail.
"Stretch her tight," Leslie commanded. "Don't give her an inch of
slack, or I'll quit." When his friends had braced themselves he moved
toward the cow once more, but this time from the opposite quarter.
Noting the direction of his approach, the onlookers gave vent to a low
murmur of expectancy. They drew closer. Strangely enough, the animal
stood quiet for a time--lost in amazement, perhaps--and Leslie managed
to cover the bottom of his big tin cup with milk. But at last the
outrage proved too much for her; she slowly lifted one hind foot and
poised it jerkily. She seemed to consider the next move for a moment;
then she kicked forward and sent Branch flying.
"Can you beat that?" O'Reilly exclaimed in apparent wonderment. "Why,
she walloped you with the back of her hand."
Judson, too, affected great amazement. "Most cows are left-handed," he
declared. "Try her on the other side."
Branch dried the milk from his face, then in a shaking voice cried:
"Have a good time with me. It's your last chance."
It seemed for a while that the enterprise was doomed to failure; but at
last a pint or more of milk was secured, and this Leslie proceeded to
dilute with warm water from a near-by camp-fire. Even then, however,
his difficulties were not over. He had supposed that any baby knew
enough to drink. It took him half an hour to discover his mistake.
Having long since given up the hope of any active assistance from his
audience, he doggedly set to work to fashion a nursing-bottle. He
succeeded in due time, after making use of a flask, the stem of an
unused cigarette-holder, and a handkerchief.
When he finally took seat and began awkwardly coaxing the fretful child
to drink, the Cubans voiced their appreciation of the picture. They
were courteous, they did not laugh; nevertheless, the sight of their
eccentric, irascible, rebellious El Demonio tamely nursing a child in
the fire-light filled them with luxurious, soul-satisfying enjoyment.
O'Reilly was up at daylight to offer his services in caring for Esteban
Varona, but Norine declined them.
"His fever is down a little and he has taken some nourishment," she
reported. "That food you boys risked your silly lives for may come in
handy, after all."
"I dare say he won't be able to talk to me to-day?" O'Reilly ventured.
"Not to-day, nor for many days, I'm afraid."
"If you don't mind, then, I'll hang around and listen to what he says,"
he told her, wistfully. "He might drop a word about Rosa."
"To be sure. So far he's scarcely mentioned her. I can't understand
much that he says, of course, but Mrs. Ruiz tells me it's all jumbled
and quite unintelligible. How is Leslie's baby this morning?"
"Oh, it passed a good night. It was awake and had ordered breakfast
when I got up. Leslie was making a fire to scald out its bottle. He
says he didn't close his eyes all night."
"Poor fellow! I'm going to help him," Norine declared.
"Please don't. Lopez wants to teach him a lesson, and this is the best
thing that could possibly have happened. We have told him that there's
no chance of returning the baby, and he thinks he's elected to keep it
indefinitely. As a matter of fact, Jacket is going to take a letter to
the comandante at San Antonio this morning, advising him that the child
is safe, and asking him to send for it at once."
"Isn't that risky?" Norine inquired. "Won't the comandante attack us if
he learns where we are?"