on points of honor. There was some difficulty in getting a messenger,
but Jacket volunteered. He volunteers for anything, that boy. They
wouldn't be likely to hurt a kid like him. If they should, why, we have
the baby, you see."
Although Norine had pretended to wash her hands of all responsibility
for Branch's little charge, she was by no means so inhuman as she
appeared. During the day she kept a jealous eye upon it, and especially
upon its diet.
Fortunately for all concerned, it was a good-natured child; so long as
its stomach was full it was contented. It slept a good deal, and what
time it was awake it sucked its fist and suffered itself to be
variously entertained by the men. There were, of course, a number of
fellows who could see no humor at all in El Demonio's plight, nor any
reason for adding to his embarrassments. These came to his aid in
numerous ways.
It was an idle day; there was nothing to do except play with the baby;
before night came the child had established itself as a general
favorite. Even Branch himself had become interested in it.
"Say, I've learned a lot about kids from this one," he confided to
O'Reilly at dinner-time. "I always thought young babies were just damp,
sour-smelling little animals, but this one has character. She knows me
already, and I'm getting so I can pick her up without feeling that I'm
going to puncture her. She's full of dimples, too. Got 'em everywhere.
What do you think we'd better name her?"
"She probably has a name. Do you expect to keep her permanently?"
Branch considered. "I wouldn't have thought of such a thing yesterday,
but how are we going to get rid of her? That's the question. We can't
just leave her with the first family we come to. These country people
have more kids than they know what to do with."
"Thinking about taking her on the march with us?" O'Reilly looked up,
much amused.
"I don't see why it couldn't be done. The men wouldn't mind and she'd
make a dandy mascot."
O'Reilly shook his head. "This isn't a baseball team. What about the
baby's mother?"
"Bullets! Fine mother SHE was, to desert her child. I'll bet she's glad
to get rid of it. People like that don't have any more affection
than--cattle. They don't deserve to have children. What's more, they
don't know how to care for them. I'd like to raise this kid according
to my own ideas." Branch's face lightened suddenly. "Say! I've just
thought of a name for her!"
"What?"
"Bullets!"
"Are you swearing or naming her?"
"Wouldn't that be a good name? It's new, and it means something. Raid,
battle, rain of bullets! See? Bullets Branch--that doesn't sound bad."
With deliberate malice O'Reilly said, gravely: "Of course, if you adopt
her, you can name her what you choose--but she's a mighty brown baby! I
have my suspicions that--she's a mulatto." Branch was shocked,
indignant. "That child's as white as you are," he sputtered. Then
noting the twinkle in O'Reilly's eyes he turned away, muttering angrily.
Strangely enough, Leslie's fantastic suggestion found echo in more than
one quarter, and many of his camp-mates began to argue that El
Demonio's baby would certainly bring the troop good luck, if it could
keep her. Adoption of some sort was gravely discussed that evening
around more than one camp-fire.
After breakfast on the following morning the baby was bathed. This was
an event, and it had been advertised as such. An interested and
admiring group of swarthy cigarette-smokers looked on while Branch
officiated, Norine's offer to perform the service less publicly having
been refused. Leslie was just drying off the chubby form when he was
unexpectedly interrupted.
Jacket had made his round trip in safety, but instead of bringing a
squad of the enemy's soldiers with him he had brought the child's
parents, which was a much more sensible thing to do.
The storekeeper and his wife arrived unheralded; they gave no warning
of their coming, and they exchanged no amenities with the ravagers of
their home. Hearing the shrill, petulant voice of their beloved, they
made directly for it, as eagles swoop from the sky at threat to their
nest.
Branch looked up at the sound of some swift approach. He beheld an
entirely strange woman bearing down upon him. Her face was white,
frantic, terrible; her arms were outstretched; she gave utterance to a
peculiar, distressing cry. Snatching the baby from his lap without so
much as "by your leave," she clutched it to a billowing brown bosom.
Leslie rose, protesting, just in time to receive the full onslaught of
the child's distracted father. He went down in a swirl of arms and
legs; he felt himself kicked, pounded, trampled, beaten, scratched,
until his friends came to the rescue and dragged him to his feet. He
rose to behold a small, fat, disheveled Spaniard who had turned from
assaulting him and now appeared to be engaged in biting mouthfuls from
such portions of the baby's anatomy as were not hidden in its mother's
embrace.
A clamor of voices breaking the Sabbath calm of the morning brought
Norine Evans running from her tent. One look, and its cause was plain.
Fifty men were talking loudly; fifty pairs of arms were waving. In
consequence of the torrent of words that beat upon their ears it was
some time before the merchant and his wife could be made to fully
understand the peculiar circumstances of the kidnapping, and that no
harm had been intended to their darling. Slowly, bit by bit, they
learned the truth, but even then the mother could not look upon Leslie
Branch without a menacing dilation of the eyes and a peculiar
expression of restrained ferocity.
The father was more reasonable, however; once he was assured of his
daughter's safety, his thankfulness sought outlet. He began by
embracing every one within his reach. He kissed Norine, he kissed
O'Reilly, he kissed Judson, he made a rush at Leslie himself; but the
latter, suspicious of his intent, fled. Unmindful of the fact that
these were the men who had relieved him of a considerable stock of
goods and profaned his holy of holies, he recklessly distributed among
them what money he had upon his person and then gave away the remaining
contents of his pockets. He swore his undying love for them all.
Smiting his breast excitedly, he urged them as a personal favor and a
mark of his overflowing gratitude to return to San Antonio de los
Banos, make themselves masters of all his worldly possessions, and then
burn his store.
While this was going on, Jacket was proudly advertising his share of
the enterprise, not failing to give himself full credit.
"By----! I made a big hit with that comandante," he told his American
friends. "Those people in San Antonio say I'm the bravest boy they ever
seen, and they give me more'n a thousand cigars. When I rode away I
saluted the comandante; then I yelled, 'Vive Cuba Libre!' and everybody
laughed like hell. I guess those people never seen nobody like me
before."
That afternoon, when it came time for the merchant and his little
family to set out for home, a crowd of regretful Insurrectos assembled
to bid them farewell and to look for the last time upon the baby. By
now the mother's apprehensions had given way to pride and she could
bring herself to smile at the compliments showered upon her offspring
and to answer in kind those which were aimed at herself. She even
permitted El Demonio to kiss the child good-by. Her husband, since his
arrival in camp, had heard much about the eccentric American, and now,
after apologizing abjectly for his unwarranted attack, he invited
Branch to visit his store when this hideous war was over and Cuba was
free. Finally, in spite of Leslie's frantic struggles, he embraced him
and planted a moist kiss upon either cheek.
Amid loud and repeated good wishes and a cheer for the baby the
visitors rode away.
Lopez linked his arm within O'Reilly's as they turned back into the
palm-grove. With a smile he said:
"Well, I hope this has taught your friend to steal no more babies."
"I'm afraid he'll steal the very next one he sees. He fell in love with
that one and wanted to keep it."
"Oh, he wasn't alone in that. It's queer how sentimental soldiers
become. I've often noticed it. When I was in the Rubi Hills some of my
fellows adopted a goat. We had to eat it finally, but those men
wouldn't touch a piece of the flesh--and they were starving. By the
way, how is Varona doing?"
"About the same."
Lopez frowned. "I shall have to send him to Cubitas to-morrow, for we
must be under way."
"If he has to be moved, let me do it. I'd like to be with him when he
comes out of his fever, and learn what he knows about his sister."
O'Reilly's appeal was earnest.
The colonel readily yielded. "Go, by all means. Report to General
Gomez, and he no doubt will let you stay until the boy can talk. He may
have news from Matanzas by that time."
O'Reilly pressed his colonel's hand gratefully. "You're mighty good,"
said he. "There's one thing more. Will you look out for Branch while
I'm gone, and--hold him down?"
Lopez laughed lightly. "Oh, he'll soon get over his recklessness. This
life agrees with him. Why, he's a different man already! When he gets
well and has something to live for he will want to live. You'll see."
XXI
TREASURE
It was a balmy, languid morning about two weeks after O'Reilly's return
to the City among the Leaves. The Cubitas Mountains were green and
sparkling from a recent shower; wood fires smoldered in front of the
bark huts, sending up their wavering streamers of blue; a pack-train
from the lower country was unloading fresh vegetables in the main
street, and a group of ragged men were disputing over them. Some
children were playing baseball near by.
In a hammock swung between two trees Esteban Varona lay, listening to
the admonitions of his nurse.
Johnnie O'Reilly had just bade them both a hearty good morning and now
Norine was saying: "One hour, no more. You had a temperature again last
night, and it came from talking too much."
"Oh, I'm better this morning," Esteban declared. "I'm getting so that I
want to talk. I was too tired at first, but now--"
"NOW, you will do exactly as you are told. Remember, it takes me just
one hour to make my rounds, and if you are not through with your tales
of blood and battle when I get back you'll have to finish them
to-morrow." With a nod and a smile she left.
As Esteban looked after her his white teeth gleamed and his hollow face
lit up.
"She brings me new life," he told O'Reilly. "She is so strong, so
healthy, so full of life herself. She is wonderful! When I first saw
her bending over me I thought I was dreaming. Sometimes, even yet, I
think she cannot be real. But she is, eh?"
"She is quite substantial," O'Reilly smiled.
"I can tell when she is anywhere near, for my illness leaves me. It's a
fact! And her hands--Well, she lays them on my head, and it no longer
hurts; the fever disappears. There is some cool, delicious magic in her
touch; it makes a fellow want to live. You have perhaps noticed it?"
"N-no! You see, she never lays her hands on my head. However, I dare
say you're right. All the sick fellows talk as you do."
Esteban looked up quickly; his face darkened. "She--er--nurses OTHERS,
eh? I'm not the only one?"
"Well, hardly."
There was a brief pause; then Esteban shifted his position and his tone
changed. "Tell me, have you heard any news?"
"Not yet, but we will hear some before long I'm sure."
"Your faith does as much for me as this lady's care. But when you go
away, when I'm alone, when I begin to think--"
"Don't think too much; don't permit yourself to doubt," O'Reilly said,
quickly. "Take my word for it, Rosa is alive and we'll find her
somewhere, somehow. You heard that she had fallen into Cobo's hands
when he sacked the Yumuri, but now we know that she and the negroes
were living in the Pan de Matanzas long after that. In the same way
Lopez assured me positively that you were dead. Well, look at you! It
shows how little faith we can put in any story. No, Rosa is safe, and
General Gomez will soon have word of her. That's what I've been waiting
for--that and what you might have to tell me."
"You know all that I know now and everything that has happened to me."
"I don't know how you came to be in a cell in San Antonio de los Banos,
two hundred miles from the place you were killed. That is still a
mystery."
"It is very simple, amigo. Let me see: I had finished telling you about
the fight at La Joya. I was telling you how I fainted."
"Exactly. Norine bound and gagged you at that point in the story."
"Some good people found me a few hours after I lost consciousness. They
supposed I had been attacked by guerrillas and left for dead. Finding
that I still had life in me, they took me home with them. They were old
friends from Matanzas by the name of Valdes--cultured people who had
fled the city and were hiding in the manigua like the rest of us."
"Not Valdes, the notary?"
"The very same. Alberto Valdes and his four daughters. Heaven guided
them to me. Alberto was an old man; he had hard work to provide food
for his girls. Nevertheless, he refused to abandon me. The girls had
become brown and ragged and as shy as deer. They nursed me for weeks,
for my wounds became infected. God! It seems to me that I lay there
sick and helpless for years. When my brain would clear I would think of
Rosa, and then the fever would rise again and I would go out of my
head. Oh, they were faithful, patient people! You see, I had walked
east instead of west, and now I was miles away from home, and the
country between was swarming with Spaniards who were burning,
destroying, killing. You wouldn't know Matanzas, O'Reilly. It is a
desert.
"I finally became able to drag myself around the hut. But I had no
means of sending word to Rosa, and the uncertainty nearly made me
crazy. My clothes had rotted from me; my bones were just under the
skin. I must have been a shocking sight. Then one day there came a
fellow traveling east with messages for Gomez. He was one of Lopez's
men, and he told me that Lopez had gone to the Rubi Hills with Maceo,
and that there were none of our men left in the province. He told me
other things, too. It was from him that I learned--" Estban Varona's
thin hands clutched the edges of his hammock and he rolled his head
weakly from side to side. "It was he who told me about Rosa. He said
that Cobo had ravaged the Yumuri and that my sister--was gone. Christ!"
"There, there! We know better now," O'Reilly said, soothingly.
"It was a hideous story, a story of rape, murder. I wonder that I
didn't go mad. It never occurred to me to doubt, and as a matter of
fact the fellow was honest enough; he really believed what he told me.
Well, I was sorry I hadn't died that night in the sunken road. All the
hope, all the desire to live, went out of me. You see, I had been more
than half expecting something of the kind. Every time I had left Rosa
it had been with the sickening fear that I might never see here again.
After the man had finished I felt the desire to get away from all I had
known and loved, to leave Matanzas for new fields and give what was
left of me to the cause.
"I presume Alberto and the girls were relieved to get rid of me, for it
meant more food for them. Anyhow, between us we prevailed upon the
messenger to take me along. I was free to enlist, since I couldn't
reach Lopez, and I came to join our forces in the Orient.
"That is how you found me in this province. Lopez's man never delivered
those despatches, for we were taken crossing the trocha--at least _I_
was taken, for Pablo was killed. They'd have made an end of me, too, I
dare say, only I was so weak. It seems a century since that night. My
memory doesn't serve me very well from that point, for they jailed me,
and I grew worse. I was out of my head a good deal. I seem to remember
a stockade somewhere and other prisoners, some of whom nursed me. You
say you found me in a cell in San Antonio de los Banos. Well, I don't
know how I got there, and I never heard of the place."
"It will probably all come back to you in time," said O'Reilly.
"No doubt."
The two men fell silent for a while. Esteban lay with closed eyes,
exhausted. O'Reilly gave himself up to frowning thought. His thoughts
were not pleasant; he could not, for the life of him, believe in Rosa's
safety so implicitly as he had led Esteban to suppose; his efforts to
cheer the other had sapped his own supply of hope, leaving him a prey
to black misgivings. He was glad when Norine Evans's return put an end
to his speculations.
Esteban was right; the girl did have an unusual ability to banish
shadows, a splendid power to rout devils both of the spirit and of the
flesh; she was a sort of antibody, destroying every noxious or
unhealthy thing mental or physical with which she came in contact. This
blessed capability was quite distinct from her skill with medicines--it
was a gift, and as much a part of her as the healing magic which dwells
in the sunshine.
Certainly her knack of lending health and strength from her own
abundant store had never been better shown than in Esteban's case, for
with almost no medical assistance she had brought him back from the
very voids. It was quite natural, therefore, that she should take a
pride in her work and regard him with a certain jealous proprietary
interest; it was equally natural that he should claim the greater share
of her attention.
"Have you harrowed this poor man's feelings sufficiently for once?" she
inquired of O'Reilly.
"I have. I'll agree to talk about nothing unpleasant hereafter."
Esteban turned to his nurse, inquiring, abruptly, "Do you think Rosa is
alive?"
"Why, of course I do! Aren't you alive and--almost well?"
Now, as an argument, there was no particular force in this suggestion;
nevertheless, both men felt reassured. Esteban heaved a grateful sigh.
After a moment he said,
"There is something I want to tell you both."
"Wait until to-morrow," Norine advised.
But he persisted: "No! I must tell it now. First, however, did either
of you discover an old coin in any of my pockets--an old Spanish
doubloon?"
"That doubloon again!" Norine lifted her hands protestingly, and cast a
meaning look at O'Reilly. "You talked about nothing else for a whole
week. Let me feel your pulse."
Esteban surrendered his hand with suspicious readiness.
"You were flat broke when we got you," O'Reilly declared.
"Probably. I seem to remember that somebody stole it."
"Doubloons! Pieces of eight! Golden guineas!" exclaimed Norine. "Why
those are pirate coins! They remind me of Treasure Island; of Long John
Silver and his wooden leg; of Ben Gunn and all the rest." With a voice
made hoarse, doubtless to imitate the old nut-brown seaman with the
saber-scar and the tarry pig-tail, who sat sipping his rum and water in
the Admiral Benbow Inn, she began to chant:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the Devil had done for the rest--
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"
Esteban smiled uncomprehendingly. "Yes? Well, this has to do with
treasure. That doubloon was a part of the lost treasure of the Varonas."
"Lost treasure!" Norine's gray eyes widened. "What are you talking
about?"
"There is a mysterious fortune in our family. My father buried it. He
was very rich, you know, and he was afraid of the Spaniards. O'Reilly
knows the story."
Johnnie assented with a grunt. "Sure! I know all about it."
Esteban raised himself to his elbow. "You think it's a myth, a joke.
Well, it's not. I know where it is. I found it!"
Norine gasped; Johnnie spoke soothingly:
"Don't get excited, old man; you've talked too much to-day."
"Ha!" Esteban fell back upon his pillow. "I haven't any fever. I'm as
sane as ever I was. That treasure exists, and that doubloon gave me the
clue to its whereabouts. Pancho Cueto knew my father, and HE believed
the story. He believed in it so strongly that--well--that's why he
denounced my sister and me as traitors. He dug up our entire premises,
but he didn't find it." Esteban chuckled. "Don Esteban, my father, was
cunning: he could hide things better than a magpie. It remained for me
to discover his trick."
Norine Evans spoke breathlessly. "Oh, glory! Treasure! REAL treasure!
How perfectly exciting! Tell me how you found it, quick! Johnnie, you
remember he raved about a doubloon--"
"He is raving now," O'Reilly declared, with a sharp stare at his friend.
The girl turned loyally to her patient. "I'll believe you, Mr. Varona.
I always believe everything about buried treasure. The bigger the
treasure the more implicitly I believe in it. I simply adore pirates
and such things; if I were a man I'd be one. Do you know, I've always
been tempted to bury my money and then go look for it."
"You're making fun of me. What?" Esteban eyed the pair doubtfully.
"No, no!" Norine was indignant. "Johnnie doesn't believe in pirates or
treasure, or--anything. He doesn't even believe in fairies, and he's
Irish, too. But I do. I revel in such things. If you don't go on, I'll
blow up."
"There is no doubt that my father had a great deal of money at one
time," Esteban began; "he was the richest man in the richest city of
Cuba and ..."
O'Reilly shook his head dubiously and braced his back against a
tree-trunk; there was a look of mild disapprobation on his face as he
listened to the familiar story of Don Esteban and the slave, Sebastian.
Young Esteban told the tale well. His own faith in it lent a certain
convincingness to his words and Norine Evans hung upon them entranced.
She was horrified at the account of Don Esteban's death; her eyes grew
dark as Esteban told of his and Rosa's childhood with their avaricious
stepmother. That part of the narrative which had to do with the death
of Dona Isabel and the finding of the gold coin was new to O'Reilly and
he found himself considerably impressed by it. When Esteban had
finished, Norine drew a deep breath.
"Oh! That lays over any story I ever heard. To think that the deeds and
the jewels and everything are in the well AT THIS MINUTE! How COULD you
go away and leave them?"
"I didn't think it out at the time. I didn't evolve my theory until
after I had fled. Naturally, I wasn't able to get back."
"But suppose somebody finds it?" Norine was aghast at the thought.
"Not much chance of that. The treasure has lain there for a generation,
and the story itself is almost forgotten." Esteban turned triumphantly
to O'Reilly, saying, "Now then, do you think I'm so crazy?"
O'Reilly didn't have it in his heart to say exactly what he really
thought. The circumstances of the discovery of the coin were odd
enough, certainly, but it seemed to him that they were capable of
several explanations. If, indeed, there had ever been a doubloon and if
Esteban had found it in the dead hand of his stepmother, that, in
O'Reilly's opinion, by no means proved the existence of the mythical
Varona hoard, nor did it solve the secret of its whereabouts. What he
more than half suspected was that some favored fancy had formed
lodgment in Esteban's brain.
"It's an interesting theory," he admitted. "Anyhow, there is no danger
of the treasure being uncovered very soon. Cueto had a good look and
made himself ridiculous. You'll have ample chance to do likewise when
the war is over."
"You must help me find it," said Esteban. "We shall all share the
fortune equally, you two, Rosa and I."
"WE? Why should WE share in it?" Norine asked.
"I owe it to you. Didn't O'Reilly rescue me from a dungeon? Haven't you
nursed me back to health? Don't I owe my life to you both?"
"Nonsense! I, for one, sha'n't take a dollar of it," the girl declared.
"All I want to do is help dig. If you'll just promise to let me do
that--"
"I promise. And you shall have one-fourth of everything."
"No! No!"
"Oh, but you MUST. I insist. Nursing is a poorly paid profession.
Wouldn't you like to be rich?"
"Profession! Poorly paid?" Norine sputtered, angrily. "As if I'd take
pay!"
"As if I would accept a great service and forget it, like some
miserable beggar!" Esteban replied, stiffly.
O'Reilly laughed out. "Don't let's quarrel over the spoil until we get
it," said he. "That's the way with all treasure-hunters. They
invariably fall out and go to fighting. To avoid bloodshed, I'll agree
to sell my interest cheap, for cash. Come! What will you bid? Start it
low. Do I hear a dollar bid? A dollar! A dollar! A dollar! My share of
the famous Varona fortune going for a dollar!"
"There! He doesn't believe a word of it," Esteban said.