“Why not?”
“Ask yourself; ask your conscience, Adriance. You have told her that he,
Staines, was a liar. You have virtually told her that you were engaged
to no woman. You have inspired a sentiment, perhaps a passion, in that
young girl's heart, and you're going there to defend her--a thing that I
can do much better than you, now that you are a cripple. Then, think, my
boy, I have known you six years; I have never known you to say or do a
mean or unmanly thing. I'm an old fogy--an old fool perhaps--but I
like to think most women pure and some men honest. You are one of them,
Phil.” There was a moment's silence.
“And yet you think I mean her harm.”
“Not yet, Philip, but would you marry that old scoundrel's daughter?”
Adriance had no answer.
“Philip, if you look into that girl's eyes again, unless it be to ask
her to be your wife, I shall lose my faith in manly honor.”
Two days afterward Rawlins rode away on duty. A strange unrest had
possessed the lieutenant since that brief talk with this old Puritan of
a captain. Not another word had been said upon the subject, but every
syllable that Rawlins spoke had struck home. Adriance respected
and honored the grim, duty-loving troop commander whom some of the
youngsters openly laughed at and referred to as “Praise the Lord
Barebones” and “Captain Roundhead,” but the lieutenant well knew that no
braver soldier, no “squar-er” captain drew sabre in the whole regiment
than this faithful friend, who had long since singled him out for many
an unusual kindness. He knew more--that in his high standard of honor
and rectitude old Rawlins had said nothing which was not just and true.
Adriance knew well that he ought not to again seek that young girl's
presence, and the blood rushed hotly to his cheek as he recalled the
kiss his eager lips had stolen. Marry that old scoundrel's daughter? No,
he could not; and yet how his pulses bounded at the thought of her--the
sweet, shy gladness in her eyes, the soft, thrilling tones in her voice
when she spoke his name, the heroism of her conduct in daring to
seek his camp in the darkness of night and bring him warning of that
diabolical scheme of robbery and murder; the refinement of her manner,
and then, too, her knowledge of the English tongue. Where had she
acquired these? What would she not be justified in thinking of him if he
never came to seek and thank her?
“Hello! what's that?” was the sudden cry among the men. Two or three
soldiers sat up in the shade and curiously inspected the coming object;
others shouted laughing challenge. Riding solemnly forward, a little
Mexican boy came straight to where Adriance was lying and handed him a
note which he eagerly opened and read:
_They suspect me, and they send me away tomorrow. To-night I go for the
last time to the summer house alone. Isabel._
Gone was every resolution at the instant; gone all hesitancy. Adriance
had not even time to wonder at the fact that she had written to him in
English. Leaving the note for Rawlins to read when he returned, in one
hour Phil was rolling from the camp in the ambulance. Soon after dark,
leaving Private Regan and another man half a mile back from the walls
of the corral, Mr. Adriance, all alone, slowly made his way afoot toward
the dim lights at the rancho. Making wide circuit so as not to alarm the
dogs, he never sought to draw near the little summer house until, from
the east, he could see the brighter lights that gleamed in the bar and
card room. Then he cautiously approached, his heart beating quickly and
his knees trembling a little, perhaps from weakness. Hark! Faint, soft
and clear, there rose upon the evening air the liquid notes of a guitar.
It was she then--it was Isabel awaiting his coming, aye, signaling
softly to call him to her. What could it mean but that she loved and
longed to see him? A moment more and he was at the doorway, the
very spot where he had surprised her that well-remembered night. The
plaintive tinkle of the guitar continued, and there in the dark corner
was the dim, white-robed form. He could almost distinguish the folds of
the graceful _rebosa_.
“Isabel!” he whispered. Three more steps and he would be at her side.
Suddenly two stalwart arms were thrown about him, a broad hand was on
his mouth, stifling the utterance of a sound; the white-robed form in
front leaped toward him, the _rebosa_ falling to the ground. It was a
man's voice--a Mexican's--that hissed the word's: “Quick! the pistol.”
Another hand was at his holster. He realized instantly that he was
lured, trapped; that his life was threatened. He was struggling
violently, but, weakened by his wound, even his superb physique was well
nigh powerless in the grasp of two or three men. Suddenly there came
a whisper: “The sponge, the sponge!” and then the subtle odor of
chloroform on the night air. And now he nerved himself for one supreme
effort. A quick twist of his head and the hand was dislodged, a finger
slipping between his teeth. With all his strength he crushed it to the
very bone, and there was a yell of pain and terror. Then his own brave
young voice rang out in one startling, rallying cry.
“Help! Regan, help!” Then crash and blows, the gleam of a knife, a
rolling, rough-and-tumble struggle on the ground; then a woman's scream,
a light, and Isabel had bounded into their midst, her mother at her
back.
“Leon, my brother! In God's name, what do you mean?”
Even as she spoke her startled eyes fell on Adriance, staggering to his
feet, pale, bleeding, faint. Another instant and he went crashing back
against the guitar that, like siren's song, had lured him. One brave
leap and she was at his side, her arms about his neck, his pallid face
pillowed on her bosom.
Senora Dolores flew to her aid; then turning, holding her lantern on
high, her shrill voice rang out in fury:
“Look at the monstrous work your son has wrought, Pedro Ruiz! Look! Tear
off that mantle, senor!” she said, whirling upon another form now slowly
rising from the earth. “Coward! murderer that you are! It is you who
have ruined this boy and made him what he is!”
“Hush! You fool! there lies your daughter's betrayer. Leon would have
been coward indeed if he had not punished him.”
“Oh, you lie! She never saw him alone in her life!”
“Ask your son,” was the sneering answer. “Ask José, too.”
“She was with him--in his tent--the last night he was here; I swear it!”
cried José.
“Mother,” cried the girl, “listen, it was but to warn him--I heard the
plot--I heard all. I rushed to him only to tell him of the danger.
Mother, believe me. And I dare not tell it even to you, for fear--for
fear of him.” And she pointed to the fierce, scowling face of the old
Mexican, now striding forward, knife in hand.
“No, Pedro--back! You shall not harm her! No!” and the mother hurled
herself before her husband.
“Out of the way!” was the hissing answer, “or you, too, feel my knife.
Ah, traitress!”
“O my God! help! There will be murder here! Pedro, husband! O, villain,
she is not your child! You shall not kill!” And then a piercing shriek
rang out upon the night. But at the same instant there came the rush of
hoofs without--a rush of panting men; a brawny trooper sprang into
the summer house and with one blow of his revolver butt sent Pedro
staggering into a corner, his knife falling from his nerveless hand. A
dark, agile figure leaped for the doorway, with muttered curse. And then
in came old Rawlins, somewhat “blown,” but preternaturally cool, and the
doctor close behind.
“Bring another light here, one of you men!” And a trooper ran to the
card room. “Lie still there, Pedro! Blow his brains out if he moves!
Doctor, you look to the women and Adriance. Now, where's that man
Staines?”
“Some fellow ran in through here, captain,” said a trooper. “Corporal
Watts is after him with Royce.”
“Who was it, you greaser? Speak, damn you! You were here with him!”
“Sonora Bill,” said José, shaking from head to foot.
Then there came the sound of pistol shots out toward the corral, and
then the louder bang of a cavalry carbine.
“What is it?” asked Rawlins of a soldier who came running back.
[Illustration: 0061]
“Can we have the doctor, sir? It was Mr. Staines. He shot the corporal,
who was chasing him, but he got a carbine bullet through the heart.”
Four days afterward, lying in a little white room, Mr. Adriance listened
to the story of Leon's confession. It was brief enough. Staines had
acquired an ascendency over him in Tucson, and it was not difficult to
induce him to become a confederate in every plot. It was Staines
who sent him to Manuel and Garcia to warn them that the paymaster's
ambulance would not reach Canyon del Muerto until morning. It was
Staines who murdered Sergeant Dinsmore after a quarrel and then had had
his throat cut and the body thrown into the Gila near the ranch. Staines
had fallen in love with Isabel when she first came from Sonora, but the
girl shrank from him; neither would she listen to Sergeant Dinsmore.
After it was safe for Leon to return to the ranch, he found that his
mother and Isabel were practically prisoners. His father was furious at
the failure of the plan, and daily accused his wife of having, in some
way, given warning to Adriance, and swore that he would have the blood
of the man or woman who had betrayed the scheme; and then Staines
himself came back and wrung from José that he had seen Isabel scurrying
from Adri-ance's tent at daybreak, and so denounced her to Leon as the
mistress of an accursed Gringo. Staines wrote the note that was to lure
Adriance to the bower, where Leon was to take the guitar and _rebosa_
and the two, with José's help, were to overpower him. It was his life or
theirs said Staines. Pedro was not in the project, for he had prohibited
bloodshed about the place--“It would ruin his business” he said. But
both Pedro and Leon were now in irons, and Rawlins' troop was in camp
around gloomy old Rancho Ruiz.
[Illustration: 0063]
A day or two later he heard another story, this time from the lips of
Senora Dolores herself: Isabel was not the daughter of Pedro Ruiz.
With sobs and tears the poor, broken woman told her tale. She had
been married when quite a young girl to Senor Moreno, an officer of
distinction in the Mexican army. Her brave husband made her life a happy
one, and the birth of the little daughter strengthened the ties
that bound them. Alas! Moreno, colonel of lancers, was killed before
Queretaro; and in two years more the widow, with her winsome little
girl, had not where to lay her head. It was in the city of Mexico that
Senora Dolores then met Ruiz, a widower with an only son, prosperous and
apparently respected. He promised to educate Isabel and provide for her
as his own, and sought the widow as his wife. For a time all went well;
then she learned his true character. He was compelled to leave the
city and flee up the coast to Mazatlan, while she remained with little
Isabel, who was being educated at the convent. At last they had to join
him at Hermosillo, whence he was soon after driven to Tucson. Their
lives were wrecked by his scoundrelism. Her papers clearly established
the truth of her story.
One soft, still evening, not a week after the tragic events of that
rueful night, Captain Rawlins sat by the lieutenant's side, reading
aloud some letters just received from department headquarters. Major
Sherrick had been in a state of dismay ever since the news of the death
of Staines had reached him, but his dismay changed to wonderment, even
gratitude, as he learned the true character of the man. It was Sonora
Bill himself, beyond doubt.
“What a blessing you left that note for me to see!” said Rawlins. “How
came it you never saw it was a forgery, Phil? Had she never written to
you before?”
“Never a line, nor have I seen her to thank her. By Heaven, Rawlins! why
am I forbidden?”
“You are not--now, Phil,” was the smiling answer.
Perhaps an hour later, Adriance limped slowly out of the room and down
the narrow passageway to the side door. Yonder stood the little summer
house “in the gloaming,” and he was right--he had heard women's voices
there--Dolores and her daughter. There were tears in the maiden's words,
and he could not withstand the longing of his heart. He would have
hobbled thither, but suddenly there came the sound of rustling skirt
and a tiny footfall. It was she--his dark-eyed, dark-haired sweetheart,
hastening toward him, her face hidden in her hands. One instant more and
he had torn the hands away and had clasped her to his breast.
“Isabel! darling! I have found you at last! No, you shall not go--you
shall not until you promise--promise to be my wife!
“O, senor, you cannot--you do not mean it,” she sobbed, Struggling to be
free.
“Do not mean it! Why, sweet one, you do not dream how I love you--how I
long for you! Not mean it? Isabel, look in my eyes. Look for yourself.”
He laughed low and happily. He was brimming over with hope and gladness,
for now at last without a struggle she nestled on his heart.
Despite his grizzled beard old Rawlins was best man when that strange,
very quiet, yet very happy wedding came off in the Old Mission Church at
Tucson early in the spring. Pedro was not there to give the bride away.
With considerable escort and much reluctance he had traversed “Cutthroat
Crossing” some months before. He went to Yavapai, and Yavapai--we have
his own words for it--was “too damn close to 'ell.” The rancho passed
within the year to other hands. It, too, had taken on another name--a
grewsome one--_Rancho del Muerto_.
A MIGHTY HUNTER BEFORE THE LORD, By Virginius Dabney.
[Illustration: 0066]