With a singing heart Alaire rode through the night at her husband's
side. The strain of the last few hours had been so intense, the relief
at her deliverance so keen, that now she felt curiously weak, and she
kept close to Dave, comforted by his nearness and secure in the
knowledge of his strength.
Although he was unusually taciturn and rode with his chin upon his
breast, she attributed his silence to fatigue. Now and then, therefore,
she spurred to his side and spoke softly, caressingly. At such times he
reached for her hand and clung to it.
Dave was indeed weary; he was, in fact, in a sort of stupor, and not
infrequently he dozed for a moment or two in his saddle. Yet it was not
this which stilled his tongue, but a growing sense of guilt and dismay
at what he had brought upon himself. In a moment of weakness he had
done the very thing against which he had fought so bitterly, and now he
faced the consequences. How, when, where could he find strength to undo
his action? he asked himself. The weight of this question bent his
shoulders, paralyzed his wits.
Some two hours out from La Feria the riders halted at a point where the
road dipped into a rocky stream-bed; then, as the horses drank, Dolores
voiced a thought that had troubled all of them.
"If that bandit really means to spare us, why did he send us away in
the night, like this?" she asked. "I shall be surprised if we are not
assassinated before morning."
"He must have meant it." Alaire spoke with a conviction she did not
entirely feel. "Father O'Malley aroused the finer side of his nature."
"Perhaps," agreed the priest. "Somewhere in him there is a fear of God."
But Dave was skeptical. "More likely a fear of the gringo Government,"
said he. "Longorio is a four-flusher. When he realized he was licked he
tried to save his face by a grandstand play. He didn't want to let us
go."
"Then what is to prevent him from--well, from having us followed?"
Alaire inquired.
"Nothing," Dave told her.
As they climbed the bank and rode onward into the night she said: "No
matter what happens, dear, I shall be happy, for at last one of my
dreams has come true." He reached out and patted her. "You've no idea
what a coward I was until you came. But the moment I saw you all my
fears vanished. I was like a lost child who suddenly sees her father;
in your arms I felt perfectly safe, for the first time in all my life,
I think. I--I couldn't bear to go on without you, after this."
Dave found nothing to say; they rode along side by side for a time in a
great contentment that required no speech. Then Alaire asked:
"Dear, have you considered how we--are going to explain our marriage?"
"Won't the circumstances explain it?"
"Perhaps. And yet--It seems ages since I learned--what happened to Ed,
but in reality it's only a few hours. Won't people talk?"
Dave caught at the suggestion. "I see. Then let's keep it secret for
the present. I promise not to--act like a husband."
With a little reckless laugh she confessed, "I--I'm afraid I'll find it
difficult to be conventional."
"My wife!" he cried in sharp agony. Leaning far out, he encircled her
with his arm; then, half lifting her from her saddle, he crushed his
lips to hers. It was his first display of emotion since Father O'Malley
had united them.
There were few villages along the road they followed, and because of
the lateness of the hour all were dark, hence the party passed through
without exciting attention except from an occasional wakeful dog. But
as morning came and the east began to glow Dave told the priest:
"We've got to hide out during the day or we'll get into trouble.
Besides, these women must be getting hungry."
"I fear there is something feminine about me," confessed the little
man. "I'm famished, too."
At the next rancho they came to they applied for shelter, but were
denied; in fact, the owner cursed them so roundly for being Americans
that they were glad to ride onward. A mile or two farther along they
met a cart the driver of which refused to answer their greetings. As
they passed out of his sight they saw that he had halted his lean oxen
and was staring after them curiously. Later, when the sun was well up
and the world had fully awakened, they descried a mounted man,
evidently a cowboy, riding through the chaparral. He saw them, too, and
came toward the road, but after a brief scrutiny he whirled his horse
and galloped off through the cactus, shouting something over his
shoulder.
"This won't do," O'Malley declared, uneasily. "I don't like the actions
of these people. Let me appeal to the next person we meet. I can't
believe they all hate us."
Soon they came to a rise in the road, and from the crest of this
elevation beheld ahead of them a small village of white houses shining
from the shelter of a grove. The rancheria was perhaps two miles away,
and galloping toward it was the vaquero who had challenged them.
"That's the Rio Negro crossing," Dave announced. Then spying a little
house squatting a short distance back from the road, he said: "We'd
better try yonder. If they turn us down we'll have to take to the
brush."
O'Malley agreed. "Yes, and we have no time to lose. That horseman is
going to rouse the town. I'm afraid we're--in for it."
Dave nodded silently.
Leaving the beaten path, the refugees threaded their way through cactus
and sage to a gate, entering which they approached the straw-thatched
jacal they had seen. A naked boy baby watched them draw near, then
scuttled for shelter, piping an alarm. A man appeared from somewhere,
at sight of whom the priest rode forward with a pleasant greeting. But
the fellow was unfriendly. His wife, too, emerged from the dwelling and
joined her husband in warning Father O'Malley away.
"Let me try," Alaire begged, and spurred her horse up to the group. She
smiled down at the country people, saying: "We have traveled a long
way, and we're tired and hungry. Won't you give us something to eat?
We'll pay you well for your trouble."
The man demurred sullenly, and began a refusal; but his wife, after a
wondering scrutiny, interrupted him with a cry. Rushing forward, she
took the edge of Alaire's skirt in her hands and kissed it.
"God be praised! A miracle!" she exclaimed. "Juan, don't you see? It is
the beautiful señora for whom we pray every night of our lives. On your
knees, shameless one! It is she who delivered you from the prison."
Juan stared unbelievingly, then his face changed; his teeth flashed in
a smile, and, sweeping his hat from his head, he, too, approached
Alaire.
"It is! señora, I am Juan Garcia, whom you saved, and this is Inez," he
declared. "Heaven bless you and forgive me."
"Now I know you," Alaire laughed, and slipped down from her saddle.
"This is a happy meeting. So! You live here, and that was little Juan
who ran away as if we were going to eat him. Well, we are hungry, but
not hungry enough to devour Juanito."
Turning to her companions, she explained the circumstances of her first
meeting with these good people, and as she talked the Garcias broke in
joyfully, adding their own account of her goodness.
"We've fallen among friends," Alaire told Dave and Father O'Malley.
"They will let us rest here, I am sure."
Husband and wife agreed in one voice. In fact, they were overjoyed at
an opportunity of serving her; and little Juan, his suspicions
partially allayed, issued from hiding and waddled forward to take part
in the welcome.
Shamefacedly the elder Garcia explained his inhospitable reception of
the travelers. "We hear the gringos are coming to kill us and take our
farms. Everybody is badly frightened. We are driving our herds away and
hiding what we can. Yesterday at the big Obispo ranch our people shot
two Americans and burned some of their houses. They intend to kill all
the Americans they find, so you'd better be careful. Just now a fellow
rode up shouting that you were coming, but of course I didn't know--"
"Yes, of course. We're trying to reach the border," Father O'Malley
told him. "Will you hide us here until we can go on?"