Juan Garcia proved to be a good guide, and he saved the refugees many
miles on their road to the Rio Grande. But every farm and every village
was a menace, and at first they were forced to make numerous detours.
As the night grew older, however, they rode a straighter course, urging
their horses to the limit, hoping against hope to reach the border
before daylight overtook them. This they might have done had it not
been for Father O'Malley and Dolores, who were unused to the saddle and
unable to maintain the pace Juan set for them.
About midnight the party stopped on the crest of a flinty ridge to give
their horses breath and to estimate their progress. The night was fine
and clear; outlined against the sky were the stalks of countless
sotol-plants standing slim and bare, like the upright lances of an army
at rest; ahead the road meandered across a mesa, covered with grama
grass and black, formless blots of shrubbery.
Father O'Malley groaned and shifted his weight. "Juan tells me we'll
never reach Romero by morning, at this rate," he said; and Dave was
forced to agree. "I think you and he and Alaire had better go on and
leave Dolores and me to follow as best we can."
Dolores plaintively seconded this suggestion. "I would rather be burned
at the stake than suffer these agonies," she confessed. "My bones are
broken. The devil is in this horse." She began to weep softly. "Go,
señora. Save yourself! It is my accursed fat stomach that hinders me.
Tell Benito that I perished breathing his name, and see to it, when he
remarries, that he retains none of my treasures."
Alaire reassured her by saying: "We won't leave you. Be brave and make
the best of it."
"Yes, grit your teeth and hold on," Dave echoed. "We'll manage to make
it somehow."
But progress was far slower than it should have been, and the elder
woman continued to lag behind, voicing her distress in groans and
lamentations. The priest, who was made of sterner stuff, did his best
to bear his tortures cheerfully.
In spite of their efforts the first rosy heralds of dawn discovered
them still a long way from the river and just entering a more thickly
settled country. Daylight came swiftly, and Juan finally gave them
warning.
"We can't go on; the danger is too great," he told them. "If the
soldiers are still in Romero, what then?"
"Have you no friends hereabouts who would take us in?" Dave inquired.
The Mexican shook his head.
Dave considered for a moment. "You must hide here," he told his
companions, "while I ride on to Romero and see what can be done. I
suspect Blanco's troops have left, and in that case everything will be
all right."
"Suppose they haven't?" Alaire inquired. All night she had been in the
lightest of moods, and had steadily refused to take their perils
seriously. Now her smile chased the frown from her husband's face.
"Well, perhaps I'll have breakfast with them," he laughed.
"Silly. I won't let you go," she told him, firmly; and, reading the
expression in her face, he felt a dizzy wonder. "We'll find a nice
secluded spot; then we'll sit down and wait for night to come. We'll
pretend we're having a picnic."
Dolores sighed at the suggestion. "That would be heaven, but there can
be no sitting down for me."
Garcia, who had been standing in his stirrups scanning the long, flat
road ahead, spoke sharply: "CARAMBA! Here come those very soldiers now!
See!"
Far away, but evidently approaching at a smart gait, was a body of
mounted men. After one look at them Dave cried:
"Into the brush, quick!" He hurried his companions ahead of him, and
when they had gone perhaps a hundred yards from the road he took Juan's
Winchester, saying: "Ride in a little way farther and wait. I'm going
back. If you hear me shoot, break for the river. Ride hard and keep
under cover as much as possible." Before they could remonstrate he had
wheeled Montrosa and was gone.
This was luck, he told himself. Ten miles more and they would have been
safe, for the Rio Grande is not a difficult river either to ford or to
swim. He dismounted and made his way on foot to a point where he could
command a view, but he had barely established himself when he found
Alaire at his side.
"Go back," he told her. But she would not, and so they waited together.
There were perhaps a dozen men in the approaching squad, and Dave saw
that they were heavily accoutred. They rode fast, too, and at their
head galloped a large man under a wide-brimmed felt hat. It soon became
evident that the soldiers were not uniformed. Therefore, Dave reasoned,
they were not Federals, but more probably some Rebel scouting band from
the south, and yet--He rubbed his eyes and stared again.
Dave pressed forward eagerly, incredulously; the next instant he had
broken cover with a shout. Alaire was at his side, clapping her hands
and laughing with excitement.
The cavalcade halted; the big man tumbled from his saddle and came
straddling through the high grass, waving his hat and yelling.
"Blaze! You old scoundrel!" Dave cried, and seized one of the
ranchman's palms while Alaire shook the other.
"Say! We're right glad to see you-all," Jones exclaimed. "We reckoned
you might be havin' a sort of unpleasantness with Longorio, so we
organized up and came to get you."
The other horsemen were crowding close now, and their greetings were
noisy. There were the two Guzman boys, Benito Gonzales, Phil Strange,
and a number of Jonesville's younger and more adventurous citizens.
In the midst of the tumult Benito inquired for his wife, and Dave
relieved his anxiety by calling Dolores and Father O'Malley. Then, in
answer to the questions showered upon him, he swiftly sketched the
story of Alaire's rescue and their flight from La Feria.
When he had finished Blaze Jones drew a deep breath. "We're mighty glad
you got out safe, but you've kicked the legs from under one of my pet
ambitions. I sure had planned to nail Longorio's hide on my barn door.
Yes, and you've taken the bread out of the mouths of the space writers
and sob sisters from here to Hudson's Bay. Miz Austin, your picture's
in every newspaper in the country, and, believe me, it's the worst
atrocity of the war."
"War!" Father O'Malley had joined the group now, and he asked, "Has war
been declared?"
"Not yet, but we've got hopes." To Alaire Blaze explained: "Ellsworth's
in Washington, wavin' the Stars and Stripes and singin' battle hymns,
but I reckon the government figures that the original of those
newspaper pictures would be safe anywhere. Well, we've got our own
ideas in Jonesville, so some of us assembled ourselves and declared war
on our own hook. These gentlemen"--Blaze waved his hand proudly at his
neighbors--"constitute the Jonesville Guards, the finest body of
American men that has invaded Mexican soil since me and Dave went after
Ricardo Guzman's remains. Blamed if I ain't sorry you sidetracked our
expedition."
It was evident, from the words of the others, that the Jonesville
Guards were indeed quite as heedless of international complications as
was their commander. One and all were highly incensed at Longorio's
perfidy, and, had Alaire suggested such a thing, it was patent that
they would have ridden on to La Feria and exacted a reckoning from him.
Such proof of friendship affected her deeply, and it was not until they
were all under way back toward Romero that she felt she had made her
appreciation fully known. When she reflected that these men were some
of the very neighbors whom she had shunned and slighted, and whose
honest interest she had so habitually misconstrued all these years, it
seemed very strange that they should feel the least concern over her.
It gave her a new appreciation of their chivalry and their worth; it
filled her with a humble desire to know them better and to strengthen
herself in their regard. Then, too, the esteem in which they held
Dave--her husband--gratified her intensely. It made no more difference
to them than to her that he was a poor man, a man without authority or
position; they evidently saw and loved in him the qualities which she
saw and loved. And that was as it should be.
They were gentle and considerate men, too, as she discovered when they
told her, bit by bit, what had happened during her absence. She
learned, much to her relief, that Ed's funeral had been held, and that
all the distressing details of the inquiry had been attended to. José
Sanchez, it appeared, had confessed freely. Although her new friends
made plain their indignation at the manner of Ed's taking off, they
likewise let her know that they considered his death only a slight
loss, either to her or to the community. Not one of them pretended it
was anything except a blessing.
The journey drew to an end very quickly. Romero, deserted now by its
garrison, stirred and stared sleepily at the invaders, but concerned
itself with their presence no more than to wonder why they laughed and
talked so spiritedly. Plainly, these gringos were a barbarous race of
people, what with their rushing here and there, and with their loud,
senseless laughter. God had wisely placed them beyond the Rio Grande,
said the citizens of Romero.
The crossing was made; Alaire found herself in Texas once again, and it
seemed to her that the sun had never been so bright, the air so clear,
the sky so high, the world so smiling, as here and now. The men who had
ridden forth to seek her were smiling, too, and they were shaking her
hands and congratulating her. Even the Guzman boys, who were shy in the
presence of American ladies, were wishing her the best of fortune and
the greatest of happiness.
Blaze Jones was the last to leave. With especial emphasis upon her
name, he said: "Miz Austin, Paloma and me would like to have you come
to our house and stay until you feel like goin' back to Las Palmas."
When Alaire declined with moistened eyes, explaining that she could not
well accept his invitation, he signified his understanding.
"We're goin' to see a lot of you, just the same," he promised her,
"'cause we feel as if you sort of belonged to us. There's a lot of good
people in this part of Texas, and them that ain't so good God and the
Rangers is slowly weedin' out. We don't always know the ones we like
best until something happens to 'em, but if you'd heard the prayers the
folks of Jonesville have been sayin' lately you'd know you was our
favorite." Then, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, he told her,
gravely: "It seems a pity that I ain't younger and better-lookin'. I
would sure cut short your grief." Then he raised his hat and rode away,
chuckling.
Alaire turned to Dave in dismay. "He knows!" she cried.
"I'm afraid they all know. But don't worry; they'll respect our wishes."
Father O'Malley had ridden on ahead with Benito and Dolores; Dave and
Alaire followed leisurely. Now that the moment of their parting was at
hand, they lingered by the way, delaying it as long as possible,
feeling a natural constraint at what was in their minds.
"How long--will it be?" he asked her, finally. "How long before I can
really have you for my own?"
Alaire smiled into his eyes. "Not long. But you'll be patient, won't
you, dear?"
He took her hand in his, and they rode on silently, a song in the heart
of each of them.