YOUNG PAGE COMES TO TOWN
Here and there throughout the great stretches of the sun-smitten
southwest are spots which still remain practically unknown, wherein men
come seldom or not at all, where no man cares to tarry. Barren
mountains that are blistering hot, sucked dry long ago of their last
vestige of moisture; endless drifts of sand where the silent animal
life is scanty, where fanged cactus and stubborn mesquite fight their
eternal battles for life; mesas and lomas little known, shunned by
humanity. True, men have been here, some few poking into the dust of
ancient ruins, more seeking minerals, and now and then one, fleeing the
law, to be followed relentlessly by such as Roderick Norton. And yet
there is the evidence, if one looks, that this desolate, shunned land
once had its teeming tribes and its green fields.
Virginia and Roderick, having made their hazardous way down the cliffs
and to their horses in silence, found their tongues loosened as they
rode westward in the soft dawn. Virginia put her questions and he, as
best he could, answered them. She asked eagerly of the old
cliff-dwellers and he shrugged his shoulders. Aztecs, were they?
Toltecs? What? _Quien sabe_! They were a people of mystery who had
left behind them a silence like that of the desert wastes themselves.
Whence they came, where they went, and why, must long remain questions
with many answers and therefore none at all. But he could tell her a
few things of the ancient civilization . . . and a civilization it
truly was . . . and of the signs left for posterity to puzzle over.
They had builded cities, and the ruins of their pueblos still stand
scattered across the weary, scorched land; they constructed mile after
mile of aqueducts whose lines are followed to-day by reclamation
engineers; they irrigated and cultivated their lands; they made abodes
high up on the mountains, dwelling in caves, enlarging their dwellings,
shaping homes and fortresses and lookouts. And just so long as the
mountains themselves last, will men come now and then into such places
as that wherein Jim Galloway's rifles lay hidden.
"I have lived in this part of the world all but two or three years of
my life," said Norton at the end, "and yet I never heard of these
particular caves until a very few days ago. I don't believe that there
are ten people living who know of them; so Galloway, hiding his stuff
out there was playing just as safe as a man can play--when he plays the
game crooked, anyway."
"But won't he guess something when he misses Moraga?"
"I don't think so." Norton shook his head. "Tom Cutter and Brocky made
Moraga talk. His job was to keep an eye on this end, but he was
commissioned also to make a trip over to the county line. The first
thing Jim Galloway will hear will be that Moraga got drunk and into a
scrape and was taken in by Sheriff Roberts. Then I think that Galloway
himself will slip out of San Juan himself some dark night and climb the
cliffs to make sure. When he finds everything absolutely as it was
left, when time passes and nothing is done, I think he will replace
Moraga with another man and figure that everything is all right. Why
shouldn't he?"
From Galloway and Moraga they got back to a discussion of the ancient
peoples of the desert, venturing surmise for surmise, finding that
their stimulated fancies winged together, daring to construct for
themselves something of the forgotten annals of a forgotten folk who,
perhaps, were living in walled cities while old Egypt was building her
pyramids. Then, abruptly, in a patch of tall mesquite, Norton reined
in his horse and stopped.
"You understand why I must leave you here," he said. "Yonder, beyond
those trees straight ahead . . . you will see it from that little
ridge . . . is Las Estrellas, a town of a dozen houses. But before you
get there you will come to the house where old Ramorez, a half-breed,
lives. You remember; if you are missed in San Juan, Struve will say
that you have gone to see Ramorez. He is actually sick by the way;
maybe you can do something for him. His shack is in those cottonwoods,
this side of Las Estrellas. You'll find Ignacio there, too; he'll go
back to San Juan with you. And, once again, thank you."
He put out his hand; she gave him hers and for a moment they sat
looking at each other gravely. Then Norton smiled, the pleasant boyish
smile, her lips curved at him deliciously, he touched his hat and was
gone. And she, riding slowly, turned Persis toward Las Estrellas.
From Las Estrellas, an unkempt, ugly village strangely named, it was
necessary to ride some fifteen miles through sand and scrub before
coming again into San Juan. Virginia Page, sincerely glad that she had
made her call upon old Ramorez who was suffering painfully from acute
stomach trouble and whose distress she could partially alleviate, made
the return ride in the company of Ignacio. But first, from Ramorez's
baking hovel, the Indian conducted her to another where a young woman
with a baby a week old needed her. So it was well on in the afternoon
and with a securely established alibi that she rode by the old Mission
and to the hotel. As Ignacio rode listlessly away with the horses, as
innocent looking a lazy beggar as the world ever knew, Virginia caught
a glimpse of a white skirt and cool sunshade coming up the street.
"Florence Engle," she thought. "Who, no doubt, will cut me dead if I
give her the opportunity."
A little hurriedly she turned in at the hotel door and went to her
room. She had removed hat and gantlets, and was preparing for a bath
and change of clothing when a light knock sounded on her door. The
rap, preceded by quick little steps down the hall, was essentially
feminine.
"Hello, Cousin Virginia," said Florence. "May I come in?"
Virginia brought her in, gave her a chair and regarded her curiously.
The girl's face was flushed and pink, her eyes were bright and quite
gay and untroubled, her whole air genuinely friendly. Last night
Virginia had judged her to be about seventeen; now she looked a mere
child.
"I was perfectly nasty last night, wasn't I?" Florrie remarked as she
stood her sunshade by her chair and smiled engagingly. "Oh, I know it.
Just a horrid little cat . . . but then I'm that most of the time. I
came all this way and in all this dust and heat just to ask you to
forgive me. Will you?"
For the moment Virginia was nonplussed. But Florence only laughed,
clasped her hands somewhat affectedly and ran on, her words tumbling
out in helter-skelter fashion.
"Oh, I know. I'm spoiled and I'm selfish, and I'm mean, I suppose.
And, oh dear, I'm as jealous as anything. But I'm ashamed of myself
this time. Whew! You ought to have listened in on the party after you
left! If you could have heard mama scold me and papa jaw me about the
way I acted it would have made you almost sorry for me."
"But you weren't horrid at all," Virginia broke in at last, her heart
suddenly warming to this very obviously spoiled, futile, but none the
less likable, Florrie. "You mustn't talk that way. And if your
parents made you come. . . ."
"They didn't," said Florrie calmly. "They couldn't. Nobody ever made
me do anything; that's what's the matter with me. I came because I
wanted to. As the men say, I wanted to square myself. And, would you
believe it, this is the third time I have called. Mr. Struve kept
telling me that you had gone to see old Joe Ramorez . . . isn't he the
awfullest old pirate you ever saw? And the dirtiest? I don't see how
you can go near a man like that, even if he is dying; honestly I don't.
But you must do all kinds of things, being a doctor."
Her clasped hands tightened, she put her head of fluffy hair to one
side and looked at Virginia with such frank wonder in her eyes that
Virginia colored under them.
"And," ran on Florrie, forestalling a possible interruption, "I was
ready to poke fun at you last night just for being something capable
and . . . and splendid. There was my jealousy again, I suppose. You
ought to have heard papa on that score; 'Look here, my fine miss; if
you could just be something worth while in the world, if you could do
as much good in all of your silly life as Virginia Page does every day
of hers,' . . . and so forth until he was ready to burst and mama was
ready to cry, and I was ready to bite him!" She trilled off in a burst
of laughter which was eloquent of the fact that Florence Engle, be her
faults what they might, was not the one to hold a grudge.
"I am sorry," said Virginia, smiling a little, "if on my account . . ."
"You were just going to get cleaned up, weren't you?" asked Florrie
contritely. "You look as hot and dusty as anything. My, what pretty
hair you have; I'll bet it comes down to your waist, doesn't it? You
ought to see mine when I take it down; it's like the pictures of the
bush-whackers . . . you know what I mean, from South Africa or
somewhere, you know . . . only, of course, mine's a prettier color.
Sometime I'll come and comb yours for you, when you're tired out from
curing sick Indians. But now," and she jumped to her feet, "I'll go
out on the porch while you get dressed and then you come out, will you?
It's cool there under the awning, and I'll have Mr. Struve bring us out
some cold lemonade. But first, you do forgive me, don't you?"
Virginia's prompt assurance was incomplete when Florrie flitted out,
banging the door after her, headed toward the lounging-chairs on the
veranda.
"You pretty thing!" exclaimed Miss Florrie as Virginia joined her as
coolly and femininely dressed, if not quite as fluffily, as the
banker's daughter. "Oh, but you are quite the most stunning creature
that ever came into San Juan! Oh, I know all about myself; don't you
suppose I've stood in front of a glass by the long hours . . . wishing
it was a wishing-glass all the time and that I could turn a pug-nose
into a Grecian. I'm pretty; you're simply beautiful!"
"Look here, my dear," laughed Virginia, taking the chair which Florrie
had drawn close up to her own in the shade against the adobe wall, "you
have already made amends. It isn't necessary to . . ."
"I haven't half finished," cried Florrie emphatically. "You see it's a
way of mine to do things just by halves and quit there. But to-day it
is different; to-day I am going to square myself. That's one reason
why I treated you so cattishly last night; because you were so
maddeningly good to look upon. Through a man's eyes, you know; and
that's about all that counts anyway, isn't it? And the other reason
was that you came in with Roddy and he looked so contented. . . . Do
you wonder that I am just wild about him? Isn't he a perfect dear?"
Florrie's utter frankness disconcerted Virginia. The confession of
"wildness" about San Juan's sheriff, followed by the asseveration of
his perfect dearness was made in bright frankness, Florrie's voice
lowered no whit though Julius Struve at the moment was coming down the
veranda bearing a tray and glasses. Virginia was not without gratitude
that Struve lingered a moment and bantered with Florrie; when he
departed she sought to switch the talk in another direction. But
Florrie, sipping her tall glass and setting it aside, was before her.
"You see it was double-barrelled jealousy; so I did rather well not to
fly at you and tear your eyes out, didn't I? Just because you and he
came in together . . . as if every time a man and girl walk down the
street together it means that they are going to get married! But you
see, Roddy and I have known each other ever since before I can
remember, and I have asked myself a million times if some day we are
going to be Mr. and Mrs. Roderick Norton . . . and there are times when
I think we are!"
"You have a long time ahead of you yet, haven't you, Florence, before
you have to answer a question like that?" asked Virginia amusedly.
"Because I am so young?" cried Florrie. "Oh, I don't know; girls marry
young here. Now there is Tita . . . she is our cook's sister . . . she
has two babies already and she is only four months older than I am.
And . . . Look, Virgie; there is the most terrible creature in the
world. It is Kid Rickard; he killed the Las Palmas man, you know. I
am not going even to look at him; I hate him worse that Caleb
Patten . . . and that's like saying I hate strychnine worse than
arsenic, isn't it? But who in the name of all that is wonderful is the
man with him? Isn't he the handsome thing? I never saw him before.
He is from the outside, Virgie; you can tell by the fashionable cut of
his clothes and by the way he walks and . . . Isn't he distinguished!"
"It is Elmer!" exclaimed Virginia, staring at the two figures which
were slowly approaching from the southern end of the street. "When did
he get here? I didn't expect him. . . ."
Then she chose to forget all save the essential fact that her "baby
brother" was here and ran out to the sidewalk, calling to him.
"Hello, Sis," returned Elmer nonchalantly. He was a thin,
anaemic-looking young fellow a couple of years younger than Virginia
who affected a swagger and gloves and who had a cough which was
insistent, but which he strove to disguise. And yet Florrie's
hyperbole had not been entirely without warrant. He had something of
Virginia's fine profile, a look of her in his eyes, the stamp of good
blood upon him. He suffered his sister to kiss him, meantime turning
his eyes with a faint sign of interest to the fair girl on the veranda.
Florrie smiled.
"Sis," said Elmer, "this is Mr. Rickard. Mr. Rickard, shake hands with
my sister, Miss Page."
A feeling of pure loathing swept over the girl as she turned to look
into Kid Rickard's sullen eyes and degenerate, cruel face. But, since
the Kid was a couple of paces removed and was slow about coming
forward, not so much as raising his hand to his wide hat, she nodded at
him and managed to say a quiet, non-committal, "How do you do?" Then
she slipped her arm through Elmer's.
"Come, Elmer," she said hastily. "I want you to know Miss Florence
Engle; she is a sort of cousin of ours."
"Sure," said Elmer off-handedly. "Come on, Rickard."
But the Kid, standing upon no ceremony, had drawn his hat a trifle
lower over his eyes and turned his shoulder upon them, continuing along
the street in his slouching walk. Elmer, summoning youth's supreme
weapon of an affected boredom, yawned, stifled his little cough and
went with Virginia to meet Florence.
Florence giggled over the introduction, then grew abruptly as grave as
a matron of seventy and tactlessly observed that Mr. Page had a very
bad cold; how could one have a cold in weather like this? Whereupon
Mr. Page glared at her belligerently, noted her little row of curls,
revised his first opinion of her, set her down not only as a cousin,
but as a crazy kid besides, and removed half a dozen steps to a chair.
"I don't think much of your friends," remarked Florrie, sensing sudden
opposition and flying half-way to meet it.
Elmer Page produced a very new, unsullied pipe from his pocket and
filled it with an air, while Virginia looked on curiously. Having done
so and having drawn up one trouser's leg to save the crease, crossed
the leg and at last put the pipe stem into his mouth, he regarded
Florrie from the cool and serene height of his superior age.
"If you refer to Mr. Rickard," he said aloofly, "I may say that he is
not a friend . . . yet. I just met him this afternoon. But, although
he hasn't had the social advantages, perhaps, still he is a man of
parts."
Florrie sniffed and tossed her head. Virginia bit her lips and watched
them.
"Been smoking too many cigs, I guess, Sis," Elmer remarked apropos of
the initial observation of Miss Engle which still rankled. "Got a
regular cigarette fiend's cough. Gave 'em up. Hitting the pipe now."
"If you knew," said Florrie spitefully, "that Mr. Rickard as you call
him had just murdered a man yesterday, what would you say then, I
wonder?"
There was a sparkle of excitement in Elmer's eyes as he swung about to
answer.
"Murdered!" he challenged. "You've heard just one side of it, of
course. Bisbee got drunk and insulted Mr. Rickard. They call him the
Kid, you know. Say, Sis, he's had a life for you! Full of adventure,
all kinds of sport. And Bisbee shot first, too. But the Kid got him!"
he concluded triumphantly. "Galloway told me all about it . . . and
what a blundering rummy the fool sheriff is."
"Galloway?" queried Virginia uneasily. "You know him too, already?"
"Sure," replied Elmer. "He's a good sort, too, You'll like him. I
asked him around."
"For goodness' sake, Elmer, when did you get to San Juan? Have you
been here a week or just a few hours?"
"Got in on the stage at noon, of course. But it doesn't take a man all
year to get acquainted in a town this size."
"A man!" giggled Florrie.
"I can see," laughed Virginia, "that you two are going to be more kin
than kind to each other; you'll be quarrelling in another moment."
Florrie looked delighted at the prospect; Elmer yawned and brooded over
his pipe. But out of the tail of his eye he took stock again of her
blonde prettiness, and she, ready from the beginning to make fun of
him, repeated to herself the words she had used to Virginia:
"But he is handsome . . . and distinguished looking!"