THE STRONG HAND OF GALLOWAY
"Oh, you will all dance and shout together very soon," said Ignacio
wisely to his six bells in the old Mission garden. "You will see!
Captain and the Dancer and Lolita, the Little One, La Golondrina, and
Ignacio Chavez, all of you together until far out across the desert men
hear. For it is in the air that things will happen. And then, when it
is all done . . . Why then, amigos, who but me is going to build a
little roof over you that runs down both ways, to save you from the hot
sun and the rains? . . . Oh, one knows. It is in the air. You will
see!"
For Jim Galloway had returned, a new Galloway, a Galloway who carried
himself up and down the street with bright, victorious eyes, and the
stride of full confidence, who, at least in the eyes of Ignacio Chavez,
was like a blood-lusting lion "screwing up his muscles" to spring.
Galloway's return brought to Roderick Norton a fresh vigilance, to
Virginia a sleepless anxiety, to Florence Engle unrest, uncertainty,
very nearly pure panic. During the first few days of his absence she
had allowed herself the romantic joy of floating unchecked upon the
tide of a girlish fancy, dreaming dreams after the approved fashion
which is youth's, dancing lightly upon foamy crests, seeing only blue
water and no rocks under her. Then, with the potency of the man's
character removed with the removal of his physical being, she grew to
see the shoals and to draw back from them, shuddering somewhat
pleasurably. Now that he was again in San Juan and that her eyes had
been held by his in the first meeting upon the street, her heart
fluttered, her vision clouded, she wondered what she would do.
There was to be no lost action in Galloway's campaign now. Within half
a dozen hours of his arrival there was a gathering of various of his
henchmen at the Casa Blanca. Just what passed was not to be known; it
was significant, however, that among those who had come to his call
were the Mexican, del Rio, Antone, Kid Rickard, and a handful of the
other most restless spirits of the county. Norton accepted the act in
all that it implied to his suspicions and sent out word to Cutter,
Brocky Lane, and those of his own and Brocky's cowboys whom he counted
on.
Galloway's second step, known only to himself and Florrie, was a
private meeting with the banker's daughter. It occurred upon the
second evening following his return, just after dark among the
cottonwoods, but a hundred yards from her home. He had made the
opportunity with the despatch which marked him now; he had watched for
her during the day, had appeared merely to pass her by chance on the
street, and had paused just long enough to ask her to meet him.
"I have done all that I planned to do," he announced triumphantly, his
eyes holding hers, forcing upon her spirit the mastery of his own.
"The power in Mexico is going to be Francisco Villa. I have seen him.
Let me talk with you to-night, Florence. History is in the making; it
may be you and I together who shape the destiny of a people."
After all, she was but a little over sixteen, her head filled with the
bright stuff of romance, and he was a forceful man who for his own
purposes had long studied her. She came to the tryst, albeit half in
trembling, a dozen tremulous times ready for a fleeing retreat.
Again he was all deference to her. He builded cunningly upon the fact
that he trusted her; that he, a strong man, put his faith in her, a
woman. He flattered her as she had never been flattered, not too
subtly, yet not so broadly as to arouse her suspicion of his intent.
He spoke quietly at first, then his voice seeming charged with his
leaping ambition set responsive chords within her thrilling. He
pictured to her the state he was going to found, organize, rule, an
uncertain number of fair miles stretching along a tropical coast; he
made her see again a palatial dwelling with servants in livery, the
blue waters of the Gulf, the white of dancing sails. He spoke of a
peace which was going to be declared between warring factions below the
border within thirty days, of the magnificence to be Francisco Villa's,
of the position to be occupied by Jim Galloway at Villa's side. His
planned development of a gold-mine he mentioned merely casually.
And then at length when Florrie was prepared for the passionate
declaration he humbled himself at her feet, lifted his hands to her in
supplication, told her in burning words of his love. Whether the man
did love her with all of the strength of his nature or whether he but
meant to strike through her at John Engle, the richest man of this
section of the State, it was for Jim Galloway alone to know. Certainly
not for Florrie, who listened wide-eyed. . . . Once she thought that
he was about to sweep her up into his arms; they had lifted suddenly
from his sides. She had drawn back, crying sharply: "No, no!" But he
had waited, had again grown deeply deferential, swerving immediately to
further vividly colored pictures of life as it might be, of power and
pomp, of a secure position from which a man and a woman might direct
policies of state, shaping the lives of other men and women.
And in the end of that ardent interview Jim Galloway's caution was
still with him, his knowledge of the girl's nature clear in his mind.
He did not ask her answer; he merely sought a third opportunity to
speak with her, suggesting that upon the next night she slip out and
meet him. He would have a horse for her, one for himself; they could
ride for a half-hour. He had so much to tell her.
Perhaps a much more important factor than she realized in her action
was Florrie's new riding-habit. It had been acquired but three days
before and she knew very well just how she looked in it. There would
be a moon, almost at the full. The full moon and the new riding-habit
were the allies given by fate to Jim Galloway.
Besides all of this, she had not seen Elmer Page for a month. Further,
she knew that Elmer had gone riding upon at least one occasion with a
girl of Las Palmas, Superintendent Kemble's daughter. And finally,
there lies much rich adventure in just doing that which we know we
should leave alone. So Florrie, while her mother and father thought
that she had gone early to bed, was on her way to meet Galloway.
They rode out of the cottonwood fringed arroyo just before moonrise,
circling the town, Florrie scarcely marking whether they rode north or
south. But Galloway knew what he was doing and they turned slowly
toward the southwest. As they rode, his horse drawn in close to hers,
he talked as he had never talked before; his voice rang from the first
word with triumphant assurance.
"When he calls she will follow!" Virginia had thought fearfully of
them. To-night he was calling eloquently, she was following,
frightened and yet obedient to his mastery.
Galloway's influence over the girl, that of a strong will over a weak
and fluttering one, was quite naturally the stronger when they were
alone together. She had always been willing, sometimes a bit eager, to
make a hero of him; he had long thoroughly understood her. To-night
was the brief battle of wills, with him summoning all of his strength,
flushed with victory. Abruptly now he urged that she marry him; a
moment later his insistent pleading was subtly tinged with command. He
was the arbiter of the hour; he told her of a priest waiting for them
at a little village a dozen miles away. They would be married
to-night; they were eloping even at this palpitant instant!
When Florence would have stopped, of two balancing minds, he urged the
horses on. When she would have procrastinated, he beat down her
opposition with the rush of his words. Even while she struggled she
was yielding; Galloway was quick to see how her resistance was growing
fainter. And all the time, while he spoke vehemently and she for the
most part listened in a fascinated silence, they were riding on through
the moonlit night. . . . It seemed to her that surely he must love her
as few men had loved before. . . .
The village he had promised her was in reality but two poor houses at a
crossroads, inhabited by two Mexican men and dowdy women. On the way
they encountered but one horseman; Galloway turned his own and
Florence's animals out so that, though seen, they might escape
recognition. At the nearest of the two hovels he dismounted, raising
his arms to her. When she cried out and shrank back trembling, he
laughed softly, caught her in his arms, and lifted her free of the
saddle; when he would have kissed her she put her face into her two
hands.
"I . . . I want to go back!" she whispered. "I am afraid! Please, Mr.
Galloway, please let me go home."
Dogs were barking, a man and woman came out. The man laughed. Then he
gathered up the bridle-reins and led the horses to the barn. Florrie,
shrinking out of Galloway's embrace, looked particularly little and
helpless in her pretty riding-habit.
She went with Galloway into the lamplighted room. The woman looked at
her curiously, then to Galloway, something of wonder and upstanding
admiration in her beady eyes.
"Has the priest come?" demanded Galloway.
"No, señor. Not yet."
She added by way of explanation that word had been sent; that the
priest was delayed; a man was dying and he must stay a little at the
bedside. She muttered the tale like a child repeating a lesson.
Galloway, watching Florence, who sat rigid in her chair by the table,
waited for her to finish.
At the end he gave the woman a sharp, significant look. She said
something about a cup of coffee for the señorita and went hastily into
the kitchen. Florrie sprang to her feet, her hands clasped.
"You must let me go," she cried wildly. "The priest isn't here. I am
going home."
"No," said Galloway steadily. "You are not going home, Florence. You
must listen to me. I love you more than anything else In the world, my
dear. I want you, want you all for mine."
She saw a sudden light flare up in his eyes and it seemed to her that
her heart would beat through the walls of her breast. "I am not a boy,
but a man. A strong man, a man who, when he wants a thing, wants it
with his whole heart and body and soul, a man who takes what he wants.
Wait; just listen to me! You love me now; you will love me more and
more when I give you all that I have promised you. To-night, in an
hour, I will have made the beginning; I will have gathered about me
fifty men who will do exactly what I tell them to do! Then they will
go with us down into Mexico; they will be the beginning of a little
army whose one thought will be loyalty . . . loyalty to you and to me."
"No," said Florence, her voice shaking. "I am going. . . ."
"You will marry me when the priest comes," he cut in sternly.
"Otherwise, if you make me, I will take you with me anyway, unmarried.
And I will make you marry me when we have crossed the border. And
now . . . now you will kiss me. I have waited long, Florence."
He came toward her; she slipped behind the table, crying out to him to
stop. But he came on, caught her, drew her into his arms. And
Florrie, some new passionate, terrified Florrie, beat at him with her
fists, tore at him with her nails, hid her face from him, and with the
agility born of her terror slipped away from him again, again put the
table between them. Galloway, a thin line of blood across his cheek,
thrust the table aside. As he did so the man came back into the room
and stood watching, a twisted smile upon his lips. Galloway lifted his
thick shoulders in a shrug and stood staring at the girl cowering in
her corner.
"Married or unmarried, you go with me," he told her. "Your kisses you
may save for me. Think it over. You had better ask for the priest
when I come back." He turned toward the Mexican. "All ready, Feliz?"
The man nodded.
"Tell Castro, then. It's time to be in the saddle."
With no other word to Florrie he went out. But his last look was for
her, the look of a victor.