THE KIDNAPPING
Patience and her Mexican escort rode out of the town along the trail to
Taos Valley, the road leading up the mountain and past her favorite
retreat. She could not resist the cool of the morning hours and the
temptation to pay one more visit to the little niche in the mountain
side. The few farewell calls that she had to make could wait until the
afternoon. They were duties rather than pleasures and the shorter she
could make them the better she would like it. She passed the mud houses
of the soldiers and soon left the city behind. At intervals on the
wretched road she met and smiled at the friendly muleteers and gave
small coins to the toddling Mexican and Indian children before the
wretched hovels scattered along the way. Well before noon she reached
the little nook and unpacked the lunch she had brought along. Sharing it
with her humble escort, who stubbornly insisted on taking his portion to
one side and eating by himself, she spread her own lunch under her
favorite tree and leisurely enjoyed it as she watched the mules passing
below her along the trail. This last view of the distant town and the
mountain trail enchanted her and time slipped by with furtive speed. Far
down on the road, if it could be called such, bumped and slid a huge
_carreta_ covered with a soiled canvas cover, its driver laboring with
his four-mule team. The four had all they could do to draw the massive
cart along the rough trail and she smiled as she wondered how many mules
it would take to pull the heavy vehicle if it were well loaded. She
tried to picture it with the toiling caravan, and laughed aloud at the
absurdity.
While she idly watched the _carreta_ and the little _atejo_ passing it
in the direction of the city, a flash far down the trail caught her eye
and she made out a group of mounted soldiers trotting after an officer,
whose scabbard dully flashed as it jerked and bobbed about. The
_carreta_ was more than half way up the slope, seeming every moment to
be threatened with destruction by the shaking it was receiving, when the
soldiers overtook and passed it. When the squad reached the short
section of the trail immediately below her it met an _atejo_ of a dozen
heavily-laden mules and the arrogant officer waved his sword and ordered
them off the trail. Mules are deliberate and take their own good time,
and they also have a natural reluctance to forsake a known and
comparatively easy trail to climb over rocks under the towering packs.
Their owners tried to lead them aside, although there was plenty of room
for the troops to pass, but the little beasts were stubborn and stuck to
the trail.
Impatiently waiting for perhaps a full minute that his conceit might be
pampered, the officer drew his sword again and peremptorily ordered the
trail cleared for his passing. The muleteers did their best, but it was
not good enough for the puffed-up captain, and he spurred his horse
against a faggot-burdened animal. The load swayed and then toppled,
forcing the little burro to its knees and then over on its side, the
tight girth gripping it as in a vise. The owner of the animal stepped
quickly forward, a black scowl on his face. At his first word of protest
the officer struck him on the head with the flat of the blade and broke
into a torrent of curses and threats. The muleteer staggered back
against a huge bowlder and bowed his head, his arms hanging limply at
his sides. The officer considered a moment, laughed contemptuously and
rode on, his rag-tag, wooden-faced squad following him closely.
As the soldiers passed from his sight around a bend in the trail the
muleteer leaned forward, hand on the knife in his belt, and stared
malevolently at the rocks on the bend; and then hastened to help his two
companions unpack the load of faggots and let the mule arise. The little
animal did not get up. Both its front legs were broken by the rocky
crevice into which they had been forced. The unfortunate Pueblo Indian
knelt swiftly at the side of the little beast and passed his hands along
the slender legs. He shook his head sorrowfully and stroked the burro's
flank. Suddenly leaping to his feet, knife in hand, he took two quick
steps along the trail, but yielded to his clinging and frightened
friends and dejectedly walked back to the suffering animal. For a moment
he stood above it and then, changing his grip on the knife, leaned
quickly over.
Patience had seen the whole tragedy and her eyes were brimming with
tears. As the muleteer bent forward she turned away, sobbing. The
throaty muttering of her guide brought him back to her mind and she
called him to her.
"Sanchez!" she exclaimed, taking a purse from her bosom. "Take this
money to him. It will buy him another burro."
The Mexican's teeth flashed like pearls and he nodded eagerly. In a
moment he was clambering down the rocky mountain side and reached the
trail as the noisy _carreta_ lumbered past the waiting _atejo_. He need
not have hastened, for each mule had seized upon the stop as a valuable
moment for resting and was lying down under its load. Here was work for
the angry muleteers, for every animal must be unloaded, kicked to its
feet and loaded anew.
Sanchez slid down the last rocky wall, flung up his arms and showed the
two gold pieces, making a flamboyant speech as he alternately faced the
wondering muleteer and turned to bow to the slender figure outlined
against the somber greens of the mountain nook. Handing over the money,
he slapped the Indian's shoulder, whirled swiftly and clambered back the
way he had come.
The Indian seemed dazed at his unexpected good fortune, staring at the
money in his hand. He glanced up toward the mountain niche, raised a
hand to his forelock, and then pushed swiftly back from his eager,
curious, crowding friends. They talked together at top speed and for the
moment forgot all about the mules they had so laboriously re-packed; and
when they looked behind them they found they had their work to do over
again. Again the fortunate muleteer looked up, his hand slowly rising
to repeat his thanks; and became a statue in bronze. He saw the ragged
troops seize his benefactress and leap for the guide. Sanchez was no
coward and he knew what loyalty meant and demanded. He fought like a
wild beast until the crash of a pistol in the hands of the officer sent
him staggering on bending legs, back, back, back. Reaching the edge of
the niche he toppled backward, his quivering arms behind him to break
his fall; and plunged and rolled down the rocky slope until stopped by a
stunted tree, where he hung like a bag of meal.
Patience's strength, multiplied by terror, availed her nothing and soon,
bound, gagged and wrapped up in blankets, she was carried to the trail
and placed in the _carreta_ which, its canvas cover again tightly drawn,
quickly began its jolting way down the trail. As it and its escort
passed the _atejo_, now being re-packed, the officer scowled about him
for a sight of the impudent muleteer, but could not see him.
Salezar stopped his horse: "Where is that Pueblo dog?" he demanded.
"He is so frightened he is running all the way home," answered a
muleteer. "He has left us to do his work for him! Are we slaves that we
must serve him? Wait till we see him, Senor Capitan! Just you wait!" He
looked at his companion, who nodded sourly. "Always he is like that,
Senor Capitan."
Salezar questioned them closely about what they had seen, and found that
they had been so busy with the accursed mules that they had had no time
for anything else.
"See that you speak the truth!" he threatened. "There is a gringo woman
missing from Santa Fe and we are seeking her. Her gringo friends are
enemies of the Governor, and those who help them also are his enemies.
Then you have not seen this woman?"
"The more gringos that are missing the louder we will sing. We have not
seen her, Senor Capitan. We will take care that we do not see her."
"Did you hear any shooting, then?"
"If I did it would be that frightened Pablo, shooting at his shadow. He
is like that, Pablo is."
"Listen well!" warned Salezar, his beady eyes aglint. "There are two
kinds of men who do not speak; the wise ones, and the ones who have no
tongues!" He made a significant gesture in front of his mouth, glared
down at the two muleteers and, wheeling, dashed down the trail to
overtake the _carreta_, where he gloated aloud that his prisoner might
hear, and know where she was going, and why.
The two Pueblos listened until the hoofbeats sounded well down the trail
and then scrambled up the mountain side like goats, reaching the little
nook as Pablo dragged the seriously wounded Mexican over the edge. They
worked over him quickly, silently, listening to his broken, infrequent
mutterings and after bandaging him as best they could they put him on a
blanket and carried him to the trail and along it until they reached an
Indian hovel, where they left him in care of a squaw. Returning to the
_atejo_ they had to repack every mule, but they worked feverishly and
the work was soon done and the little train plodded on down the trail.
At the foot of the mountain Pablo said something to his companions, left
the trail and soon was lost to their sight.
Meanwhile the _carreta_, after a journey which was a torture, mentally
and physically, to its helpless occupant, reached the town and rumbled
up to Salezar's house, scraped through the narrow roadway between the
house and the building next door and stopped in the windowless,
high-walled courtyard. Three soldiers quickly carried a blanket-swathed
burden into the house while the others loafed around the entrance to the
driveway to guard against spying eyes. In a few moments the captain came
out, briskly rubbing his hands, gave a curt order regarding alertness
and rode away in the direction of the _palacio_, already a colonel in
his stimulated imagination. This had been a great day in the fortunes of
Captain Salezar and he was eager for his reward.
The sentry at the door of the _palacio_ saluted, told him that he was
waited for and urgently wanted, and then stood at attention. Salezar
stroked his chin, chuckled, and swaggered through the portal. Ten
minutes later he emerged, walking on air and impatient for the coming of
darkness, when his task soon would be finished and his promotion
assured.
And while the captain paced the floor of his quarters at the barracks
and dreamed dreams, an honest, courageous, and loyal Mexican was
fighting against death in a little hovel on the mountain side; and a
Pueblo Indian, stimulated by a queer and jumbled mixture of rage,
gratitude, revenge, and pity, was making his slow way, with infinite
caution, through the cover north of town. Sanchez in his babbling had
mentioned the caravan, a gringo name, and the urgent need for a warning
to be carried. Salezar's name the Pueblo already knew far too well, and
hated as he hated nothing else on earth. The mud-walled _pueblos_ of the
Valley of Taos were regarded by Salezar as rabbit-warrens full of women,
provided by Providence that his hunting might be good.