After a time I went to bed, but not to sleep. I placed my gun under my
pillow, locked and bolted the door, and arranged a string cunningly
across the open window so that an intruder--unless he had extraordinary
luck--could not have failed to kick up a devil of a clatter. I was
young, bold, without nerves; so that I think I can truthfully say I was
not in the least frightened. But I cannot deny I was nervous--or rather
the whole situation was on my nerves. I lay on my back staring straight
at the ceiling. I caught myself gripping the sheets and listening. Only
there was nothing to listen to. The night was absolutely still. There
were no frogs, no owls, no crickets even. The firm old adobe walls gave
off no creak nor snap of timbers. The world was muffled--I almost said
smothered. The psychological effect was that of blank darkness, the
black darkness of far underground, although the moon was sailing the
heavens.
How long that lasted I could not tell you. But at last the silence was
broken by the cheerful chirp of a frog. Never was sound more grateful to
the ear! I lay drinking it in as thirstily as water after a day on the
desert. It seemed that the world breathed again, was coming alive after
syncope. And then beneath that loud and cheerful singing I became aware
of duller half-heard movements; and a moment or so later yellow lights
began to flicker through the transom high at the blank wall of the
room, and to reflect in wavering patches on the ceiling. Evidently
somebody was afoot outside with a lantern.
I crept from the bed, moved the table beneath the transom, and climbed
atop. The opening was still a foot or so above my head. Being young,
strong, and active, I drew myself up by the strength of my arms so I
could look--until my muscles gave out!
I saw four men with lanterns moving here and there among some willows
that bordered what seemed to be an irrigating ditch with water. They
were armed with long clubs. Old Man Hooper, in an overcoat, stood in a
commanding position. They seemed to be searching. Suddenly from a clump
of bushes one of the men uttered an exclamation of triumph. I saw his
long club rise and fall. At that instant my tired fingers slipped from
the ledge and I had to let myself drop to the table. When a moment later
I regained my vantage point, I found that the whole crew had
disappeared.
Nothing more happened that night. At times I dozed in a broken sort of
fashion, but never actually fell into sound sleep. The nearest I came to
slumber was just at dawn. I really lost all consciousness of my
surroundings and circumstances, and was only slowly brought to myself by
the sweet singing of innumerable birds in the willows outside the blank
wall. I lay in a half stupor enjoying them. Abruptly their music ceased.
I heard the soft, flat _spat_ of a miniature rifle. The sound was
repeated. I climbed back on my table and drew myself again to a position
of observation.
Old Man Hooper, armed with a .22 calibre rifle, was prowling along the
willows in which fluttered a small band of migratory birds. He was just
drawing bead on a robin. At the report the bird fell. The old man darted
forward with the impetuosity of a boy, although the bird was dead. An
impulse of contempt curled my lips. The old man was childish! Why should
he find pleasure in hunting such harmless creatures? and why should he
take on triumph over retrieving such petty game? But when he reached the
fallen bird he did not pick it up for a possible pot-pie as I thought he
would do. He ground it into the soft earth with the heel of his boot,
stamping on the poor thing again and again. And never have I seen on
human countenance such an expression of satisfied malignity!
I went to my door and looked out. You may be sure that the message I had
received from the unfortunate young lady had not been forgotten; but Old
Man Hooper's cynical delivery of the second paper had rendered me too
cautious to undertake anything without proper reconnaissance. The left
wing about the courtyard seemed to contain two apartments--at least
there were two doors, each with its accompanying window. The window
farthest out was heavily barred. My thrill at this discovery was,
however, slightly dashed by the further observation that also all the
other windows into the courtyard were barred. Still, that was peculiar
in itself, and not attributable--as were the walls and remarkable
transoms--to former necessities of defence. My first thought was to
stroll idly around the courtyard, thus obtaining a closer inspection.
But the moment I stepped into the open a Mexican sauntered into view
and began to water the flowers. I can say no more than that in his hands
that watering pot looked fairly silly. So I turned to the right and
passed through the wicket gate and into the stable yard. It was natural
enough that I should go to look after my own horse.
The stable yard was for the moment empty; but as I walked across it one
of its doors opened and a very little, wizened old man emerged leading a
horse. He tied the animal to a ring in the wall and proceeded at once to
currying.
I had been in Arizona for ten years. During that time I had seen a great
many very fine native horses, for the stock of that country is directly
descended from the barbs of the _conquistadores_. But, though often well
formed and as tough and useful as horseflesh is made, they were small.
And no man thought of refinements in caring for any one of his numerous
mounts. They went shaggy or smooth according to the season; and not one
of them could have called a curry comb or brush out of its name.
The beast from which the wizened old man stripped a _bona fide_ horse
blanket was none of these. He stood a good sixteen hands; his head was
small and clean cut with large, intelligent eyes and little, well-set
ears; his long, muscular shoulders sloped forward as shoulders should;
his barrel was long and deep and well ribbed up; his back was flat and
straight; his legs were clean and--what was rarely seen in the cow
country--well proportioned--the cannon bone shorter than the leg bone,
the ankle sloping and long and elastic--in short, a magnificent creature
whose points of excellence appeared one by one under close scrutiny.
And the high lights of his glossy coat flashed in the sun like water.
I walked from one side to the other of him marvelling. Not a defect, not
even a blemish could I discover. The animal was fairly a perfect
specimen of horseflesh. And I could not help speculating as to its use.
Old Man Hooper had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fame
of such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country.
During my inspection the wizened little man continued his work without
even a glance in my direction. He had on riding breeches and leather
gaiters, a plaid waistcoat and a peaked cap; which, when you think of
it, was to Arizona about as incongruous as the horse. I made several
conventional remarks of admiration, to which he paid not the slightest
attention. But I know a bait.
"I suppose you claim him as a Morgan," said I.
"Claim, is it!" grunted the little man, contemptuously.
"Well, the Morgan is not a real breed, anyway," I persisted. "A
sixty-fourth blood will get one registered. What does that amount to?"
The little man grunted again.
"Besides, though your animal is a good one, he is too short and straight
in the pasterns," said I, uttering sheer, rank, wild heresy.
After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentatively, then with
entire, enthusiastic agreement. I saw to that. Allowing yourself to be
converted from an absurd opinion is always a sure way to favour. We
ended with antiphonies of praise for this descendant of Justin Morgan.
"You're the only man in all this God-forsaken country that has the
sense of a Shanghai rooster!" cried the little man in a glow. "They ride
horses and they know naught of them; and they laugh at a horseman! Your
hand, sir!" He shook it. "And is that your horse in number four? I
wondered! He's the first animal I've seen here properly shod. They use
the rasp, sir, on the outside the hoof, and on the clinches, sir; and
they burn a seat for the shoe; and they pare out the sole and trim the
frog--bah! You shoe your own horse, I take it. That's right and proper!
Your hand again, sir. Your horse has been fed this hour agone."
"I'll water him, then," said I.
But when I led him forth I could find no trough or other facilities
until the little man led me to a corner of the corral and showed me a
contraption with a close-fitting lid to be lifted.
"It's along of the flies," he explained to me. "They must drink, and we
starve them for water here, and they go greedy for their poison yonder."
He indicated flat dishes full of liquid set on shelves here and about.
"We keep them pretty clear."
I walked over, curiously, to examine. About and in the dishes were
literally quarts of dead insects, not only flies, but bees, hornets, and
other sorts as well. I now understood the deadly silence that had so
impressed me the evening before. This was certainly most ingenious; and
I said so.
But at my first remark the old man became obstinately silent, and fell
again to grooming the Morgan horse. Then I became aware that he was
addressing me in low tones out of the corner of his mouth.
"Go on; look at the horse; say something," he muttered, busily
polishing down the animal's hind legs. "You're a man who _saveys_ a
horse--the only man I've seen here who does. _Get out_! Don't ask why.
You're safe now. You're not safe here another day. Water your horse; eat
your breakfast; then _get out_!"
And not another word did I extract. I watered my horse at the covered
trough, and rather thoughtfully returned to the courtyard.
I found there Old Man Hooper waiting. He looked as bland and innocent
and harmless as the sunlight on his own flagstones--until he gazed up at
me, and then I was as usual disconcerted by the blank, veiled, unwinking
stare of his eyes.
"Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir," I greeted him. "I
didn't know such a creature existed in this part of the world."
But the little man displayed no gratification.
"He's well enough. I have him more to keep Tim happy than anything else.
We'll go in to breakfast."
I cast a cautious eye at the barred window in the left wing. The
curtains were still down. At the table I ventured to ask after Miss
Hooper. The old man stared at me up to the point of embarrassment, then
replied drily that she always breakfasted in her room. The rest of our
conversation was on general topics. I am bound to say it was
unexpectedly easy. The old man was a good talker, and possessed social
ease and a certain charm, which he seemed to be trying to exert. Among
other things, I remember, he told me of the Indian councils he used to
hold in the old days.
"They were held on the willow flat, outside the east wall," he said. "I
never allowed any of them inside the walls." The suavity of his manner
broke fiercely and suddenly. "Everything inside the walls is mine!" he
declared with heat. "Mine! mine! mine! Understand? I will not tolerate
in here anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that does
not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I say
be still!"
A wild and fantastic idea suddenly illuminated my understanding.
"Even the crickets, the flies, the frogs, the birds," I said,
audaciously.
He fixed his wildcat eyes upon me without answering.
"And," I went on, deliberately, "who could deny your perfect right to do
what you will with your own? And if they did deny that right what more
natural than that they should be made to perish--or take their
breakfasts in their rooms?"
I was never more aware of the absolute stillness of the house than when
I uttered these foolish words. My hand was on the gun in my
trouser-band; but even as I spoke a sickening realization came over me
that if the old man opposite so willed, I would have no slightest chance
to use it. The air behind me seemed full of menace, and the hair crawled
on the back of my neck. Hooper stared at me without sign for ten
seconds; his right hand hovered above the polished table. Then he let it
fall without giving what I am convinced would have been a signal.
"Will you have more coffee--my guest?" he inquired. And he stressed
subtly the last word in a manner that somehow made me just a trifle
ashamed.
At the close of the meal the Mexican familiar glided into the room.
Hooper seemed to understand the man's presence, for he arose at once.
"Your horse is saddled and ready," he told me, briskly. "You will be
wishing to start before the heat of the day. Your _cantinas_ are ready
on the saddle."
He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the corral. There
awaited us not only my own horse, but another. The equipment of the
latter was magnificently reminiscent of the old California
days--gaily-coloured braided hair bridle and reins; silver _conchas_;
stock saddle of carved leather with silver horn and cantle; silvered bit
bars; gay Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver
_conchas_ on the long _tapaderos_. Old Man Hooper, strangely incongruous
in his wrinkled "store clothes," swung aboard.
"I will ride with you for a distance," he said.
We jogged forth side by side at the slow Spanish trot. Hooper called my
attention to the buildings of Fort Shafter glimmering part way up the
slopes of the distant mountains, and talked entertainingly of the Indian
days, and how the young officers used to ride down to his ranch for
music.
After a half hour thus we came to the long string of wire and the huge,
awkward gate that marked the limit of Hooper's "pasture." Of course the
open range was his real pasture; but every ranch enclosed a thousand
acres or so somewhere near the home station to be used for horses in
active service. Before I could anticipate him, he had sidled his horse
skillfully alongside the gate and was holding it open for me to pass. I
rode through the opening murmuring thanks and an apology. The old man
followed me through, and halted me by placing his horse square across
the path of mine.
"You are now, sir, outside my land and therefore no longer my guest," he
said, and the snap in his voice was like the crackling of electricity.
"Don't let me ever see you here again. You are keen and intelligent. You
spoke the truth a short time since. You were right. I tolerate nothing
in my place that is not my own--no man, no animal, no bird, no insect
nor reptile even--that will not obey my lightest order. And these
creatures, great or small, who will not--_or even cannot_--obey my
orders must go--or die. Understand me clearly?
"You have come here, actuated, I believe, by idle curiosity, but without
knowledge. You made yourself--ignorantly--my guest; and a guest is
sacred. But now you know my customs and ideas. I am telling you. Never
again can you come here in ignorance; therefore never again can you come
here as a guest; and never again will you pass freely."
He delivered this drily, precisely, with frost in his tones, staring
balefully into my eyes. So taken aback was I by this unleashed hostility
that for a moment I had nothing to say.
"Now, if you please, I will take both notes from that poor idiot: the
one I handed you and the one she handed you."
I realized suddenly that the two lay together in the breast pocket of my
shirt; that though alike in tenor, they differed in phrasing; and that I
had no means of telling one from the other.
"The paper you gave me I read and threw away," I stated, boldly. "It
meant nothing to me. As to any other, I do not know what you are talking
about."
"You are lying," he said, calmly, as merely stating a fact. "It does not
matter. It is my fancy to collect them. I should have liked to add
yours. Now get out of this, and don't let me see your face again!"
"Mr. Hooper," said I, "I thank you for your hospitality, which has been
complete and generous. You have pointed out the fact that I am no longer
your guest. I can, therefore, with propriety, tell you that your ideas
and prejudices are noted with interest; your wishes are placed on file
for future reference; I don't give a damn for your orders; and you can
go to hell!"
"Fine flow of language. Educated cowpuncher," said the old man, drily.
"You are warned. Keep off. Don't meddle with what does not concern you.
And if the rumour gets back to me that you've been speculating or
talking or criticizing----"
"Well?" I challenged.
"I'll have you killed," he said, simply; so simply that I knew he meant
it.
"You are foolish to make threats," I rejoined. "Two can play at that
game. You drive much alone."
"I do not work alone," he hinted, darkly. "The day my body is found dead
of violence, that day marks the doom of a long list of men whom I
consider inimical to me--like, perhaps, yourself." He stared me down
with his unwinking gaze.