THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep.
His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne,
the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on
the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed
itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might
have saved him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained,
reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell
on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even
more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread
of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon
him. Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come,
he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness
sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations;
had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer
or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness; he did not
know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman;
never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one; never destructive.
It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always
shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied
that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off
Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac
swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly
regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed
he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, where
there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to
passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on
being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he
suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose
he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he
buried his head in his hands. “What has happened to my memory?” he said.
“I must be ill of a fever!” As he sat there, the goats, of their own
accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of
which stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up,
said goodnaturedly, “All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my
goats, but I thought you'd bring 'em back.”
Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not
interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of
the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best
horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk
there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering.
His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness
in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental
disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This
anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in
her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing
could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition.
More than once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling
off his face, crying aloud, “The Americans have found us out, Majella!
They were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way.” At such
times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down and
rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, she would say,
“You were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb
so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so.”
In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed
Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for
him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her.
But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And,
still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's
knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on
this mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot.
And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their
fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner.
The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the
sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer.
The spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew
along its edges thick as in beds.
The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its
mother had never known sorrow. “One would think she had suckled pain,”
thought Ramona, “so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin
has kept her well.”
If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night
and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the
Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth
of all their delicate chasing.
At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the
baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the
letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her
from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what
she should say and how she should send it,--she, who had never had in
her loyal, transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since
they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he
would thank her.
She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its
being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen
as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a
confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete,
it was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely
wrought in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed.
No baby would there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and
Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be
Majella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only to please
Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, she had been willing in this instance
to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon
having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, “If I
were to die,” she thought, “how glad Alessandro would be, to have still
a Majella!”
All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated
herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days
away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for
the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the
appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety
increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before
he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the
horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. “Why comes he riding
like that?” she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw
to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. “Why, Alessandro!” she
cried. “What horse is this?”
He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his
own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect
his thoughts. “Where is my horse, then?” he said.
“My God! Alessandro,” cried Ramona. “Take the horse back instantly. They
will say you stole it.”
“But I left my pony there in the corral,” he said. “They will know I
did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I
recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses.”
Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary
punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. “Oh, let me take
it back, dear!” she cried, “Let me go down with it. They will believe
me.”
“Majella!” he exclaimed, “think you I would send you into the fold of
the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I
was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And
that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am
heavy with sleep.”
Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was
evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of
danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her
own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse;
Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for
his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood
in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him. He recognized her
good-will, and put his nose to her face. “It must be because he was
black like Benito, that Alessandro took him,” she thought. “Oh, Mary
Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!” she said.
When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced
at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could
Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point
of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs
roused him instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran
out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,--only a
moment, hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to
hear a gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the
same second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over
Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the
forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed
to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he
untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and
leaping into his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he
rode away, he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground,
striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing
from the ghastly wounds. “That'll teach you damned Indians to leave
off stealing our horses!” he cried, and with another volley of terrible
oaths was out of sight.
With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief,
Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in
hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been
fatal, close to his heart,--the murderer aimed well; the after-shots,
with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds
Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and
laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words
she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father
Junipero, when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the
Indians, at San Diego. “Thank God.” he said, “the ground is now watered
by the blood of a martyr!”
“The blood of a martyr!” The words seemed to float in the air; to
cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. “My
Alessandro!” she said. “Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed
martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says.” His hands were warm.
She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching
herself on the ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and
whispered in his ear, “My love, my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to
Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro! Is he not blest
already? And soon we will be with him! The burdens were too great. He
could not bear them!” Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed
convulsively; but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her
feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither
should she go for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the
sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there
on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out of the
question. There was another Indian village nearer,--the village of the
Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She had once been
there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human
help nearer.
Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him,
whispered, “Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
friends.” As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying
by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet
to follow her. “No, Capitan,” she said; and leading him back to the
body, she took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said,
“Capitan, watch here.” With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and
stretched himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his
eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped,
baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn,
her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she
made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur
after spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her
heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro
had been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered
wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her
that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with
Alessandro; for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the
baby's sake, she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just
as it had grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before
her, and was panting more from terror than from running, lights suddenly
gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a
few moments she was there.
It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,--a cluster
of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground,
on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud
and high-spirited,--veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and
independent.
Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been
murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place.
The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona
had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon
as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the
floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in
time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for
it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion
seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words
enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and
higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and
bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to
Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
refrain from such violence.
“Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?” he said. “Will you
leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all
if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him.”
A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like
women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?
“Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in
vain,” said the wise old man. “It is not sweet to me, any more than to
you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you
to go.”
The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned
their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were
to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more
than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the
valley. Alessandro should be avenged.
As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to
look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows
in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so
far as to arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to
Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might
be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make
a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up
at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man
in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge
Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender
himself as having committed “justifiable homicide” on an Indian, or
Mexican, he did net know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a
plausible story. He professed not to know the man, or the place; but did
not explain how it was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to
the spot.
He said: “I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn,
I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the
horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I
pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft
ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very
wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little
ranch. As I came near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I
discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or
Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house, flourishing a
large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered
in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San
Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards me, brandishing the
knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop,
and I fired; still he did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not
fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I
shot him twice with my pistol.”
The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six
men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early
the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When
they reached the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was
locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except a few
blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed
greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he
found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley
that night, proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles
from the Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright.
He declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in the
night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to
guard him.
At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and
head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his
jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of
the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they
ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had
taken place, and that now no inquest could be held.
Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and
heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first
arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high
fever and delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it
on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking
incessantly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling
snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token
of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes
hide it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined;
but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.
Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time
for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the
Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It
was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to
last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from
the door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously,
were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have
spoken many words.
The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a
merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business,
on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It
was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the
hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar
himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This
last outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been
glad to have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts.
But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as
fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more
than any man's political head was worth. The word “justice” had lost its
meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The
valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon
others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without
a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to
a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was
relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's
counsel, that “the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable
homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.”
He comforted himself by thinking--what was no doubt true--that even if
the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have been
the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County jury
that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if
there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he
derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also
the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched
Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have
brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
possession of her senses.
During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had
seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His
children knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife
had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no
one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as
incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar
knew it; everybody knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits
of wandering mind; and that when these half-crazed fits came on him,
he was wholly irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of
Farrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from
having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable
rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what he did. “But he
wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!” mused the judge.
“He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white man down, that way.”
Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not
shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if
Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There
might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered,
unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in
his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The
longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would
go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to
Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way.