Roldan related his suspicions.
The priest shot a furtive glance through the open window at the dark
square.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "Sometimes I have thought--you see,
many are stubborn and intractable, and have to be flogged and chained.
Privately I think we are wasting our energies. We will leave California
several beautiful monuments for posterity to wonder at, but as for the
Indians we will end where we began. They are always escaping and
running back to the mountains. Their every instinct is for barbarism;
they have not one for civilization, nor can any be planted whose roots
will not trail over the surface. The good Lord intended them to be
savages, nothing more; and it is mistaken sentimentalism--However, it
is not for me to criticise, and I beg, Don Roldan, that you will not
repeat what I have said."
"Of course I shall not; but tell me, do you think there is danger?"
"We have one rather bright young Indian--there are about a dozen
exceptions in all California, and they are treacherous. His name is
Anastacio, and he has great influence with the other Indians. A good
many of them are angry at present because they have been punished for
stealing grapes and stores, and just now they are rather excited
because it has been proposed to banish Anastacio to a Mission where
there are more soldiers,--he is regarded as the inciter of the
outrages."
"Have you soldiers here?"
"Eleven. The guard house is in the left hand corner of the square. But
what could they do in an uprising? We must get rid of Anastacio. I will
go now and speak to Padre Flores."
Roldan went out into the square and strolled over to the soldiers'
quarters. The door was closed, but light streamed from an uncovered
window, and he had a good view of the guard room. A half dozen soldiers
were lying about on benches, half-dressed, smoking the eternal
cigarrito. Two were at a table writing. None looked alert, but as
Roldan passed out of the plaza to the open beyond, he encountered a
sentinel who was ready to gossip with the young don and told him that
three more were on duty on the several sides of the square.
Roldan strolled on to the rancheria, a collection of six or eight
hundred huts of mud and straw among a thicket of willows by the creek.
Here all was dark and quiet. He glanced through several of the
uncurtained windows and saw whole families peacefully asleep. Suddenly
he paused and held his breath, at the same time retreating into the
heavy shade of a willow. A number of doors had opened almost
simultaneously; there was the sharp crunch of dry brush, and dark
figures glided, with the snake-like motion peculiar to the Indian,
toward the upper end of the rancheria.
Roldan waited a moment, then followed softly. He had set himself the
duty of saving the Mission which had shown him hospitality, and was not
to be deterred. Moreover, the spirit of adventure was by no means
quenched.
In a few moments he paused opposite a large hut, from which issued a
subdued murmur. The window had been covered, but a thin ray of light
pierced through a crack in the door, and to this Roldan applied his eye.
The room was crowded with Indians standing respectfully about a man in
the middle of the room, whom Roldan knew instinctively to be Anastacio.
He was big and clean-limbed and sinewy, with small cunning eyes, a
resolute mouth and chin, and an air of perfect fearlessness. Roldan
warmed to him, and looked with admiration and envy at the muscles on
his splendid limbs.
He was speaking rapidly in the native patois, and Roldan could gather
little of his meaning beyond what his gestures conveyed. He shook his
fist in the direction of the Mission, snapped his fingers in scorn,
pointed toward the mountains, then made the motion of speeding an arrow
from the bow, at the same time contracting his face hideously.
Roldan stayed as long as he dared, then returned hastily to the
Mission. A friar was locking up for the night, and began to chide the
young guest for being out so late, but Roldan interrupted him
impatiently.
"Can I see Padre Flores to-night?" he asked. "I must see him. It is
important."
"He has retired to his cell, but I will take your message; and he never
denies himself to those that need him."
He went to the end of the corridor and tapped at a door. In a few
moments he returned.
"Padre Flores will see you," he said.
The priest was standing by the little altar in the corner of his cell
when Roldan entered.
"What is it, my son?" he asked. "Have you learned anything new? Padre
Estenega has told me of your suspicions."
Roldan rapidly related what he had seen. The priest's face became grave
and anxious.
"There is trouble brewing, I fear," he said. Then he smiled suddenly.
"You ran away to avoid fighting. It would be odd if you found yourself
in the midst of it."
"I did not run away to avoid fighting," said Roldan, flushing hotly.
"Pardon, father; I meant that you have misunderstood. I do not choose
to be shut up in a barrack against my will, but I am ready to fight;
and, although I am not yet sixteen, you shall see that I can help you
protect your Mission. And Adan too."
"I am sure of it. I did but tease you. And your part shall begin
to-night. You are rested, no?"
"I feel as if I wanted no more sleep for a week."
"Very well. Tell brother Antonio--whom you met on the corridor just
now--to let you in the church by the side door and give you the key,
with which you will lock yourself in. Then go up into the belfry and
watch. It is the full of the moon and clear. If you merely see a dozen
or more figures gliding about the rancheria, that will mean that they
are plotting, and intend no action to-night. If you see several
hundred, run down and bring me word. But if you see a mass of men rise
at once and descend upon the west gate, ring the bells. I shall go and
warn the soldiers, and every priest and brother will sleep on his
pistol to-night. But I don't think they are organised as yet. Before
dawn I shall send a messenger to the nearest town for reinforcements.
Go, my son. You are a brave and clever lad."
Roldan ran down the corridor and secured admission to the church. When
he had locked the door behind him, the vast dark building, beneath
whose tiles priests lay buried, shook his spirit as night and the
plains had not done, and he wished that he had brought Adan. Then he
jerked his shoulders, reflected that cowards did not carry off the
prizes of the world, and determined that his first should be the
admiration and approval of the priests and soldiers of this great
Mission. He walked rapidly down the nave, trying not to hear the hollow
echo of his footsteps, then opened several doors before he found the
one behind which was the spiral stair leading to the belfry. His supple
legs carried him swiftly up the steep ascent, and in a moment he was
straining his eyes in the direction of the rancheria.
The belfry was about ten feet square. The massive walls contained three
large apertures, through which the clear sonorous notes of the great
bells carried far. Just beneath the arch Roldan had selected as
observatory, and on the side opposite the plaza was the private garden
of the padres, surrounded by cloisters. An aged figure, cowled, his
arms folded, was pacing slowly.
Roldan, glancing over his shoulder, saw Padre Flores return from the
soldiers' quarters; but in the rancheria there was no motion but the
swaying tops of the willows, and no sound anywhere but the hoot of the
owl and the yap of the coyote.
It was a long and lonely watch. Roldan felt as if he were suspended in
air, cut off from Earth and all its details. Although his military
instinct had been aroused and he burned for fight, his spirit grew
graver in that isolation, and he resolved to do all he could to save
the Mission from attack. It was there for peace and good deeds, and its
preservation was of far more importance than a small pair of spurs for
Master Roldan.
Nevertheless, Roldan was to win his spurs.
Toward morning he saw an Indian, attended by a priest, let himself out
of a gate and steal toward the corral. A few moments later he
reappeared, leading a mustang up the valley in the shadow of the trees.
The priest re-entered the gate, and Roldan knew that the messenger had
gone forth for help.
At sunrise a brother came running up the stair. "Better go down," he
said, smiling. "I am going to ring for mass, and it will deafen you.
You saw nothing, of course?"
"Nothing."
"We did not expect it, and slept. It takes time to organise."
"Have they any weapons?"
"Their bows and arrows. We have always thought it best to leave them
those in case of assault by savage tribes."
Roldan descended the stair as the bells rang out their peremptory
summons. Although he was tired and sleepy, he determined to remain in
the church during mass, and knelt near the altar by a pillar where he
could command a view of the nave. Almost the first to enter was
Anastacio. He carried himself proudly--like a warrior, thought
Roldan--and advancing to the altar bowed low, then knelt stiffly, his
eyes closed.
The others drifted in slowly: the women kneeling on the right, the men
on the left. Finally all the priests and brothers, except Padre Flores,
who conducted the service, entered and knelt in the aisle. Padre
Flores' garments were as rich as any worn in old Spain, and the
candelabra about him were as massive. The images of the saints were
clad in white satin embroidered with gold and silver thread. On the
walls were many high-coloured paintings of saints, softened by the
flood of light from the wax candles.
Roldan watched keenly all the faces within the line of his vision. They
were mostly sleepy. Suddenly, as his glance shifted, it encountered the
eyes of Anastacio. Those powerful crafty orbs were fixed upon him under
drawn brows.
"He suspects me," thought Roldan, and then once more demonstrated that
several of his talents were diplomatic. He glanced past the Indian
indifferently to the women, then to the priests, and from there to the
paintings and altar, his regard but that of the curious traveller.
When Roldan left the church he encountered Adan, who evidently had
entered last and knelt near the door.
"Where did you go last night?" Adan demanded loudly.
"I sat up talking to the priests and roaming about the square," replied
Roldan. Anastacio was almost at his elbow.
"Well, I had had sleep enough by twelve o'clock and I went into your
cell, and then spent the rest of the night waiting for you to come
back."
"I hope breakfast is ready. Come."
They went to the refectory, where Padre Flores embraced Roldan
heartily, but made no allusion to his watch; there were Indian servants
present. After breakfast the two boys walked up and down the middle of
the square, and Roldan related his experience of the night. Adan
listened with open mouth and shortened breath.
"Caramba!" he ejaculated. "Is there to be a fight?"
"I am sure of it. Are you frightened?"
"Not I. I'd rather fight Indians than ford a river. But do you think we
can hold out?"
"We can try. And if they don't make the attack to-night, we shall have
the better chance, because the reinforcement will arrive to-morrow. But
that Anastacio suspects me, and doubtless he has discovered in some way
that the messenger has gone. I am sure there will be trouble to-night,
and I am going now to get a good sleep. Do you sleep, too; and see that
you eat no dulces for supper, lest they make you heavy."
He awoke about four in the afternoon. There was a babel of voices in
the plaza, and he sprang out of bed, excited with the thought that war
had begun. But he saw only a typical Mission Sabbath afternoon. Several
hundred Indians were seated on the ground in groups of two or three,
gambling furiously. Through the open gates opposite, Roldan could see a
spirited horse-race, a crowd of Indians betting at the top of their
voices.
Roldan went to the kitchen and asked for a cold luncheon, then sought
Padre Flores. The priest was in his cell, and as he saw Roldan he
motioned to him to close the door.
"I can learn nothing, my son," he said; "but something in the air tells
me that there will be trouble to-night. Will you watch again?"
"I will, my father."
"We will all sleep on our pistols. Now listen. All we can do is to
protect the gates. If you ring once that means that the Indians are
advancing on the south gate, the one nearest the rancheria. But they
are crafty, and will doubtless seek to enter by one less guarded. Two
peals will mean the west gate, three the east, and a wild irregular
clamour the north. Can you remember?"
"I can, my father," said Roldan, proudly.
"I believe you. Go up into the tower at sundown, which is the hour when
the gates are closed. As soon as you have finished ringing you can come
down and join in the fight. The arms will be kept in the room where we
sat yesterday until your meal was made ready. Now go, my son, and God
bless you. Ah!" he called after him. "Wait a moment. Get a cassock and
put it on. It will make you shapeless among the bells. Otherwise you
might be seen."
Roldan was at his post as soon as the Indians had been driven through
the gates for the night. They straggled about the valley, still talking
excitedly; but there was nothing unusual in this, the watcher had been
told. Gradually they moved toward the rancheria, disappeared into it,
and the valley was as quiet as it had been the night before.
In the great court there were rifts of light at irregular intervals;
the heavy wooden shutters of every window were ajar. Roldan felt the
nervous tension of those minds below, and with it a sense of
companionship, very different from the oppressive loneliness of his
previous watch.
The clock of the Mission had just struck eleven when Roldan stood
suddenly erect and hooped his hands about his eyes. Something was
moving in the willows beside the river. The moon shone full on the
rancheria, and when the outer edge of the latter appeared to broaden
and project itself the effect was noticeable at once.
Roldan watched breathlessly. In a moment there could no longer be any
doubt: a broad compact something was moving down the valley toward the
Mission. And an army of cats could not have made less sound.
He laid his hand on the bell rope. The Indians came swiftly, but their
course was not yet defined. When within a hundred yards of the Mission
they deflected suddenly to the right. Their destination was not the
south gate.
Roldan closed his eyes for a half moment to relieve them of the strain,
then opened them and held his breath. Only the outer fringe of the
little army could now be seen; it was crawling close to the western
wall. In a few moments they were beneath Roldan; he could hear the
slight impact with the air. Then once more he strained his eyes until
he thought they would fly from his head, and his lungs seemed bursting.
They were approaching the west gate.
They passed it. There could be no doubt now that they purposed to
attack the north gate; but Roldan dared not ring until they were well
away from the west side, lest they change their plans and his signal
mislead.
As they reached the corner of the wall they suddenly accelerated their
pace as if impatience mastered them. When the tail of the procession
had whisked about and Roldan saw a compact mass move like a black cloud
before the wind toward the north gate, he caught the rope in both hands
and jangled with all his might.
The great clapper hurled itself against the mighty sides of the bell
with a violence which split the nerves and made the ear-drums creak.
The blood surged to Roldan's head, carrying chaos with it. He had a
confused sense of a flood of light in the plaza below, but could hear
no other sound except the deafening uproar in his ears. Suddenly
something gave way beneath his feet. He had an awful feeling of
disintegration, of solid parting from solid in empty space. He kicked
out wildly. His feet touched nothing. Then his head suddenly cleared,
although the deep tones of the bell still seemed echoing there, and he
became aware that his descent had stopped, and that his hands, torn and
aching, were still clutching the rope. He knew what had happened. He
had stepped too far and gone through one of the arches.
There was no time for fright. He began to pull himself up by the rope,
hand over hand. At the same time he was acutely conscious of many
things. The Indians were yelling like demoniacs and battering at the
gate. In the garden on the other side, the old priest was shouting Ave
Marias in a high quavering voice. A breeze had sprung up and Roldan
felt the chill in it. And he felt the weight of the cassock. The heavy
woollen garment fatigued his arms and impeded his progress. Were it not
for that he could scramble up like a monkey.
He was within two feet of the top. Suddenly he felt a slackening of the
rope, accompanied by a faint sickening sound. The rope was old, it was
giving way.
Roldan made a wild lurch for the projecting floor of the belfry. The
rope broke. He went down.
He had heard that a drop, however swift, might seem to occupy hours to
the doomed. To his whirling horror-struck brain this descent certainly
seemed very long. It was almost as if he were sauntering. Nor was he
tumbling over and over. He had shut his eyes tight when the rope
snapped. He opened them, gave a shuddering glance downward, then
laughed almost hysterically: his cassock, ample even for a man, had
caught the breeze and spread out on all sides like a parachute.
And although the descent occupied but a moment longer, he comprehended
the situation, with his abnormally sharpened senses, as clearly as
though he stood on high with a spy glass.
All the inhabitants of the Mission proper--the priests, brothers,
soldiers, and house servants--were standing before the north gate,
firearms in hand. Beyond were some twenty-five Indians battering and
yelling, making noise enough to induce the belief that they numbered
ten times as many more. The rest were not to be seen, but it was not
difficult for Roldan to suspect their purpose.
He lighted on the stone steps of the church, tore off his heavy
garment, and ran toward the north gate. As he did so the east gate fell
with a crash, and five hundred Indians rushed into the plaza.
They uttered no sound. The guard at the upper end of the square was not
aware of their advent until Roldan reached them. He was out of breath,
but he caught the arm of the man nearest him and pointed. In a second
the word had passed, and the handful of defendants stared helplessly at
the advancing hordes. But only for a moment. Padre Flores shouted to
fall into line, then ordered them not to fire in the same breath.
Anastacio, somewhat ahead of his followers, was approaching with a
white rag in his hand.
When within a yard of the missionaries he paused and saluted
respectfully.
"A word, my fathers," he commanded, and in excellent Spanish.
"Go on," said Padre Flores, sternly.
"We have not come to kill," said Anastacio, slowly and with great
distinctness: the noise beyond the north gate had ceased. "You know
that we never kill the priests, nor do we care for blood. We have come
for the stores of the Mission--all your great winter supply, except a
small quantity which we will leave you that you may not suffer until
you can get more. We are tired of this life. We belong to the
mountains. We cannot see that we are any better for your teachings, and
we certainly are not as strong. Now let us do our work in peace, and
all will be well. But if you fire, we let our arrows go, and we are
twenty to one."
All turned anxiously to Padre Flores. They were not warlike, and if no
bodily harm was intended they could see no reason for resistance.
"You have us at disadvantage," said Padre Flores, coldly. "I cannot
sacrifice those in my charge, if you do not mean to kill. I agree to
your terms on one condition: that we retain our firearms. I pass my
word that no one shall shoot. I cannot take your word--nor that of any
Indian. As you say, our teachings are thrown away."
"I take yours," said Anastacio, undisturbed. "All I ask is that you
remain here under charge of twenty of my followers until I call them
away."
He marched off, after planting his guard; and for the next two hours he
and his men looted the Mission and packed the trove on horses which had
been brought up, or on the backs of the bigger Indians. At the end of
that time he shouted to his prisoners to come down and enter the
Mission.
Roldan and Adan had been exchanging bitter condolences over the
humiliating change in the warlike programme, but the raw air of the
morning had chilled their enthusiasm, and Roldan, moreover, began to
feel reaction from the shock to his nerves. It was not every day that a
boy sailed down through forty feet of space and lit on his feet, and
his nerves were out of tune.
When Anastacio called, he went with the rest, but lagged behind. The
door of the Mission sala was open. The priests entered first, their
heads scornfully erect; then the brethren, the soldiers, and servants.
As Roldan and Adan were about to enter, the door was suddenly pulled
to, coarse hands were clapped over their mouths, and, kicking,
struggling, biting, scratching, they were borne swiftly across the
courtyard and out of the gates. There they were set on their feet, and
found themselves face to face with Anastacio.
"Don't yell," he said. "There is no one to come to the rescue. We shall
not hurt you unless you try to run away. Then I myself will beat you.
Get on that horse, both of you."
"I am tired," said Roldan, indifferently. "I want to sleep."
"Sleep? Very well. Come here."
He lifted him upon a large horse, then mounted behind and encircled him
with one arm.
"Go to sleep," he said; and cantered rapidly down the valley, followed
by his thieving horde.