"What with pies and spices your kitchen is more fragrant than a
garden of flowers. That's as it should be, for nothing but rum have
I tasted this bleak day. And the boys are away fighting, Gregory
tells me. Good! When the eaglets have found out their wings let
them try their talons. What, Cousin Magdalen, crying for the boys!
Would you have had them girls?"
"Yes, a thousand times," she replied, drying her wet eyes on her
apron.
"Ah, Magdalen, daughters can't be always young and sweet-tempered,
like your brace of pretty partridges yonder. They grow old, Cousin
Magdalen--old and ugly and spiteful; and are more bitter and
worthless than the wild pumpkin. But I speak not of those who are
present, for I would say nothing to offend my respected Cousin
Ascension, whom may God preserve, though she never married."
"Listen to me, Cousin Polycarp," returned the insulted dame so
pointedly alluded to. "Say nothing to me nor of me, and I will also
hold my peace concerning you; for you know very well that if I were
disposed to open my lips I could say a thousand things."
"Enough, enough, you have already said them a thousand times," he
interrupted. "I know all that, cousin; let us say no more."
"That is only what I ask," she retorted, "for I have never loved to
bandy words with you; and you know already, therefore I need not
recall it to your mind, that if I am single it is not because some
men whose names I could mention if I felt disposed--and they are the
names not of dead but of living men--would not have been glad to
marry me, but because I preferred my liberty and the goods I
inherited from my father; and I see not what advantage there is in
being the wife of one who is a brawler and a drunkard and spender of
other people's money, and I know not what besides."
"There it is!" said Polycarp, appealing to the fire. "I knew that I
had thrust my foot into a red ant's nest--careless that I am! But in
truth, Ascension, it was fortunate for you in those distant days you
mention that you hardened your heart against all lovers. For wives,
like cattle that must be branded with their owner's mark, are first
of all taught submission to their husbands; and consider, cousin,
what tears! what sufferings!" And having ended thus abruptly, he
planted his elbows on his knees and busied himself with the cigarette
he had been trying to roll up with his cold drunken fingers for the
last five minutes.
Ascension gave a nervous twitch at the red cotton kerchief on her
head, and cleared her throat with a sound "sharp and short like the
shrill swallow's cry," when----
"_Madre del Cielo_, how you frightened me!" screamed one of the
twins, giving a great start.
The cause of this sudden outcry was discovered in the presence of a
young man quietly seated on the bench at the girl's side. He had not
been there a minute before, and no person had seen him enter the
room--what wonder that the girl was startled! He was slender in form
and had small hands and feet, and oval olive face, smooth as a girl's
except for the incipient moustache on his lip. In place of a hat he
wore only a scarlet ribbon bound about his head, to keep back the
glossy black hair that fell to his shoulders; and he was wrapped in a
white woollen Indian poncho, while his lower limbs were cased in
white coltskin coverings, shaped like stockings to his feet, with the
red tassels of his embroidered garters falling to the ankles.
"The Niño Diablo!" all cried in a breath, the children manifesting
the greatest joy at his appearance. But old Gregory spoke with
affected anger. "Why do you always drop on us in this treacherous
way, like rain through a leaky thatch?" he exclaimed. "Keep these
strange arts for your visits in the infidel country; here we are all
Christians, and praise God on the threshold when we visit a
neighbour's house. And now, Niño Diablo, what news of the Indians?"
"Nothing do I know and little do I concern myself about specks on the
horizon," returned the visitor with a light laugh. And at once all
the children gathered round him, for the Niño they considered to
belong to them when he came, and not to their elders with their
solemn talk about Indian warfare and lost horses. And now, now he
would finish that wonderful story, long in the telling, of the little
girl alone and lost in the great desert, and surrounded by all the
wild animals met to discuss what they should do with her. It was a
grand story, even mother Magdalen listened, though she pretended all
the time to be thinking only of her pies--and the teller, like the
grand old historians of other days, put most eloquent speeches, all
made out of his own head, into the lips (and beaks) of the various
actors--puma, ostrich, deer, cavy, and the rest.
In the midst of this performance supper was announced, and all
gathered willingly round a dish of Magdalen's pies, filled with
minced meat, hard-boiled eggs chopped small, raisins, and plenty of
spice. After the pies came roast beef; and, finally, great basins of
mutton broth fragrant with herbs and cummin-seed. The rage of hunger
satisfied, each one said a prayer, the elders murmuring with bowed
heads, the children on their knees uplifting shrill voices. Then
followed the concluding semi-religious ceremony of the day, when each
child in its turn asked a blessing of father, mother, grandmother,
uncle, aunt, and not omitting the stranger within the gates, even the
Niño Diablo of evil-sounding name.
The men drew forth their pouches, and began making their cigarettes,
when once more the children gathered round the story-teller, their
faces glowing with expectation.
"No, no," cried their mother. "No more stories to-night--to bed, to
bed!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Rosita pleadingly, and struggling to free
herself; for the good woman had dashed in among them to enforce
obedience. "Oh, let me stay till the story ends! The reed-cat has
said such things! Oh, what will they do with the poor little girl?"
"And oh, mother mine!" drowsily sobbed her little sister; "the
armadillo that said--that said nothing because it had nothing to say,
and the partridge that whistled and said,--" and here she broke into
a prolonged wail. The boys also added their voices until the hubbub
was no longer to be borne, and Gregory rose up in his wrath and
called on someone to lend him a big whip; only then they yielded, and
still sobbing and casting many a lingering look behind, were led from
the kitchen.
During this scene the Niño had been carrying on a whispered
conversation with the pretty Magdalen of his choice, heedless of the
uproar of which he had been the indirect cause; deaf also to the
bitter remarks of Ascension concerning some people who, having no
homes of their own, were fond of coming uninvited into other people's
houses, only to repay the hospitality extended to them by stealing
their silly daughters' affections, and teaching their children to
rebel against their authority.
But the noise and confusion had served to arouse Polycarp from a
drowsy fit; for like a boa constrictor, he had dined largely after
his long fast, and dinner had made him dull; bending toward his
cousin he whispered earnestly: "Who is this young stranger, Gregory?"
"In what corner of the earth have you been hiding to ask who the Niño
Diablo is?" returned the other.
"Must I know the history of every cat and dog?"
"The Niño is not cat nor dog, cousin, but a man among men, like a
falcon among birds. When a child of six the Indians killed all his
relations and carried him into captivity. After five years he
escaped out of their hands, and, guided by sun and stars and signs on
the earth, he found his way back to the Christian's country, bringing
many beautiful horses stolen from his captors; also the name of Niño
Diablo first given to him by the infidel. We know him by no other."
"This is a good story; in truth I like it well--it pleases me
mightily," said Polycarp. "And what more, cousin Gregory?"
"More than I can tell, cousin. When he comes the dogs bark not--who
knows why? his tread is softer than the cat's; the untamed horse is
tame for him. Always in the midst of dangers, yet no harm, no
scratch. Why? Because he stoops like the falcon, makes his stroke
and is gone--Heaven knows where!"
"What strange things are you telling me? Wonderful! And what more,
cousin Gregory?"
"He often goes into the Indian country, and lives freely with the
infidel, disguised, for they do not know him who was once their
captive. They speak of the Niño Diablo to him, saying that when they
catch that thief they will flay him alive. He listens to their
strange stories, then leaves them, taking their finest ponchos and
silver ornaments, and the flower of their horses."
"A brave youth, one after my own heart, cousin Gregory. Heaven
defend and prosper him in all his journeys into the Indian territory!
Before we part I shall embrace him and offer him my friendship, which
is worth something. More, tell me more, cousin Gregory?"
"These things I tell you to put you on your guard; look well to your
horses, cousin."
"What!" shouted the other, lifting himself up from his stooping
posture, and staring at his relation with astonishment and kindling
anger in his countenance.
The conversation had been carried on in a low tone, and the sudden
loud exclamation startled them all--all except the Niño, who
continued smoking and chatting pleasantly to the twins.
"Lightning and pestilence, what is this you say to me, Gregory
Gorostiaga!" continued Polycarp, violently slapping his thigh and
thrusting his hat farther back on his head.
"Prudence!" whispered Gregory. "Say nothing to offend the Niño, he
never forgives an enemy--with horses."
"Talk not to me of prudence!" bawled the other. "You hit me on the
apple of the eye and counsel me not to cry out. What! have not I,
whom men call Polycarp of the South, wrestled with tigers in the
desert, and must I hold my peace because of a boy--even a boy devil?
Talk of what you like, cousin, and I am a meek man--meek as a sucking
babe; but touch not on my horses, for then I am a whirlwind, a
conflagration, a river flooded in winter, and all wrath and
destruction like an invasion of Indians! Who can stand before me?
Ribs of steel are no protection! Look at my knife; do you ask why
there are stains on the blade? Listen: because it has gone straight
to the robber's heart!" And with that he drew out his great knife
and flourished it wildly, and made stabs and slashes at an imaginary
foe suspended above the fire.
The pretty girls grew silent and pale and trembled like poplar
leaves; the old grandmother rose up, and clutching at her shawl
toddled hurriedly away, while Ascension uttered a snort of disdain.
But the Niño still talked and smiled, blowing thin smoke-clouds from
his lips, careless of that tempest of wrath gathering before him;
till, seeing the other so calm, the man of war returned his weapon to
its sheath, and glancing round and lowering his voice to a
conversational tone, informed his hearers that his name was Polycarp,
one known and feared by all men,--especially in the south; that he
disposed to live in peace and amity with the entire human race, and
he therefore considered it unreasonable of some men to follow him
about the world asking him to kill them. "Perhaps," he concluded,
with a touch of irony, "they think I gain something by putting them
to death. A mistake, good friends; I gain nothing by it! I am not a
vulture and their bodies can be of no use to me."
Just after this sanguinary protest and disclaimer the Niño all at
once made a gesture as if to impose silence, and turning his face
toward the door, his nostrils dilating, and his eyes appearing to
grow large and luminous like those of a cat.
"What do you hear, Niño?" asked Gregory.
"I hear lapwings screaming," he replied.
"Only at a fox perhaps," said the other. "But go to the door, Niño,
and listen."
"No need," he returned, dropping his hand, the light of a sudden
excitement passing from his face. "'Tis only a single horseman
riding this way at a fast gallop."
Polycarp got up and went to the door, saying that when a man was
among robbers it behooved him to look well after his cattle. Then he
came back and sat down again. "Perhaps," he remarked, with a side
glance at the Niño, "a better plan would be to watch the thief. A
lie, cousin Gregory; no lapwings are screaming; no single horseman
approaching at a fast gallop. The night is serene, and earth as
silent as the sepulchre."
"Prudence!" whispered Gregory again. "Ah, cousin, always playful
like a kitten; when will you grow old and wise? Can you not see a
sleeping snake without turning aside to stir it up with your naked
foot?"
Strange to say, Polycarp made no reply. A long experience in getting
up quarrels had taught him that these impassive men were, in truth,
often enough like venomous snakes, quick and deadly when roused. He
became secret and watchful in his manner.
All now were intently listening. Then said Gregory, "Tell us, Niño,
what voices, fine as the trumpet of the smallest fly, do you hear
coming from that great silence? Has the mother skunk put her little
ones to sleep in their kennel and gone out to seek for the pipit's
nest? Have fox and armadillo met to challenge each other to fresh
trials of strength and cunning? What is the owl saying this moment
to his mistress in praise of her big green eyes?"
The young man smiled slightly but answered not; and for full five
minutes more all listened, then sounds of approaching hoofs became
audible. Dogs began to bark, horses to snort in alarm, and Gregory
rose and went forth to receive the late night-wanderer. Soon he
appeared, beating the angry barking dogs off with his whip, a
white-faced wild-haired man, furiously spurring his horse like a
person demented or flying from robbers.
"Ave Maria!" he shouted aloud; and when the answer was given in
suitable pious words, the scared-looking stranger drew near, and
bending down said, "Tell me, good friend, is one whom men call Niño
Diablo with you; for to this house I have been directed in my search
for him?"
"He is within, friend," answered Gregory. "Follow me and you shall
see him with your own eyes. Only first unsaddle, so that your horse
may roll before the sweat dries on him."
"How many horses have I ridden their last journey on this quest!"
said the stranger, hurriedly pulling off the saddle and rugs. "But
tell me one thing more: is he well--no indisposition? Has he met
with no accident--a broken bone, a sprained ankle?"
"Friend," said Gregory, "I have heard that once in past times the
moon met with an accident, but of the Niño no such thing has been
reported to me."
With this assurance the stranger followed his host into the kitchen,
made his salutation, and sat down by the fire. He was about thirty
years old, a good-looking man, but his face was haggard, his eyes
bloodshot, his manner restless, and he appeared like one half-crazed
by some great calamity. The hospitable Magdalen placed food before
him and pressed him to eat. He complied, although reluctantly,
despatched his supper in a few moments, and murmured a prayer; then,
glancing curiously at the two men seated near him, he addressed
himself to the burly, well-armed, and dangerous-looking Polycarp.
"Friend," he said, his agitation increasing as he spoke, "four days
have I been seeking you, taking neither food nor rest, so great was
my need of your assistance. You alone, after God, can help me. Help
me in this strait, and half of all I possess in land and cattle and
gold shall be freely given to you, and the angels above will applaud
your deed!"
"Drunk or mad?" was the only reply vouchsafed to this appeal.
"Sir," said the stranger with dignity, "I have not tasted wine these
many days, nor has my great grief crazed me."
"Then what ails the man?" said Polycarp. "Fear perhaps, for he is
white in the face like one who has seen the Indians."
"In truth I have seen them. I was one of those unfortunates who
first opposed them, and most of the friends who were with me are now
food for wild dogs. Where our houses stood there are only ashes and
a stain of blood on the ground. Oh, friend, can you not guess why
you alone were in my thoughts when this trouble came to me--why I
have ridden day and night to find you?"
"Demons!" exclaimed Polycarp, "into what quagmires would this man
lead me? Once for all I understand you not! Leave me in peace,
strange man, or we shall quarrel." And here he tapped his weapon
significantly.
At this juncture, Gregory, who took his time about everything,
thought proper to interpose. "You are mistaken, friend," said he.
"The young man sitting on your right is the Niño Diablo, for whom you
inquired a little while ago."
A look of astonishment, followed by one of intense relief, came over
the stranger's face. Turning to the young man he said, "My friend,
forgive me this mistake. Grief has perhaps dimmed my sight; but
sometimes the iron blade and the blade of finest temper are not
easily distinguished by the eye. When we try them we know which is
the brute metal, and cast it aside to take up the other, and trust
our life to it. The words I have spoken were meant for you, and you
have heard them."
"What can I do for you, friend?" said the Niño.
"Oh, sir, the greatest service! You can restore my lost wife to me.
The savages have taken her away into captivity. What can I do to
save her--I who cannot make myself invisible, and fly like the wind,
and compass all things!" And here he bowed his head, and covering
his face gave way to overmastering grief.
"Be comforted, friend," said the other, touching him lightly on the
arm. "I will restore her to you."
"Oh, friend, how shall I thank you for these words!" cried the
unhappy man, seizing and pressing the Niño's hand.
"Tell me her name--describe her to me."
"Torcuata is her name--Torcuata de la Rosa. She is one finger's
width taller than this young woman," indicating one of the twins who
was standing. "But not dark; her cheeks are rosy--no, no, I forget,
they will be pale now, whiter than the grass plumes, with stains of
dark colour under the eyes. Brown hair and blue eyes, but very deep
blue. Look well, friend, lest you think them black and leave her to
perish."
"Never!" remarked Gregory, shaking his head.
"Enough--you have told me enough, friend," said the Niño, rolling up
a cigarette.
"Enough!" repeated the other, surprised. "But you do not know; she
is my life; my life is in your hands. How can I persuade you to be
with me? Cattle I have. I had gone to pay the herdsmen their wages
when the Indians came unexpectedly; and my house at La Chilca, on the
banks of the Langueyü, was burnt, and my wife taken away during my
absence. Eight hundred head of cattle have escaped the savages, and
half of them shall be yours; and half of all I possess in money and
land."
"Cattle!" returned the Niño smiling, and holding a lighted stick to
his cigarette. "I have enough to eat without molesting myself with
the care of cattle."
"But I told you that I had other things," said the stranger full of
distress.
The young man laughed, and rose from his seat.
"Listen to me," he said. "I go now to follow the Indians--to mix
with them, perhaps. They are retreating slowly, burdened with much
spoil. In fifteen days go to the little town of Tandil, and wait for
me there. As for land, if God has given so much of it to the ostrich
it is not a thing for a man to set a great value on." Then he bent
down to whisper a few words in the ear of the girl at his side; and
immediately afterward, with a simple "good-night" to the others,
stepped lightly from the kitchen. By another door the girl also
hurriedly left the room, to hide her tears from the watchful
censuring eyes of mother and aunt.
Then the stranger, recovering from his astonishment at the abrupt
ending of the conversation started up, and crying aloud, "Stay! stay
one moment--one word more!" rushed out after the young man. At some
distance from the house he caught sight of the Niño, sitting
motionless on his horse, as if waiting to speak to him.
"This is what I have to say to you," spoke the Niño, bending down to
the other. "Go back to Langueyü, and rebuild your house, and expect
me there with your wife in about thirty days. When I bade you go to
the Tandil in fifteen days, I spoke only to mislead that man
Polycarp, who has an evil mind. Can I ride a hundred leagues and
back in fifteen days? Say no word of this to any man. And fear not.
If I fail to return with your wife at the appointed time take some of
that money you have offered me, and bid a priest say a mass for my
soul's repose; for eye of man shall never see me again, and the brown
hawks will be complaining that there is no more flesh to be picked
from my bones."
During this brief colloquy, and afterward, when Gregory and his
women-folk went off to bed, leaving the stranger to sleep in his rugs
beside the kitchen fire, Polycarp, who had sworn a mighty oath not to
close his eyes that night, busied himself making his horses secure.
Driving them home, he tied them to the posts of the gate within
twenty-five yards of the kitchen door. Then he sat down by the fire
and smoked and dozed, and cursed his dry mouth and drowsy eyes that
were so hard to keep open. At intervals of about fifteen minutes he
would get up and go out to satisfy himself that his precious horses
were still safe. At length in rising, some time after midnight, his
foot kicked against some loud-sounding metal object lying beside him
on the floor, which on examination proved to be a copper bell of a
peculiar shape, and curiously like the one fastened to the neck of
his bell-mare. Bell in hand, he stepped to the door and put out his
head, and lo! his horses were no longer at the gate! Eight horses:
seven iron-grey geldings, every one of them swift and sure-footed,
sound as the bell in his hand, and as like each other as seven
claret-coloured eggs in the tinamou's nest; and the eighth the gentle
piebald mare--the madrina his horses loved and would follow to the
world's end, now, alas! with a thief on her back! Gone--gone!
He rushed out, uttering a succession of frantic howls and
imprecations; and finally, to wind up the performance, dashed the now
useless bell with all his energy against the gate, shattering it into
a hundred pieces. Oh, that bell, how often and how often in how many
a wayside public-house had he boasted, in his cups and when sober, of
its mellow, far-reaching tone,--the sweet sound that assured him in
the silent watches of the night that his beloved steeds were safe!
Now he danced on the broken fragments, digging them into the earth
with his heel; now in his frenzy, he could have dug them up again to
grind them to powder with his teeth!
The children turned restlessly in bed, dreaming of the lost little
girl in the desert; and the stranger half awoke, muttering, "Courage,
O Torcuata--let not your heart break.... Soul of my life, he gives
you back to me--on my bosom, rosa fresca, rosa fresca!" Then the
hands unclenched themselves again, and the muttering died away. But
Gregory woke fully, and instantly divined the cause of the clamour.
"Magdalen! Wife!" he said. "Listen to Polycarp; the Niño has paid
him out for his insolence! Oh, fool, I warned him, and he would not
listen!" But Magdalen refused to wake; and so, hiding his head under
the coverlet, he made the bed shake with suppressed laughter, so
pleased was he at the clever trick played on his blustering cousin.
All at once his laughter ceased, and out popped his head again,
showing in the dim light a somewhat long and solemn face. For he had
suddenly thought of his pretty daughter asleep in the adjoining room.
Asleep! Wide awake, more likely, thinking of her sweet lover,
brushing the dews from the hoary pampas grass in his southward
flight, speeding away into the heart of the vast mysterious
wilderness. Listening also to her uncle, the desperado,
apostrophising the midnight stars; while with his knife he excavates
two deep trenches, three yards long and intersecting each other at
right angles--a sacred symbol on which he intends, when finished, to
swear a most horrible vengeance. "Perhaps," muttered Gregory, "the
Niño has still other pranks to play in this house."
When the stranger heard next morning what had happened he was better
able to understand the Niño's motive in giving him that caution
overnight; nor was he greatly put out, but thought it better that an
evil-minded man should lose his horses than that the Niño should set
out badly mounted on such an adventure.