A CLUE
That so large a family was quartered at the Ross ranch caused no
special comment. It was the custom of the country, destitute of wayside
inns, and sparsely settled, for any house to be opened to the passing
traveler, and families often received for any length of time, those
whose circumstances made it difficult for them to do otherwise than
accept such hospitality as was offered them. In the case of those
congregated at the Ross ranch all were acquainted; they were neighbors,
and were as congenial a party as could be found in that much mixed
country. Mrs. Van Dorn was a more than usually refined woman who had
come to Texas because of her husband’s ill health, and after his death
had remained because of her eldest daughter’s marriage to a young
Englishman who had settled in the neighborhood. Both Christine and
Alison enjoyed her gentle presence, and though she spent most of her
time at the bedside of her son, they appreciated such half hours as
she found time to give them. She was joined often by her daughter,
Laura, a pleasant girl, devoted to Alison and glad of an excuse to see
her often. Louisa, feeling that she was in some measure responsible
for Blythe’s plight, took it upon herself to supply the invalid with
dainties, and not a day passed that she did not bear some covered dish
to the little cabin. The “likely darky from Ferginny” now reigning in
the kitchen, rather resented Louisa’s claims to being the best cook in
the land, but allowed her full sway in the matter of preparing dishes
for the invalid.
The effort to hunt down Pike Smith proved unavailing, though an attempt
was made to carry out Alison’s suggestions, and one day John beckoned
to his younger sister and led her to a spot where they could be free
from interruption. “Can you go with me for a ride?” he said. “We’ve
unearthed the old Mexican woman, Brigida, thanks to Pedro.”
“Good! And have you learned anything from her?” asked Alison, eagerly.
“Not yet. She professes ignorance on all subjects connected with Pike
Smith. That’s why I want you to go with me to interview her. One thing
we have learned, though not from her, and that is her son has been
concerned in some horse thieving, and we believe he belongs to the gang
of which Pike was the leader.”
“That is a good point to know.”
“We think so, too, and though we have no proofs it will be as well to
use our suspicions as facts.”
Alison did not delay in getting ready for her ride. She expected great
results, was so sanguine and built up such possibilities all the way
along, that her brother finally told her that she ran ahead of all
reason. “I believe you expect her to produce Steve from a box or a
bag,” he said, “as if he were a cat or a hen.”
“I shall not be surprised at anything,” declared Alison laughing.
But when they reached the little adobe hut matters did not look so
promising. At first the old woman declared that she had never seen
Alison before, that she knew no Americanos and did not wish to know
them. She wished to be left in peace and could not be disturbed by
curious persons asking questions about what she could not tell.
“But surely you do remember me,” said Alison, bending down to look into
the skinny yellow face and to catch the expression of the bleary old
eyes. “Look at me well,” she insisted. “Don’t you remember the little
hut where Pike Smith one day brought a young woman for you to search?”
“No, no.” The woman pushed her away and Alison looked at her, surprised
and chagrined. “The old wretch,” she said in a whisper to her brother.
“John, suppose you go out of hearing for a few minutes; but first give
me a little money.”
[Illustration: “‘BUT SURELY YOU DO REMEMBER ME.’”]
“You are right,” said John, “that is a salve that will often cure poor
eyesight.” He slipped a dollar into her hand and walked away. Alison
beckoned the old woman to one side, displaying the money as she did
so, and was pleased to see that she followed eagerly. “You shall have
this,” said the girl, in a low tone, “if you will answer my questions.
It does not matter whether you remember me or not; one often forgets
faces.” She found herself sufficiently fluent in the use of Spanish
to be at no loss for words. “Now, good mother,” she went on, “please
tell me if I was the only one Pike Smith ever brought to that hut in
the woods. Did he ever bring there a young man about my brother’s age?
My brother is over there, you see. This young man of whom I speak was
darker than he, and his name was Stephen. It was about a year ago, a
little more, perhaps.”
The woman shook her head, her eye on the money which Alison held
conspicuously. “Tell me this, at least, was it your home or his?”
Alison continued her questions.
“It was not mine,” Brigida ventured.
“Then it must have been his. Can you not tell me something of this man,
Smith?”
Brigida would not inform upon him; he had been good to her.
“Then he must have had some reason for being so,” Alison said
conclusively. “I have no doubt he spared that son of yours, and he
probably threatened you to expose him if you did not keep silence about
those doings of his.” She kept her eye upon the old woman and saw that
the shot told. “Now we know all about that son of yours,” she added.
“Oh, no, no, señorita,” began Brigida, beginning to show signs of alarm.
“Do not be afraid,” said Alison soothingly. “Now, if Pike Smith
threatened to expose your son in case you did not do his bidding, I
can understand why you are not anxious to remember me. But, my good
Brigida, if you are not willing to answer a few questions, which can
do neither you nor your son harm, I am afraid it will be the worse for
your son. My brother and his friends are very determined and they have
discovered things which are not to the credit of those you are trying
to shield. I happen to know who it was that was with Pike Smith when
he came to our ranch last fall to steal our horses; it was the night
that Cyrus Sparks was hurt, you may remember, and if I were to use that
knowledge against your son it would go hard with him.” Alison jumped
at her conclusions, but she saw that she was making an impression. “If
I were to identify your son,” she went on, “and if my brother and his
friends were to use the information they possess, I think you will be
sorry that you did not answer the few harmless questions that I wish
to ask you. Cannot you see that it would be much better if you were to
tell me what I want to know and allow me to use my own discretion in
repeating it? I promise to tell only so much as may be of benefit to
us and will screen your son, so that his name shall not appear at all.
You shall have this dollar, too. Pike Smith will never dare to show his
face on this side the border, that you well know, and can do you no
injury whatever you may say.”
Brigida twisted her knotty old hands together helplessly. She had sworn
not to tell anything that went on in the small hut, and what would the
padre say if she confessed to having broken her vow?
“But the padre will forgive you,” Alison went on. “If you show him that
it was necessary for you to break your promise in order to shield your
son, he will forgive you.
“Which would be better, Brigida, to protect your son or that wicked
man? The padre will understand and because you are a mother he will
forgive you; otherwise think what will be the fate of your son.”
Brigida groaned, but drew Alison further away from the blank adobe wall.
“It is true, señorita,” she said; “there were more than one brought
to that place, not any other woman but yourself, though there were
men, yes, some to be buried in the woods, some to be sent out of the
country. I remember one Americano who may perhaps be the young man you
seek. It was a little more than a year ago. They had tried to get his
horse, but the creature escaped and Pike Smith was much angered, for
the horse was a fine one; he was very anxious to get it. I heard them
say that the horse got away, for that it had as much sense as a human
being.”
Alison gave an eager exclamation. “Was it a coal black horse, young,
and cleanly cut, with fine head and mettlesome spirit?”
“I cannot tell, señorita, for I did not see the beast, but the young
man was brought to the hut much bruised. He lay there for a day and
then he was taken away, I know not where.”
“It must have been Steve; I am sure it must have been,” said Alison
with conviction. “Describe him to me, good Brigida and you shall have
more than my thanks.”
“He was of your brother’s size, but dark, as you said. I did not learn
his name, for I do not speak the language of the Americanos.”
“You have no idea where they took him?”
“I was not allowed to ask questions, and Señor Smith did not converse
in my own language to my son, who knows the Americano well.”
“Oh, if I could but see your son. Would it not be possible?” asked
Alison imploringly.
Brigida shook her head. “No, no, señorita, I can tell you nothing of
him. I would not if I could, for even now I must warn him. It is only
because I believe you are true and will not harm an old woman and her
only child I have told you what I know about your friend. The rest
would do you no good.”
“But have you no idea where they took him? That is all I shall ask you.
I can see that anything more would be of no value to me. If you can but
tell me where they took him, this dollar with two more shall be yours,
and I will promise you on my honor to try to prevent them from seeking
your son as they are intending to do. If you know where they took the
young man, tell me, Brigida. He was to have married my sister, my dear
sweet sister who has waited and mourned all these months, dreading
to hear of his death yet hoping he may still be alive. You were once
young yourself, Brigida, and if the young father of your son had been
spirited away and you had not known whether he was dead or alive would
not the world have been a dolorous place to you? Tell me where they
have taken him for the sake of my sister of the breaking heart.”
“Ah, señorita, I wish I might give you good news, but I fear there is
none for you. I heard them say that they would take him across the
border when they carried their horses; and it was then war time. They
may have left him to be taken by some band of Indians, or they may have
given him to our own soldiers. I do not know; I only know they did not
mean he should return.”
“But why spare him at all? I do not see why Pike Smith should stand at
killing him outright. He had no conscience and did not hesitate to kill
poor old Cyrus Sparks.”
“Ah yes, señorita, it was that old man who would not permit bloodshed.
He was in company with Señor Smith in this expedition and demanded that
the young man should not die here, but should be sent from the country.”
“That is a good word from poor old Cyrus,” said Alison. “Well, Brigida,
there is hope, and there is not hope. I thank you very much for telling
me this. I will go to my brother at once and get you the rest of the
money. Take this.” She slipped her coin into the woman’s hand and
returned to her brother, who was waiting impatiently.
“Well, what luck?” he asked eagerly.
“I have learned a great deal, but I must have two more dollars at once,
and then I will come back and tell you. I think my information is worth
the money.”
“Then I cheerfully give it,” said John diving down into his pocket and
producing the silver which Alison promptly placed in the old woman’s
hands, returning to mount her horse and to pour forth her tale into her
brother’s attentive ears, though she allowed no reference to Brigida’s
son to escape her.
“Well,” exclaimed John, when she had finished, “that is well worth
knowing, though what I can’t see is why Pike didn’t get Steve out of
the way for once and all instead of packing him over the border.”
“I suppose Cyrus had his say in the matter. You see they were in
cohoots, and no doubt, each being in the other’s power, everything had
to be agreed upon unanimously, or else the one who differed felt that
he might be informed upon.”
“I think that is quite true. I suppose you didn’t learn anything of the
Mexican, who it is believed was the third one of the gang.”
“No, I don’t know a thing about him. If he is Brigida’s son she took
precious good care not to let me know his whereabouts. I had to scare
her nearly to death before I could get a word out of her, and it was
only by pretending to know much more than I did that I found out
anything at all. Evidently the old woman had been made to take a solemn
vow not to disclose anything that went on under her observation, and I
think, even now, she is in deadly fear that something will happen to
her; that was why I had to give her the extra money, so she could pay
it to the priest. What do you think, John? Is there any hope of Steve’s
being alive?”
“Of course there is hope. Now that we know he was taken over the border
we may expect almost anything fortunate may have happened.”
“But why hasn’t he tried to come back, if he is safe, or why has he not
written a single line? He should know that we, especially Christine,
must be anxious.”
“I cannot say why. In war times communication is not easy. He may be in
some out-of-the-way place from which it is impossible for him either to
escape or to send a message. When the war is over we can begin to look
for him.” Yet, in spite of this cheerful attitude, John felt that there
was very little expectation of Stephen’s return, and in this opinion
most of his friends concurred.
Christine, however, caught at this last straw of hope, saying, when
Alison related her story, “And he was alive while I was mourning him as
dead, so why should he not be living now? For the first time, Alison, I
have a real hope that he will come back. Oh, why did we not know this
when Cyrus Sparks was alive? I cannot forgive him for keeping silence
when he knew how terrible it was for us to have found Steve missing.”
“You could not expect him to tell of a thing so much to his own
discredit. You know what would have happened if it had been known that
he belonged to a gang of horse thieves.”
“He might have found some way of letting us know without implicating
himself.”
“I don’t see how he could, for if Steve had come back it would have
been all up with Cyrus and Pike.”
“I see, I see,” sighed Christine. “Well, little sister, you have
brought me some good news, anyhow, and I thank you for it. How did John
happen to take you to see that old woman?”
“Because I can speak tolerable Spanish. You see what an immense
advantage my acquaintance with Lolita has been,” said Alison, laughing.
“I am sure I never objected to it greatly. It is Ira and Neal and the
Haleys who despise the Mexicans.”
“If they were all like Lolita I should think them very foolish, but
those I have seen to-day are certainly not descended from blue-blood
dons, or if they are they have deteriorated.”
“I wish I could see that old woman and could talk to her,” said
Christine, striking her hands impatiently together. “I would ask her
a thousand questions about Steve. Oh, Alison, to think that he was so
near and we did not know it. I am fairly wild when I think of it. Now
where is he? Ah, if I but knew, if I but knew.”
“Never mind, dear, it will come out well yet; mark my words. See, there
comes Mrs. Van Dorn.”
“My bonny laddie is sleeping quietly,” said Blythe’s mother, as she
came up to the gallery where the girls were sitting; “and as he does
not need me I thought I would join you for a while,” she added. “I left
Louisa in charge and she has promised to let me know when he wakens.
What a dear, good, cheerful creature she is, and that big rough husband
of hers is my delight. Isn’t it strange, girls, upon what a different
plane one is willing to place oneself down here? Now at home, any one
who murdered the king’s English and who lived as most of our neighbors
do, would be considered impossible.”
“Alison and I have often spoken of that,” said Christine. “Look at dear
old Hannah Maria Haley for example.”
“That is another peculiarity; every one here is old so and so. If it
is a boy of eighteen who happens to be married, or a young woman of
twenty-five who isn’t married, they are spoken of as old. Now Hannah
Maria cannot be over thirty, yet everybody calls her ‘Old’ Hannah
Maria.”
“I suppose it is because she is so fat and motherly,” suggested Alison.
“She certainly is the best old soul.”
“There you go again,” laughed Mrs. Van Dorn. “It is a pity she has no
children of her own to mother.”
“But what would the neighborhood do without her?” said Christine. “She
is the dependence of everybody in trouble.”
“Yes, and after all, what a higgledy-piggledy house hers would be in
which to rear children; chickens, hounds, cats, and sometimes even
pigs, running in and out and no care at all for neatness and order.”
“It is so in lots of places,” Alison remarked.
“So it is. I thought when we first came down here that the household
arrangements in the few places where we stopped must be the exception,
but they are certainly the rule. I have seen as many as three beds in
the main room where everything went on, cooking, sleeping and eating.
It seemed perfectly dreadful to me then, but I found it was a matter
of pride to set up as many beds as possible, the more beds, the more
generous the accommodations, and I actually came to it myself when I
found that I was expected to entertain any casual wayfarer who happened
to want lodging.”
“I shall never forget what a delightful surprise your house was to us,”
said Alison. “After staying at Hannah Maria’s it seemed a palace. I
don’t see why so many want to live in such a lop-lolly way. John told
us a great deal about it before we came and we stipulated for several
things. We were determined to have our own milch cows, for one thing,
so we could have good butter.”
“Such butter as they give you!” ejaculated Mrs. Van Dorn.
“Then we were bent upon having a good tight house. Half of them are
open to the gallery, and when there comes a norther the way the wind
sweeps through that great triangular space is a caution.”
“They complain that lumber is so scarce.”
“And three sawmills within ten miles. We inquired into that and John
built our house accordingly. It is not a very showy affair but we think
it fairly comfortable.”
“It is a mansion compared to the Haleys’, and is very comfortable.”
“Of course there must be a place provided for every Tom, Dick, and
Harry to sleep, but they usually want no more than a corner of the
gallery and a blanket, and since John has added the man’s room, even in
winter we can accommodate a good many. For ourselves we have an unusual
arrangement of two bedrooms up-stairs, though they are pretty hot in
summer, and I think now it was a mistake not to have all the rooms on
the first floor. It will come to a bed in the living-room yet, I think.”
“Another thing that we were quite set upon,” said Alison, “was good,
wholesome food. I think I should die of indigestion if I were obliged
to live on what they consider sufficient down here. They don’t live so
in other parts of the South.”
“They certainly do in Arkansas and parts of Missouri,” said Mrs. Van
Dorn; “I cannot speak from experience of the other states.”
“We can. At home we always had good light pone, and I don’t see why
they shouldn’t have it here. Eggs are plentiful and so is milk, if one
chooses to take a little trouble about it. Is it laziness or ignorance
that is the trouble?”
“A little of both, I think. At first it was a hard life for the
pioneers, as it must always be for them, so the easiest way was the
best way and still continues to be, though the country is so rapidly
filling up. Where is your brother, girls?”
“Gone to a negro hiring at the county house. He needs more hands on the
place, for he is continually increasing his stock,” Christine told her
friend. “We shall have quite a big rancho if we continue to extend our
bounds. Ours has been only a hacienda till lately. I never used to know
the difference between that and a rancho.”
“And what is the difference?”
“One is simply a country residence, a farm proper; the other is
strictly a stock farm. By the way, have you heard that Louisa is to
inherit her father’s property and that it is decided she and Ira will
live on the nearer place instead of going to Ira’s claim which is
twenty miles away? We are so pleased that we shall have them near.
One of John’s errands to-day was to go with Ira to settle up Lou’s
law matters. They think there will be no difficulty, although it
is generally thought that old Cyrus obtained his money in rather a
questionable way; but there are no proofs. It is certain that Louisa
is his legal heiress and he acknowledged her as such. She wrote to my
aunt for certain facts to prove her identity, so we think all will be
settled without delay.”
“I am glad to hear it. There comes the young woman now. My boy must
be awake,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, slipping her knitting into its bag and
going forth.
“What a nice mother-in-law she will make,” said Christine, looking
after her.
“Then why don’t you set your cap for Blythe?” asked Alison flippantly.
“You know why,” replied Christine, gravely. And Alison, at this
reproof, ran down the path to join Louisa.