Darkness so dense lay over the Fernandez plain that not the faintest
outline of the rimming mountains penetrated its blackness. Like some
palpable, suffocating substance it filled the plain and mounted far up
into the air, even to the blue-black sky, whence a million gemming
stars pierced it with their diamond lances.
Perched alone among the foothills of the Fernandez range, Juan
Garcia's gray adobe house glimmered faintly through the darkness.
Every sound about the house was hushed, and only the burro in the
_jacal_ down the hillside made known to the silent plain that he was
still awake. The door into the _portal_ opened softly, and with a
quick, gliding, silent movement a dark figure came hastily out, closed
the door, listened a moment, and then trod lightly across the _portal_
and down to the road. There it paused, and Amada Garcia's face,
anxious and wistful, framed in the black folds of her mantilla, looked
back at the silent house. A deep, dry sob shook all her frame and she
half turned back, as if irresolute. Then she drew from her breast a
folded bit of paper, pressed it to her heart and her cheek, and kissed
it again and again. She cast another regretful, longing look at the
gray adobe house, and started off in the direction of Muletown. The
faintly glimmering track of the sandy road opened slowly before her in
the darkness, and, drawing her mantilla closely around her shoulders,
she walked briskly along the dusty highway.
She kept the folded paper in her hand, pressing it to her lips and
cheek with little cooing sounds of love. Once, standing still in the
darkness and silence of the wide, black plain, she unfolded the letter
and kissed the open sheet. It was too dark for her to see a single
word upon the page, but she knew just where were "_mi esposa_," and
"_mi querida_," and "_mi corazon_."
That afternoon, as she filled her _olla_ at the spring, a young
Mexican came riding by in brave attire of braided jacket and trousers
and silver trimmed sombrero. She knew him well. Indeed, she had often
bantered back his compliments and adroitly turned to merriment the
sweet speeches he would rather have had her take in earnest. He
stopped and gave her the letter, which he had brought all the way from
the post-office at Muletown solely for excuse to see her. She poised
the _olla_ full of water upon her head and he walked up the hill to
the house by her side, and while he talked to her mother she slipped
stealthily out and hid in the _jacal_ beside the burro for a chance to
read the letter. When she returned she showed so plainly that his
compliments and sweet speeches were distasteful to her that he sulkily
left the house and galloped home again. Then her mother reproved her,
telling her that she must not discourage the young man, because he was
plainly in earnest in his attentions and would make the best and
richest husband of all the young _caballeros_ who came to the house,
and that when next she saw him she must make amends for her unkind
treatment. Amada listened with terror and rebellion in her heart; and
in her brain there sprang into life the purpose which she set out to
execute as soon as her father and mother were asleep.
In her pocket she had four dollars which she had saved from the sale
of eggs and goat's-milk cheeses at Muletown, and which she had been
carefully keeping for the purpose of buying a new mantilla with a
deep, deep silk fringe the next time they should go to Las Plumas to
celebrate the fiesta of its patron saint. And under one arm she
carried some _enchiladas_ and _tamales_, left from that night's
supper.
She trudged on through the darkness and silence of the night, and,
although she walked briskly, the frosty air now and again sent a
shiver of cold through her body and made her draw her mantilla more
closely across her chest. The staccato yelping of coyotes down in the
plain was answered by short, sharp barks from the hills, and all night
long the beasts kept up a running exchange of howls from one to the
other side of the road. Sometimes Amada heard the stealthy rustle of
the herbage as they neared the highway, or saw the gleaming of their
eyes in the darkness. But she knew their cowardly nature too well to
be afraid, and when they came too near, a pebble from her hand sent
them scurrying away.
Hour after hour she followed the faint glimmer of the dusty road, over
the low, rolling hills, across the sloping upland, and down into the
edge of the Fernandez plain, steadily leaving behind her the slowly
measured miles. At last the east began to glow above the Fernandez
mountains and against the golden sky shone the thin, silver-white
crescent of the old moon. The blackness of night gradually faded into
the gray light of dawn, the sky blushed rosy red, the plain spread
itself out before her, flooded with golden red sunlight, and still
Amada held to the pace she had kept up all night long. Before her she
saw columns of blue smoke rising from the chimneys of Muletown, and
she thought longingly of the well in the plaza. But early though it
was, she feared to be seen and questioned, for she knew many people in
Muletown. So she turned from the main road, leaving the town far to
her right, and struck across the trackless plain for the highway
running toward the Hermosa mountains. When she reached it the sun was
well up in the sky and she sat down on a hillock of sand to rest and
eat her breakfast. She was very tired and it seemed good to lie still
on the warm sand under the warm sun, so she rested there for a long
time, thinking at first of the little gray adobe house far back in
the foothills and wondering what the two old people would think and
what they would do when they should find their one child gone and no
trace left to tell them whither or why she had fled. These thoughts
would bring the tears to her eyes, then she would open the letter and
read it slowly over and over, and kiss the words of love, and, with
soft little laughs and cooings, picture to herself her journey's end.
At last she saw a cloud of dust coming toward her from the direction
of Muletown and, reminded of the possibility of being seen and
questioned by some one she knew, she got up and hurried on her way.
She knew her father and mother would not at once be alarmed over her
departure. They would think she had risen early and gone up into the
foothills to gather sweet herbs. Even after they should find that she
was gone she knew that, in the leisurely fashion of the land and
people of _mañana_, it might be two or three days before they would
hitch the horses to the wagon and drive to Muletown to ask if any one
there had seen her. But she did not wish to be discovered in her
flight by any one whom she knew, and so she hurried on, drawing her
mantilla across her face until only her two great black eyes peeped
from its folds.
The wagon behind her clattered up and its sole occupant, a middle-aged
American, asked her in Spanish if she would like to ride. She
hesitated, instinctively fearing speech with any one, and glanced
shyly at the Americano, who was smiling down good-naturedly at her
from the wagon. The man added that if she were going far she had
better ride, for the road across the plain would soon be very hot. She
considered that she did not know this man, that he would not know who
she was, and thought how much more quickly she could cross that wide
plain, so, with a grateful glance of her black eyes and a "_muchas
gracias, señor_," she climbed up and sat down in the seat beside him.
He asked her how far she was going, and she answered, to the other
side of the Hermosa mountains. He replied that he was going to his
mining camp in the mountains, but that he would drive her to the top
of the pass, as the road was rocky and steep up the mountain side. He
had some water in a canteen, from which she drank gratefully, and as
midday approached, he shared with her his luncheon of bread and
cheese, while she divided with him what remained of her _tamales_ and
_enchiladas_.
The man's kindly manner gave her confidence and the innate coquetry of
her nature unconsciously began to assert itself. She talked gaily with
him, her eyes by turns sparkled, invited and repelled, her mantilla
almost covered her face one moment and the next was shaken gracefully
down to her shoulders, leaving the coils of her hair shining black as
a crow's wing in the sun. Her little, rosebud mouth pouted and smiled,
and altogether she was so sweet and dainty and graceful that the
middle-aged, gray-bearded Americano began to beam upon her with
admiring eyes and to hover over her with jerky, heavy attempts at
gallantry. He asked her name, but she took sudden alarm and answered
only with a shrug of her shoulders and a swooning glance of her great
black eyes. He put his arm about her waist and stooped to kiss her
smiling mouth. She struggled away from him with a terrified, appealing
cry, "No, no, señor!" of whose meaning there could be no mistake.
The man looked at her with wide, surprised eyes and exclaimed, "Well,
I'll be damned!" and whipped up his horses. He glanced at her
curiously several times and saw that she had edged away from him as
far as she could and drawn the black folds of her mantilla well over
her face. Presently he said, in her own tongue:
"Pardon me, señorita! I thought you would not care."
Her only answer was a little shiver, and they drove on in silence up
the winding mountain road to the top of the pass. There she climbed
out of the wagon and smiled back at the man with a grateful "_muchas,
muchas gracias, señor_," and started down the road toward Las Plumas.
He looked after her contemplatively for a moment and said to himself:
"Well, I'll be damned! But you never can tell how a Greaser's going to
break out next!" Then he turned his team about and drove whistling
back to his own road.
Amada's spirits rose as she looked down into the Rio Grande valley and
saw the thread of glowing yellow foliage which marked the course of
the _acequia_ and the long, straggling procession of gray dots which
she knew was the town of Las Plumas. She had been there twice with her
father and mother when they had gone to join in the fiesta of Santa
Guadaloupe. They had a "_primo_" there, one of those distant relatives
of whom the Mexicans keep track so faithfully, but she meant to stay
far away from his house and to be seen neither by him nor any of his
family. She was sure she could reach the town by nightfall. She began
to wonder if the train on which she meant to go away would come after
that and what she should do with herself all night if it did not. The
two visits she had made to Las Plumas had been the only times in her
life when she had seen a railroad train, and she asked herself if she
would be afraid when she should get into the car and it should go
tearing across the country so fast. Ah, it would not go fast enough
for her, not nearly fast enough! And unconsciously she quickened her
steps to keep pace with her thoughts.
Presently mighty pains began to rack her body. She groaned and
clenched her fists until the blood stained her palms. But still she
hurried on, urging herself with thoughts of her journey's end, which
began to loom distant and impossible through the haze of her
suffering. The road wound over the rounded foothills, across the crest
of one, down the hillside, and over another, and another, and another,
until Amada thought their end would never come. She longed to lie down
there in the dusty road and give herself up to the agony that held her
body in its grip. But she so feared that she might yield to the
temptation, and never rise again, that she ran down the hills and
hurried her aching feet up the slopes until she panted for breath. An
awful fear had come to terrify her soul. In its absorbing clutch she
scarcely thought again of her wish to reach the railroad, and the love
letter that had brought her comfort and sustained her strength was
almost forgotten. If she should die there alone, with no priest to
listen to the story of the sins that oppressed her soul, to give her
the sacrament and whisper the holy names in her ear--ah, she could
not--any suffering could be endured better than so terrible a fate. So
she gathered up her strength and strove to force a little more speed
into her aching, blistered feet and to endure the pains that gripped
and racked her body, hoping only that she might reach the town and
find the priest before the end should come.
At last the gray, rolling waves of the foothills smoothed themselves
out and gently merged into the plain that rose from the valley below.
So near seemed the houses and the long streets of the town, with the
yellow cottonwoods flaming through its heart, that Amada felt
encouraged. She hurried limping down the road, her black dress gray
with dust, her mantilla pulled awry, her eyes wide with the terror
that filled her soul, and her face tense and drawn with the pain that
tortured her body.
She reached the edge of the town and saw people in the houses along
the street. But she met none and she could not make up her mind to
stop long enough to turn aside to one of the houses and ask the way to
the priest's dwelling. Presently she saw two children come hand in
hand through a gateway. One of them, a tiny boy with flaxen curls
about his neck and a thin white face, put his hands on the shoulders
of his baby girl companion and kissed the face she lifted to his. As
she went away she turned and threw kisses to him and he waved his hand
to her and called out "bye-bye, bye-bye."
Amada staggered against the fence and stood there resting a moment
while she smiled at the pretty scene, notwithstanding her suffering
and anxiety. When the child turned back into the yard she moved away
from the fence and tried to go on. But her knees trembled and gave
way, a cry of pain broke from her lips, and she fell upon the
sidewalk. For woman's greatest extremity was upon her and she could go
no farther.
Marguerite Delarue stood upon the veranda steps smiling fondly upon
little Paul as he came up the walk. She had noticed the strange young
Mexican woman leaning against the fence, and when Amada fell she ran
down to the gate to see if the stranger were ill. The look of awful
agony in Amada's face and eyes frightened her, and quickly calling the
maid, the two women took her into the house and put her to bed. Then
Marguerite sent in all haste for the physician, and herself removed
the dusty shoes and stockings, bathed the swollen, blistered feet,
took off the dust-filled garments and clothed the suffering girl in
one of her own night robes.
All night long the physician worked, his face anxious and troubled,
and in the early morning he gave up hope. For Amada lay in a stupor
from which he thought there was no probability she would ever rouse.
Suddenly she moaned, stretched out her hands and called, "My baby!
Where is my baby?"
Marguerite knelt beside her and tried to tell her that the little one
had never breathed, and Amada flung herself upon the girl's neck and
gave herself up to such transports of grief that the physician sat
down in dumb, amazed helplessness, sure that immediate collapse would
cut short her cries of woe.
"But you can't tell a blessed thing about these Greasers," he said
afterward to Marguerite. "I was sure she was going to die, and I
reckon she would if she had not done the very thing that I thought
would be certain to finish her anyway. Maybe I'll learn sometime that
these Mexican women have got to let out their emotions or they would
die of suppressed volcanoes."
When Marguerite had sympathized with and soothed and comforted her
accidental guest Amada asked if she would send for the _padre_.
"I shall die very soon," she said, "and he must come at once. I
thought I should die long before this, but God has let me live through
all that time that I do not remember, when I was so nearly dead, only
that the _padre_ might come and make me ready for death."
After the priest had gone Marguerite went to the sick girl's room with
a cup of gruel. Amada lay back on the pillow, her face gray with
pallor against the background of her shining black hair. She kissed
and fondled Marguerite's hand.
"You have been very good to me, señorita, but I shall have to trouble
you one little time more, and then I shall be ready to die, and some
one can ride over to the Fernandez mountains, beyond Muletown, and
tell my father, Juan Garcia, that his daughter, Amada, is dead, and
that she was very, very sorry to bring so much grief to him and her
mother. You will tell him that, will you not, señorita? But you must
not tell him about the _niño_, because they do not know--ah, señorita,
you must not think that I am a--a bad woman! See! Here is a letter
that says _mi esposa_! But they might not believe it--and they must
not know--you will not tell them, señorita!"
"But you are not going to die!" said Marguerite encouragingly. "You
will soon be strong again."
Amada shook her head. "No! I shall be dead before another morning
comes. But now the _padre_ says I must see _el Señor Don_ Emerson
Mead."
The girl's eyes caught a sudden, brief flicker which crossed
Marguerite's face, and, weak though she was, she raised herself on one
elbow, her black hair streaming past her face and her eyes shining.
She caught Marguerite's hand, calling softly:
"Señorita! You love Don Emerson! Is it not so? I saw it in your face!
Ah, señorita, it is good to love, is it not? Now you must bring Señor
Mead to me here and I must tell him something that the _padre_ says I
must before I die. But you must not ask me what it is, for I can not
tell you. I can not tell any one but Don Emerson."
"He is in the court room now," Marguerite replied, "and they would not
let him leave. But his friend, Señor Ellhorn, is here, and I will see
if I can find him."
Marguerite met Nick Ellhorn coming out of John Daniel's office with a
broad smile curling his mustaches toward his eyes. He had been on a
still hunt for his Chinese queue, and had run at once upon the
certainty that something had happened which several people would like
to keep quiet. And he had not only recovered the pig tail, but had
found out what had been done and who had done it.
"Oh, Mr. Ellhorn!" exclaimed Marguerite, "I am so glad to find you!
There is a Mexican girl at my house--she dropped down dreadfully ill
at my gate last night and I took her in--who wants to see Mr. Mead.
She says her father is Juan Garcia, and that he lives away beyond
Muletown, in the Fernandez mountains. The _padre_ confessed her this
morning and now she says he told her that she must tell Emerson Mead
something before she dies. I do not know what it is, and she says she
can not tell any one except Mr. Mead. Will you come to the house and
find out what she wants?"
Ellhorn's eyes opened wide, but he kept an impassive face. "Amada
Garcia! What the--whatever is she here for, and how did she get here!"
"I think she must have walked, for her feet were blistered."
"Walked! Walked from old Garcia's ranch! Good God! Well, I sure reckon
she must have something to say. I'll go right along and see her."
When Nick Ellhorn came out of the Delarue house he heard the whistle
of the train from the north.
"I've just time to make it," he thought. "I can't stop to say a word
to anybody about this business, or I'll miss this train. Well, I
reckon I might just as well not say anything about it, anyway, as long
as Tommy isn't here, until I get back--if I ever get back! They'll be
only too glad to snake me in down there, if they get the chance. I'll
just have to make a quick scoot across the line, and trust to the luck
of the Irish army! If Tommy was only here we'd get this thing through,
if we had to wade through hell and tote home the back doors. But I
can't stop to wait for company. I'll try it alone, and I sure reckon
I'll be too smart for 'em!"