A WOMAN OF EMERALD EYES
At the first break of dawn, Rhodes was up, and without waiting for
breakfast walked over to the rancherias of Palomitas to see Tula.
She was with some little girls and old women carrying water from the
well as stolidly as though adventure had never stalked across her
path. A whole garment had been given her instead of the tatter of rags
in which she had returned to the little Indian pueblo. She replied
briefly to his queries regarding her welfare, and when he asked where
she was living, she accompanied him to an old adobe where there were
two other motherless children--victims of the raiders.
An old, half-blind woman stirred meal into a kettle of porridge, and
to her Kit addressed himself.
"A blessing will be on your house, but you have too many to feed
here," he said "and the child of Miguel should go to the ranch house
of Mesa Blanca. The wife of Isidro is a good woman and will give her
care."
"Yes, senor, she is a good woman," agreed the old Indian. "Also it may
be a safe house for a maiden, who knows? Here it is not safe; other
raiders may come."
"That is true. Send her after she has eaten."
He then sought out one of the older men to learn who could be counted
on to round up the stray cattle of the ranges. After that he went at
once back to the ranch house, and did not even speak to Tula again.
There was nothing to indicate that she was the principal object of his
visit, or that she had acquired a guardian who was taking his job
seriously.
Later in the day she was brought to Mesa Blanca by an elderly Indian
woman of her mother's clan, and settled in the quiet Indian manner in
the new dwelling place. Valencia was full of pity for the girl of few
years who had yet known the hard trail, and had mourned alone for her
dead.
There was a sort of suppressed bustle about _la casa de Mesa Blanca_
that day, dainties of cookery prepared with difficulty from the
diminished stores, and the rooms of the iron bars sprinkled and swept,
and pillows of wondrous drawnwork decorated the more pretentious bed.
To Tula it was more of magnificence than she had ever seen in her
brief life, and the many rooms in one dwelling was a wonder. She would
stand staring across the patio and into the various doorways through
which she hesitated to pass. She for whom the wide silences of the
desert held few terrors, hesitated to linger alone in the shadows of
the circling walls. Kit noted that when each little task was finished
for Valencia, she would go outside in the sunlight where she had the
familiar ranges and far blue mountains in sight.
"Here it makes much trouble only to live in a house," she said
pointing to the needlework on a table cover. "The bowls of food will
make that dirty in one eating, and then what? Women in fine houses
are only as mares in time of thrashing the grain--no end and no
beginning to the work,--they only tread their circle."
"Right you are, sister," agreed Kit, "they do make a lot of whirligig
work for themselves, all the same as your grandmothers painting
pottery that smash like eggshells. But life here isn't all play at
that, and there may be something doing before sleep time tonight. I
went after you so I would have a comrade I knew would stick."
She only gazed at him without question.
"You remember, Tula, the woman led by the padre at Soledad?"
She nodded silently.
"It may be that woman is captive to the same men who took your
people," he said slowly watching her, "and it may be we can save
her."
"May it also be that we can catch the man?" she asked, and her eyes
half closed, peered up at him in curious intensity. "Can that be, O
friend?"
"Some day it must surely be, Tula."
"One day it must be,--one day, and prayers are making all the times
for that day," she insisted stolidly. "The old women are talking, and
for that day they want him."
"What day, Tula?"
"The Judas day."
Kit Rhodes felt a curious creepy sensation of being near an unseen
danger, some sleeping serpent basking in the sun, harmless until
aroused for attack. He thought of the gentle domestic Valencia, and
now this child, both centered on one thought--to sacrifice a traitor
on the day of Judas!
"Little girls should make helpful prayers," he ventured rather lamely,
"not vengeance prayers."
"I was the one to make cry of a woman, when my father went under the
earth," she said. It was her only expression of the fact that she had
borne a woman's share of all their joint toil in the desert,--and he
caught her by the shoulder, as she turned away.
"Why, Kid Cleopatra, it isn't a woman's work you've done at all. It's
a man's job you've held down and held level," he declared heartily.
"That's why I am counting on you now. I need eyes to watch when I have
to be in other places."
"I watch," she agreed, "I watch for you, but maybe I make my own
prayers also;--all the time prayers."
"Make one for a straight trail to the border, and all sentries
asleep!" he suggested. "We have a pile of yellow rock to get across,
to say nothing of our latest puzzling prospect."
As the day wore on the latest "prospect" presented many complications
to the imagination, and he tramped the corridors of Mesa Blanca
wondering why he had seen but one side of the question the night
before, for in the broad light of day there seemed a dozen, and all
leading to trouble! That emerald-eyed daughter of a renegade priest
had proven a host in herself when it came to breeding trouble. She
certainly had been unlucky.
"Well, it might be worse," he confided to Bunting out in the corral.
"Cap Pike might have tagged along to discourse on the general
tomfoolery of a partner who picks up a damsel in distress at every
fork of the trail. Not that he'd be far wrong at that, Baby. If any
hombre wanted to catch me in a bear trap he'd only need to bait it
with a skirt."
Baby Bunting nodded sagaciously, and nuzzled after Kit who was
cleaning up the best looking saddle horse brought in from the Indian
herd. It was a scraggy sorrel with twitchy ears and wicked eyes, but
it looked tough as a mountain buck. Kit knew he should need two like
that for the northern trail, and had hopes that the bewitched Marto
Cavayso, whoever he was, would furnish another.
He went steadily about his preparations for the border trail, just as
if the addition of an enchantress with green-jewel eyes was an every
day bit of good fortune expected in every outfit, but as the desert
ranges flamed rose and mauve in the lowering sun there was a restless
expectancy at the ranch house, bolts and locks and firearms were given
final inspection. Even at the best it was a scantily manned fort for
defense in case Mario's companions at dice should question his winning
and endeavor to capture the stake.
"I shall go part way on the Soledad trail and wait what happens," he
told Isidro. "I will remain at a distance unless Clodomiro needs me.
There is no telling what tricks this Cavayso may have up his sleeve."
"I was thinking that same thought," said the old Indian. "The men of
Perez are not trusted long, even by Perez. When it is a woman, they
are not trusted even in sight! Go with God on the trail."
The ugly young sorrel ran tirelessly the first half of the way, just
enough to prove his wind. Then they entered a canon where scrub
cottonwoods and greasebush gathered moisture enough for scant growth
among the boulders worn out of the cliffs by erosion. It was the
safest place to wait, as it was also the most likely place for
treachery if any was intended to Clodomiro. At either end of the pass
lay open range and brown desert, with only far patches of oasis where
a well was found, or a sunken river marked a green pasture in some
valley.
When he wrote the note he had not thought of danger to Clodomiro,
regarding him only as a fearless messenger, but if the boy should
prove an incumbrance to Cavayso after they were free of Soledad, that
might prove another matter, and as old Isidro had stated, no one
trusted a Perez man when a woman was in question!
He dismounted to listen and seek safe shadow, for the dusk had come,
and desert stars swung like brilliant lamps in the night sky, and the
white rocks served as clear background for any moving body.
The plan was, if possible, to get the woman out with Clodomiro while
the men were at supper. The _manta_ of Elena could cover her, and if
she could walk with a water jar to the far well as any Indian woman
would walk, and a horse hid in the willows there----!
It had been well thought out, and if nothing had interfered they
should have reached the canon an hour earlier. If Clodomiro had failed
it might be a serious matter, and Kit Rhodes had some anxious moments
for the stolen woman while dusk descended on the canon.
He listened for the beat of horse hoofs, but what he heard first was a
shot, and a woman's scream, and then the walls of the canon echoed the
tumult of horses racing towards him in flight.
He recognized Clodomiro by the bare head and banda, and a woman bent
low beside him, her _manta_ flapping like the wings of a great bird as
her horse leaped forward beside the Indian boy.
Back of them galloped a man who slowed up and shot backward at the
foremost of a pursuing band.
He missed, and the fire was returned, evidently with some effect, for
the first marksman grunted and cursed, and Kit heard the clatter of
his gun as it fell from his hand. He leaned forward and spurred his
horse to outrun the pursuers. He was evidently Marto.
Kit had a mental vision of fighting Marto alone for the woman at Mesa
Blanca, or fighting with the entire band and decided to halt the
leader of the pursuers and gain that much time at least for the woman
and Clodomiro.
He had mounted at the first sound of the runaways, and crouching low
in the saddle, hid back of the thick green of a dwarfed mesquite, and
as the leader came into range against the white rock well he aimed low
and touched the trigger.
The horse leaped up and the rider slid off as the animal sunk to the
ground. Kit guided his mount carefully along shadowed places into the
road expecting each instant a shot from the man on the ground.
But it did not come, and he gained the trail before the other pursuers
rounded the bend of the canon. The sound of their hoofs would deafen
them to his, and once on the trail he gave the sorrel the rein, and
the wild thing went down the gully like an arrow from a bow.
He was more than a little puzzled at the silence back of him. The
going down of the one man and horse had evidently checked all
pursuit. Relieved though he was at the fact, he realized it was not a
natural condition of affairs, and called for explanation.
The other three riders were a half mile ahead and he had no idea of
joining them on the trail. It occurred to him there was a possible
chance of taking a short cut over the point of the mesa and beating
them to the home ranch. There was an even chance that the rougher
trail would offer difficulties in the dark, but that was up to the
sorrel and was worth the trial.
The bronco took the mesa walls like a cat, climbed and staggered up,
slid and tumbled down and crossed the level intervening space to the
corral as the first sound of the others came beating across the
sands.
A dark little figure arose by the corral bars and reached for the
horse as he slipped from the saddle.
"Quickly, Tulita!" he said, stripping saddle and bridle from its back,
"one instant only to make ourselves as still as shadows under the
walls of the house."
Fast as he ran, she kept pace with him to the corridor where Isidro
waited.
"All is well," he said briefly to the old man. "Clodomiro comes safe
with the senora, and the man who would steal her was shot and lost his
gun. All has gone very well."
"Thanks to God!" said the old Indian. "The stealing of women has ever
been a danger near, but luck comes well to you, senor, and it is good
to be under the protection of you."
"Open the door and show a light of welcome," said Kit. "Call your wife
and let all be as planned by us. I will be in the shadows, and a good
gun for safety of the woman if needed, but all will work well, as you
will see."
The three riders came up to the portal before dismounting, and
Valencia went forward, while Isidro held high a blazing torch, and
Clodomiro dismounted quickly, and offered help to the woman.
"My grandmother has all for your comfort, senora," he said, "will it
please you to descend?"
The man swung from the saddle, awkwardly nursing his right arm.
"Yes this is a safe place, Dona Jocasta," he declared. "It is all well
arranged. With your permission I may assist you."
He offered his left hand, but she looked from him to Valencia, and
then to Clodomiro.
"You are young to be a stealer of women;--the saints send you a whiter
road!" she said. "And you may help me, for my shoulder has a hurt from
that first shot of the comrade of this man."
"No, senora," stated her captor, "the evil shot came from no comrade
of mine. They did not follow us, those bandits--accursed be their
names! They were hid in the canoncita and jumped our trail. But have
no fear, Dona Jocasta, they are left behind, and it will be my
pleasure to nurse the wounds they have made."
"Be occupied with your own," she suggested pointing to his hand from
which blood still dripped, "and you, mother, can show me the new
prison. It can be no worse than the others."
"Better, much better, little dove," said Marto, who followed after
the two women, and glanced over their shoulders into the guest chamber
of the iron bars, "it is a bird cage of the finest, and a nest for
harmonies."
Then to Valencia he turned with authority, "When you have made the
senorita comfortable, bring the key of the door to me."
"_Si_, senor," said Valencia bending low, and even as the prisoner
entered the room, she changed the key to the outside of the door.
Marto nodded his approval and turned away.
"Now this shirt off, and a basin of water and a bandage," he ordered
Isidro. "It is not much, and it still bleeds."
"True, it does, senor, and the room ordered for you has already the
water and a clean shirt on the pillow. Clodomiro, go you for a
bandage, and fetch wine to take dust out of the throat! This way,
senor,--and may you be at home in your own house!"
Unsuspecting, the amorous Marto followed the old man into the room
prepared. He grunted contemptuous satisfaction at evidences of comfort
extending to lace curtains hanging white and full over the one
window.
"It is the time for a shirt of such cleanness," he observed, with a
grin. "_Jesusita!_ but the sleeve sticks to me! Cut it off, and be
quick to make me over into a bridegroom."
The old man did as he was bidden, and when Clodomiro brought in a
woven tray covered with a napkin from which a bottle of wine was
discernible, Marto grinned at him.
"It is a soft nest you found for me, boy," he said appreciatively,
"and when I am capitan I will make you lieutenant."
"Thanks to you, senor, and hasten the day!"
Clodomiro assisted his grandfather, and stood aside at the door
respectfully as the old man passed out with his primitive supply of
salves and antiseptics, and only when all need of caution was ended
the boy smiled at the would-be Lothario, and the smile held a subtle
mockery as he murmured, "The saints send you a good night's sleep,
senor, and a waking to health--and clearer sight!"
"Hell and its blazes to you! why do you grin?" demanded the other
setting down the bottle from which he had taken a long and grateful
drink, but quick as a cat the boy pulled the door shut, and slipped
the bolt on the outside, and laughed aloud.
"Not this night will you be bridegroom for another man's wife, senor!"
he called. "Also it is better that you put curb on your curses,--for
the lady has a mind for a quiet night of sleep."
Marto rushed to the curtained window only to find iron bars and the
glint of a gun barrel. Isidro held the gun, and admonished the
storming captive with the gentle fatalism of the Indian.
"It is done under orders of the major-domo, senor. There is no other
way. If your words are hard or rough to the ears of the lady, there is
a bullet for you, and a hidden place for your grave. This is the only
word to you, senor. It is given me to say."
"But--Gods, saints, and devils--hearken you to me!" stormed the man.
"This is a fool's joke! It can't go on! I must be back at sunrise--_I
must!_"
"You will see many suns rise through these bars if the padrone so
pleases," murmured Isidro gently. "That is not for us to decide."
"To hottest hell with your padrone and you! Bring him here to listen
to me. This is no affair of a man and a woman,--curse her witch eyes
and their green fires! There is work afoot,--big work, and I must get
back to Soledad. You know what goes over the trail to Soledad,--every
Indian knows! It is the cache of ammunition with which to save the
peon and Indian slave,--you know that! You know the revolutionists
must get it to win in Sonora. A trap is set for tomorrow, a big trap!
I must be there to help spring it. To you there will be riches and
safety all your life for my freedom--on the cross I will swear that.
I----"
"Senor, nothing is in my power, and of your traps I know nothing. I am
told you set a trap for a lady who is in grief and your own feet were
caught in it. That is all I know of traps," said Isidro.
Kit patted the old man on the shoulder for cleverness, even while he
wondered at the ravings of the would-be abductor. Then he crept nearer
the window where he could see the face of the prisoner clearly, and
without the overshadowing hat he had worn on entrance. The face gave
him something to think about, for it was that of one of the men who
had ridden up to the Yaqui spring the day he had found Tula and Miguel
in the desert. How should this rebel who rode on secret trails with
Ramon Rotil be head man at Soledad for Rotil's enemy? And what was the
trap?
"Look well at that man, Isidro," he whispered, "and tell me if such a
man rode here to Mesa Blanca with General Rotil."
"No such man was here, senor, but this man was foreman at Soledad
before the Deliverer came over the eastern range to Mesa Blanca. Also
the general and Don Jose Perez are known as enemies;--the friend of
one cannot be the friend of another."
"True enough, Isidro, but that does not help me to understand the trap
set. Call your wife and learn if I can see the Dona Jocasta."
Tula had crept up beside them, and touched him on the arm.
"She asks for you, and sadness is with her very much. She watches us
in fear, and cannot believe that the door is open for her."
"If that is her only trouble we can clear it away for her, _pronto_,"
he stated, and they entered the patio.
"It is not her only trouble, but of the other she does not speak.
Valencia weeps to look at her."
"Heavens! Is she as bad looking as that?"
"No, it is another reason," stated the girl stolidly. "She is a caged
humming bird, and her wings have broken."
Kit Rhodes never forgot that first picture of their kidnaped guest,
for he agreed with Clodomiro who saw in her the living representation
of old biblical saints.
The likeness was strengthened by the half Moorish drapery over her
head, a black mantilla which, at sound of a man's step, she hurriedly
drew across the lower part of her face. Her left arm and shoulder was
bare, and Valencia bent over her with a strip of old linen for
bandage, but the eyes of Dona Jocasta were turned half shrinking, half
appraising to the strange Americano. It was plain to her that
conquering men were merely the owners of women.
"It is good you come, senor," said Valencia. "Here is a wound and the
bullet under the skin. I have waited for Isidro to help but he is slow
on the way."
"He is busy otherwise, but I will call him unless my own help will
serve here. That is for the senora to say."
The eyes of the girl,--she was not more,--never left his face, and
above the lace scarf she peered at him as through a mask.
"It is you who sent messenger to save an unhappy one you did not know?
You are the Americano of the letter?"
"At your service, senora. May that service begin now?"
"It began when that letter was written, and this room made ready," she
said. "And if you can find the bullet it will end the unhappiness of
this good woman. She weeps for the little bit of lead. It should have
struck a heart instead of a shoulder."
"Ah, senora!" lamented Valencia, "weep like a woman over sorrows. It
is a better way than to mock."
"God knows it is not for me to mock!" breathed the soft voice
bitterly. "And if the senor will lend you his aid, I will again be in
his debt."
Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from
the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.
"I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making
much pain, too much," stated Valencia, "but it must come out, or there
will be trouble."
"Sure there will," asserted Kit, "and if you or Tula will hold the
arm, and Dona Jocasta will pardon me----"
He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the
direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along
the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little
force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a
clean cut wound through the upper arm.
The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet
backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake
of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain
stood in beads on her face.
All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the
shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the
shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect
thing in beauty he had ever seen.
He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily
followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.
She did not faint, as he feared she might, but fell back in the chair,
while Valencia busied herself with the ointment and bandage, and Tula,
at a word from Kit, poured her a cup of wine.
"Drink," he said, "if only a little, senora. Your strength has served
you well, but it needs help now."
She swallowed a little of the wine, and drew the scarf about her, and
after a little opened her eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her
approvingly, and offered her the bullet.
"It may be you will want it to go on some shrine to a patron saint,
senora," he suggested, but she did not take it, only looked at him
steadily with those wonderful eyes, green with black lashes, shining
out of her marble Madonna-like face.
"My patron saint traveled the trail with you, Senor Americano, and the
bullet is witness. Let me see it."
He gave it into her open hand where she balanced it thoughtfully.
"So near the mark, yet went aside," she murmured. "Could that mean
there is yet any use left in the world for me?"
"Beauty has its own use in the world, senora; that is why rose gardens
are planted."
"True, senor, though I belong no more to the gardens;--no, not to
gardens, but to the desert. Neither have I place nor power today, and
I may never have, but I give back to you this witness of your great
favor. If a day comes when I, Jocasta, can give favor in return, bring
or send this witness of the ride tonight. I will redeem it."
"The favor is to me, and calls for no redemption," said Kit awkward at
the regal poise of her, and enchanted by the languorous glance and
movement of her. Even the reaching out of her hand made him think of
Tula's words, 'a humming bird,' if one could imagine such a
jewel-winged thing weighted down with black folds of mourning.
"A caged humming bird with broken wings!" and that memory brought
another thought, and he fumbled the bullet, and gave the first steady
look into those emerald, side-glancing eyes.
"But--there is a compact I should appreciate if Dona Jocasta will do
me the favor,--and it is that she sets value on the life that is now
her very own, and, that she forgets not to cherish it."
"Ah-h!" She looked up at him piteously a moment, and then the long
lashes hid her eyes, and her head was bent low. "Sinful and without
shame have I been! and they have told you of the knife I tried to
use--here!"
She touched her breast with her slender ring-laden hand, and her voice
turned mocking.
"But you see, Senor Americano, even Death will not welcome me, and
neither steel nor lead will serve me!"
"Life will serve you better, senora."
"Not yet has it done so, and I am a woman--old--old! I am twenty,
senor, and refused of Death! Jocasta Benicia they named me. Jocasta
Perdida it should have been to fit the soul of me, so why should I
promise a man whom I do not know that I will cherish my life when I
would not promise a padre? Answer me that, senor whose name has not
been told me!"
"But you will promise, senora," insisted Kit, smiling a little, though
thrilled by the sadness of life's end at twenty, "and as for names, if
you are Dona Perdida I may surely name myself Don Esperenzo, for I
have not only hope, but conviction, that life is worth living!"
"To a man, yes, and Mexico is a man's land."
"Ay, it must be yours as well,--beautiful that thou art!" murmured
Valencia adoringly. "You should not give yourself a name of sadness,
for this is our Senor El Pajarito, who is both gay and of honesty.
He,--with God,--is your protection, and harm shall not be yours."
Dona Jocasta reached out and touched kindly the bent head of the
Indian woman.
"As you will, mother. With hope and a singer for a shield, even a
prison would not be so bad, El Pajarito, eh? Do you make songs--or
sing them, senor?"
"Neither,--I am only a lucky bluff. My old partner and I used to sing
fool things to the mules, and as we could out-bray the burros my Indio
friends are kind and call it a singing;--as easy as that is it to get
credit for talent in this beneficent land of yours! But--the compact,
senora?"
Her brows lifted wearily, yet the hint of a smile was in her eyes.
"Yes, since you ask so small a thing, it is yours. Jocasta makes
compact with you; give me a wish that the life is worth it."
"Sure I will," said Kit holding out his hand, but she shrunk
perceptibly, and her hand crept out of sight in the black draperies.
"You have not, perhaps, ever sent a soul to God without absolution?"
she asked in a breathless hushed sort of voice. "No senor, the look of
you tells me you have not been so unpardonable. Is it not so?"
"Why, yes," returned Kit, "it hasn't been a habit with me to start
anyone on the angels' flight without giving him time to bless himself,
but even at that----"
"No, no!" as he took a step nearer. "The compact is ours without
handclasp. The hand of Jocasta is the hand of the black glove,
senor."
He looked from her to the two Indians, the old woman kneeling beside
Jocasta and crossing herself, and Tula, erect and slender against the
adobe wall, watching him stolidly. There was no light on the subject
from either of them.
"Pardon, I'm but a clumsy Americano, not wise to your meanings," he
ventured, "and beautiful hands look better without gloves of any
color."
"It may be so, yet I have heard that no matter how handsome a headsman
may be, he wears a black mask, and hands are not stretched out to
touch his."
"Senora!"
"Senor, we arrive at nothing when making speech of me," she said with
a little sigh. "Our ride was hard, and rest is best for all of us. Our
friend here tells me there is supper, and if you will eat with me, we
will know more of how all this has come about. It is strange that you,
a lone Americano in this land, should plan this adventure like a
bandit, and steal not only the major-domo of Soledad, but the woman he
would steal!"
"It was so simple that the matter is not worth words except as
concerns Clodomiro, who was the only one in danger."
"Ah! if ever they had suspected him! You have not seen that band of
men, they are terrible! Of all the men of Jose Perez they are the
blackest hearts, and if it had not been for the poor padre----"
"Tell me of him," said Kit who perceived she was willing enough to
speak plainly of all things except herself. "He is a good man?"
"A blessing to me, senor!" she asserted earnestly as they were seated
at the table so carefully prepared by Valencia. "Look you! I broke
away from those animals and in a little mountain village,--such a one
as I was born in, senor!--I ran to the altar of the little chapel, and
that priest was a shield for me. Against all the men he spoke curses
if they touched me. Well, after that there was only one task to do,
and that was to carry him along. I think they wanted to kill him, and
had not the courage. And after all that I came away from Soledad
without saving him;--that was bad of me, very bad! I--I think I went
wild in the head when I saw the men play games of cards, and I to go
to the winner! Not even a knife for food would they give me, for they
knew----"
She shuddered, and laid down quickly the knife she had lifted from
beside her plate, and glanced away when she found him regarding her.
"It has been long weeks since I was trusted as you are trusting me
here," she continued quietly. "See! On my wrists were chains at
first."
"And this Marto Cavayso did that?" demanded Kit as she showed her
scarred slender wrist over which Valencia had wept.
"No, it was before Cavayso--he is a new man--so I think this was when
Conrad was first helping to plan me as an insane woman and have me put
secretly to prison, but some fear struck Jose Perez, and that plan
would not serve. In the dark of night I was half smothered in wraps
and put in an ox-cart of a countryman and hauled north out of the
city. Two men rode as guard. They chained me in the day and slept,
traveling only in the night until they met Cavayso and his men. After
that I remember little, I was so weary of life! One alcalde asked
about me and Cavayso said I was his wife who had run away with a gypsy
fiddler, and he was taking me home to my children. Of what use to
speak? A dozen men would have added their testimony to his, and had
sport in making other romance against me. They were sullen because
they thought I had jewels hid under my clothes, and Cavayso would not
let them search me. It has been hell in these hills of Sonora, Senor
Pajarito."
"That is easy to understand," agreed Kit wondering at her endurance,
and wondering at the poise and beauty of her after such experience.
There was no trace of nervousness, or of tears, or self-pity. It was
as if all this of which she told had been a minor affair, dwarfed by
some tragic thing to which he had no key.
"So, Conrad was in this plot against you?" he asked, and knew that
Tula, standing back of his chair had missed no word. "You mean the
German Conrad who is manager of Granados ranches across the border?"
"Senor, I mean the beast whose trail is red with the blood of
innocence, and whose poison is sinking into the veins of Mexico like a
serpent, striking secretly, now here, now there, until the blood of
the land is black with that venom. Ay! I know, senor;--the earth is
acrawl with the German lizards creeping into the shining sun of
Mexico! This so excellent Don Adolf Conrad is only one, and Jose Perez
is his target--I am the one to know that! A year ago, and Don Jose was
a man, with faults perhaps; but who is perfect on this earth? Then
came Don Adolf riding south and is very great gentleman and makes
friends. His home in Hermosillo becomes little by little the house of
Perez, and little by little Perez goes on crooked paths. That is true!
First it was to buy a ship for coast trade, then selling rifles in
secret where they should not be sold, then--shame it is to tell--men
and women were sold and carried on that ship like cattle! Not rebels,
senor, not prisoners of battle,--but herdsmen and ranch people, poor
Indian farmers whom only devils would harm! Thus it was, senor, until
little by little Don Adolf knew so much that Jose Perez awoke to find
he had a master, and a strong one! It was not one man alone who caught
him in the net; it was the German comrades of Don Adolf who never
forgot their task, even when he was north in the States. They needed a
man of name in Hermosillo, and Jose Perez is now that man. When the
whip of the German cracks, he must jump to serve their will."
"But Jose Perez is a strong man. Before this day he has wiped many a
man from his trail if the man made him trouble," ventured Kit.
"You have right in that, senor, but I am telling you it is a wide net
they spread and in that net he is snared. Also his household is no
longer his own. The Indian house servants are gone, and outlaw
Japanese are there instead. That is true and their dress is the dress
of Indians. They are Japanese men of crimes, and German men gave aid
that they escape from justice in Japan. It is because they need such
men for German work in Mexico, men who have been taught German and
dare not turn rebel. Not an hour of the life of Jose Perez is free
from the eyes of a spy who is a man of crimes. And there are other
snares. They tell him that he is to be a governor by their
help;--that is a rich bait to float before the eyes of a man! His feet
are set on a trail made by Adolph Conrad,--He is trapped, and there is
no going back. Poison and shame and slavery and death have come upon
that trail like black mushrooms grown in a night, and what the end of
the trail will be is hid in the heart of God."
"But your sympathy is with those women in slavery there in the south,
and not with the evil friend of Jose Perez?" asked Kit.
"Can you doubt, senor? Am I not as truly a victim as they? I have not
worked under a whip, but there are other punishments--for a woman!"
Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, and she rested her chin on her
hand, staring out into the shadows of the patio, oblivious of them
all. Tula gazed at her as if fascinated, and there was a difference in
her regard. That she was linked in hate against Conrad gave the Indian
girl common cause with the jewel-eyed woman whose beauty had been the
boast of a province. Kit noticed it and was vastly comforted. The
absolute stolidity of Tula had left him in doubt as to the outcome if
his little partner had disapproved of his fascinating protegee. He
knew the thing she wanted to know, and asked it.
"Senora, the last band of Indian slaves from Sonora were driven from
the little pueblo of Palomitas at the edge of this ranch. And there
are sisters and mothers here with sick hearts over that raid. Can you
tell me where those women were sent?"
"Which raid was that, and when?" asked Jocasta arousing herself from
some memory in which she had been submerged. "Pardon, senor, I am but
a doleful guest at supper, thinking too deeply of that which sent me
here. Your question?"
He repeated it, and she strove to remember.
"There were many, and no one was told whence they came. It was
supposed they were war prisoners who had to be fed, and were being
sent to grow their own maize. If it were the last band then it would
be the time Conrad had the wound in the face, here, like a knife
thrust, and that----"
"That was the time," interrupted Kit eagerly. "If you can tell us
where those people were sent you will prove the best of blessings to
Mesa Blanca this night."
She smiled sadly at that and looked from him to Tula, whom she
evidently noted for the first time.
"It is long since the word of blessing has been given to Jocasta," she
said wistfully. "It would be a comfort to earn it in this house. But
that band was not sent away,--not far. Something went wrong with the
boat down the coast, I forgot what it was, but there was much trouble,
and the Indians were sent to a plantation of the General Terain until
the boat was ready. I do not know what plantation, except that Conrad
raged about it. He and Don Jose had a quarrel, very terrible! That
wound given to him by a woman made him very difficult; then the
quarrel ended by them drinking together too much. And after that many
things happened very fast, and--I was brought north."
"And the Indians?"
"Senor, I do not think anyone thought again of those Indians. They
are planting maize or cane somewhere along the Rio Sonora."
Tula sank down weeping against the wall, while Valencia stroked her
hair and patted her. Dona Jocasta regarded her curiously.
"To be young enough to weep like that over a sorrow!" she murmured
wistfully. "It is to envy her, and not mourn over her."
"But this weeping is of joy," explained Valencia. "It is as the senor
says, a blessing has come with you over the hard road. This child was
also stolen, and was clever to escape. Her mother and her sister are
yet there in that place where the maize is planted. If the boat has
not taken them, then they also may get back. It is a hope!"
"Poor little one! and now that I could make good use of power, it is
no longer mine," said Jocasta, looking at Kit regretfully. "A young
maid with courage to escape has earned the right to be given help."
"She will be given it," he answered quietly, "and since your patience
has been great with my questions, I would ask more of this Cavayso we
have trapped tonight. He is raging of curious things there across the
patio. Isidro holds a gun on him that he subdue his shouts, and his
offer is of rich bribes for quick freedom. He is as mad to get back to
Soledad as he was to leave it, and he tells of a trap set there for
someone. It concerns ammunition for the revolutionists."
"No, not for them, but for trade in the south," said Jocasta promptly.
"Yes, Soledad has long been the place for hiding of arms. It was the
task of Don Adolf to get them across the border, and then a man of
Don Jose finds a safe trail for them. Sometimes a German officer from
Tucson is of much help there in the north. I have heard Don Jose and
Conrad laugh about the so easily deceived Americanos,--your pardon,
senor!"
"Oh, we are used to that," agreed Kit easily, "and it is quite true.
We have a whole flock of peace doves up there helping the Hohenzollern
game. What was the officer's name?"
"A name difficult and long," she mused, striving to recall it. "But
that name was a secret, and another was used. He was known only as a
simple advocate--James, the name; I remember that for they told me it
was the English for Diego, which was amusing to me,--there is no sound
alike in them!"
"That's true, there isn't," said Kit, who had no special interest in
any advocate named James. "But to get back to the man in the cell over
there and the ammunition, may I ask if he confided to you anything of
that place of storage? I mean Cavayso?"
"No, senor; and for a reason of the best. He knows nothing, and all
his days and nights were spent searching secretly for the entrance to
that dungeon,--if it is a dungeon! He thought I should know, and made
threats against me because I would not tell. Myself, I think Jose
Perez tells no one that hiding place, not even Conrad, though Conrad
has long wanted it! I told Don Jose that if he told that he was as
good as a dead man, and I believe it. But now," and she shook her head
fatefully, "now he is sure to get it!"
"But he swears he must get back to Soledad by sunrise for a trap is
set. A trap for whom?" persisted Kit.
Dona Jocasta shook her head uncomprehendingly.
"God forbid he should get free to put those wolves on my track; then
indeed I would need a knife, senor! He held them back from me on the
trail, but now he would not hold them back."
"But the trap, senora?" repeated the puzzled Kit. "That man was in
earnest,--dead in earnest! He did not know I was listening, his words
were only for an Indian,--for Isidro. Who could he trap? Was he
expecting anyone at Soledad?"
Dona Jocasta looked up with a little gasp of remembrance.
"It is true, a courier did come two days ago from the south, and
Cavayso told me he meant to take me to the desert and hide me before
Don Jose arrived. Also more mules and wagons came in. And Elena
scolded about men who came to eat but not to work. Yes, they smoked,
and talked, and talked, and waited! I never thought of them except to
have a great fear. Yesterday after the lad brought me that letter I
had not one thought, but to count the hours, and watch the sun. But it
may be Cavayso told the truth, and that Don Jose was indeed coming. He
told me he had promised Perez to lose me in the Arroya Maldioso if in
no other way, and he had to manage that I never be seen again."
"Arroya Maldioso?" repeated Kit, "I don't understand."
"It is the great quicksand of Soledad, green things grow and blossom
there but no living thing can cross over. It is beautiful--that little
arroya, and very bad."
"I had heard of it, but forgot," acknowledged Kit, "but that is not
the trap of which he is raving now. It is some other thing."
Dona Jocasta did not know. She confessed that her mind was dark and
past thinking. The ways of Don Jose and Conrad were not easy for other
men of different lives to understand;--there was a great net of war
and scheming and barter, and Don Jose was snared in that net, and the
end no man could see!
"Have you ever heard that Marto Cavayso was once a lieutenant of
General Rotil?" Kit asked.
"The Deliverer!" she gasped, leaning forward and staring at him. A
deep flush went over her face and receded, leaving her as deathly pale
as when the bullet had been forced from the white shoulder. Her regard
was curious, for her brows were contracted and there was domination
and command in her eyes. "Why do you say this to me, senor? And why do
you think it?"
Kit was astonished at the effect of his words, and quite as much
astonished to hear anyone of the Perez household refer to Rotil as
"the Deliverer."
"Senora, if you saw him ride side by side with Rotil, drinking from
the same cup in the desert, would you not also think it?"
Tula rose to her feet, and moved closer to Kit.
"I too was seeing them together, senora," she said. "It was at the
Yaqui well; I drew the water, and they drank it. This man of the loud
curses is the man."
Dona Jocasta covered her eyes with her hand, and she seemed shaken. No
one else spoke, and the silence was only broken by the muffled tones
of Marto in the cell, and the brief bark of Clodomiro's dog at the
corral.
"God knows what may be moving forward," she said at last, "but there
is some terrible thing afoot. Take me to this man."
"It may not be a pleasant thing to do," advised Kit. "This is a man's
game, senora, and his words might offend, for his rage is very great
against you."
"Words!" she said with a note of disdain, and arose to her feet. She
swayed slightly, and Valencia steadied her, and begged her to wait
until morning, for her strength was gone and the night was late.
"Peace, woman! Who of us is sure of a morning? This minute is all the
time that is ours, and--I must know."
She leaned on Valencia as they crossed the patio, and Tula moved a
seat outside the door of Marto's room. Kit fastened a torch in the
holder of the brick pillar and opened the door without being seen, and
stood watching the prisoner.
Marto Cavayso, who had been pleading with Isidro, whirled only to find
the barrel of another gun thrust through the carved grill in the top
of the door.
"Isidro," said Kit, "this man is to answer questions of the senora. If
he is uncivil you can singe him with a bullet at your own will."
"Many thanks, senor," returned Isidro promptly. "That is a pleasant
work to think of, for the talk of this shameless gentleman is poison
to the air."
"You!" burst out Marto, pointing a hand at Jocasta in the corridor.
"You put witchcraft of hell on me, and wall me in here with an old
lunatic for guard, and now----"
Bing! A bullet from Isidro's rifle whistled past Marto's ear and
buried itself in the adobe, scattering plaster and causing the
prisoner to crouch back in the corner.
Jocasta regarded him as if waiting further speech, but none came.
"That is better," she said. "No one wishes to do you harm, but you
need a lesson very badly. Now Marto Cavayso,--if that be your
name!--why did you carry me away? Was it your own doing, or were you
under orders of your General Rotil?"
"I should have let the men have you," he muttered. "I was a bewitched
man, or you never would have traveled alive to see Soledad. Rotil? Do
not the handsome women everywhere offer him love and comradeship?
Would he risk a good man to steal a woman of whom Jose Perez is
tired?"
"You are not the one to give judgment," said a strange voice outside
the barred window.--"That I did not send you to steal women is very
true, and the task I did send you for has been better done by other
men in your absence."
Cavayso swore, and sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Outside the
window there were voices in friendly speech, that of Clodomiro very
clear as he told his grandfather the dogs did not bark but once,
because some of the Mesa Blanca boys were with the general, who was
wounded.
Kit closed and bolted again the door of Cavayso, feeling that the
guardianship of beauty in Sonora involved a man in many awkward and
entangling situations. If it was indeed Rotil----
But a curious choking moan in the corridor caused him to turn quickly,
but not quickly enough.
Dona Jocasta, who had been as a reed of steel against other dangers,
had risen to her feet as if for flight at sound of the voice, and she
crumpled down on the floor and lay, white as a dead woman, in a faint
so deep that even her heartbeat seemed stilled.
Kit gathered her up, limp as a branch of willow, and preceded by Tula
with the torch, bore her back to the chamber prepared for her.
Valencia swept back the covers of the bed, and with many mutterings of
fear and ejaculations to the saints, proceeded to the work of
resuscitation.
"To think that she came over that black road and held fast to a heart
of bravery,--and now at a word from the Deliverer, she falls dead in
fear! So it is with many who hear his name; yet he is not bad to his
friends. Every Indian in Sonora is knowing that," stated Valencia.