THE MAN WHO DID NOT WANT TO BE SHOT
"A horse and a man
Is more than one,
And yet not many."
--_Taming of the Shrew_.
"Now Berthe--why, what in the world----" Jacqueline began.
It was her second morning to awake in the hacienda house, and the little
Bretonne tripped into her room under a starchy mountain heaped high.
"Clothes, madame," she replied.
"He mais----"
"They were made yesterday by some of the ranchero women. Madame will
look?"
"Calico! Grands dieux!"
There were two dresses, one for each girl. The native seamstresses had
slyly taken stock of mademoiselle the day before, only to discover that
a "simple" frock from Paris was a formidable thing to duplicate. The
marchioness smiled, and the maid also.
"But, for example, Berthe, who inspired this?"
"He did."
"He?"
"The American monsieur, of course."
"Oh, the American monsieur, of course! So, monsieur permits himself to
observe that I need a wardrobe? But you, Berthe, you surely did not----"
"Oh, no, madame! I knew nothing, till just now, when the woman brought
them. The monsieur ordered them yesterday, she said. And naturally,
madame, if he could have found better material, I do not doubt----"
"There, child, I'll not be reproached by your even thinking it necessary
to defend----"
"And madame will see, too, that they will do nicely." She spread the
frocks on the bed, and began snipping here and there with the scissors
and taking stitches everywhere. "By letting it out this way--voila, if
madame will kindly slip it on?"
"Berthe, you can't mean--Oh nonsense!"
None the less the skirt passed over her head, and the maid's deft
fingers kept on busily. "And why not?" she talked as she worked, "unless
one likes rags better. And who will see? Only men. Poof, those citizens
do not know percale from a Parisian toilette."
Jacqueline began to wax angry with the quiet tyranny of it. She looked
at the horror and shuddered, then with both hands pushed the calico to
the floor, gathering up her own lawn skirt instead. It was rather a
woebegone lawn skirt. She gazed ruefully at the garment, then down at
the blue flowering heaped about her ankles. Berthe, kneeling over the
dress, raised her eyes. The puckered brow of her mistress spelled fury,
and the maid tried not to laugh, at which Jacqueline stamped her foot.
"Berthe," she cried, "shall I slap you?"
"Mais oui, madame. And madame, I was thinking, what will he say if you
do not wear it?"
Jacqueline gave her a keen look. "Child, child," she exclaimed, "you
seem to imagine that whatever _he_ wants----"
"Oui, madame.--I think you can try it on again now."
And madame submitted petulantly. But to herself she had to confess the
magic in Berthe's fingers. Though she pouted over the fresh, rustic
effect, yet on her slender figure there was witchery in it.
An orderly knocked. He was one of her Austrian escorts come to say that
everything was ready for departure. She gladly hailed the chance to
escape this house of mourning. All night long old women in the death
chamber had mumbled incantations, and the droning was in her ears as she
slept. It was not nice. Because she could not blot out the inartistic
shock of ugly mortality, in very self-hate she yearned to get away. The
evening before, even while she loaned common sense to the crazed
household, even while she pressed down the icy eyelids, she
wondered--obstinately wondered, despite herself, what the dead girl
could have thought, what she could have felt, during that one horrid,
thrilling second of flight downward, and what, in anticipation of the
second after. It was gruesome, this being always and always the
spectator. Yet Jacqueline knew that, had it been she herself plunging
from the tower, she still would have been that spectator. Too well she
knew that she would have analyzed what she thought and felt. She would
have rated even the second before eternity in its degree as a frisson;
and, no doubt, would have been aware of a voluptuous satiety, while
anticipating the second after. She hated herself, and she hated too the
smart, ultra-refined life that had brought her to it. How many of those
past years, or of the years to come would she not give to shed a few
tears without interrogating them!
Ney met the two girls under the colonnade. At the steps was the coach
and eight mules left by Maximilian for their use, and drawn up in
stately line were Messieurs the Feathers and Furs, as Jacqueline called
His Majesty's Austrian Imperial Guards. When she appeared, out flashed
their curved blades. The queenly little lady in blue-flowered calico and
a rakish Leghorn hat returned the salute with a smile.
"Where are the Dragoons, Michel?" she asked.
Ney did not know. But a Mexican with a crossed eye approached, doffing a
silver-lettered sombrero. He had been waiting for her, he said. There
was time. Otherwise he would have forced his way to wherever she was.
"Indeed, Seigneur Farceur?" said Jacqueline.
She recognized that most sinister of jokers, Don Tiburcio. He was eyeing
her narrowly, and there was a vigilance in the baleful gleam, as though
of late he might have been deceived by his fellowmen.
"But," he coolly proceeded, "only a few minutes are left now."
"My good man, whatever are you talking about?"
"And after the few minutes, we'll have the shooting. I came to invite
Your Mercy."
"Shoot whom?"
"There is but one prisoner."
"You mean Senor Murguia? The American was acquitted, I believe."
"It's the other way, senorita. They were both tried over again, and
then, the American was condemned."
"Mademoiselle," ejaculated Ney, "you are deathly----"
"I am not!" Jacqueline protested furiously. "It's the powder."
But Berthe knew better. Her mistress used it not, for all the roguish
freckle on her nose-tip. Tiburcio, too, was satisfied as to her sudden
pallor. She would save him the American, he decided. "Your Mercy had
best hasten," he urged her frankly.
Jacqueline ran to the end of the portico, from were she could see the
pasture. Within, a platoon of red jackets were filing toward the carcel.
"That scoundrel Lopez!" exclaimed Tiburcio, "he has advanced the time on
us!"
Only for an instant did Jacqueline wring her hands.
"Michel, your horse!" she cried. "Quick, quick! Now hold the stirrup!"
But Tiburcio was the quicker. He bent his knee, on it she stepped, and
up she jumped, and kicked her heel as a spur. The charger leaped, and
down the road clattered girl and horse, she swaying perilously.
It was a hundred yards to the pasture gate, and as much again to the
adobe inside. When her horse rose in his gallop, she caught glimpses
over the wall. The Dragoons were drawing up before the carcel. Sentinels
tugged at the huge wooden door, and Lopez goaded them on. He saw her
coming, and would have it over with before she could interfere. He
bellowed an order, and the shooting squad threw up their guns at aim.
They would not wait. They would fire on their victim the second the door
opened. The heavy oak began to give. But that moment swinging in through
the gate, Jacqueline could see only the carcel's blank adobe wall. Yet
she pictured the man just behind. She pictured the door opening.
And--too late! Dieu, the muskets had volleyed already!
But--what made the shots scatter so? Scattered and flurried, they
sounded. And no wonder! She saw a miracle in the doing. It was the most
astounding sight of all her life long. Straight through the blank adobe
wall, for all its two feet of thickness, she beheld a man on a
great-boned yellow horse, both man and horse plunge mid a sudden cloud
of dust, plunge squarely into the light of day.
The dumfounded shooting squad had blazed crazily against the half-open
door; and for the critical quarter minute following, their weapons were
harmless. Other Dragoons ran wildly out into the pasture, and as wildly
fired at the horseman. Only one of the sentinels had happened to be on
the side of the magic exit, but as the solid wall dissolved into a
powdered cloud and the apparition hurtled past him, down upon his head
crashed a gigantic water jar filled with earth. He who had sympathized
with pagan ablutions the night before stood now with mouth agape. Some
heathen god was having a hand in this, he knew.
Jacqueline wheeled to Driscoll's side as he dashed toward her. He was
coatless. His woolen shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves were rolled
to the elbows. His slouch hat sat upon the back of his head. The short
cropped curls, gray with dust, fluttered against the brim. She had never
seen a face so buoyantly happy.
"Morning, Miss Jack-leen! Race you to the river?"
They galloped through the gate together. He was for turning down the
road, but she blocked his horse with her own. During a second the flight
was stopped.
"I'm in a hurry just now," he panted, but made no effort to get by her.
"Up that way!" she cried. "Up that way, past the House!"
"But those pretty boys----"
"The Austrians? They'll not stop you, I promise."
"Then it's our move. Careful, little girl, don't fall!"
Jacqueline, waving her arm, signaled the Feathers and Furs to make room,
and Tiburcio and Ney saw to it that they did. Man and girl raced through
them.
"Wait here, Michel!" called Jacqueline, leaving Ney still with thumb to
cap at salute. Tiburcio gazed after them.
Lopez ran across the pasture to the colonnade. His red face was redder
than ever before. Tiburcio sardonically regarded him. Lopez glared at
Ney.
"Why aren't you in pursuit?" he demanded hotly.
"And you, monsieur?"
"And I, and I! Who are you to question me, senor? Every girth has been
cut!"
"Caramba, mi coronel," cried Tiburcio in dismay, "you don't say so!"
"And it will take ten minutes to tie up the cords, while you, you, Senor
Frenchman, you stand there, your men mounted and ready! Obey me, I tell
you!"
"Can't," said Ney doggedly. "Against orders."
"Orders? Whose orders?"
"Of Mademoiselle la Marquise, monsieur."
"Who runs away with a convict. A fit commander, por Dios!"
Off came the Frenchman's gauntlet, but he paused in the gesture of
striking. Too quick at this, and not enough at wits, he might ruin her
plans.
"As fit," he retorted instead, "as another who lets prisoners escape. I
advise Monsieur the Colonel to look to his girths."