hands in his. Then, holding all her fingers firmly, he bent his dark
head down to her left hand swiftly. The next moment, he retreated,
almost with a leap, swung the door open, closed it behind him, ran
swiftly to where the sheriff was waiting for him on the path by the
chapel, threw himself on to a horse, and led the way at a gallop to the
river.
Paloma pursued him, and so fleetly that her hand all but touched the
_tapadero_ of his stirrup as he rode into the river. Those who saw her
then, standing at the edge of the stream, splashed upon face and dress
with the yellow water sent into the air by his horse’s hoofs, were
appalled as they looked at her. She was livid with anger and screamed
wild things that no one understood--execrations and threats. Then she
fell down at the ford in a very spasm of wrath.
It was Señor John who lifted her up and gave her into the comforting
arms of her mother. “What did he do?” he questioned. “He’s a bad,
heartless wretch, that’s what he is.”
“Señor! My adored pearl!” wailed Paloma, finding her voice. “Oh, he has
taken my precious pearl!” She held out her left hand tremblingly.
“The pearl?” echoed Father José, joining the others.
“See what he did!” wept Paloma. “He made as if to kiss my fingers--_and
bit the pearl from my ring_!”
* * * * *
At sunset Anastacio was back at Los Morales again, where he bade
fair to become a hero before long, since the Indians could not but
honour a man who was able so promptly to throw off the clutches of
the jailer. Anastacio related his adventures to those Pueblos who
were lounging before the single store of the town, and who, as they
listened, surrounded him in an eager, many-hued circle. It was easy,
he explained, to guard against being kept in custody if one but
used a little forethought. As for his own case, it had presented no
difficulties. He had paid his fine with the pearl.
When the boast reached the ears of Paloma, what could have maddened
her more? At once she sat herself down to think. Revenge was what she
most desired. Revenge was what she must have--but how? Not till she had
paced the floor many times, and torn all the fringe from the bottom of
the scarlet shawl, did she think out the best way.
The girl who rode the spotted mustang came past the chapel the very
next morning. Paloma ran to halt her, holding up a flower culled from
Father José’s garden by way of an inducement to stop. And when Paloma
had made sure that no one was watching them, or listening, she divulged
an earnest wish. It was that Señorita Roberta would give her the loan
of a ring.
A pair of blue eyes laughed down at her knowingly. “Punish him
well!” whispered Señorita Roberta, and slipped a band from a finger.
“Here--take this one with a green stone. It will make him _terribly_
jealous!” Then she rode to where Señor John was painting beneath the
empty belfry in the shadow of the chapel wall.
Putting on the borrowed ring Paloma hastened to dress herself with
great care. After which, strolling carelessly, she made through the
sunlight to the store.
The man who kept the store was young, but with the pallid skin and
sad, hollow eyes that denote a mortal illness. He could move about but
slowly in the little room, and take down and display and put away only
with much effort.
As he waited upon her, Paloma walked to and fro with a gay step, all
the while talking: “Show me the calico with the yellow flower, señor.
Yes--a yard, please. Did you hear that Señor Gordon is to paint me?
Well, he is--and with the padre’s peacock. I am to wear a certain white
dress that I shall not use for the purpose it was once intended. No; I
shall buy another white dress--very soon, I think--a much richer dress.
And, look, señor, is this ring not beautiful? The stone came from
beyond the Pacific Ocean.”
Behind the stove, as she sauntered about, boasting, sat a figure
wrapped to the ears in a torn serape. But the figure did not move, or
appear to see, or even so much as cough.
“Yes,” babbled Paloma, “first I’m to be put in a picture. Then--who
knows?--I may go on a long trip. Oh, farther than Albuquerque, señor.
Yes, one spool of white thread, very fine. I may even go as far as
Chicago.” She tossed her pretty head with meaning. “A girl cannot
always live in Los Morales,” she added. “It is but a poor place.”
Thereupon, she gathered up her packages, put down some coins upon the
counter, gave the sick young man a saucy smile, and went out.
Perhaps it was ten--perhaps fifteen--minutes later when Anastacio rose
from his seat by the stove. A change had come over him--a change that
was not good to see. His thin face was as ghastly white as the face of
the man behind the counter. Out of it gleamed his black eyes, which
were so wide open that each was rimmed with white. And his lips were
purple under his long moustache and parted to show the line of his set,
white teeth. Now his hat was not hiding his forehead, but back upon his
shining hair; nor was the torn serape about his shoulders--it was wound
around his left arm. He went down through the village, out upon the
path which led to the chapel, along this to where Señor John was still
painting under the belfry, and so on to the ford, where he disappeared
from sight under the high bank that stood a little way back from the
river.
* * * * *
The day had begun warm and still, and the noon had been hot, without a
breath of air to stir the drooping flowers in Father José’s garden or
wave the bright fan of the strutting peacock. But at the middle of the
afternoon black clouds suddenly lowered upon river and town, dropping
from off the high dirt-cliffs to the west, and bringing twilight with
them. A gusty wind marshalled the clouds along, bent the reeds in the
marsh, drove through the winding streets of the pueblo and caught at
the blankets of the Indians who were scurrying to cover, and brushed
all the surface of the river into a white lather. Then came great drops
of rain.
Señor John fled into Father José’s kitchen. “Do you think I’d better
start home now?” he inquired, “or wait a while?”
“Wait,” advised the father. “There will be _tamales_ for supper, and a
loaf of bread heated with butter. After a day like this one, señor, the
storm soon passes.”
But as night came on swiftly the wind grew to a gale and the rain began
to drive, beating upon the panes of the wide-ledged window like whips
of grass.
Señor John ate his supper in silence, getting up nervously every now
and then to open the front door a trifle in order to look out, or he
shaded his eyes from the lamplight as he peered through the window. The
father touched little food, and following supper took his seat in the
cane chair before the open grate of his stove--his head lowered and his
eyes closed.
Before long the young painter could not contain his impatience further.
“I think I’d better start,” he said. “It doesn’t act like quitting for
sometime.”
Father José rose. “Why go home to-night?” he asked. “You will not be
able to see the cross on the other side, señor. You are welcome here.”
“Oh, I must get over somehow. They would worry about me.”
The father looked grave. “The storm still increases,” he said.
The rain was coming in sheets against the window now, but at short
intervals, so that it was as if a white wraith were returning noisily
again and again to peer through the blurred glass. The blue blinds
outside the father’s bedchamber were banging forward and back with
a rattle of loose laths. Upon the level roof overhead sounded the
unbroken roar of the tempest.
“A cloudburst and a hurricane,” went on the father. He also opened the
front door a little to look out. “I have never seen its like before,
señor. They will surely not expect you to brave this.”
The young painter’s face had grown suddenly anxious. “But _she_ might
try to come--looking for me,” he said.
“Señorita Roberta? No. She knows how dangerously the river rises in a
storm and how the sands shift.”
Señor John was pulling his soft hat down to his ears. “You said
yourself, though, father, that she doesn’t know what it means to be
afraid of the Rio Grande. I _must_ go. My horse is all right. He’ll
take me over.”
“Do not risk it,” advised Father José. “Listen!” And he held up a
finger.
There was now a deep voice in the tumult outside--a voice that boomed
in heavy undertones.
“It is the river, señor. Oh, I shall worry too.”
“I’ll yell when I get across.”
“I could not hear. But I have an old pistol which I took from a
quarrelsome Indian.” The father disappeared into his bedroom and
returned carrying a long-barrelled revolver of an old make. “Fire this
when you reach the other side.”
“Good-night, Father.”
“Good-night, my son.”
They shook hands and Señor John went out through the door leading into
the garden.
A little moon-faced clock on a shelf under the white-and-gold porcelain
marked the time as close upon eight. The father returned to his
armchair. But now he kept his eyes open and his lips pressed tight, and
his head a little to one side. Thus, he waited.
At half-past eight he got up and went to the front door. Rain was
still falling heavily, but the wind seemed to have abated a degree. He
listened. The river was speaking with a medley of curious voices: There
was the rise and fall of pleasant argumentation; wagon-wheels ground
over gravel; a child whimpered; oars pounded and squeaked in their
rowlocks; steam sang; a dog snarled. Presently he made out the wide Rio
Grande as pools of glistening black that moved upon a dead blackness.
With the glimpse of that sweeping, inky flood, fear came over him. He
called: “Señor John! Come back! Señor! _Señor!_”
There was no answer. But as he watched--shivering a little--a tiny
speck of light suddenly showed in the distance, where stood the Allen
hacienda.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “He must be there.” And after watching and
listening for another while, he closed the door and went back to his
chair.
The wind was plainly lessening, so that now the bedroom blinds banged
only occasionally--and the rain was falling more gently. He leaned
back, propped his head on a hand, and dozed.
Suddenly, he found himself sitting bolt upright, clutching either arm
of the chair, holding his breath. What was that? What had awakened him?
He seemed to hear them yet--the dying tones of a bell!
His eyes sought the clock. _Four!_ And the storm was over, for he
could hear the ticking. He rose. He lit the lantern. He tied the
purple-bordered square of silk over his white hair. Then he hastened
down the garden-walk, out of the gate, and toward the river, calling
with all his strength.
A voice answered him faintly, as if from the opposite shore. He shouted
again. It was a girl’s voice--the second answer made that certain. Then
he heard the snort of a horse, splashing, and a murmur of encouraging
words.
As he awaited her approach, he made circles with his lantern upon the
river, and whispered in an agony of self-reproach: “He is lost. And I
let him go! He is lost or she would not be seeking him!”
There were few clouds in the sky, and in the east was a pale
lightening, as if of the dawn. By holding the lantern behind him, he
made out horse and rider as they neared.
“Where is Señor John?” he called to the girl.
“_Oh!_”--it was a piercing cry. “Isn’t he with _you_?”
The spotted mustang was pushing through water that foamed about his
shoulders. Close to the bank, she reined him and bent over in her
saddle as if overcome.
“No! no!” Father José implored. She lifted her head then--he swung his
lantern forward--and saw the awful stiffness of her white face, the
wild terror of her eyes. All at once he understood what he had not
guessed before. “Oh, poor little woman!” he said compassionately.
“When did he start home?”
“Eight.”
“Oh, he went down!” Now, she half-turned the mustang, and rode against
the current. All the while, she looked about her, first on one hand
then on the other, and uttered little, piteous, despairing calls.
“Be careful!” warned the father. “You are above the ford.”
She reined. “Where is the cross? He must have started in at the cross.
John! John!”
Father José hunted about. “I cannot find it,” he answered. “Perhaps it
has been swept away.” Then, hurrying forward, “No; here it is--but how
far up. This is not the ford!”
“Father! Someone has changed the cross!” Suddenly, the mustang halted
as if in fear. She strove to urge him on, striking at his flanks with a
quirt.
“Come a little farther,” called Father José.
“My horse is _sinking_!”
That moment, with a shudder, then a quick backward plunge that struck
up a shower of spray, the mustang threw himself toward the bank and
floundered out.
The girl was panting and crouching on her saddle again. “The crossing’s
bad!” she wept. “He rode right into it. Oh, Father José!”
The father did not answer. He had waded out a few steps. And now as he
stood in the water, the current was catching at the bottom of his gown
and whirling it. To and fro he swept the lantern.
All at once the girl sat up and faced riverward. “What’s that?” she
asked. “Didn’t you hear it? And, look! There--down there, away out!”
The light had grown. She pointed below them to the middle of the
flood. It had divided at one point and was running on either side of a
sand-bar which showed above the surface of the water. At the near edge
of the bar lay something black--something that moved a little.
Almost before the father knew where she pointed, the spotted mustang
was fighting the current once more, now making his way through water
that only washed above the stirrups, now falling suddenly into deep
channels that he swam. All the while she encouraged him, or shouted
ahead, or back to Father José.
The father had put down his lantern. Now he ran to the cross, pried it
out of the sand and started along the bank with it, stopped at a point
a little above where he judged she could come out, for the cross was
heavy and the current could help him to carry it.
Now, she had stopped in midstream and was heading the spotted mustang
about. Next, she had leaned down and reached a hand to the exhausted
man lying in water to his shoulders. Then, very slowly, the spotted
mustang, alternately swimming and walking as before, she began the
return.
She came on without a word, for all her breath and strength were needed
for her task. Her left arm was crooked around the horn of her saddle,
her right was outstretched, still holding its heavy weight. When she
had made half the distance Father José advanced into the water to meet
her, pulling the floating cross along at his side.
Together they brought Señor John to shore, he clinging to a stirrup
at the last, and she to his sleeve, for her hold had not borne the
long strain. He was clinging to the cross as well, Father José having
pressed the base of the upright under the water and under his arm. As
they laid him upon the ground, and the father wiped at his face, he
looked up at them with a wan smile.
“Roberta,” he whispered hoarsely, “I--was getting--tired.”
“I nearly died with fear,” she answered. “John, where’s your horse?”
“Went down.”
“Rest for a little,” bade the father.
They all rested, breathing hard--Señor John lying and they seated
beside him. But presently he struggled up to a sitting posture, bracing
himself on one dripping arm.
“Roberta,” he said, his voice firmer even with so short a respite, “I’m
cold.”
They helped him to stand, and half-carried him to the top of a low
ledge of sand near by. Then, while the father supported him for a
moment, she led the spotted mustang to the ground below the ledge, and
Señor John was enabled easily to mount.
“First, to the store,” said Father José, “for dry clothing. Then, hot
coffee.”
Señor John was too weak to sit up in the saddle, and leaned
forward--his back bowed, his chin on his breast, his hands clasped
around the saddle-horn. “You won’t have to hold me on,” he said, when
they reached up from either side. “No; I’m all right. Just worn out,
that’s all, keeping myself from being sucked under.” He turned a
haggard face to Father José. “Think!” he added, “--if it hadn’t been
for that rock!”
“A _rock_, señor?” demanded the father. “There are no rocks here in the
Rio Grande.”
Señor John lifted a feeble hand to point. “You can _see_ it,” he
protested; “a big one, too, sticking out of the sand.”
Father José looked out to where the channel divided on either side of
the bar. There was a strange light in his eyes, and his cheeks were
pale as he faced the dawn. “Something _is_ there,” he said, speaking
low, as if to himself.
The spotted mustang started now, slowly, with the girl walking
alongside to guide him. The father did not follow. He went down to
the water’s edge instead, and stood watching out toward the bar in
midstream. And so they left him.
As for Señor John, he was soon wearing a suit from off the shelves at
the store and was reviving after a smoking draught of the brew which
Paloma’s mother brought. Then a seat behind the stove was fixed up
for him and here he was showered with attention, no less by the young
storekeeper--haggard as himself--than by a cluster of inquisitive, but
kindly, Indians.
To one side loitered Paloma, quietly observant. But when Señor John,
despite his little audience, reached up to kiss the girl who had braved
the water and the sands to find him, Paloma approached the two and drew
from her finger the ring with the green stone.
“I return what I borrowed,” she said. Her face was a sullen black
and ivory, and when she walked away it was with an air somewhat
forlorn--like that of a girl who has neither ring nor lover. But when
she reached the door a tinge of colour rushed into cheek and lip.
Outside, two dark eyes were fixed upon her from under a wide hat, for
Anastacio was hovering near, wrapped in his serape--hovering as if
he wished to look on, yet was anxious to escape notice. All at once,
Paloma’s pretty head came high again and she tripped proudly out.
It was at this juncture that shouting was heard from the direction of
the river. Instantly the crowd about Señor John dwindled and started in
loose order down the winding pueblo street. Paloma’s mother went too,
joining Paloma. And the storekeeper followed, bareheaded. Then--the
shouting had grown--Señor John got up and trailed after the others,
leaning on a willing shoulder.
The sun was up now and shining warmly. As they came out of the village
upon the path which led past the chapel, it glistened on the wet grey
roofs of the town and on the wide, yellow river.
All of Los Morales was in front of them, crying out excitedly,
running, cheering wildly. And now, as the noisy throng parted, here
came a procession, moving up the gentle slope that led from the Rio
Grande to the chapel of San Felipe. Father José led it, his thin face
uplifted and transformed, his dark eyes wide, serene and luminous, his
slender hands clasping the jet cross on his breast. Behind him trooped
the Pueblos, reaching out brown hands to touch something that was
in their midst. Their black eyes sparkled, their white teeth showed
with smiling. At the center of the throng walked six bright-blanketed
Indians abreast, a long, stout pole in their hands. And swung on the
pole through its iron loop, with its clapper wagging as the six walked,
and sounding a mellow, clear-throated, joyous greeting to all the town,
came the lost silver bell of Los Morales.
* * * * *
The very morning that the lilac bush in a corner of the father’s garden
showed a first cockade of purple bloom among its heart-shaped leaves,
the silver bell rang for a wedding--for Paloma married Anastacio, and
wore the white dress, and a ring with a pearl to guard her new gold
band. And the gift of the groom to his bride was a fawn, which was to
have a garden all its own. And the gift of the bride’s mother was a
freshly-built house of adobe, flat-roofed, with doors that were bluer
than any doors in the city of Albuquerque, and with a trellis as blue
as the doors. While, curiously enough, the gift of the bride to the
father was a yellow custard.
Señor John and the girl who rode the spotted mustang crossed the river
to attend the wedding. (Señor John came, because--in Los Morales--it is
well to let sleeping dogs lie.) And when the ceremony was finished, the
two visited a while with Father José.
“Well,” said the father to them cheerfully, “I have married the Spanish
peacock off. She will strut a little, no doubt, and delight in her own
beauty; perhaps accomplish nothing in her new life--after the manner of
peacocks. But when it comes to that, could not one say _almost_ as much
against my roses? Yes.” As he talked he busied himself with a salad. In
the bottom of the white-and-gold dish he first laid a slice of buttered
bread; then, upon the bread, leaf against leaf, so that the effect was
that of a huge green rose, he placed the lettuce, all glistening with
its dressing of oil and vinegar; next, a-top the lettuce----
But here Señor John left the wide-ledged window and came forward,
smiling, to whisper something slyly into his ear. At that the father
left his salad and seized a hand of each of them. “Señor and Señora
Gordon!” he cried. “Well, a double blessing! Ah!--how like ever seeks
out like!”
And so surprised was the good father at their news that for the
first time in all the years that he had possessed the white-and-gold
porcelain, he forgot to add--as a top to the big, green rose--the thin
circles of silvery onion.
THE REVENGE OF MANUELITA
Manuelita shooed the chickens one way, pursing out lips as scarlet as
the ripe _cacao_; with a round, copper-tinted arm she wielded a length
of bamboo to prod the pigs the other. An exit made, she pulled the door
shut behind her to keep out the naked babies cluttered before it among
pigs and chickens, and took a proud, leisurely look up and down the
double row of _paja_-thatched huts.
It was Sunday afternoon, and fairly cool, for the almost vertical
Venezuelan sun was screened by the drab clouds of a gathering storm.
So the womankind of the San Jacinto _hacienda_ were before their low
houses, some with men beside them, others alone but gossiping volubly
to whomever chanced near. Manuelita bent her pretty head to survey the
slipper-like _alpargatas_ Ricardo had just bought her, and the new
skirt, bright-figured, and of a length that left the leg bare from
dimpled knee to foot. Then, smoothing her little jacket, and putting
her wide straw hat at its jauntiest angle, she set off slowly down the
narrow, dirty street.
At some distance from it was Antonia Toro, slouching, hands on hips, in
her own door. When she saw Manuelita advancing, she straightened, and
let her bony hands fall, clinched, against her petticoat. Small eyes
half closed in hate, frowzy head thrust forward, she began to call out,
addressing a neighbour, but aiming her words at her successful rival.
“Bah!” she cried, with a laugh. “Look how our parrot’s new feathers
stick out!”
Manuelita heard, and walked more slowly. Her brown eyes sparkled
delightedly, her round chin went up, her red mouth parted in a smile
over even, white teeth.
“Bah!” snorted Antonia again, and put out her tongue. “Let her strut
now. But--ha! ha!--Ricardo is a man that likes change. Who knows?”
There was a threat in the hoarse voice. It stung Manuelita. She paused.
“When did a man choose a rotten instead of a ripe banana?” she inquired
sweetly, and raised her plump shoulders.
At that, a laugh ran from hut to hut. Antonia’s wrath grew.
“How long does the ripe stay ripe?” she cried. “Ricardo will go. Ha!
ha!”
Manuelita was proceeding gracefully. Now she stopped once more, turning
her full, girlish throat to look round.
“Yes,” she answered, “when Rio Tuy flows back to the mountains.”
Ricardo came by Antonia’s a little later, just as the last scattered
drops of a heavy downpour were falling. He was mud to the waist, muddy
of face, and dripping. One hand was busy with a cigarette; from a
finger of the other, by their heel straps, hung his _alpargatas_. He
had been out since noon, walking across the ditches of the _hacienda_.
Again Antonia was slouching in her door.
“Loan me your fire, Ricardo?” she asked.
He glanced up the street uneasily, then halted and lit the long cigar
she was preparing.
“Ah, but you are tired,” she went on, with a great show of concern,
“and wet to the skin. Come, will you enter? Juan is gone, and for
good--_á Dios gracias!_ I never liked him. He was stingy and ugly and
old. Come----”
“Where is he gone?” asked Ricardo, making no move toward accepting her
invitation.