A ROUGH KNIGHT ERRANT
“Letitia, that woman we owe was on the train that stopped here last
night. She was one of those who spoke to these Manuel children and the
sight of her clinched my anxiety to get away.”
“That--woman? Are you sure?”
“I reckon I can’t be mistaken in the face of the person who has held a
mortgage on my life so long. The queer thing is, I overheard her say
she’d ‘crossed the continent a dozen times’--that I never chanced to
see her before. Now--shall I send word ahead that the new man can have
my place?”
“So--soon, dear?”
“Capable operators and agents aren’t as thick as sage brush hereabouts.
Especially those willing to live at--Tuttle! I owe something to the
company I’ve served so long and--I mustn’t lose this chance. The traces
I found--I’m sure this venture’ll pan out well--I hate to uproot you
from your home, poor as it is, but I hope to give you a better. Shall I
send word, ‘Yes?’ Here she comes!”
“Ye-es,” faltered the wife, hurriedly turning houseward to hide the
tears which had started to her eyes. To leave the home itself was
less to her than leaving the stone-covered grave beside it. However,
frail as she was, she was a loyal wife and sunshiny woman, and she
made the best of the matter. She would at once begin her preparations,
but her heart was heavy with forebodings concerning the children so
unexpectedly placed in her care.
Mr. Burnham had lost no time in carrying out the suggestions of
Captain Sherman’s note. He had sat up late on the night of its arrival
dispatching and receiving messages concerning them. He had even
supplemented the cavalryman’s directions by inquiries of his own, for
when all was summed up that officer’s facts had been meager, indeed.
As Mrs. Burnham thought, it was fortunate that the new station-master
could not arrive at Tuttle till the end of two weeks; and during those
fourteen days her husband made fresh efforts to trace the children’s
friends, anxiously scanning every mail and listening to every wire--and
all without result.
What had seemed to Captain Sherman and, at first, even to Mr. Burnham,
the simplest matter in the world became impossible to accomplish; and
all because of a chain of circumstances, each trivial in itself.
The letters and messages sent to Lanark, the nearest postoffice to
Refugio, remained unclaimed and undelivered, because on the very
night of Pablo’s arrival at the mission, Miguel had left it and had
not returned. Nobody else there sent to Lanark, nor did the indolent
mail-and-telegraph-agent trouble to forward any matter to Refugio,
since he knew that both its master and manager were absent.
When he left home after failing to draw further information from Pablo
than the agave leaf contained, Miguel set off at once on a search of
his own; and by a strange chance came to that glen in the mountains
where Benoni lay dead among the dead Apaches. Always hasty in judgment,
the distracted fellow now leaped to the conclusion that his beloved
“small ones” were also dead--or worse--were in captivity, and that
thereafter life held only torment for him. He would never dare to
look upon Adrian Manuel’s face again; and, though he still carried
the sealed letter which was to be opened at the end of two months,
he resolved to go where none could find him till that time came.
Then--“what shall be will be!” he concluded, and mounting the horse
which supplied Amador’s place, he rode away southward and was seen no
more.
The Disbrows, also, left at once, and reached a remote little town on
their homeward way, when the elder gentleman was suddenly stricken with
a serious illness. Indeed he was so extremely ill that, Mr. Rupert, who
would otherwise have been eager to secure and read all newspapers, had
neither time nor thought for anything save nursing his father back to
health, or, at least, to a physical condition fit for travel. He did,
however, seize an opportunity to dispatch a message to Mrs. Sinclair;
confident that her energy would be sufficient to trace her “Mary’s
children,” should they still be alive.
But Mrs. Sinclair was at that time on her journey across the continent,
and the servant left in charge of her home received the message and
mislaid it. She had not dared to break the seal and read it, or she
might have told it promptly on her mistress’s arrival. As it was,
fearing the sharp rebukes which would have been given her, she kept the
matter secret, trusting in her heart that “it couldn’t have amounted to
anything or another would have followed.”
Adrian Manuel, the longed for father, lay a prisoner between hospital
walls, and in imminent danger of never leaving them alive. He was so
critically ill that he was oblivious to all that went on about him,
nor were the advertising columns of a newspaper of any interest to
the quiet nurse who attended him; and who, because of his hazardous
condition, allowed no less experienced person to care for him.
This was the reason of his mysterious journey “to the north.” The
knowledge of his serious malady had come to him with startling
suddenness and he had made instant preparation to place himself under
the best surgical treatment. He would not sadden his happy little
ones by his own forebodings and had ridden bravely away with a gay
“_Adios!_” to meet his fate. Should he not return, the sealed letter
provided for everything, and especially, that the twins were then to be
taken to Mrs. Sinclair, who thus would be left their natural and only
guardian.
So, when the two weeks expired and the Burnhams could no longer delay
departure they decided that the young Manuels must accompany them.
The new station-master was a rough old miner, unmarried, and though
efficient in the duties he assumed, he liked to keep a lot of such
men as himself about him. To leave Carlota in such an establishment,
even on the now fading chance of her father’s claiming her, seemed
impossible to Mrs. Burnham.
But the child, herself, strenuously protested against this departure.
Captain Sherman’s lecture upon “Obedience” had vividly impressed her.
“He said to stay was right. I’d made trouble enough not obediencing
before and I must. He was a soldier--he knew. We must not go away from
this straight railroad track, not at all. We can live at Leopard with
Dennis, if we can’t live with the new folks.”
Whereat that fine fellow answered without delay:
“Sure, me purty colleen, ’tis meself ’d be proud to have the carin’ of
ye, so it would. More by token ye’re a born lady, so ye be. But, faith,
if the family’s going to dig gold out of the mountains beyant, Dennis
Fogarty’s the man must have a fist in that same. Och! It’s the truth I
am speakin’.”
Mr. Burnham clinched the argument, saying:
“That cuts your last plank from under you, my dear. Never mind. I shall
leave directions what is to be done when you are sent for and how we
may be followed. We start to-morrow morning, at sunrise.”
At the hour they named they did so. A canvas-covered wagon containing a
camper’s outfit and drawn by four old--therefore experienced--horses,
left the little station platform for a “Castle in Spain.” Yet, despite
Letitia Burnham’s feeling that it might prove only that, she was
cheerful over the departure, seeing her husband happy at resuming what
he called “the business of his life,” and that he now believed would
be successful. He had often, on similar settings-out, been equally
sanguine, but the good wife was not one to remind him of that. Besides,
as she confided to Carlota:
“After all’s said and done, away down in their hearts all human beings
love a little vagabondizing!”
So, though her eyes filled as she glanced toward her Mary’s grave she
was still able to smile upon Teddy, lifting him into the wagon and,
rather hastily, climbing in beside him.
“I think it will be lovely, even though it doesn’t seem right for
us--Carlos and me. But we shall like it. We’re used to sleeping out of
doors and it will be like a long, all-summer picnic, won’t it?”
“I hope so. Of course, there will be hard realities. The worst is
sometimes wanting water. It’s a thirsty, thirsty land, this New Mexico.
But--‘The Lord will provide’.”
Carlota ran on in front and joined her brother and his comrade,
Jack; and, presently, to their surprise there came to them the sound
of Letitia Burnham--singing! A low, sweet hymn, whose burden was
thanksgiving.
“Gophers! The mother at that business? Hold on! Hark!” cried Jack, who
could scarcely believe his own ears.
“Your father is singing with her. That’s all,” said Carlota.
“That’s all, is it? ‘All?’ Well, then, Saynyereeter, let me tell
you that I, John Winterbottom Burnham, can’t remember that, during
the whole course of my checkered career, I ever heard my respected
respectable parents warble before!”
“You--disrespectful boy!”
“What have I done now? Can’t a fellow call attention to the talents
of his parents without being accused of disrespect?” he demanded, in
affected astonishment.
They all laughed. They were in a mood to find even trifles amusing.
There was not a cloud in that wonderful sky; the blue was almost too
radiantly deep. There was a clearness in the air which rendered the
distant mountains closely visible, and the expanse which lay between
them and these hills of delight seemed less a solitude than did that
central plain, marked by its one line of shining steel.
“Behold, my friends! We go out--paupers; we return--millionaires!”
declared Jack, proudly strutting beside his “team.” These four
venerable “campaigners,” who had been chosen because of their
familiarity with plain and mountain life, were the first horses with
which he had ever been familiar. The days of his parents’ former
wanderings a-field had been too early for him to recall.
“Hmm. That front beast on the left has a spavin,” remarked Carlos,
musingly.
“Huh! What’s that? Spavin! Spavin! I’d have you understand, young
Trot-and-go-barefoot, you--that what I don’t know about horseflesh
isn’t worth knowing.”
Carlos looked on, questioningly. He rarely knew whether Jack were
jesting or in earnest; but, either way, he found that having a boy
companion was so delightful that he was inclined to rather neglect
Carlota, with whom his time had always been passed. At that same
moment, up came Dennis, riding a vicious little beast which was doing
its utmost to unseat the unaccustomed horseman.
“Dennis! Dennis, on a broncho!” cried young Burnham, stopping his
leader’s progress, to await this fresh arrival. “We thought you had
petered out, Dennis, me friend! Sickened of the job and gone back to
straightening the ties. Where did you get that nag, eh? and what are
you doing with that unhappy burro?”
“Whoa, I tell ye! Whist! to the heels of ye! So, so. Yes, I know, I
know. There, there! Quiet, me beautiful boy! So, so--so-o!”
The wild little horse had been nearly maddened by the treatment of its
new owner. It had been checked up till its neck was half-twisted out of
shape, while a facetious trackman had persuaded Dennis to put on spurs
of an exaggerated size.
As soon as the broncho neared the other horses it quieted its movements
and, as if to give the children a chance to contemplate its rider
in all his glory, planted its forefeet firmly in the sand and stood
stock-still.
“Och! Dennis, me boy! Sure ’tis yourself that’s magnificent, entirely!”
mocked Jack, clapping his hands to his breast with a tragic air.
Nor, though they tried, could the twins help laughing.
“If Miguel could see!” cried Carlos, hurrying forward to examine the
Irishman’s outfit.
This was truly gorgeous. He had purchased it from a passing Mexican
_vaquero_. It consisted of much adorned, leathern breeches; a gay silk
shirt and sash; a fine _serape_ (cloak), thrown carelessly over one
shoulder; a handsome _sombrero_; long boots, such as no Mexican would
have parted with, save from dire necessity; a heavy, clumsy saddle; and
a bridle, rich in ornament. Altogether, a fine and picturesque outfit,
that might serve well in some _fiesta_ procession, but likely to prove
troublesome on the present trip.
Carlota soon stopped laughing. Even though she could see in the depths
of the “schooner” the amused faces of Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, she feared
that Dennis might be more sensitive than he appeared and he, certainly,
had spared nothing to do justice to the occasion.
“It surely is a nice little pony, Dennis. But I’ve only seen you
walking the track or on a hand-car and I didn’t know you were a
horseman;” she remarked.
“Faith, it wouldn’t be much of a man that couldn’t bestride the back of
a beast, now would it, little lady? It’s ridin’ I haven’t been doin’,
belike, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s ridin’ I shall be from
this on, and why not? But, how do ye like me new clothes, Miss Carlota?”
“They are very grand, Dennis. I’ve seen such at _fiestas_, yet, on
ordinary days they’ve been put away very carefully. I hope you won’t
hurt them in the mountains. Why, your _sombrero_ is finer than mine,
and much more adorned.”
“Sure it is that, now ain’t it?” said Dennis, well pleased. “But ye’re
not askin’ a word about t’other fine beast I’m a leadin’, me dear.”
“I suppose that is for your--your--pack, isn’t it. Or to rest you and
the broncho when he is tired.”
Now, indeed, was Dennis Fogarty a happy man! Almost from the first he
had become Carlota’s slave, and the Burnhams were glad of it, for he
added to her enjoyment. They suspected that he had for her sake decided
to go mining; and, also, for her sake, had Carlota known it, that he
had expended his dollars in the purchase of this decorative outfit.
“Sure, little lady, is it only that deceivin’ Meegell (Miguel) that can
wear the handsome contraptions, belike? ’Twas meself an’ Mickey Grady
as thought the matther out. A _sombrero_ is it? What then? So have I.
Sayrappy? Faith, I warrant here’s one to be proud of. And a burro, says
you? Now how’d this purty grayish-whitey be pleasin’ yerself? Eh, me
little lady?”
Even yet Carlota did not comprehend what Dennis thought he had made so
plain.
“He’s a pretty little creature. Indeed, he is much like one I used to
have at home. Carlos had one all beautifully marked with brown and
white, but mine was just a mouse-colored dear, as like this one as--as
one star is like another. You have made a good choice, I think, Dennis.”
Then was the Irishman’s felicity complete. He slipped from his broncho
and bowing low before his “little lady,” offered her the leading strap
of the “mouse-colored dear.”
“Then sure, Miss Carlota, ye’ll be doin’ me that proud by acceptin’
this same, as a token o’ friendship, belike. And I’d admire to be
seein’ how ye fits on his back.”
“For--me? You have bought that pretty creature for me? Why, Dennis,
Dennis!”
“That same is me name, an’ no shame to it; barrin’ ye’ll have none of
the beast.”
“But, I’ll have all of him, indeed! Oh! thank you, thank you!”
Her delight and the way in which she clapped her little brown hands
nearly turned the brain of the generous Irishman. Hitherto, he had
known but hard toil and the rough side of life, but Carlota represented
to him something wholly different; and the chivalry which is latent
in every manly breast, no matter how humble, roused him to become her
champion and protector. Moreover, he was very jealous of the unknown
Miguel, of whom both children talked with such sincere affection. To
Mike Grady, alone, had Dennis confided his ambition:
“I’ll take the shine off that ‘Greaser’ or I’ll spend the last cent I
ever will earn. Mind that, now;” and, after he had arrayed himself in
his finery, he had asked: “Do ye think, Mickey boy, that the ‘Greaser’
’ll look grander nor me, the day?”
Faithful to friendship as to wrestling, Mike had replied and meant it:
“Sure, there never was man under sun so fine as yourself the morn,
Dennis, me lad.”
Carlota felt really touched and grateful as she cried:
“All gray, with that pretty white blaze on his face! What is his name,
dear Dennis?”
“Name is it? If he has one, ’tis more nor I know. Let me lift ye on,
please.”
She could easily have stepped into the low saddle, but she recognized
that he wished to “swing her up,” as Miguel used to do upon some of
the spirited horses at Refugio; so she let him lift her, all clumsily
and delightedly, and settled herself in her place with a laugh of
satisfaction.
“He’s lovely! He shall be called Connemara, for your home. It’s a
pretty long name for a pretty small beast, but what he lacks in size he
makes up in his cog-cognomen. That’s right, I think.”
It was entirely right to the happy donor.
“Connemara, says she. Hear to it, all. Connemara, for me own purty
home. Sure it’s proud am I--”
A shriek--a chorus of voices broke in upon his happiness:
“Dennis! Dennis! The broncho! The--bronch--is--gone!”