John Fremont Carson stood upon the great rock at the brink of the
village and surveyed, above the ugly snub nose of his automatic, the
surge of men before him. One shot from that automatic had garroted the
rebellion. At his feet sprawled the short thick-set form of Baptista
Monterey, a tiny flaming crater in his right temple where a
steel-jacketed bullet had found his life.
Behind Carson lay Jacinto Quesada, stricken and spread-eagled from the
plague. The men stood staggered and cowed before him, fascinated with
fear and deep awe.
"Quick, one of you!" exploded the American. "Carry Quesada to the sick
bay!"
There was a sudden stir among the apprehensively huddled men. The tall
gray-suited Frenchman stepped forward,
"Allow me, monsenor."
With a gentle concern, astonishing from him, he rolled the long-legged
form of the bandolero snugly in his serape and then, staggering under
the weight, leaden with unconsciousness, started off up the uneven
street toward the chapel.
Carson flourished his automatic.
"Pronto!" he yelled. "Into your huts, you serranos! You of the
cuadrilla, back to your work in the hospital!"
The men dispersed like a foggy neblina under the rays of the sun.
Ferou was some distance ahead of the cuadrilla as it tramped, bowed of
head, back up the street. Carson and Morales remained on the rock,
busying with the fire which would cremate the remains. There was no one
to see.
The Frenchman seized the opportunity. With one hand, he reached under
the long mountaineer's shawl that swathed Quesada's body; he reached
into the inside pocket of the sheepskin zamarra. He drew forth a small
mahogany-colored leather purse. That purse had once been his own.
Without bothering to open it, he thrust it into a pocket of his gray
tweed suit. He knew. Within, in that small mahogany-colored leather
purse, was the tightly wound roll of five-thousand peseta bills he had
stolen from Don Jaime de Torreblanca y Moncada!
When Carson hurried up, a short spell later, to tend to Quesada, Ferou
was awaiting him in the hospital, apparent anxiety upon his ashy-hued
face.
"Monsenor Carson," he said deferentially, "to-day must have taught you a
lesson. It is not wise that these bullfighters and serranos should be
armed. They might rise again. I would some advice give you. Collect all
the arms in the barrio and keep them under your own hand."
The suggestion met with accord from the American. Readily he could see
its precautionary value against future rebellion.
"Just a little, and I'll be finished doing all I can for Jacinto; then
I'll be with you."
Together they made a round of the cabanas. They requisitioned ancient
muzzle-loading smooth-bores, Mannlichers, Mauser carbines, revolvers,
old-fashioned pistols, and guns with muzzles wide as the mouth of a
French horn. In Quesada's choza, where Felicidad slept and hourly gained
strength, they found a modern smokeless breech-loading hunting gun, a
cordite repeater.
They were tireless and microscopically thorough in the search. Despite
the mutterings and scowls of the serranos, they seized every instrument
which might be used as a weapon of offense. They collected Manchegan
knives, navajas, razors, and even alpenstocks and shovels. Against the
cork-oak tree in the center of the pueblo street, they made a heap of
the conglomeration.
They had circled back to the hospital, and Ferou had entered to disarm
the members of the cuadrilla therein, when Carson, following at his
heels, made a sudden clutch at the jamb of the door.
"Hola!" exclaimed Morales, just then coming up behind from the cremation
rock at the brink of the pueblo. "Sacred blood, what's the matter, Don
Juan!"
Ferou slewed swiftly round. Both men, the one within, the other without
the chapel, eyed the American in the doorway. There was a strange,
almost hopeful expectancy in the slate-colored eyes of the Frenchman; in
the dark thick-lashed eyes of the matador a terrible voiceless dread.
Carson drew himself up. It was a visible effort. His angular face looked
grayly haggard; his lips were drawn tight over his teeth.
"It is nothing," he said slowly. "I feel a little faint, that's all. I
guess the excitement of this morning has upset me. It will soon pass
off."
"You must lie down, mi camarada," said Morales gently but firmly. "You
have not slept in two nights--since the night when that boy's mother
died, and last night when Robledo of my cuadrilla slapped under. You
need rest. You have been doing the work of three men, of thirty men,
tending Felicidad, doctoring in here, directing and administering to
all. You must lie down."
The American made to stagger through into the sick bay; but Morales
stopped him with a steadying hand upon his shoulder.
"Not here," he advised softly. "We are overcrowded already. Besides, for
you to lie in this atmosphere, would make you more liable to the plague.
Come to Quesada's cabana. Felicidad is feeling quite strong to-day.
There is an unused couch there. Felicidad will see that you want for
nothing."
"But Quesada--"
"I will take care of him. Jacinto is a brave man; he has the will to
live. Everything in my power I shall do, Don Juan, to see that he does
live."
With one shaking hand, Carson fumbled in his pocket. He finally drew out
a number of yellow printed leaves that had been torn from a book.
"Here are the instructions of what to do," he said wearily.
Morales took the yellow illumined pages. His honest Andalusian face was
grave with an intenseness of sincerity.
"Senor Carson," he said almost formally, "everything you have done, I
will attempt to do. You may rest easily in the knowledge and conviction
that I am carrying forward all that you planned. Your methods have
proved good methods. There have been deaths, true; but never, in an
epidemic of cholera, have I known so few deceases, so many recoveries.
Steadfastly, with fortitude and without deviation, with a stout heart
and an iron hand, I shall put through your modern sanitary methods.
Senor, I will even cremate the dead!"
It was enough. Guided and aided by the matador, Carson stumbled down the
uneven street toward Quesada's cabana. The Frenchman looked after the
two, through the chapel doorway, and smiled his calculating and very
superior smile.
When Morales returned, Ferou pointed out the heaped-up scramble of
weapons under the cork-oak tree and explained what he and Carson had
been about.
"If the Senor Americano thought it a good plan," said Morales with
promptitude and decision, "I will go through with it. My word has been
given in promise. Whatever Don Juan started, that shall I attempt to
finish."
He entered the hospital. Within, what remained of his cuadrilla were
watching and nursing the sick. They were now only three. Of the others,
the banderillero, Baptista Monterey, had been killed in the rebellion on
the rock; Coruncho Lopez, the picador, was dead from the plague; and
another banderillero, Alfonso Robledo, was still numbered among the
blanketed patients on the platforms.
"Here, you peones," said Morales to the three. "Take off your guns and
knives! It is the order of the Senor Carson."
The bullfighters darted quick glances at one another. They were nervous
and suspicious. Why did the matador want them to disarm? What did he
purpose doing, once he had them unarmed--punish them for their
participation in that morning's rebellion? They feared to disobey the
matador, yet they feared more the intent behind the command. They
hesitated.
"Shed your own weapons, Don Manuel," suggested the insidious Ferou in a
whisper. "Then the men will understand that it is a general order which
applies to all, without favoritism."
"Dios hombre!" exclaimed Morales, growing irritated. "Must I coax my
peones to obey the command of their own matador?"
"It is not that, Don Manuel. These men are only poor silly Spaniards who
do not understand. They are afraid of your reason for thus asking them
to disarm. If you discard your weapons, they will realize there is
nothing to fear. They will follow suit. And you will have set the peones
the example, like a true matador!"
"Disparate!" ejaculated Morales. "What nonsense!" But just the same,
realizing that it was the simplest way to attain the end in view, he
removed from about his waist the belt on which were suspended a revolver
and sheathed knife.
Readily then the three bullfighters emulated his example. And Jacques
Ferou carried all the weapons to the pile beneath the cork-oak tree.
Outside and beyond eyeshot, he saw fit to indulge, once more, in his
exasperating smile.