THE PASSING OF OLD CENTURY
Jessica and her escort, John Benton, rode swiftly up the canyon trail
and over the brow of the mesa toward the shepherd's cabin; but they
had not proceeded far along the upland before a sense of the
strangeness of things oppressed them both.
John's keen eye detected the neglect of the sheep, which were still
huddled in the corral, though long past their hour for pasturage;
while their bleating expressed hunger as well as dislike of their
unusual imprisonment. But Jessica saw first the abject attitude of the
collie, Keno, who came reluctantly to greet them with down-hanging
head and tail and a reproachful upward glance of his brown eyes.
"Why, you poor doggie! What's happened you? You look as if you'd been
beaten. Where's your master, good Keno? Keno, where's Pedro?"
The Indian was nowhere visible, and as if he fully understood the
question, the collie answered by a long, lugubrious whine.
"Something's wrong. That's as plain as preachin'!" cried John, and
hurried to the little house, whose door stood open, but about which
there was no sign of life.
He had tossed his bridle to the captain, meaning that if aught were
amiss within she should be detained for the present by holding the
horses. However, she saw through this ruse, and, leaping from Buster,
swiftly hobbled both animals and ran after the carpenter.
Keno kept close at her heels, the very presentment of canine misery,
and uttering at every few steps that doleful whine which was so
unusual to him. But, arrived at the cabin, he left her and with one
bound had reached the Indian's side, where he still sat beside his
window, his head against its casing and his blanket--Jessica's
gift--closely wrapped about him. He did not move when they entered,
nor respond even by objection to the collie's frantic blandishments,
but John raised his hand for silence, as she stood sorrowfully gazing
downward upon the face of death.
Yes, it was that. He had more than rounded his century of years, he
had lived uprightly, as the good padres had taught; he had bestowed
upon those he loved the secret of great wealth, and he had gone to
keep his precious Navidad in the home of eternal youth.
Jessica comprehended the truth at once, and her eyes filled with the
tears which, as yet, did not overflow; for as she gazed upon the
sleeper's face it filled her with amazement and something akin to
delight; and at last she exclaimed:
"Why, how young and glad he looks! He's even nobler than he was when
he rode away from me last night, and I'd never seen him so dignified
and grand as he was then. It's--it's as if he had done with everything
is hard, like worries, and evil, and loneliness, and--all."
"Ay, lassie; he has done with all--that you or I know aught about; and
every inch a man he seems as he sits there in the majesty of death."
By then the child's tears had begun to flow, and she caught up Pedro's
hand with an outburst of grief and love.
"Poor, poor Pedro! To have been here all alone when it came! What
shall I do without him who was always so good, so good to me? Oh, I
can't have it so, John! I can't, I can't!"
He was wise enough to attempt no consolation, knowing well how small a
part of her life the venerable Indian had been and how easily youth
accustoms itself to such a loss. But, after he had allowed her to sob
for a time, he gently touched her shoulder, and said:
"Come. Pedro has finished his work and has passed it on to us. Those
poor sheep must be cared for, and somebody must ride home at once; or,
rather, should ride at once to Marion to make the necessary
arrangements. I wish----" And he paused in perplexity, regarding her
as if in doubt what was best to be done.
They left the cottage with that quiet tread which seems natural in the
presence of those whom no sound can trouble, and, hand in hand, walked
sadly to the fold, where the penned sheep greeted them with eager
cries and restless movements.
"Pedro used to say they talked and he knew what they said. I begin to
believe he did, for, listen! This sound isn't like that other first
one, which told us they were hungry. This says: 'I'm glad you've
come!' Doesn't it?"
"So it sounds to me, lassie; and I, too, am glad we came. It's queer,
though, how set you were on it, even against the mistress' wish that
you should wait."
"Yes, John, I had to come. I just had to. And this is what I
think: When we've taken care of the sheep, we'll lay Pedro on his
bed and lock the door. Keno will keep guard, if we tell him; though
whoever comes here, anyway? Then you must ride to Marion to see
about--about"--here, for a moment, grief interrupted her again, but
she suppressed her tears as soon as possible and went on quite
calmly--"about what always has to be at such a time. I remember--I
remember it all when my father----No, no, John, I'm not going to cry
again. I won't make bad worse, never, if I can help it. But this I
say: You ride to Marion and send word to the mission so that a
priest may come; and do all the rest. I will ride home and the
boys will come up and fetch him to Sobrante. It must be in the little
old chapel that we never use, because my father said he would not
put to a common service a room that had once been given to God. Pedro
always loved it. It was there he used to say his 'devotions' and
there he must lie--in state--isn't that what they call it when great
folks die? Pedro was great. He had lived so very long and he had
always been so devout. What do you say?"
"What do I say, little captain, but that you've a long head on your
young shoulders, and I'm sorry this load of grief had to rest on it so
early. More than that; I undertook to be your guardeen to-day, and
I've no notion of shirking the job--even now. I passed my word to the
'admiral' that I'd fetch you home safe, and so I will. It won't take
much longer and it's right. Home first, and Marion afterward."
"Well, maybe, that is best; and surely it is pleasantest. I didn't
want to be selfish, but I'd rather you stayed with me. Are you ready?
Shall we leave him just as he is?"
"Just so. We'll close the window and the door, and then--home."
But it was with widely different feelings that they cantered down the
canyon from those with which they had ridden up it, and when she saw
them returning so soon and so swiftly, Mrs. Trent went out to meet
them, saying nothing, indeed, yet asking the question with her eyes:
"What trouble now?"
Then John told their story speedily and suggested that some of the men
ride to the mesa and attend to what was needful. Also, repeated
Jessica's opinion about the chapel, with which the lady instantly
agreed; then, clasping her daughter's hand very close, returned with
her to the porch and began to fold away her sewing.
But both Aunt Sally, when she came and heard the news, and the little
girl asked:
"Why do you put it away, mother, dear? If Pedro is happy now, as we
believe, why shouldn't we be, too? All the rest must have their
holiday, and I think--I think he'd like to have me look nice. He
always did."
"Jessie is right, Gabriell'. Things do happen terrible upsettin'
lately, seems to me; but by the time you and me get to be a hundred
odd, I reckon we shan't care a mite whether folks wear red and white
dresses or horrid humbly ones. I'm goin' on just the same as ever, for
that's the only way I'll ever keep my common senses in this spooky
place. I knew when they two started off, left hoof foremost, they was
ridin', to trouble; and this morning my hen chicken crowed to beat
any rooster I ever heard, and that's a sure sign of death."
"Aunt Sally, don't!" protested Mrs. Trent, glancing anxiously at her
daughter's face. But she need not have feared; for the child smiled
back upon her, serene and happy, despite the traces of tears that
still marked her bright eyes.
"It's all right, mother, dear; and I'm thinking how glad Pedro must be
now, to have found all those he'd so long outlived. He just went to
sleep, you see, alone, and waked up with them around him. I think it
was beautiful--beautiful; and his last deed was to find me and to tell
you how you could grow rich if you want to. Where are the little boys,
I wonder?"
They presently appeared, in wild excitement, having been at the men's
quarters when John rode thither to impart his news and directions; yet
in this excitement was not a vestige of grief. They seemed to feel
relieved of some dread, and Ned more than once punched Luis,
whispering shrilly enough for all to hear:
"We can do it now, and not get caught! Yes, siree! We can do it now!
Don't you tell!"
And Luis responded by an ecstatic hug and the customary echo:
"Do it now; don't you tell! Yes, siree!"
John Benton had nearly covered the distance to Marion, when he
perceived two men slowly advancing toward him along the level road.
For a moment, engrossed by thoughts of recent happenings, he paid
slight attention to the fact, though idly wondering what strangers
might be having business, and on foot, with Sobrante, at which point
the road ended. But, as he drew nearer to them, something familiar in
the bearing of the taller man, and startling in the appearance of the
other, caused him to shield his eyes from the sunshine and peer
critically into the distance. Then he slapped his thigh so excitedly
that his horse suddenly stopped, reared and nearly unseated him.
"Oh, you idiot! Can't a feller slap himself without your takin' it
to heart? If I ain't a blind man, and maybe I am, that's old
'Forty-niner' hoofing himself home, and----Whew! That's Marty,
limpin' and leanin' alongside. Well, I 'low! More trouble and
plenty of it. Seems if all creation was just a-happenin' our way,
blamed if it don't. Giddap there, Moses!"
In a few minutes he had reached the pedestrians and saluted them with
unfeigned astonishment, and Ephraim with great friendliness of
expression, but also the question:
"What fresh calamities you two fetchin', now?"
They told him, as briefly as possible, and he found his own perplexity
increased as he demanded:
"What in creation is to be done? Here's Pedro gone and died in the
most unhandy place and time; and here be you two, with not a decent
leg between you, twenty miles from home, and one horse for the three
of us!"
At the word "horse" poor Marty winced, as from a personal blow, while
both he and Ephraim were greatly amazed at the news of the shepherd's
death. They began to feel, as John had said, that "nothing save
disaster was meant for Sobrante folks;" yet, after a moment,
"Forty-niner" perceived another side of the matter, and expressed
himself thus:
"What's got into the pack of us? Seems if we'd lost our gumption.
After all, couldn't anything have happened likelier, so far forth as I
see. John Benton, you light off Moses and help this man into your
saddle. He'll ride home and I'll walk alongside, whilst you tramp on
to Marion. There's a mare there, named Jean. She was offered to me,
but I was in a hurry and didn't accept. However, the offer is due to
hold good for any of our folks. Light, I tell you. Marty's about
played out."
Indeed, the respite came none too soon. The worst injury the gardener
had sustained was, apparently, of the head, and a terrible dizziness
rendered his progress on foot almost impossible. He would not have
been able to accomplish this much of the journey, save for the
continual help of Ephraim, who was himself burdened with the heavy
pack and unwilling to relinquish it.
John stepped down and swung his fellow ranchman up to Moses' back;
then placed the bundle before the rider, turned the animal's head
toward Sobrante, and chirruped:
"Giddap! Home's the word!"
Moses needed no second urging, but was off at a gallop, leaving the
others to discuss the situation a bit further, and Ephraim to follow
at his leisure.
There was little more to be said, however, and soon each was pursuing
diverging routes and each at his swiftest pace.
At Marion, John had the mail pouch unlocked and examined, and was
satisfied that some letters had been tampered with. These contained
orders for house supplies and had been accompanied by checks, as was
evident from the wording of the orders. The checks had been removed,
and this fact proved to the carpenter that the hand of Antonio Bernal
was in the matter, because the late manager might indorse them without
arousing the bank's suspicion, as nobody else could.
Yet there was one thing he did not mention, even to the postmaster;
and that was the package which Jessica's letter to Ninian Sharp had
spoken of. This had disappeared entirely. The fact troubled him more
than the loss of the checks, for he could stop the payment of these,
but whether the little captain had sent the whole of their only
specimen of the copper to her city friend or not was a serious
question.
However, he did what he could; and almost for the first time in his
life used the telegraph as well as the post. To pay for his long and
rather ambiguous messages he borrowed money of the mystified Aleck
McLeod; and the local operator found himself busier than he had ever
been since the establishment of the office.
The other sad business that had brought him to the town was also
transacted; and by the time all was arranged John was very glad to
avail himself of Jean's services, slow though she was. Upon her sedate
back he arrived at Sobrante, just as the sun was setting, and found
that the household had temporarily forgotten their grief for Pedro in
their rejoicing over Ephraim.
"It's an up and a down in this world," quoth Aunt Sally, spreading and
admiring the brilliant bits of calico which "Forty-niner" had given
her. "Life ain't all catnip anyway you stew it. Them that laugh in the
morning gen'ally cry before night, and vicy-versy. But, Gabriella, do,
for goodness' sake, just fetch out that queer kind of stick that old
Indian made a sort of graven image of and show it to Mr. Ma'sh. It's a
curiosity, being so old, if it ain't no more. Worth cherishin',
anyhow, 'count of him that give it. I always did admire keepsakes of
the departed."
Mrs. Trent smiled, though sadly, and Jessica asked:
"May I get it, mother?"
"Surely. For safety I put it on the top of the tallest bookcase,
behind the files of newspapers. You'll likely have to take the little
library ladder to reach it; and when you've shown it, put it back in
exactly the same spot. It's doubly valuable now, and could not be
replaced."
The little captain had scarcely once relinquished the hand of her
beloved sharpshooter, since he appeared before them all, and now led
him, as if he were another happy playmate, to the designated place.
But when she had reached it, mounted the ladder and carefully felt all
over the top of the case, even moving the files in order to examine it
the better, she could not find the metal-pointed staff.
Standing on the floor beneath, Ephraim watched her face growing sober
and disappointed, as she exclaimed:
"It's gone! It's completely gone!"
"It has, dearie? Well, maybe your mother forgot and put it somewhere
else. The likeliest thing in the world to happen, with her mind so
upset as it has been. We'll go back and ask her. Don't fret. Probably
it wasn't of much account, anyway."
"Oh! but, dear Ephraim, it was! It could point the way to our big
fortune that's to be dug out of the ground!"
"What? What is that you say, child? Nonsense. We don't live in the
days of witchcraft, and that's what such a performance would mean."
Yet when they had returned to Mrs. Trent and related their misadventure
he was startled by hearing that sensible woman tragically exclaim, in
contradiction to his own assertion:
"Lost! Then Sobrante is certainly bewitched!"