THE COMING OF THE CARAVAN
It had been a long while for Consuelo Lopez to await the coming of the
caravan from the East. She was not conscious, perhaps, that she was
waiting, nevertheless the summer days had passed in an expectancy that
held off Don Tiburcio’s wooing. It was an effective barrier. He himself
felt that Consuelo was waiting for something. He hoped that it would
prove to have been for him.
On this late and golden afternoon of midsummer she sat on a bench in the
garden which was Doña Gertrudis’ pride, and smoldered while Manuel
gathered little roses for her. Against the adobe wall stood a sentry of
hollyhocks, and in a wide bed each side the path rioted zinnia, in all
the extravagant colors with which God has pigmented a richly mineral
soil. Geranium and bougainvillea rioted against the “Madonna” blue of
the doorway, and honeysuckle vied with Mexican pinks--“clavelitas”--that
most winsome, exquisite, and spicy fragrance.
Consuelo herself was dressed for a garden. Don Tiburcio’s bales had
yielded this yellow pineapple cloth from the West Indies, and China had
sent the lemon-colored shawl, embroidered in crimson and soft jade. An
amber necklace circled her throat, and tremulous pendant amber swung
from golden filigree at the lobes of her pretty ears. She seemed like
imprisoned sunlight and Don Tiburcio’s heart would have been less than
human had it not quickened as he stepped through the blue gate and came
toward her, bowing with deep courtliness.
Consuelo has learned within a few weeks to restrain her impatience. The
talk is polite, “And your grandmother? I trust she also slept well?” Don
Tiburcio concludes his inquiries after the health of the family. At this
point Doña Gertrudis must call Manuel within the house and Consuelo and
Don Tiburcio are left alone. Consuelo parries for a desperate hour the
question in Don Tiburcio’s eyes, with animated talk of Mexico and the
far lands of which Don Tiburcio has knowledge. Of the carven stone
balconies of the City of Mexico, the music, the brilliant life of the
capital.
“In Chihuahua, too, they promenade of a fair evening, señor?”
“Ah yes, señorita. The plaza is most lively. With all the señoritas and
matrons promenading in one direction, and the gallants in the opposite
direction, many a _mirada_ is thrown from one eye to another in
passing.”
“Ah, that is like Spain, is it not?”
“It is. But your country here is more like Spain. The mountains of
Spain. When I was a lad I accompanied my grandfather there on a visit to
cousins who lived in the mountains, in towns like this.” He swept his
hand toward the pine-covered foothills of the Sangre de Cristo.
“But tell me, señorita”--the proud hidalgo’s face became suffused as he
leaned above Consuelo, sitting so stiffly upright on her bench under the
clematis vine--“when am I to have an answer to the question I asked so
many weeks ago?” He stood before her, very fine, a silk scarf thrown
over his arm, his silver-buttoned breeches flaring open elegantly from
the knee.
Consuelo swayed against the vines, against a tumult of emotions. Why
struggle longer? Her lashes drooped; she retreated, yielding.
“Soon the caravans from the East will arrive,” he pressed. “At any
moment now they may come, and I, I must not linger, once they are here.
I have urgent affairs calling me back.” Fatal words. They aroused at
once in a rebel heart the half-stilled desire for life to bring her
more, the half-acknowledged wonder as to what that Eastern land might
hold for her. She remembered again the thrill of the days when the
caravans came. Hesitated, and was lost, to Don Tiburcio at least, wholly
for that day.
“_La Caravana!_” she exclaimed, all glowing animation at once. “How
exciting! One would have thought that the Comanches or the Apaches had
them all. Why, then, do they delay so, when they are keeping you
waiting, señor?” Consuelo’s lashes fluttered disturbingly. Having
yielded not an inch, poutingly she dared Don Tiburcio’s gaze. _Coqueta!_
Minx! What was he to think? Did she want him? How much more must her
vanity be flattered? Perhaps Don Tiburcio himself was a little bit tired
of the waiting. Disconcerted, he said no more for the moment, and was
rewarded by an utterly ravishing smile.
Bees droned through the sunlight and a silence like molten honey. Beyond
the adobe wall and across the “sakey” at the end of the garden suddenly
there rose a shouting that ran through the town. “_Aqui vienen los
carros. La Caravana!_ [Here come the wagons. The caravan].”
Don Tiburcio rose quickly to his feet. “Pardon, señorita, I must go to
meet them at once. _Hasta luego, pues_ [Till later, then].” He bowed his
departure almost unnoticed by Consuelo, for the tumult in her chest. She
ran through the house. It was almost deserted, except for old Lupe and
for Doña Gertrudis, who had already taken her seat beside the front
windows and was peering discreetly, but with avidity, through the
blinds. Consuelo flounced across the courtyard, through her own room,
and into a room beyond.
It was Felicita’s, and the window there was neither barred nor
curtained. A high window, with a tiny railed balcony from which one
could see way up or down the street. But it was already filled with
Felicita, who found herself pulled down by the skirts, while Consuelo
clambered up on a chair and disposed her own person for a fine view in
either direction.
Just in time. The dust of the caravan came rolling along to the
accompaniment of shouts of greeting, of long whistles. On it came in the
late afternoon sun, like a special cloud of gold; and now from the cloud
emerged the first wagon, lumbering and swaying behind three teams of
great white oxen that to Consuelo’s ravished gaze seemed to snort blood
and to be harnessed with gilded leather. Strange, clear-cut voices rang
out among the familiar _gritos_ of the _arrieros_. How they pierced the
consciousness! On came the _carros_, and the laden mules, helter
skelter, right down their street. _Madrecita mia_, what luck! And then
all the rest of the caravan melted away into the golden haze of dust,
and Consuelo’s gaze was riveted upon one figure on horse, trotting
briskly, side-stepping, as though he and his rider had not been ready to
die of fatigue an hour before. A blond, hatless Americano, with hair
like burnished metal in the sun, and a face--a face! The caravan halted,
some difficulty turning in the narrow street ahead, or a jam of mules,
and the rider drew up almost beneath her window. He passed a kerchief
over his warm brow and lifted his head to look about. His glance
traveled toward Consuelo, peering over the funny little crooked balcony.
He may have heard the involuntary exclamation that had escaped her.
They gazed straight at one another. Steven thought, “What an uncommonly
bewitching face,” and instinctively bowed. “Señorita,” he saluted,
“_Buenas tardes_,” and rode on, surprised that such a radiant picture
should have risen out of the dust to frame itself in the window of a
square adobe house. Consuelo saw him pass with a moment of dismay, as
though this buckskin-clad young god might be riding on out of her
picture--and then, for her eyes were still filled with his smile, saw
nothing more, not even the swaying Dearborn wagon that followed close
upon the dust of the youthful trader, nor the pale girl who sat on the
front seat, tears of relief streaming down her face, a boy held close in
her arms.
Consuelo scrambled down from her perch and away to the _sala_ in search
of news. Oh, if she could but run out into the street and hear for
herself, and see! Bah! What restrictions! Perhaps from the dining room
she might catch again a glimpse of them as they turned down the street.
She ran into the _comedor_, bumping full into Luis, who jumped as though
a snake had rattled at him, and turned a trifle angrily, setting down
the silver pitcher which he held. He recovered at once and, holding his
sister at arm’s-length, remarked, pleasantly, fondly: “How lovely we are
looking! All ready for the dance tonight, eh! But where so fast?” Ah, so
there would be a _baile_! Enchanting! Consuelo smiled happily and
unaffectedly at Luis, grateful as always for a moment of real affection
from him.
“Oiga, little sister, listen. Say nothing of having seen me at home
after siesta, wilt thou not? I should be at the _bodega_ right now,
receiving any new goods. Eh?” She nodded, and he kissed her good-by,
hurrying off through the rear of the house.
It was quite dark and late, nearly nine o’clock, before Don Anabel
returned from the warehouse with Luis and found Doña Gertrudis fuming
and fluttering. The roast was entirely burned up, they would be late to
the _baile_, which was always at ten, and her powder was already pure
paste. She fluttered before them into the dining room, where a special
effort had been made for the occasion when, she hoped, Consuelo would at
last announce to the family what they so much wished to hear. The good
Doña Gertrudis adored her daughter, and she was a trifle afraid of her,
too, of her youth, her beauty, her wit, though Consuelo’s tongue was
always dutiful to her parents. Nor would Don Anabel have tolerated any
lack of that obedience and respect which every true Spaniard demands of
his children. He would not have forced a marriage that was against his
daughter’s heart, yet he was pleased with the idea of this union. But
Consuelo made no occasion to tell him that the matter was settled. In
the garden, just as crepusculo fell, Don Tiburcio, returning, had found
Consuelo and in a moment had his answer clearly, “No.”
Extra candles graced the table, and a silver goblet stiffly crammed with
yellow roses. The best leather-backed chairs were placed before six deep
silver plates, inside which were laid, on one side the fork, on the
other the spoon. Knives were used only in the kitchen or by the hunter
on the trail--such vulgarity as carving one’s food at the table was
unknown. Don Anabel took his place at the head of the board; Don
Tiburcio followed him; Luis slipped in hastily; the ancient _abuela_,
the grandmother who had come up from the country to visit her daughter,
was assisted by two servants to a place of honor; and all were seated.
At once all was chattering and conversation so swift that none but the
accustomed ear could have understood. Don Anabel’s was not one of those
establishments where the women of the family rarely if ever ate with the
men. He was a cosmopolite, he averred, as he poured the red grape from
the finely chased pitcher and filled the glasses for the second, or was
it the third, time? Consuelo drained her goblet, but ate little. The
harmless vintage deepened the color in her cheeks, brought an extra
sparkle to her eyes. At the moment when she was raising the copa in
_saludes_ to her grandmother, Roman, the doddering old _moso_, appeared
in the doorway with a tall figure at his back. “Here he is,” mumbled
Roman, and retreated just in time to escape Don Anabel’s wrath at the
intrusion.
Eating, drinking, and talking paused for the moment while Don Anabel’s
family turned to glance politely at the visitor. He stood in the
doorway, tall, reddish blond, an Americano. Loutish, dressed in soiled
buckskins, a trader, perhaps only a trapper. What did the fellow want?
Don Anabel rose haughtily to dispose of this unwelcome intrusion. The
visitor was bowing from the waist with rather surprising good form. In
excellent Spanish he inquired:
“Don Anabel Lopez? You will pardon the intrusion, I trust. I was shown
in by the _moso_. I was sent by Colonel St. Vrain to inquire if we could
obtain further warehouse space from you this evening. He----”
At this point Steven’s eyes were drawn, as though compelled, to the girl
seated there in the mellow candlelight. She was looking at him, too. The
girl, the same girl, he had seen that afternoon. She lived here, then.
His heart quickened at sight of her, and he was not conscious that he
stared, that he had not finished his speech. The whole scene bewildered
him. After the crudities of the trail, and the primitive life at Bent’s
Fort he was unprepared for this luxury, this glowing, beautiful scene.
Why, they did not eat from silver dishes even in New Orleans, where
there were silver doorknobs in his father’s house.
Don Anabel’s voice came coldly, with finality. “Colonel St. Vrain had
better secure space from our amiable Viscarra. I have none available.”
Steven found his tongue. “Colonel St. Vrain said to say to you, señor,
that Colonel Viscarra, whom we encountered on the road just outside
Santa Fe this afternoon, instructed him to get accommodations from you,
stating that he knew you would, at his request, be most happy to--to
make them available. Colonel Viscarra said he would not return to Santa
Fe for some weeks, perhaps, as he was going down among the Indians of
Texas.” At this hint from the _jefe politico_ of Santa Fe, Don Anabel
could only bow silent assent. “Very well. If Viscarra wishes it, St.
Vrain may use the space which I reserve to be at the _jefe’s_ disposal.”
He turned back to the table, but Steven refused the evident dismissal,
addressing his unwilling host again.
“Señor, pardon once more if I intrude. But can you tell me aught of one
Tiburcio de Garcia? I have some small business with him.”
Don Tiburcio himself rose. He had taken the measure of the youth and now
came forward. “Señor, I am Tiburcio Garcia, _a sus ordenes_.” He looked
inquiringly at the young man.
Steven again bowed and said, quietly, “Señor, might I see you later in
the evening for a moment?” And lower, “I bear a message for you from
Orleans.”
Don Tiburcio’s eyes gleamed, but his reply was inaudible to those at the
table. He showed the young man out with every courtesy.
* * * * *
To the _bailes_ of New Spain came young and old, rich and poor, peon,
Indian, trapper, and the proudest Castilian blood. A long, low room--one
of those in the rear of the Governor’s palace, now inhabited by Colonel
Viscarra--with whitewashed walls and few windows, warm and crowded on
this gala night of the arrival of the caravan.
The matrons in their black mantillas sat against the wall on one side of
the room; the younger women sat beside them or in chattering clusters in
the corners, while the young girls preened, and coquetted across the
bare floor at the men and boys lounging and smoking on the other side.
The music had not yet begun, but the fiddler and the mandolin-player
were tuning up, and the _guitaro_ was being lovingly scraped by the
blind musician whose magic would set the feet of the town moving to
irresistible accompaniment. Ah, that guitar! deep, full as a ’cello,
that could weep, and make lovers set their wedding date on the morrow;
that turned the knives of trappers to cutting fringes and posies instead
of throats and scalp locks, over cards or a girl.
Now, with a tentative last plucking of strings, suddenly it swept full
into a valse, rollicking, tender, sensuous. The young men stepped forth
on the floor. No introductions were necessary here. It was customary to
ask whomsoever one liked. Strangely enough, the formality of Spanish
etiquette laid no ban on a dance with a stranger. True, there were
those, like Don Anabel Lopez, whose pride would not permit such
condescension, especially when it came to Americans.
And now came Ceran St. Vrain, with the men of the caravan in his wake,
and at his side a tall youth whose face was suspiciously clean shaven,
even flecked with blood here and there. He wore a dark suit that caused
even Luis Lopez to pause with interest and to regard with envy, though
he flecked the ash from his cigarette disdainfully and folded his arms
comfortably over his own scarlet-and-gold bolero, settling a crimson
sash more snugly about a trim waist.
The last of the caravaners entered the hall; they spread out, and in the
center appeared a girl. Blonde, Santa Maria but she was blonde! like the
white gold of a sacred chalice. And her faded blue dress, over which a
white silk fringed shawl was thrown, but made her fairer. The girl took
her seat beside an elderly woman who had come in with them, and looked
about timidly, almost apprehensively, yet with a certain delight. It was
the first dance of any kind that Hope Bragdon had ever seen. She would
never have dared suggest going, but her father was occupied, Doren was
already sleeping safely, and Mrs. Trenour, the only white woman then in
the Villa, had persuaded her to come.
“My father will not like it, Mrs. Trenour,” Hope protested, “I have
never looked upon dancing, or cards, or any sinfulness. My father does
not tolerate it.”
“Is that possible?” Mrs. Trenour had commented, dryly. Perhaps she had
her doubts on the matter. “This is different, however. Everyone goes to
the _bailes_ in this country. It is the only way you can see everyone.
Besides, I’ll tell him you had to accompany me. Haven’t you anything to
put over that muslin frock?”
Yes, there was a white shawl of her mother’s in the bottom of her little
tin trunk; and she had a right pretty piece of blue moiré ribbon to tie
round her hair (it was the ribbon that first caught Consuelo’s eye), in
hair that at night was more silvery than gold. A woman, a blonde woman.
She had heard of them, but the fairest creature she had seen up till
this time was the baby of Anita, who had married the English trapper.
Its curls were flaxen yellow, its eyes blue. But no woman remained this
white and gold. Consuelo gazed fascinated and a disturbing jealousy
arose in her heart. So this creature had come in the caravan with the
tall Americano of the ruddy hair. She had traveled with him across the
plains. Was she then his sweetheart? His sister, perhaps? No, not that,
she knew intuitively.
Don Tiburcio was asking for the valse. She rose in relief and they spun
in dizzying circles, faster and faster, at length subsiding with the
music for the march about the room. Luis was standing before the
Americana’s chair, bowing. Would she promenade? Evidently urged to do so
by the older woman, still the girl hung back. Luis retired, flushed with
fury at the rebuff. Consuelo’s eyes never left the blond trader except
when her back must be turned; even then she was intensely conscious of
him. Did he dance? He must dance with her. Steven still stood against
the far wall, looking on. Now Consuelo and Don Tiburcio were passing
again before the chair of the fair-haired Americana and Don Tiburcio was
looking at her, a sidelong glance. Ah, he too had noted the little
blonde! As they passed on he bent to Consuelo’s ear, “You are sure,
señorita, of your answer?” His voice seemed uncommonly agitated.
“Quite sure, señor,” flashed Consuelo, with unexpected spirit. “Do not
molest yourself to ask me again, I pray, or I may accept, and then you
will not be able to promenade with the Americanita, either.”
Diablo! What a little temper she had! And what _perspicaz_! Don Tiburcio
stared straight ahead in his amazement and desire to disprove Consuelo’s
accusation. What, jealous already of another’s beauty? He had scarcely
glanced at the girl. Devil take it how women caught on! Consuelo was
leaving him before the promenade had finished. Reaching her seat, she
flounced down upon it. Now the American gentleman could come and get
her. Consuelo spread her full skirts, adjusted her veil over the high
comb, and sat wide-eyed, confident, smiling bright invitation across the
floor at Steven Mercer. Now he could come and get her.
Ah, so that was the reason. Don Tiburcio de Garcia had a bit of pride
himself. This open flouting did not soothe his vanity. _Muy bien!_ With
a deep ironic bow he wheeled, crossed the floor, and stood directly
before the Americanita. Like a delicately tinted saint in a niche she
was; sweet, remote, white and golden beyond any woman he had ever seen.
His attention was one of sheer deference and gallantry. Just as he
reached her, however, the girl rose and laid her hand on the arm
proffered by Steven Mercer. They moved away. The room was buzzing, for
of all the flirtations brewing and sizzling at the _baile_ this double
one was the most conspicuous and exciting. Santa Fe was becoming used to
the rough advances of the trappers, half-filled with drink, drunk with
music and play and the heady response of plump señoritas with flashing
eyes and teeth. Yesterday they had faced death on the Trail; tomorrow or
next week they would again be claimed by mountain or desert; but tonight
was playtime, dangerous playtime. There were always knifings and bull
fights before a _baile_ was over. Ceran St. Vrain stood near the door.
“Are you dancing any more?” he asked as Steven and Hope passed.
“Just once. With the Señorita Lopez, I hope,” Steven replied. “Is there
anything that you wished?”
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it!” warned St. Vrain in a low voice. “Stay on
the safe side. And don’t even promenade with Miss Bragdon any more.
Young Lopez is wild. He’d knife you so easy as not. There’ll be trouble
before the evening’s over. Remember, we don’t want to land in the
_carcel_.”
A threat was enough to set Steven at defiance. What, not dance with whom
he chose! He looked towards the spot where the Señorita Lopez had been
sitting; he was sure she would valse with him. But the music had already
struck up a wilder note and she had already risen to take the arm of a
native gallant. It was a round dance playing. Steven brought Hope to her
seat, and as he turned about Consuelo danced past him and stared
straight past his nose without a glance of recognition. Don Tiburcio
appeared at his elbow at this moment, demanding, after the manner of
their world, an introduction to the American señorita. She laid her hand
in his and he bowed over it with what English he could muster.
Consuelo, whirling by with her partner again, looked full into Steven’s
eyes with an expression that he could not understand. The round dance
was forming, swinging up and down the hall. Steven caught a Mexican
maiden and swung her, too, planning to catch Consuelo in partners’
change. Consuelo came nearer; another couple to swing, and they would
meet. Consuelo’s heart pounded, and her outstretched hand met--that of
Manuel--eager, hot, his face came unpleasantly near. Steven had dropped
completely out of the dance, and all that could be seen of him was his
back, disappearing through the door.
Quivering with rage, Consuelo stood still. Her hands clenched, she could
have stamped her feet in fury and hurt. She would bring that American to
her feet and tramp on him! But now she was caught up and swung round and
round by a jovial partner, and then--the dance went out with the lights.
“Some _apache emborrachado_ (some drunken apache),” stormed Doña
Gertrudis, “unaccustomed to the entertainment of civilization.” There
was roaring and laughter in the darkness, and the music of the drunken
fiddler which never stopped.
Outside the dance hall Ceran St. Vrain hurried his party down a side
street, halfway along which he pulled back abruptly. By the faint light
of the rising moon they could see half a dozen cloaked figures hovering
at the corner. St. Vrain pushed open a door and they hurried through a
_zaguan_, out into a cluttered and used corral, thence into the other
street. A few moments later they stood within the colonel’s quarters,
where Bragdon was waiting for his daughter. The ladies were escorted to
their rooms across the courtyard, where they bid them good night.
“A close call,” said St. Vrain. “When the lights go out watch out. Luis
Lopez runs the young bloods of this place, and he had his eye on Miss
Bragdon. Sorry, but if I hadn’t plucked you out, Steven, my lad, you
would have had a nice knife fight on your hands. And I need you to get
the ladies home safely, too.”
There was a light knock upon the door at this moment. The colonel laid a
hand on the pistol at his hip, and blowing out the candles, stepped to
the door, threw back the bolt, and opened it an inch. A solitary tall
figure stood outside. It was Don Tiburcio Garcia. At St. Vrain’s word he
stepped quickly inside. Steven relit the candle and, the shade being
drawn, the three men sat down.
“You departed just in time,” remarked Don Tiburcio, smiling.
“So it seems,” Steven agreed. “The colonel says there was a party lying
in wait for us at the corner.”
“Yes,” Don Tiburcio nodded. “I saw them and took two men on the other
side in case there was fighting, but our friend here was too adroit for
Luis and his men.”
“And the other young lady?” asked Steven.
“Her mother and a duenna escorted her safely home. Nobody would dare
molest the Señorita Consuelo, anyway.”
St. Vrain was pleased at this opportunity to talk business with a
Mexican gentleman of Don Tiburcio’s wealth and spent an hour smoking and
chatting. Then the colonel rose, remembering a mission among his
mule-drivers, and Steven and Don Tiburcio were left together.