THE FALSE FRAILE
Steven found himself, after parting with Don Tiburcio, in a level valley
fertile as an Oriental garden. Fifteen miles of sandy desert lay between
the river and the sheer spur of Rockies which they had crossed. This was
a desert land, fruitful only where the river flowed, barren save where
water touched; but in that rich strip of earth along the river banks
were groves of ancient cottonwood. The pink tamarack waved its plumes
against the blue sky, and among them nestled many comfortable little
ranchos, all Mexican, for the land of the Pueblo Indians had been left
far behind along the upper valley of the Rio Grande.
There were other Indians westward, an old Mexican told him. All beyond
was the land of the Navajo, a country of a great desert and a vast rift
in the earth, greater than any canyon man had ever seen. This painted
canyon was near the Mission of San Xavier del Bac, near the homes of the
Moquis, too. A country for one to adventure in.
But Steven’s feet were drawn where his heart lay, and, failing that,
homeward. Youth and pride and the hopelessness of first love would not
let him turn back to Santa Fe, so down to Vera Cruz, whence one could
take ship for New Orleans, and so home, he must go. Of the two hundred
silver dollars which had remained to him when he set out across the
prairies from Independence there still remained one hundred and fifty.
For if life were cheap in this land where mankind was so scattered,
living cost nothing at all, hospitality was to be had for the asking.
One evening at sunset at a place where the ditch banks burgeoned with
flowering locust and the bird-of-paradise tree, Steven came to a low
rambling ranch house whose stoutly pillared portal was framed in sweet
clematis. The place was like an oasis. He had trotted his weary little
mare over many a dusty mile across a sandy arid mesa. It was with relief
that he dismounted and took water from a gourd offered by a young girl
whose dark beauty was like a madonna’s. There was no wife in the house,
but the father, a grave, silent man, appeared in the door and offered
his house to the strange blond traveler, questioning neither his name
nor his race, his destination nor his business. An older brother to the
girl came up to take Steven’s horse. He was dark and silent, too, like
the father, with a sharp, suspicious gleam in his eye. As they talked, a
fraile, or friar, in the habit of a Franciscan, emerged from a wing of
the house and joined them with an easy, merry flow of talk.
The fraile was fat and, though well robed, was illy groomed, unshaven,
and therefore unpleasant to Steven. Yet in spite of a certain grossness
the prelate had charm, wit that was most welcome. When Steven had been
shown to a room and had washed away the dust of travel he went outside
again and sat with the men beneath the paradise trees, where the fraile
talked of many things and held his listeners’ attention undiverted. Fray
Bartolomeo had been for a number of years in Albuquerque, but he had
been recalled, _gracias a Dios_, and was going back to his beloved
Mexico.
Fray Bartolomeo rubbed his hands with unaffected gusto when the _mosa_
came calling them to dinner. This was but a farmer’s house, not that of
a poor peon by any means, but a prosperous ranchero, who was called
“Don” by his neighbors and servants, but who was not of the Spanish
hidalgos, nor made pretense of being. There was plenty of the foods to
which Steven had already become accustomed in New Mexico, but of which
he had not eaten in a week, for the poor and the shiftless had little
but beans and chili, and night had brought him only to such places
heretofore. Here was melon such as he had never known surpassed, soup of
strange herbs and greens, filled with balls of finely ground meat rich
with chili and mutton fat. There were squashes baked in the outdoor
_estufas_, rich and mealy, and little cakes made of corn flour and
covered with white honey and chopped piñon nuts.
Fray Bartolomeo ate with a smacking of lips; he leaned over his deep
plate and scooped the food untidily into his mouth with wisps of
tortilla, although Don José, his host, had two silver spoons set at the
plate of each guest. Don José owned a silver bowl and pitcher, and for
the rest the reddish earthenware of Mexico. The Madonna-faced girl who
ate silently with them rose during the meal and brought in a bowl of
luscious grapes, both small and large. Fray Bartolomeo spat the skins on
the bare earthen floor, which, though uncarpeted, was scrupulously swept
and clean, as was indeed the entire room, with its whitewashed walls and
sturdy hand-built furniture.
Don José sent for wine, and poured from the bulging kidskin that was
brought in a silver pitcher full. They quaffed it from gourd cups. The
fraile grew red with content and, draining his _copa_ at a gulp, passed
it back for more. The pitcher was filled again and again, and while the
fraile consumed an incredible quantity of wine and the girl carried away
the remains of the supper, Don José, his son, and Steven listened to
talk of gaming birds, of the virtues of good cooking, and the skill of
the Indians at gaming and as silversmiths.
Strange talk from a fraile for pious ears. The lean features of Don José
contracted with disapproval, and after the candles had been lit he arose
and withdrew. The son remained, held by a gloomy fascination with the
conversation, and as the evening wore on Steven himself listened with
delight and amazement. Low, unclean, cunning as the fraile showed
himself to be, growing less and less careful as he bibbed at the wine,
nevertheless he was a man whose knowledge was wide, whose tastes were
cosmopolitan.
He was a Cachupin, a Spanish-born resident of old Mexico, and for that
reason was being recalled along with the other Spanish born who were to
be expelled from the land. He did not make mention of the fact that
there were certain charges which he would be compelled to face before
his superiors of the Church.
“Yet what difference does it make,” he shrugged, “whether I am in Spain
or here? One would scarcely know the difference. The same mountains, the
same faces, same types. I think the wine of Spain is better, yet the
grapes are not so good, so rich.” He sighed. “Spain has little gold or
silver. No jewels, much as she craves them. Her rubies come from the
Orient, her sapphires from France. Mexico has gold and silver, opals and
aquamarines, and for precious gems pearls from the Gulf on the western
coast.
“But Spain, ah Spain,” the fraile sighed with genuine rapture. “There is
a finished life. What paintings! Did you know that last year the great
Goya died? Never has there been a greater depicter of Spain. For one of
his canvases I would give----” His voice died away. But he had been
lucky, the fraile said, always lucky. Lucky at cards, lucky in love. To
the horrified ears of the two youths he roared of his conquests and
spoke of matters beyond their comprehension. And now his luck still
held, the babbling tongue went on, for had he not won at cards, from a
youth of the Villa, a thousand times the amount of the boy’s losses,
payment, by an old painting, a priceless canvas which should have gone
to the Church, anyway, but which he would sell when he got to Mexico
City, or to Spain. The proceeds would make him rich beyond avarice.
The impious bragging of the prelate, imposing thus on the respect and
hospitality due his garb from faithful Catholics, had broken the spell
of his speech, and without ceremony the two youths left him, bowed
soddenly over the table. Yet the next morning Fray Bartolomeo was brisk
and fresh and ready to start forth upon his way. Steven declined his
invitation to be a partner on the road as far as El Paso del Norte,
where the Cachupin was to join a caravan for safety down the
Cordilleras. Steven preferred traveling alone, and made excuse that he
was saddle-sore and would remain for a matter of weeks right here.
So the friar rode off and Steven spent a quiet day, resting, getting his
linen washed, chatting with the pretty child, winning the sober
friendliness of the youth. Don José was gone all day and did not appear
until sundown. He had been away looking after his sheep, he said, and
brought back a lamb for stewing. With dawn the next morning Steven was
on his way. He rode along briskly and uneventfully, mile after mile,
passing the laborious oxen and their clumsy carts, and tiny burros laden
with vast burdens like moving haystacks. He had received a map from Don
Tiburcio and was making toward the pass of the north, where he would
leave the Rio Grande behind and follow the mountains down to Chihuahua.
A well-traveled road lay before him, stretching smooth and hard between
rolling dunes where stunted palms and Spanish dagger pricked the desert.
Suddenly between the ruts he came upon a body prone, lying with arms
outflung beneath its black cassock--the fraile, dead, his glazed eyes
staring into the sun. One tale too many the night before. Here was
unexpected reprisal far from the scene of some forgotten injury.
Shrinking from the unwelcome office of giving the fraile decent burial,
Steven nevertheless pulled at the heavy body that lay as it fell with a
knife in the heart. He dragged it to the side of the road, intending to
cover it with stones in a sandy grave so that neither coyotes nor wolves
could scratch it forth. He owed the fraile that much for what
entertainment and information he had yielded him two nights before.
The movement disclosed a long, rolled-up piece of canvas protruding from
beneath the cassock of the dead fraile. Steven drew it forth and,
loosing the deerskin thongs with which it was bound, unrolled a
painting, cracked, old, yet to his eyes undoubtedly beautiful and
perhaps of value. Then in a flash he recognized the painting of the
“Madonna and Child” which he had seen upon the wall of the sala in Don
Anabel Lopez’s house upon his first night in Santa Fe. The talk of the
fraile came rushing back to him and he recalled it with new
significance. Why had it not occurred to him at the time that this
coveted treasure had been dishonestly secured from Santa Fe?
Steven stood in the road for some time, gazing at the painting, putting
the story together. Then he rolled the canvas up again, replacing the
thong that had bound it. The fraile’s care that so valuable a thing
should not leave his person had saved the painting, for his mules had
either been driven off or had run away by themselves, all his
possessions upon them, while this most priceless article had remained
concealed beneath his long robes. Whoever had made an end of Fray
Bartolomeo had not stopped to touch him or to look for gold or silver
upon his person.
Steven tied the roll upon the side of his mare, fastening it to the
wrought-leather saddle securely. Then he turned to the fraile. An hour
later a fresh heap of stones marked a spot by the roadside and two
buzzards appeared high in the sky. Steven straightened up, heaved a
thoughtful sigh, and brushed the sweat from his temples. Mounting his
mare, he turned her head about and, pressing his spurs upon her flanks,
set off at a canter toward Santa Fe.
It was the only thing to do. He was secretly relieved to have the matter
of decision taken out of his hands. There was obviously no one to whom
he could safely intrust the return of the canvas. He must take it
himself, just as Don Tiburcio de Garcia had taken Doren back to his
sister.
Steven returned that night to the house which he had left in the early
morning. His reception was gentle and cordial. He told Don José that he
had changed his mind and why he was returning to Santa Fe. Don José
exchanged a swift look with his son, and nodded to his guest in
acknowledgment without changing expression. Steven brought in the roll
of canvas, opened and spread it before their gaze. They knelt before its
beauty, crossing themselves.
“I am taking it back where it came from,” Steven said, simply. Don José
gazed at him with a deep, searching look, and the two clasped hands
after the manner of the country, left hands upon the other’s arm.
Steven thought, “Perhaps they think it was I who stabbed the fraile.”
But neither would have told whatever he thought or whoever had done the
deed.
Steven came after many weeks to the ford above Albuquerque. “I will not
cross here,” he thought, “but above, nearest the Sandia Mountains.” To
the north he could faintly see the tips of the snow-capped peaks that
towered above Santa Fe. It was late winter and the giant cottonwoods
were turned to copper and polished brass. The nights were cold. Steven
was weary of travel alone; he longed once more to be with friends.
Adventuring was hard business and he was glad that he was not a trapper,
yet the wilderness had forged a claim that he could never forget, upon
him, too, a claim that he could never shake off.
He rode along the river bank, thinking of these things, and before he
realized it came upon a large hacienda before which lay a garden of at
least two _varas_, surrounded by a stout wall, well fortified, and with
many outbuildings behind. He was surprised to see so expansive a
dwelling here, for there were fewer _ricos_ near the town named after
the famous Spanish duke than there were at Santa Fe. By rising in his
stirrups he could peer over the wall, and in the garden he saw a boy
playing, shooting at a target with bow and arrows. It was Doren Bragdon!
Steven hallooed, and in a few moments the heavy gate was opened and he
rode through to alight before Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia.
This was an occasion of great rejoicing. The hacienda was set aflutter
with preparations of an honored guest. Don Tiburcio apologized for the
meanness of his furnishings; he had been able to procure little there in
the territory fit to set up an establishment with. They had built on to
an already old and seasoned house, and were still building; Don Tiburcio
had already sent a messenger to Mexico for silver and robes and
furniture and brocade and the finest tapestries to be procured in the
capital. As soon as he and Hope had been married they had come down
here. They wished to stay in New Mexico so that Hope would be near to
some Americanos.
Hope smiled shyly at Steven. She wore a sapphire that would ransom a
General of Mexico; her gown was ridiculously rich to be trailing about
in the dust. “But Don Tiburcio will not let me wear gingham,” she
protested, not pridefully, but in real distress. “Even when I am working
I must be dressed in fine clothes.”
Don Tiburcio took Steven to a workroom where he had a cabinet-maker
carving furniture, and he had engaged an Indian silversmith who was
melting up silver to make plates and forks and spoons and other service
worthy of his wife’s table.
“Come,” said Hope, drawing Steven to one side, “sit here in the garden
with me, for I want to tell you something.” She was silent for a moment
and her eyes were moist. “I owe you everything--all this
happiness--Doren, my husband, everything. They have told me, Don
Tiburcio, and Doren, too, how you went after my father and how you found
them at last. But it is not of that I want to speak, for I can never
thank you. I want to talk to you about Consuelo. I know that she sent
you to save Doren. She told me when I was ill and so worried. She wanted
to give me courage. And it did. To know you had gone after him, it kept
me alive. And I cannot forget Consuelo. She loved you, Steven Mercer,
when she sent you away; but she thought you didn’t care about her.
“Steven, why didn’t you go back to her? Why don’t you go now, right
away? She has been waiting there, eating her heart out, worrying about
you, and she feels so badly, Steven, that she sent you away and didn’t
say she loved you. For she does love you, Steven. She told me so.” It
embarrassed Hope to speak about love, but she did it with painful
honesty.
“I’m going back as fast as I can travel,” Steven assured her smilingly.
“Come,” said Don Tiburcio, “I see you two Americanos have much to talk
about, but I want to show Señor Estevan my store, my warehouse. Did I
not tell you,” he asked with evident pleasure, as he led the way to the
bodegas, “that it would be less than six months and not so far away as
Mexico that we should meet? I felt that this would somehow come about.”
He showed Steven the grains and wheats, the pelts and hides, with which
the bodega was stored. “What do you say, _amigo_, to going into
partnership with me here? I will handle whatever goods you wish to
import from New Orleans and to pass on to me here, and I will supply you
with as much Spanish merchandise from Mexico, with silver ore and gold
bullion, as you need to carry on your end of the trade in Santa Fe.
There is a great future. Don Anabel Chavez is our greatest competitor;
but when he is gone there will be little opposition from Luis, for he is
both lazy and incompetent. You can buy as you see fit from incoming
traders. You can collect furs. The fur business has definitely been
transferred from the Northeast to the Southwest and for a number of
years the Rocky Mountain Company will be the richest field for hunter
and trapper. There is room for many here. Let us, too, build up a
business in this country. What do you say, my friend?”
Steven was radiantly pleased. Here was the opportunity to trade in a big
way. He could show his father that capital was available without asking
a dollar from Mercer & Co. He could trade, buying his own cargo and
paying for it. He could build up a great business. His dreams soared,
all before he had answered Don Tiburcio de Garcia.
“That I’ll do, señor,” he responded.
“Let us strike hands on the bargain, then,” the Mexican proposed. “You
are going on to Santa Fe? Good. I shall follow you there within a week
or so and we will complete the details. I shall finance the caravan
loads that come from St. Louis each year.”
Steven slept in a wide fresh room, with linen sheets upon a hair
mattress, such luxury as he had not known in months. He left shortly
after his breakfast and departed right merrily, while Doren and Hope
would not say good-by, but _hasta la vista_ (till we meet again).