Not for many moons did that voyage of the Idaho lose first place in the
memory of the bevy of passengers who watched the lights of Guaymas
fading away astern that April night. All had been bustle and gayety
aboard during an hour of sheltered anchorage. Señor de la Cruz had
verified the captain's verdict and opened a case of Sillery and besought
all hands to drink to a joyous and prosperous voyage for his beloved
daughters, their duenna and his little niece--their cousin from
Hermosillo. "All hands" would have included the ship's company had the
captain permitted, so hospitable was the Mexican, and indeed was
intended to include every soul on the passenger list, most of them
boarding the boat at Guaymas. The Señor Coronel Turnbull was formally
presented to the Señor de la Cruz and by him to his charming family and
their many friends, but the junior officer, on the score of recent and
severe illness, had begged to be excused. Loring stood alone at the
taffrail, listening in thoughtful silence to the sound of revelry within
the brightly-lighted cabin, while the hoarse screeching of the
'scape-pipe drowned all other voices and proclaimed the impatient haste
of the skipper to be off. Straight, but often storm-swept, was the
southerly run to La Paz--over on the desolate shore of the long, arid
peninsula, and the green surges were rolling higher every moment and
bursting in thunder into clouds of wind-driven, hissing spray on the
rocks beyond the point. Wind and wave were both against their good ship,
and every officer and man was at his station awaiting the order to weigh
anchor. The mail sacks were aboard. The consul had gone down over the
side and still Don Ramon seemed unable to part from his loved ones and
the Idaho's champagne. It was the captain who had finally to put abrupt
stop to the lingering leave-takings.
"I must be off at once," he said. "Come, Don Ramon, we'll take the best
of care of these ladies and land them all at 'Frisco within the
fortnight. Kiss 'em all around now and jump for your boat. Come,
Señor--I didn't catch the name. Ah, yes, Escalante--the father of the
Señorita Pancha, I suppose. No--only her uncle? Well, I'll be her uncle
now," and so saying he led the way to the deck. Loring saw the lively
party come surging forth from the companionway--señoras, señoritas,
gray-haired men and gay young gallants. There was a moment of clasping,
clinging embraces, of straining arms and lingering kisses, of crowdings
and murmurings here and there, some little sobbing and many tear-wet
eyes as the father was finally hurried down the ladder, and then there
was further delay and shouts for Escalante, and not until then did
Loring, silently watching the animated throng on the port side, become
aware of two dark forms in the shadow of the deckhouse on the opposite
quarter. One was that of a slender girl, and she was sobbing, she was
praying in eager words not to be sent away; she was imploring pitifully
to be taken back to the shore. Loring had studied Spanish long enough
to understand almost every word, and even before he realized that he was
an unwonted listener he had heard both her sobbing plea and the abrupt,
almost cruel answer.
"You have no home, nor has your father. You may thank heaven for the
chance to get away."
The second officer came bustling round in search of them, and, leaving
the girl shrinking and sobbing on the narrow bench in the shadow, the
Mexican was hurried off. Before the little boats had fairly cast adrift
and the swinging steps were raised the throb of the screw was felt
churning the waters of the bay, and as the steamer slowly gathered way
and her bow swung gradually seaward, women and girls, kerchief waving,
came drifting back along the rail, leaning far over and throwing kisses
to the tossing shallops on the dark waves beneath, then gathering about
the stunted flagstaff at the stern, calling loudly their parting words,
all unconscious of Loring, who had stepped aside to give them room and
so found himself close to little Pancha, lost to everybody in the
desolation of a loneliness and grief that Loring could not see unmoved,
yet could not reconcile with what he had believed of her.
Up to this moment he had heard of her only as an artful girl, the
confederate of thieves and ruffians. Up to this moment he had seen her
only once, the afternoon she threw herself on Blake, as Blake and he had
both come to believe, to prevent his drawing revolver on the two rascals
at the ranch. Yet, never had Loring heard such pathetic pleading, never
had he seen child or woman in such utter abandonment of woe. Never had
he thought it possible that Pancha, the siren of Sancho's ranch--cold,
crafty, luring, designing, treacherous as any Carmen ever since
portrayed upon the stage--could be capable of such intensity of feeling.
Drawing his uniform "cape" snugly about him, for now the sharp sea wind
was whistling through the cordage and chilling his fever-weakened frame,
Loring leaned against the rail, gazing back at the receding shores,
trying not to hear the girl's sobbing. The chatter of the flock of women
was incessant. Turnbull and two Guaymas merchants had joined the group,
but all were intent on those harbor lights now fast glimmering to mere
sparks upon the sea, and the lonely girl sat there forgotten. Not once
was voice uplifted in question as to what had become of her. Every
moment now the stern was lifted higher in air and then dropped deeper
into the roaring, hissing waters, and women tightened their hold upon
the taffrail and gave shrill little shrieks, and huddled closer
together, and presently one of the elders fell back and begged to be led
below, and then another, and by the time the last glimmer of the town
had been hid from view and only the steady gleam of the lighthouse shone
forth upon their foaming wake, the hardiest of the gay little party of
the earlier evening had been carefully assisted down the brass-bound
stairway, and when five bells tinkled windily somewhere forward, there,
with little hands clasped about the stanchion, a shawl thrown over her
head, that head pillowed in her arms, there alone in the darkness and
the rush of the wind and sea, there, the very picture of heartbroken
girlhood, still sat Pancha, and Loring could bear it no longer.
He was thinking over his Spanish to be sure of his words when the
starboard doors of the companion way were suddenly thrown open, and in
the bright light from within two burly forms stepped unsteadily forth,
then lurched for the nearest support, and Loring heard the jovial tones
of Turnbull:
"He must be up here--or overboard; he's nowhere below!" Then glancing
sternward, "O! Loring!" he shouted, and at the name Pancha's little dark
head was suddenly uplifted, and a pair of black eyes, red-rimmed and
swollen with weeping, gazed, startled, toward the dark figures. For the
life of him Loring could not answer the hail. Turnbull's voice and words
alone had been sufficient to rouse her from a depth of woe, and to give
rise to new and violent distress. She was trembling, and he could
plainly see it. To answer would only announce to the frightened girl
that the man whose name was sufficient to cause such evident dismay was
standing there just beyond her seat, within a few paces of her, and had
probably been there for some time. Quickly, watching his chance, as the
Idaho careened to port, Loring shot round the deckhouse and made his way
forward until he reached the companion stairs on that side, and in
another moment was clinging to the outer knob of the doorway on the
other, and answering the eager questions as to where he'd been and
whether he better not turn in. "Have a brandy and water, sir," urged the
colonel's new companion. "Nothing like it to head off _mal de mer_.
We're in for a lively night. Half the women are sick already, and the
colonel here was turning white about the gills."
"The air in the cabin was close after all that champagne. It's fresh in
the staterooms, though," answered Turnbull. "Come on, Loring. It's time
for you to be abed." Then in low tone he queried: "What's become of the
child? Did she see you? Has she got back to shore?"
For answer Loring pointed to the dark figure shrinking from view half a
dozen yards away toward the heaving stern. Their jovial
fellow-passenger again interposed.
"Come, gentlemen, brandy and water's what we need, ain't it?" The
Idaho's champagne had evidently taken effect.
"Right!" said Turnbull "Run down and order for us, quick, or it'll be
too late. We'll join you in a minute." The burly merchant dove for the
doorway on the next stomach-wrecking lurch, and collided with the
white-capped stewardess, hastening up, with anxiety in her eyes. The two
officers clung to the mizzen shrouds opposite the companionway as she
emerged from the broad light into the darkness of the wind-swept deck.
It was a moment before she could distinguish objects at all. Then with
practiced step she went swiftly to the crouching figure at the distant
end of the long seat.
"I have learned something of her," murmured Turnbull. "That was her
father's brother, Escalante, who came aboard with her. That woman at
Sancho's was not her mother. _She_ has been dead for many a year. She
was own sister to De la Cruz. There is something back of their sending
this girl to San Francisco. Hush! Here she comes!"
With her arm thrown about the drooping girl, the stewardess came slowly
leading her to the doorway. The swinging portals had slammed shut in the
last plunge of the Idaho, and as the buoyant craft rose high on the next
billow, Turnbull and Loring both turned to open them. The light shone
full on their calm, soldierly faces as the stewardess thanked them, and
the shrinking child lifted up her frightened eyes for one brief moment,
glanced quickly from one to the other, then, with a low cry, slipped,
limp and senseless, through the woman's arms and fell in a dark heap
upon the deck.