THE COMING OF EL DOCTOR
The sandstorm that overwhelmed Stooder and his guide on the Road of
the Dead Men brought the mighty voice of the desert to the Garden of
Solitude in requiem for the soul of Don Padraic O’Donoju. Savage elegy
of a life lived in communion with the spirit of the wild.
There was no priest to order the funeral rites of the Church. Though a
day’s journey in Quelele’s car to Caborca and back would have fetched
a minister of religion, Benicia was determined word of her father’s
death should not reach the man who provoked it sooner than the courses
of rumour allowed. The Caborca priest posting out to the Casa O’Donoju
would set tongues wagging instantly and the seal of silence imposed by
miles of unpeopled space between the casa and the nearest community
would be broken. “The service of the heart will be just as acceptable
to my father’s spirit,” was Benicia’s simple justification to herself
of breach of custom.
So in the heat haze preceding the storm six Indians bore the body of
their master through fields of alfalfa behind the white house down to a
grove of shimmering alamo trees which fringed a reservoir of the oasis’
precious water. Here beneath the white and silver-green tent of the
trees was sanctified ground. Here lay the dust of lords and ladies of a
desert principality who, for their spans of years, had been inheritors
of the desert’s cruelties and benefices.
Grant fell in with the file of dark-skinned mourners that followed
behind the body of Don Padraic, with him Bagley. They did this unbidden
of Benicia. Neither had seen her since the dramatic climax of the
ordeal of the kettle the day before; no word had come from her. Yet
each had felt the need to succour the bereaved girl in her great
loneliness, forgetting unhappy events of the dawn in the patio.
For Grant there had been a brief struggle with pride and outraged
sensibilities--blessedly brief because a broader tolerance and finer
manhood had rallied to overthrow the narrower view of selfishness.
In the light of the terrific blow that had been dealt the girl he
loved--all the more crushing because of its suddenness--the savage
reaction of a high spirit seemed to him not so to be wondered at. Nor
Benicia’s silence since. In these dark hours there was no place in her
heart for aught but unassuaged grief.
Arrived at the alamo grove, all the Indians of the village and
household massed themselves a little way apart from freshly turned sod,
their glistening black heads dappled by the silhouettes of the leaves,
their eyes restless and awestruck. Benicia, garbed in dull black which
made the whiteness of her face and uncovered glory of her hair the
more striking, stood at the head of the rude housing fashioned by the
Papagoes for her beloved clay; her calm was absolute as that of the
iron peaks beyond the oasis green. In her hand was a wreath the Indian
women had woven--scarlet flowers of the cactus with feathery acacia
intertwined.
In a steady voice the girl read a Latin prayer while the Indians knelt.
Then with a lingering touch she laid the scarlet and olive-green wreath
upon the pall and watched the glowing spot of colour slowly sink from
sight.
Suddenly the recessional: the sand storm with its clamour of incoherent
desert tongues crying hidden tragedies, its blinding sheets of sand.
When the first blast struck the group turning away from the grave
Grant stepped quickly to Benicia’s side, drew her arm protectingly
through his and bent his body to shield her from the myriad chisels of
the driven sand. He fought for footing for them both.
At his touch Benicia turned dry eyes to his. Swiftly she read the love
there--love triumphing over the hurt she had so lately given him. On
the instant tears filmed the hard brightness of the orbs Grant looked
down upon. Her lips moved in some halting speech of contrition, but the
savage blast snatched away the sound of her words. In the softening
of those eyes and the weight of her body clinging nervelessly to him
the man was told the whole story of a girl’s amends for hasty and
unconsidered action. All her iron will which had carried her head high
through hours of grief suddenly had sped from her, leaving her groping
and dependent.
An exalted sense of guardianship came to Grant--swept over him like a
cool breeze to a fever patient. Almost it was a feeling of holy trust
bestowed. At last--at last the woman he loved had battled against
bitter fate beyond the limit of her endurance and was turning to him to
fend for her. Unheeding the twinges his wound gave him, he bent to the
blast with his precious burden. Oh, if only he could be given liberty
to sweep her into his arms, to call her name in the piety of supreme
love, snatch her away from the incubus of dread which had settled upon
her so relentlessly.
He would not wait for such opportunity--so the thought came lancing at
him in a lightning flash of resolution; he would create it! No longer
stand idly by with footless compassion while the girl of his heart
remained in chains of a fixed idea too strong for her to break. He
himself would free her of those shackles even if he had to fight her
fiery will to do it!
While the storm furiously grappled with the palms outside, Bim and
Grant sat in the dark music room of the great-house. With hushed voices
the two friends conned over the situation facing them and the girl now
left alone in the immensity of Altar. Not a simple exigency. On the one
hand promptings of delicacy and the dictates of custom ruled against
their remaining longer in the Casa O’Donoju. Opposed to this was the
alternative of leaving Benicia to become a prey to the schemes of
Colonel Urgo--a girl fighting single-handed the craft of an implacable
enemy. Without a protector other than the Indians of the oasis--and
they had the minds of children--the girl could not combat this
unscrupulous wooer for long. What then?
Bim finally summed the situation: “It comes down to this, old
side-pardner; either you’ve got to persuade her to come back to Arizona
with us mighty pronto or to marry you, putting it bald-headed like.”
Grant’s mind leaped to grapple with the flash of an idea--the one that
had come to him when he and the girl breasted the sandstorm. Resolution
crystallized on the instant. He silently quizzed his friend with an
appraising eye.
“And if I can’t persuade her?” he queried softly.
“Then you simply trundle yourself away from here and up across the
Line, knowing that, sure as shootin’, this wolf Urgo’ll be down on
her just as soon as he makes up his mind to move.” The big fellow in
the firelight stressed inevitability in his dictum. Grant gave him a
cryptic smile.
“Suppose I take her anyway if she will not be persuaded?” Bim jerked
back his head and surveyed his friend with startlement which speedily
softened to a wide grin. Out went his hand to clap Grant’s knee.
“Now you’re tootin’!”
Once he had put his resolution into words, the idea back-fired to
scorch Grant with sudden comprehension of what would be involved in
such a cavalierly course of action. Actually to steal Benicia O’Donoju!
Take her by force from the home which now was hers to rule. Play the
very part which he feared Colonel Urgo would pursue if left alone. He
scarcely heard Bim rumbling his enthusiasms.
“That’s the pure quill!” the desert man was saying. “That’s the Grant
Hickman who brought me in on his back from a section of Heinie’s first
line trench with H.E.’s droppin’ round like gumdrops from a baby’s torn
candy bag.” He checked himself to launch the question, “Have you got a
line on the girl yet? I mean, do you think she fancies you enough to be
glad--after you’ve run away with her?”
“I think so,” was Grant’s simple answer.
“Fine business! The sooner the quicker, young fellah. You an’ her
an’ me in the li’l old desert skimmer. ’Cause I gotta get back to
Arizora. The old Doc’ll think I’ve thrown him down an’, besides, my own
business--”
“You mean you’ll go ahead with Stooder on his scheme for finding the
Lost Mission?” Grant cut in impetuously. The big love he bore Bagley
jealously demanded an answer. The other reached over to lay a hand on
Grant’s shoulder.
“No. That’s all off, old son. I couldn’t go prying around after lost
treasure that belongs to the girl’s family--more particular not after
what you’ve told me I couldn’t. I promise you I’ll head off the Doc if
I have to get him thrown in the _carcel_ for boot-legging.”
The storm wore itself to a final sibilant whisper among the tortured
palms and the two continued to sit in the room of shadows with the
complexities of the daring plan of kidnapping still bulking large.
’Cepcion tip-toed in to announce to Bim in an awed whisper, “El Doctor
Coyote Belly from Babinioqui has come through the storm. Shall I
disturb the mistress?”
Bim translated to Grant with a questioning tilt of the eyebrows. Grant
started at the name of the medicine man who had been his rescuer and
to whom he owed his life. What could have brought this old Indian away
across the expanse of Altar to drop out of the storm upon the house of
mourning?
“Tell her we will see him first,” Grant directed, moved as he was by
some half-sensed instinct of protection for Benicia; evil tidings--if
such the Indian bore--must be kept from her. The two rose and followed
the waddling Indian woman through the halls to the servants’ quarters
in the rear. Under a pepper tree in the fading dusk they found the
squat figure of Coyote Belly. The Indian doffed his hat at the approach
of the white men and stood smiling; there was in his pose something of
quiet dignity which bent little before the centuries-old convention
of the white man’s superiority. His beady eyes, well larded in creasy
folds, possessed intelligence beyond the ordinary.
Grant impulsively took El Doctor’s hand in a strong grip carrying the
thanks he could not speak. El Doctor’s eyes mirrored recognition and he
bobbed his head with a broadening smile.
“Tell him, Bim, I could not thank him for all he did for me. He is the
chap that found me on the Hermosillo road, you know, and pulled me
through.” Bim put the words in Spanish and El Doctor bobbed his head
again. Then the Indian began haltingly in the same tongue. Bim’s eyes
narrowed to a quizzical pucker as he progressed. Grant could read a
spreading wonder in his friend’s features.
“The old bird says he came here because he knew Don Padraic had been
killed,” Bim repeated. “Says he knew it the night of the murder because
a star fell in the west and he saw the picture of the old Don with a
knife in his heart--saw it in the water of his medicine _olla_. So he’s
been on the trail ever since because he’s got to tell Señorita Benicia
something.”
“But,” Grant began incredulously. Bim caught him up with, “Sure, I know
it sounds phoney. But I know, too, the old boy’s telling the truth.
These desert people have a way of seeing across space--reading signs
and such--which leaves us white folks gasping-- How’s that?” He turned
an ear to El Doctor, who had begun to speak again.
“Standing-White-in-the-Sun was my father and my brother,” the medicine
man gravely intoned. “He gave me _pinole_ when I was starving. He came
to my house at the festival of the _sahuaro_ wine and drank with me as
a brother. His child, Lightning Hair, is as my own child.”
Depth of feeling was sweeping El Doctor like a storm. His grey head
trembled and drops of moisture stood in his eyes. Bim gently checked
him with, “The señorita is oppressed with grief. If we could take your
message to her--” But El Doctor shook his head.
“She will see me. She will hear what El Doctor Coyote Belly has come
through the storm to tell.”
“Yes, she will hear,” came an unexpected voice from the direction of
the doorway, and Benicia walked up to the Indian. El Doctor made a
step forward to meet her; with a gesture of reverence he took the hand
stretched out to him and placed it first on his brow then over his
heart. His old eyes shone. The two white men turned and walked beyond
earshot. From a distance Grant saw the girl lead the medicine man to
a rustic seat beneath the pepper tree; snatches of barbarous Papago
speech came to his ears.
The glory of sunset, more glorious because of the dust held in
suspension in the air, came and passed and still Benicia and the
medicine man talked beneath the pepper tree. The evening meal was a
mournful affair, with only Grant and Bim at the candle-lit table.
Grant, unable to contain his restlessness, quit the house alone
when supper was finished; he walked down the avenue of palms in the
direction of the red fires marking the Indian village. The night was
luminous with that sheen which covers the desert heavens like a bloom.
Thin rind of a moon hung low in the west, a cold glow of nacre.
He had crossed the bridge and was about to turn off into an adjacent
field when he heard a footstep in the shadowed aisle below palm tops
ahead of him. A figure scarce discernible in its black garb came upon
him.
“Benicia!”
She stopped, startled. “Ah, it is you,” was her murmured greeting as
Grant stepped to her side.
“Alone and in the dark,” he chided, but the girl tossed off his fears
with a gesture of the hands. “I have been with El Doctor down to the
village to find a place for him to lodge.” Grant imprisoned her arm
and gently persuaded her steps back down the aisle of darkness toward
the village. For a minute they walked in silence. Each knew there
were things to be spoken, yet each was reluctant to break the silent
communion their nearness wrought.
“And El Doctor gave you the message he came to bring?” finally from
Grant. Her head nodded assent.
“Not bad news, I hope,” he hazarded. A tightening of fingers on his arm
as she answered, “The best--and the worst.” Grant drew a long breath.
“And may I share with you--the worst?” he managed to murmur. Now once
more that dragging weight on his arm as when he guided Benicia through
the storm--mute signal of surrender from one spent in the fight.
“El Doctor says--oh, my friend, you must not stay here in the Garden
longer. The rurales are gathering at Babinioqui, El Doctor tells
me--with Urgo. That means but one thing: Urgo is bringing them here,
and you--”
“But you!” Grant interrupted almost fiercely. “What of you? Must I run
away and leave you unprotected from that man?” The girl drew away from
him as if in very defiance of some mastering impulse which would push
her into his arms.
“I--my people will fight for me if need be. Urgo comes for you this
time, and I cannot be sure these children”--a vague sweep of her hand
toward the winking village fires--“that these children would fight
for you, whom they scarcely know.” There was that brave yet pitiful
resolution in her tone when she spoke of the hazard of Urgo’s probable
sally upon her own person which crashed through all a lover’s carefully
built barriers of restraint. Unmindful of the events of recent hours,
of the girl’s fresh bereavement, Grant crushed her to him hotly.
“Oh, ’Nicia--’Nicia, can’t you understand! I must go--yes, to-morrow!
Not because Urgo is coming to get me but because your being here alone
forces me away from you. Yet I cannot think of leaving you to fight
that man single-handed. ’Nicia--precious!--you will come--you must come
with me up over the Line where--”
“Oh, please--please stop!” Hands were feebly pressing him away. Glint
of starlight revealed tears a-tremble on her lashes. “Grant--great
heart--I understand. I cry for you. See! My eyes tell you what is in my
heart. But I cannot give myself to you when that--that terrible thing
of misfortune and death goes with me. I--the mark I bear brought death
to my dear father!”
He looked down into her eyes, appalled at this last speech. Before he
could hush her she faltered on:
“But El Doctor brought me also good news--wonderful news! It is that
I can lift this evil from me if--if”--she seemed to falter before a
possibility scarce credible--“if the finding of the gold and jewels El
Rojo stained with his sacrilege and their restoration to a sanctuary of
the Church will be acceptable in God’s sight.”
The hint of purpose in Benicia’s voice revealed the edge of the truth.
“Do you mean El Doctor knows where the Lost Mission lies and that you
intend to find it?” Grant pressed her. The girl gave answer:
“He knows where the gold and pearls of the Lost Mission are. He knows,
too, the story of El Rojo and how I bear the weight of his guilt.
Because he loved my father he says he loves me too much to have me go
on and on under an evil spell. Father’s death opens his lips and--”
“You are going with El Doctor to find those things?” breathlessly from
Grant. She nodded. “Then I will go with you. At once! To-morrow!”
Decision came on the wings of inspiration. Better this flight into
the desert on treasure quest, with its promise of exorcism of all the
devils that plagued the girl--better this venture than that other he
had determined: to play the strong hand willy-nilly.