If Stephen Lorimer, far to the north in the safe serenity of the old
house of South Figueroa Street, could have envisaged the three of them
that day his chief concern would not have been for their bodily danger.
It would have seemed to him that the intangible cloud settling down over
them was a more tragic and sinister thing than the _insurrectos_
besieging them, than the thirst which was cracking their lips and
swelling and blackening their tongues.
He was to remember and marvel, long afterward, that his thought on that
date had tugged uneasily toward them all day and evening. Conditions, so
far as he knew, were favorable; the escort for the personage would be a
stout one and under his wing the boy and girl would be safe, and James
King was waiting for them, spinning out his thread of life until they
should come to him. Nevertheless, he found himself acutely unhappy
regarding them, aware of an urgent and instant need of being with them.
They had never, in all their blithe young lives, needed him so cruelly.
He could not have driven back the bandits, but he could have driven back
the clouds of doubt and misery and misunderstanding; he could not have
given them water for their parched throats but he could have given them
to drink of the waters of understanding; he could have relieved the
drought in their wrung young hearts. He would have seen, as only a
looker-on could see, what was happening to them. He would have yearned
over Honor, fronting the bright face of danger so gallantly but stunned
and crushed by the change in Jimsy, over Jimsy himself, setting out to
do an incredibly stupid, incredibly noble deed, absolutely convinced by
the sight of her one-word telegram that she loved Carter (and humbly
realizing that she might well love Carter, the brilliant Carter, better
than his unilluminated self), seeing the thing simply and objectively as
he would be sure to do, deciding on his course and pursuing it as
definitely as he would take a football over the line for a touchdown. He
would even have yearned over Carter, at the very moment when the youth
fulfilled his ancient distrust of him. He would have understood as even
Carter himself did not, by what gradual and destructive processes he had
arrived at the point of his outbreak to Jimsy; would have realized in
how far his physical suffering--infinitely harder for him than for the
others--had broken down his moral fiber; how utterly his very real love
for Honor had engulfed every other thought and feeling. And he would
have seen, in the last analysis, that Carter was sincere; he had come at
last to believe his own fabrications; he honestly believed that Honor's
betrothed would go the way of all the "Wild Kings"; that Honor would be
ruining her life in marrying him.
But Stephen Lorimer was hundreds and thousands of miles away from them
that day of their bitter need, making tentative notes for a chapter on
young love for his unborn book, listening to the inevitable mocking-bird
in the Japanese garden, waiting for Mildred Lorimer to give him his tea
... wearing the latest of his favorites among her gowns....
Madeline King was spent with her vigil and Honor had coaxed her to lie
down for an hour and let her take the chair beside Richard King's bed.
"Very well, my dear. I'll rest for an hour. I'll do it because I know I
may want my strength more, later on." She seemed to have aged ten years
since the day Honor had come to _El Pozo_, but she came of fighting
blood, this English wife of Jimsy's uncle. "I'm frightfully sorry you're
let in for this, Honor, but it's no end of a comfort, having you. Call
me if he rouses. I daresay I shan't really sleep."
Honor sat on beside him, fanning him until her arm ached, resting it
until he stirred again, trying to wet her dry lips with her thickened
tongue. She wasn't thinking; she was merely waiting, standing it. It was
a relief not to talk, but she must talk when she was with the boys
again; it helped to keep them up, to keep an air of normality about
things.
Jimsy King had read the message Carter held up to him and gone away
without comment, and Carter had stayed on in the _sala_. It was almost
an hour before Jimsy came back. Honor's stepfather would have marked and
marveled at the change so brief a little space of time had been able to
register in the bonny boy's face. The flesh seemed to have paled and
receded and the bones seemed more sharply modeled; more insistent; and
the eyes looked very old and at the same time pitifully young. He was
very quiet and sure of himself.
"Jimsy," said Carter, "I shouldn't have told you, _now_, but I went off
my head."
Jimsy nodded. "The time doesn't matter, Cart'. I just want to ask you
one thing, straight from the shoulder. I've been thinking and thinking
... trying to take it in. Sometimes I seem to get it for a minute, that
Skipper cares for you instead of me, and then it's gone again. All I can
seem to hang on to is that telegram." The painful calm of his face
flickered and broke up for an instant and there was an answering
disturbance in Carter's own. "I keep seeing that ... all the time. But
there's no use talking about it. What I want to ask you is this,
Cart'"--he went on slowly in his hoarse and roughened voice--"you
honestly think Skipper is sticking to me only because she thinks it's
the thing to do? Because she thinks she must keep her word?"
Carter swallowed hard and tried to moisten his aching throat, and he did
not look at his friend.
"Is that what you honestly believe, Cart'?"
Carter brought his eyes back with an effort and his heart contracted.
Jimsy King--_Jimsy King_--the boy he had envied and hated and loved by
turns all these years; Jimsy King, idolized, adored in the old safe
days--the old story book days--
King! King! King!
K-I-N-G, KING!
G-I-N-K, GINK!
He's the King Gink!
He's the King Gink!
He's the King Gink!
K-I-N-G, King! KING!
The Jimsy King, the young prince who had had everything that all the
wealth of Ali Baba's cave couldn't compass for Carter Van Meter ...
standing here before him now, his face drained of its color and joy,
begging him for a hope. There was a long moment when he hesitated, when
the forces within him fought breathlessly and without quarter, but--long
ago Stephen Lorimer had said of him--"_there's nothing frail about his
disposition ... his will doesn't limp._" He wrenched his gaze away
before he answered, but he answered steadily.
"That is what I believe."
Jimsy was visibly and laboriously working it out. "Then, she's only
sticking to me because she thinks I'm worth saving. If she thought I was
a regular 'Wild King,' if she believed what her mother and a lot of
other people have always believed, she'd let go of me."
"I believe she would," said Carter.
"Then," said Jimsy King, "it's really pretty simple. She's only got to
realize--to _see_--that I'm not worth hanging on to; that it's too late.
That's all."
"What do you mean?"
He walked over to the little table and picked up the decanter of whisky
and looked at it, and the scorn and loathing in his ravaged young face
were things to marvel at, but Honor Carmody, coming into the room at
that moment, could not see his expression. His back was toward her and
she saw the decanter in his hand.
"_Jimsy!_" She said it very low, catching her breath.
His first motion was to put it down but instead he held it up to the
fast fading light at the window and grinned. "It's makin' faces at me,
Skipper!"
"_Jimsy_," she said again, and this time he put it down.
Honor began hastily to talk. "Do you think Juan will try to come back,
or will he wait and come with the soldiers?"
"He'll come back," said Jimsy with conviction. "He must have found the
wires down at the first place he tried, or he'd have been here before
this. Yes--as soon as he's got his message through, he'll come back to
us. I hope to God he brings water."
"But did he realize about the well? He got away at the very first, you
know, and they weren't holding the well, then."
"He'll have his own canteen, won't he?" said Jimsy crossly.
Honor's eyes mothered him. "Mrs. King really slept," she said
cheerfully. "She said she had a good nap, and dreamed!" She sat down in
a low chair and made herself relax comfortably; only her eyes were
tense. She never did fussy things with her hands, Honor Carmody; no one
had ever seen her with a needle or a crochet hook. She was either doing
things, vital, definite things which required motion, or she was still,
and she rested people who were near her. "Well, he'll be here soon
then," she said contentedly. "And so will the soldiers. Our Big Boss
will have us on his mind, Jimsy. He'll figure out some way to help us.
Just think--in another day--perhaps in another hour, this will all be
over, like a nightmare, and we'll be back to regular living again. And
_won't_ we be glad that we all stood it so decently?" It was a stiff,
small smile with her cracked lips but a stout one. "You know, I'm pretty
proud of all of us! And won't Stepper be proud of us? And your dad,
Jimsy, and your mother, Cartie!" Her kind eyes warmed. "I'm glad she
hasn't had to know about it until we're all safe again." She was so
hoarse that she had to stop and rest and she looked hopefully from one
to the other, clearly expecting them to take up the burden of talk. But
they were silent and presently she went on again. "You know, boys, it's
like being in a book or a play, isn't it? We're--_characters_--now, not
just plain people! I suppose I'm the leading lady (though Mrs. King's
the real _heroine_) and we've got two heroes and no villain. The
_insurrectos_ are the villain--the villain in bunches." Suddenly she sat
forward in her chair, her eyes brightening and a little color flooding
her face. "Boys, it's our song come true! Now I know why I always got so
thrilled over that second verse,--even the first time Stepper read it to
us,--remember how it just bowled me over? And it seemed so remote from
anything that could touch our lives,--yet here we are, in just such a
tight place." They were listening now. "There isn't any desert or
regiment or gatling, and Mr. King isn't dead, only dreadfully hurt, but
it fits, just the same! We've got this thirst to stand ... and it's a
good deal, isn't it? Those _insurrectos_ down there,--planning we don't
know what, perhaps to rush the house any moment--
The River of Death has brimmed his banks;
And England's far, and Honor's a name--
That means to us that L. A. is far, and South Figueroa Street ... all
the safe happy things that didn't seem wonderful then...."
"'_Honor's a name_,'" said Jimsy under his breath.
"Oh," said the girl, "I never noticed that before! Isn't that funny?
Well--
The voice of a school boy rallies the ranks!
That fits! And won't we be thankful all our lives--all our snug, safe,
prosy lives--that we were sporting now?-- That we all played the
game?" Her eyes were on Jimsy, reassuring him, staying him. "When this
is all over----"
He cut roughly into her sentence. "Oh, for God's sake, Skipper, let's
not talk!"
Again he had to bear the mothering of her understanding eyes. "All
right, Jimsy. We won't talk, then. We'll sit here together"--she changed
to the chair nearest his and put her hand on his arm--"and wait for Juan
and----"
He sprang to his feet. "I wish you'd leave me alone!" he said. "I wish
you'd go upstairs and stay with Aunt Maddy and Uncle Rich'. I want to be
by myself."
She did not stir. "I think I'll stay with you, Jimsy."
His voice was ugly now. "When I don't want you? When I tell you I'd
rather be alone?"
Honor was still for a long moment. She rose and went to the door but
she turned to look at him, a steady, intent scrutiny. "All right, Jimsy.
I'll go. I'll leave you alone. I'll leave you alone because--I know I
_can_ leave you alone." She seemed to have forgotten Carter's presence.
She held up the hand which wore the old Italian ring with the hidden
blue stone of constancy. "I'm 'holding hard,' Jimsy."
Soon after dark Yaqui Juan came. He had been waiting for three hours,
trying to get past the sentries; it had been impossible while there was
any light. He was footsore and weary and had only a little water in his
canteen, but he had found the telephone wires still up at the second
_hacienda_, the owner had got the message off for him, and help was
assuredly on the way to them. There was the off chance, of course, that
the soldiers might be held up by another wing of the _insurrectos_, but
there was every reason to hope for their arrival next day. Jimsy King
sent the Yaqui up to Honor with the canteen, and the Indian returned to
say that the Señorita had not touched one drop but had given it to the
master.
Carter dragged himself away to his room and Jimsy and Yaqui Juan talked
long together in the quiet _sala_. It was a cramped and halting
conversation with the Indian's scant English and the American's halting
Spanish; sometimes they were unable to understand each other, but they
came at last to some sort of agreement, though Juan shook his head
mutinously again and again, murmuring--"_No, no! Señor Don Diego! No!_"
It was almost midnight when Jimsy called them all down into the _sala_.
They came, wondering, one by one, Carter, Mrs. King,--Richard King had
fallen asleep after his half dozen swallows of water--and Honor, and
Josita, her head muffled in her _rebozo_, her brown fingers busy with
her beads.
Jimsy King was standing in the middle of the room, standing insecurely,
his legs far apart, the decanter in his hand, the decanter which had
been more than half full when Honor left the room and had now less than
an inch of liquor in it. Yaqui Juan, his face sullen, his eyes black and
bitter, crouched on the floor, his arms about his knees.
Honor did not speak at all. She just stood still, looking at Jimsy until
it seemed as if she were all eyes. _"It comes so suddenly_,"--Carter had
told her--"like the boa constrictor's hunger ... _and then he was
just--an appetite_."
"Ladies'n gem'mum," said Jimsy, thickly, "goin' shing you lil' song!"
Then, in his hoarse and baffled voice he sang Stanford's giddy old saga,
"The Son of a Gambolier."
They all stiffened with horror and disgust. Mrs. King wept and Josita
mumbled a frightened prayer, and Carter, red and vehement, went to him
and tried to take the decanter away from him. Only Honor Carmody made no
sign.
I'm a son of a son of a son of a gun of a son of a Gambolier,
sang Jimsy King. He looked at every one but Honor.
Like every honest fellow, I love my lager beer----
--"And my 'skee!" he patted the decanter.
Madeline King put her arms about Honor. "Come away, my dear," she said.
"Come upstairs."
"No," Jimsy protested. "Don' go 'way. Got somep'n tell you. Shee this
fool Injun here? Know wha' he's goin' do? Goin' slide out'n creep down
to ol' well. Says _insur_--_insur-rectos_ all pretty drunk now ...
pretty sleepy.... Fool Injun's goin' take three--four--'leven canteens
... bring water back for you. Not f' me! _I_ got somep'n better. 'Sides,
he'll get killed ... nice'n dead ... _fancy_ dead ... cut ears off ...
cut tongue out firs'! Not f' me! _I'm_ goin' sleep pret' soon. Firs'
I'll shing you lil' more!" Again the rasping travesty of melody:
Some die of drinkin' whisky,
Some die of drinkin' beer!
Some die of diabetes,
An' some----
"Shut up, you drunken fool!" said Carter, furiously.
"Oh," said Jimsy, blinking his eyes rapidly, bowing deeply. "Ladies
present. I shee. My mishtake. My mishtake, ladies! Well, guesh I go
sleep now. Come on. Yac', put me to bed 'fore you go. Give you lil'
treat. All work'n no play makes Yac' a dull boy!" He roared over his own
wit. The Indian, his face impassive, had risen to his feet and now Jimsy
cast himself into his arms and insisted on kissing him good-night,
clinging all the while to the decanter with its half inch of whisky.
Carter wrenched it away from him. "You'll kill yourself," he said, in
cold disgust.
"Well," said his friend, reasonably, "ishn't that the big idea? Wouldn'
you razzer drink yourself to death'n die of thirst?"
They were making for the door now in a zigzag course, and when they
passed Honor, Jimsy stayed their progress. He held out his hand and
spoke to her, but he did not meet her eyes. "Gimme ring," he said,
crossly.
"What do you mean?" said Honor.
"Gimme back ring ... busted word ... busted engagement ... want ring
_anyway_ ... maybe nozzer girl ... _you_ can't tell!" His hoarse voice
rose querulously. "Gimme ring, I shay!"
Honor shrank back from him against Mrs. King. "Jimsy," she said, "when
the boy that gave me this ring comes and asks me for it, he can have it.
_You_ can't!"
His legs seemed to give way beneath him, at that, and Yaqui Juan half
led, half dragged him out of the room.
Mrs. King wept again but Honor's eyes were dry. Carter started to speak
to her but she stopped him. "Please, Carter ... I can't ... talk. I
think I'd like to be alone."
"Oh, my dear, please come up with me," Mrs. King begged, "it's so cold
here, and----"
"I have to be alone," said Honor in her worn voice.
"Then you must have this," said the older woman, finding comfort in
wrapping her in her own _serape_. It was a gay thing, striped in red and
white and green, the Mexican colors; it looked as if it had been made
to wear in happy days.
They went away and left her alone in the _sala_. She didn't know how
long she had sat there when she saw a muffled figure crawling across the
veranda. She opened the door and stepped out, nodding to the _peón_ on
guard there, leaning on his gun. "Juan?" she called softly.
The crouching, cringing figure hesitated. "Si," came the soft whisper.
He kept his head shrouded. She knew that he was sick with shame for the
lad he had worshiped; he did not want to meet her gaze. She could
understand that. It did not seem to her that she could ever meet any
one's eyes again--kind Mrs. King's, Carter's--her dear Stepper's.
Suddenly it came to her with a positive sense of relief and escape that
perhaps there would be no need for facing any one after to-night....
Perhaps this was to be the last night of all nights. It might well be,
when Jimsy King slept in a drunken stupor and a Yaqui Indian slave went
out with his life in his hands to help them. She crossed the veranda and
leaned down and laid her hand on the covered head. Her throat was so
swollen now that she could hardly make herself heard. "_Tu es amigo
leal, Juan_," she said. "Good friend; good friend!" Then in her careful
Spanish--"Go with God!"
He had been always an impassive creature, Yaqui Juan, his own personal
sufferings added to the native stoicism of his race, but he made an odd,
smothered sound now, and caught up the trailing end of her bright
_serape_ and pressed his face against it for an instant. Then he crept
away into the soft blackness of the tropic night and Honor went back
into the empty _sala_. She wished that she had seen his face; she was
mournfully sure she would never see it again. It did not seem humanly
possible for any one to go into the very midst of their besiegers
encamped about the well, fill the canteens and return alive, but it was
a gallant and splendid try, and she would have liked a memory of his
grave face. It would have blotted out the look of Jimsy King's face,
singing his tipsy song. She thought she would keep on seeing that as
long as she lived, and that made it less terrible to think that she
might not live many more hours.