EN ROUTE
To say that the days which followed Miss Street's unconventional decision
passed in a whirl is to be both trite and truthful. In fact, it was not
until she had crossed the border that she found leisure to reflect.
To begin with, the parents had been difficult, as good parents usually are
when youth begins to chafe at restriction, especially if youth happens to
belong to the weaker but no longer the less adventurous sex. The Streets
were easy-going people who liked to live by the way. They were not
ambitious and they were not adventurous and they hated letting go of their
children. It was bad enough to have a son marooned in a mining camp
without losing a daughter in the same way. Only downright persuasion by
the daughter, combined with remembrance of quite unalarming letters from
the son resulted in the desired permission.
"After all, if Emma's parents let her go down there, I suppose we needn't
be afraid," said Mrs. Street, who disliked argument.
"In my opinion, Emma's parents are fools," replied Mr. Street, sternly.
"Or else, like us, they've raised a daughter they can't control."
"I wouldn't put it that way, Elbridge!"
"I would. You might as well look things in the face."
"But, Father, you know Bob's part of the country has been very calm; and I
never get a chance to do anything interesting! You sat down on me when I
wanted to drive a motor truck in France----"
Any father can continue this lament from memory. The discussion had ended
as discussions with spoiled children usually end. There had been a hurried
packing and the familiar trip across the continent. It was only when she
alighted at a border town and after some anxious hours waiting to have her
passports vised and her transportation arranged, embarked on the shabby
south-bound train on the other side, that Polly fully realized the
expedition to which she was committed.
Up to this time her thoughts had been of the life she was leaving, and, it
must be admitted, of Joyce Henderson. From Illinois to Texas she told
herself exactly what she thought of a man who could so boldly and plainly
and with such an evident relief accept his dismissal at the hands of the
girl he had claimed to love; but by the time the train had jogged through
miles of queer brownish yellow country, dotted with mesquite and punctured
with cactus, relieved here and there by foothills, and frowned upon by
distant mountains, her meditations assumed a more cheerful complexion.
The outlook, monotonous as it was, fascinated her. There were adobe houses
with brown youngsters playing in the scanty shade, much as one sees them
in New Mexico and Arizona; there were uprooted rails and the ruins of
burned cars--evidences of civil war unknown on our side of the line. There
was a strong wind blowing--the early spring wind of the Southwest, but the
sun shone hotly and one felt stuffy and uncomfortable in the car. The sand
which was caught up by the wind blew in one's face and down one's throat
and made closed windows a necessity.
There were a good many people traveling, for a country in a reputedly
unsettled condition, Polly thought, and wished that she could understand
the fragments of conversation that she heard.
"Why didn't I take Spanish instead of French at school? I always seem to
have chosen the most useless things to study! I wish I knew what those two
fat women without any hats on are talking about--me, I suppose, for they
keep looking over here. That man is American--or English. If I were Bob,
I'd amble over and get up a conversation with him and find out all the
interesting things I'm missing. I'll bet he owns a mine down here
somewhere. How fascinating!"
Polly's imagination immediately forsook the American and indulged in a
rosy picture of herself as the owner of a mine--a gold mine--coal was too
unromantic. She saw herself in a short skirt and a sombrero superintending
the exertions of a number of dusky workers who were loading neat little
gold bars on the backs of patient burros.
This delightful picture occupied her fully until the train stopped and she
had to get out. This train did not go all the way to Conejo, but left one
at a junction called Pecos where twice a week if convenient for all
parties a smaller train rattled its way across the plain and into the
mountains among which Conejo nestled. It is not necessary to describe
Pecos; its only reason for existence was the fact that it owned and
operated a smelter.
This second train was the shortest that Polly had ever seen. It consisted
of an engine, two coal cars, a baggage car, and one passenger coach--this
last very dirty as to floor and windows and very creaky as to joints.
There were on this occasion but four passengers beside Polly; the two fat
ladies, who were, if she had only known it, members of the first families
of Conejo; an old man who sat in a corner and read a German paper; and a
young Mexican, well dressed and of a gentlemanly appearance, who sat
across the narrow aisle from Polly, smoking innumerable cigarettes and
glancing at her whenever he thought she was not looking.
Polly, however, was too much interested in the changes of scenery to
notice anything as ordinary as a good-looking young man. The country was
changing, gradually, but still unmistakably changing, from a desert, flat
and stifling, to a region of small hills and valleys; still brownish
yellow, but with the monotony of mesquite varied by live oaks, and in some
cases by shallow little streams along whose banks grew cottonwoods, their
green foliage restful to the eye weary of desert bareness.
Many of the cacti were in their beautiful bloom and gave to the country
the needed dash of color. Occasionally one saw small herds of cattle
feeding off the short stubby vegetation. They were drawing near the
mountains, whose gauntness seemed less when approached.
"They're like ugly people--grow better looking as you get to know them,"
mused Polly. "Oh, my gracious, what's the matter now?" The puffing little
engine had given up trying to make the steep grade it had been
negotiating, and had stopped with one last desperate wheeze. No one seemed
surprised. The fat ladies went on talking and the old man continued to
read his paper. The trainmen were outside, doing something, Polly couldn't
make out what, perhaps only talking about doing something. "Oh, dear, I
wonder what has happened!"
In her excitement she must have said it aloud, for the young man across
the way sprang to his feet and was at her side instantly. A keen observer
might have drawn the conclusion that he had been waiting for some such
opportunity.
"I beg pardon, senorita, but it is that the engine cannot make the grade,"
he volunteered, politely, in English almost without an accent--or perhaps
I should say with an intonation English rather than American, though with
a slightly Latin arrangement of phrase.
"Oh, I see," Polly replied blankly. The young man had been rather sudden,
and he continued to stand in a disconcerting way, hat in hand, in the
aisle. He appeared to be very young, hardly more than nineteen, Polly
thought, and handsome in a dark way. He had large dark eyes, very white
teeth, a smooth olive skin without the mustache which so many Spaniards
wear, and a rather prominent under jaw and chin.
"You see," he continued, "they take the first car over to Conejo and then
come back for us."
"Do you mean to say that they'll leave us here, perched on the side of
this hill, while they run off with the engine?" demanded Polly, eyeing the
trainmen indignantly. In fact, she was so busy being indignant with them
that she omitted to notice that the young man had slipped into the seat
opposite her. That fact, however, had not escaped the fat ladies in the
rear, one of whom said to the other in shocked Spanish:
"It is Juan Pachuca!"
"So it is," replied the other. "I had thought him in the South."
"Who knows where he is? A wicked person, my dear, a very wicked person. My
sister's husband says he will get himself shot before he finishes."
"Undoubtedly," said the other, placidly. "So many young men are being shot
these days. I thought that young woman was an actress--now I am sure of
it."
"Yes," replied Juan Pachuca to Polly's question. "But do not be alarmed.
They will come back in a couple of hours."
"A couple of hours!" The girl's voice was horrified. "But I expected to be
in Conejo in a couple of hours. I'm in a hurry."
"One should never be in a hurry in Mexico, senorita, it does not--what is
it you say--it does not pay."
"Apparently." Polly replied coolly, realizing suddenly that this
good-looking boy was regarding the conversation as a thing established.
The stranger was correct in his guess. Uncoupled from the rest of the
train, their coach remained poised uncomfortably half-way up the hill,
while the engine, still puffing and wheezing like a stout man going
upstairs, pulled the open cars and the baggage car up the grade and,
disappearing through a gap in the hill, became only a faint noise and a
trail of thin smoke. Polly laughed in spite of herself and the young man
responded with a smile that revealed two dazzling rows of teeth.
"_Manana_!" he laughed. "So we say down here and so we do. You find it
amusing, senorita, after your country?"
"It's different, you must admit. We at least aim to reach places on
time."
"Yes, that is the difference--you aim, we do not," replied the other,
thoughtfully. "Some day--but perhaps the senorita will get out and have a
breath of fresh air? There is, alas, plenty of time."
A mischievous impulse seized the girl. She felt as she used to feel when
as a small, fat, freckled youngster she had sat still as long as she
possibly could in school and then despite the teacher's stern eye her
nervous energy had got the better of her.
"After all he's only a boy," she told herself. "I'll bet he isn't any
older than my freshmen cousins. What's the harm?"
Outside the sun was hot but the wind was fresh and cool.
"Through that cut in the mountains and around a curve is Conejo," said
Juan Pachuca, as Polly, glad to be out of the hot car, drew long breaths
of the splendid air. "You have friends there?"
"In Conejo? Oh no, my brother lives in Athens. That's where I am going. He
is superintendent of a coal mine there."
"Athens? That is some distance from Conejo. Of course your brother will
meet you?"
"Of course," replied Polly, with the faith of the American girl in the
male of the species. "They have a little coal train that runs to Conejo
and he'll probably come in on that."
"I think you must be Senorita Street?" mused the young man.
"Oh," Polly dimpled pleasantly. "You know Bob then?"
Juan Pachuca's dark eyes smiled. "Not exactly--but I have met him. Me, I
have a place south of Conejo--quite a long way--I am what you might call a
long-distance neighbor. My name is Pachuca--Juan Pachuca."
"I see. Are you in the mining business, too?"
"Not now. Oh, I have mining property, but further south. My people live in
Mexico City. In Sonora I have a small ranch."
"You speak English rather wonderfully, you know, senor," said the girl.
"But more like an Englishman than an American."
"It is very likely. My sister--she is much older than I--married an
Englishman, and her children had English governesses. When I was young I
had my lessons with them."
So from one thing to another the conversation ran, very much as it does
with two young people of any nationalities, granted a common language.
Polly talked a good deal about Bob. Juan Pachuca seemed interested in all
the details that she could give him about the mine. His manner was very
respectful. If he had not met many American girls he had evidently heard
much about them, for he did not seem to misunderstand the situation as
many Latins would have done. Before the girl had realized it the two hours
were over and the little engine reappeared.
Conejo should, I believe, be called a town. The people who live in it
always dignify it by that name and they probably have a reason for so
doing. To one holding advanced ideas as to towns, it seems at a first
glance to be only a collection of pinkish looking adobes which on
inspection turn out to be a church, a store, a jail, a saloon, a hotel--at
which no one stays who has a friend to take him in--and some private
houses. It is Juarez without the bull ring, the racetrack or the gambling
places.
It is situated rather flatly between two ranges of mountains and when
Polly Street landed there at about six o'clock--a trying hour in
itself--it was in the grip of a sand-storm. One's first sand-storm is
always a surprise. It looks so innocent from behind a window pane; just
sand--blowing about rather swiftly, whirling in spirals, beating against
the glass, piling itself up in drifts--an interesting sight but not a
terrifying one.
Polly had been a little surprised to see the fat ladies array themselves
in goggles before descending from the train, and had laughingly refused an
offer of his own from Juan Pachuca, who promptly put them on himself. But
when she alighted from the train onto the platform which extended from the
rear end of the general merchandise store, and which served as station,
waiting parlor and baggage-room, she gasped in dismay. It was as though
thousands of tiny pieces of glass had struck her in the face and throat.
Before she could get her breath they struck her again and again; sharp,
vindictive, piercing little particles they were. She shut her eyes and put
her hands to her bare throat to protect it. Suddenly she felt a hand on
her arm and Juan Pachuca's voice said:
"Keep them shut and let me lead you. I told you what sand-storms
were--you'd better have taken the goggles."
Polly succumbed and felt herself being led along the platform.
"There, we're in the store," said the young man. "Rather nasty, eh?"
"Awful! I never felt anything like it," gasped the girl, shaking the sand
from her clothes. "And it isn't sand, it's gravel. No wonder you wear
goggles!"
"I find them most convenient for many purposes," was the reply.
Polly noticed that he still had them on though they were in the store.
They gave him a queer, oldish appearance and quite spoiled his good looks.
Polly herself was beginning to feel disturbed. She wanted Bob and she
wanted him immediately. She looked about her anxiously.
The store was larger than it appeared from without and carried a varied
line of goods piled up on shelves or displayed on counters. On one side,
it seemed to be a grocery store; on the other, dry-goods, shoes, and hats
were set forth, while in the rear were saddles, bridles and other
paraphernalia in leather. A big stove in the middle of the room gave out a
cheerful warmth, for the air was growing very cool as the sun went down.
There were a few people, Mexicans and Indians, in the place and they all
stared curiously at the pretty American. Polly did not realize, though she
was not in the habit of underrating her attractions, how very noticeable
she was in that environment, as she stood there, her tan traveling coat
thrown open showing her dainty white waist, her short, trim skirt with its
big plaid squares, and her neat brown silk stockings and oxfords. Conejo
had not seen her like in many moons and it stared its full.
"I think Bob would be at the station. If I could go there----" Polly
began, with a little lump in her throat.
"This is the station," said Pachuca. "It is Jacob Swartz' store and the
station as well."
"Then something has happened to my letter. He never would have
disappointed me like this," said the girl, despairingly.
"That is quite possible. If you would let me serve you in this matter,
senorita? I have a car at the house of a friend just out of town. I am
driving to my ranch in it to-morrow. If you would let me drive you to
Athens----"
"Drive in an open car in that?" the girl pointed to the whirling sand
outside. "How could we?"
"Easily. Once on our way into the mountains we will leave it behind us."
"Oh, thank you very much, senor, you're very kind, but if Bob doesn't come
I can go to some friends of his, English people, the Morgans, and they
will drive me over in the morning." She was conscious of a sudden desire
to get away from this polite youth who stuck so tightly. It was all very
well to let him amuse her on the train--that was adventure; but to drive
with him through a strange country at night would be pure madness. She
thought he stiffened a bit at her words.
"English people? Oh, yes, undoubtedly that will be wise. Swartz can
probably tell you where to find them."
"Yes, of course." Polly was glad to see that he was going to leave her.
"Thank you again, senor, for your kindness."
"It has been a great pleasure," and the young man was gone.
Polly clenched her hands nervously. Where, oh, where was Bob? Why hadn't
she telegraphed instead of trusting to a letter? At this juncture her
glance fell upon a small counter over which the sign P. O. was displayed.
Behind the counter sat a stout man in spectacles--Jacob Swartz,
undoubtedly. Polly accosted him timidly.
"Has anyone been in from Athens to-day?" she said.
"Athens? Sure, dere train come up dis morning; dey wendt back an hour
ago."
"Was Mr. Street here--Mr. Robert Street?"
"No, joost the train gang. Dey wendt back when dey got dere mail."
"Do--do they come every day for the mail?"
"No, joost twice a week. Dere mail ain't so heavy it can't wait dat long."
Swartz peered benevolently over his spectacles.
"I'm Mr. Street's sister. I wrote him I was coming, but I suppose if he
only gets his mail twice a week he hasn't had my letter." Polly bit her
lip impatiently. "I want to go over to the Morgans--Mr. Jack Morgan. Can
you show me where they live?"
"Sure can I," replied Swartz, lumbering to his feet. "You can from the
door see it."
Polly followed him in relief, when suddenly the door opened and a little
old lady literally blew in. She stamped her feet as though it were snow
instead of sand that clung to her, and disengaged her head from the thick
white veil in which she had wrapped it.
"Mein Gott, it is old lady Morgan, herself," said Swartz, nudging Polly,
pleasantly.
"What's that? Somebody wanting me?" replied the lady, still occupied with
the veil. "Where's that tea I told you to send me this morning, Swartz? A
fine thing to make me come out in all this for a pound of tea, just
because I've nobody to send and two sick children on my hands! What? Oh, I
can't hear you! Who d'you say wants me?"
She was a thin, bent old lady with straggly gray hair and a very sharp
penetrating voice. Polly felt the lump in her throat growing larger. Was
this the jolly pretty Mrs. Jack Morgan that Bob had written about so
often?
"Dis young voman----" began Swartz, heavily.
Polly stepped forward.
"Mrs. Morgan, this is Bob Street's sister. He has often written us about
you and your husband."
"Husband? She ain't got no husband," interrupted Mr. Swartz, heatedly.
"Ain't I told you dis iss de old lady--Jack Morgan's mother?"
"I'm a little hard of hearing, my dear. Who did you say you were?" asked
Jack Morgan's mother, patiently.
Polly repeated her explanation, adding a few more particulars, all as
loudly as possible. They had now an interested audience of Mexicans and
Indians, male and female, old and young, who found the scene none the less
attractive because they did not understand it.
"Well, I suppose he didn't get your letter," said Mrs. Morgan. "Jack and
his wife have gone over to spend a few days with some friends in Mescal or
they'd run you over in the car." There was a pause as Polly digested this
unwelcome bit of news, then the old lady continued: "They'd only been gone
two days when both the children came down with mumps, and my Mexican
woman's husband had to take that time to join the army, so, of course, she
had to leave. If things weren't so messed up I'd take you home with
me----"
"Oh, no," said Polly, promptly. "I couldn't think of it. If I could just
get somebody to drive me over----" Both she and Mrs. Morgan looked at
Swartz.
"Mendoza might if he ain't drunk--sometimes he ain't," volunteered that
gentleman.
"Oh, no, I don't think I'd like him," shivered Polly. "Isn't there anybody
else?"
"Nobody with a car," replied Mrs. Morgan. "It'd take you till morning to
drive over--the roads are awful. Mendoza is a very decent old thing. You
go and see if you can get him, Swartz," and Swartz lumbered away. Old lady
Morgan understood how to make herself obeyed. "Have you tried to get
Athens on the 'phone?"
"Telephone?" A smile broke over Polly's unhappy face. "Why, I never
thought of that."
"Good heavens, child, where do you think you are? Here, I'll get them for
you."
She led the way to the office.
"I haven't seen your brother since he went up to Douglas to get married,"
she said. "Didn't know they'd come home."
"Oh, yes, they must be home," said Polly, an awful doubt coming into her
mind. "They--they must be home!"
Mrs. Morgan seized the receiver and began exchanging insults with the
invisible Central. After several minutes she gave up the effort.
"It's no use, I can't raise them--our service is dreadful down here," she
said. "Now, I'll tell you what to do. I've got to run home before the baby
wakes up; if he can't get Mendoza, you come on down to the house and stay
the night with me. See, it's the last house--got a Union Jack flying from
it. If I don't see you in half an hour I'll know you've gone with Mendoza.
You needn't be afraid of him--he's half dead but he can drive a Ford," and
the voluble old lady was gone.
Polly wondered for a moment whether she most wanted to laugh or cry.
Homesickness and fatigue suggested the latter, but a wild sense of humor
poised between the decrepit Mendoza and the deaf Mrs. Morgan won the day.
Polly chuckled. Then realizing that it was nearly seven and that she had
had nothing to eat since noon, she went to the counter and bought of a
Mexican youth, evidently a helper, some crackers. They were in a box and
looked a degree cleaner than anything else. The population had wearied of
the American lady and had gone its various ways. Polly sat forlornly on a
high stool and munched her crackers until Swartz returned.
"No good," he said. "Mendoza's sick and he won't let nobody else drive de
car. You better go stay mit de old lady."
"All right," said the girl, rising. "I suppose I can leave my trunk on
your back porch?"
"Vy not? Ain't it der station? Vere should you leaf it?" replied Swartz,
hospitably.
Polly stepped out of the front door. The sand blizzard was undoubtedly on
the wane. The wind was less violent but much cooler. The sun had dropped
behind the mountains and the dusk was descending upon the little Mexican
town. A few of the houses showed a light, but more of them were dark. The
Morgan house, a very long way down the street, it seemed to the girl, was
lit and she started to go toward it. A sense of desolation, a forlornness
greater than she had ever known in all her short life descended upon her.
She swallowed quickly and increased her pace. It wasn't fear, she
reflected, it was worse than fear; it was the awful loneliness of one who
had never been really alone in her life.
"It's the first night at boarding-school multiplied by a thousand," she
sobbed softly. "Oh, why did I come to this awful place? I simply can't
stay all night with that deaf woman and those mumpy children! I----"
She jumped back in time to avoid an automobile which seemed to flash out
of nothingness at her elbow. As she stood looking after it a wild hope
came into her head that it might be Bob after all. The car stopped and a
man jumped out.
"Is it you, senorita?" he exclaimed, "alone and in the dark?"
It was Juan Pachuca. Polly sighed, disappointed to tears. She tried to
explain the situation.
"But in two hours I will have you in Athens," he begged. "Or is it that
you wish to stay with these people?"
"Of course I don't wish to stay! The children have the mumps and the poor
old lady is nearly wild."
"Come. Give me that bag. So--I thought all Americans were sensible
people!" And before Polly could object she found herself seated in the car
with Juan Pachuca driving silently at her side.