The Missourian

by Eugene P. Lyle

  CHAPTER XII

  PASTIME PASSING EXCELLENT

  "Il y a des offenses qui indignent les femmes sans les deplaire." --_Emile Augier._

  Like another Black Douglas, Din Driscoll rose among the crags, the darktufts curling stubbornly on his bared head. He looked a sinewy,toughened Ajax. But he only spoiled it. For, raising his arms, hestretched himself, stretched long and luxuriously. His very animalrevelling in the huge elongation of cramped limbs was exasperating. Nexthe clapped the slouch on his head, and clambered down.

  Jacqueline might have been surprised to see him. Her brows lifted. "Notkilled?" she exclaimed. "But no, of course not. You gave yourself air,you ran away."

  Driscoll made no answer. He was thinking of what to do next. She knewthat he had run because of her, and she was piqued because he would notadmit it. "So," she went on tauntingly, "monsieur counts his enemy bynumbers then?"

  "Didn't count them at all," he murmured absently.

  "But," and she tapped her foot, "a Frenchman, he would have done it--notthat way."

  She was talking in English, and the quaintness of it began to create inhim a desire for more. "Done what, miss?" he asked.

  "He would not have run--a Frenchman."

  "Prob'bly not, 'less he was pretty quick about it."

  She looked up angrily. Of course he must know that he had been splendid,up there behind the rocks. And now to be unconscious of it! But that wasonly a pose, she decided. Yet what made him so stupidly commonplace, andso dense? She hated to be robbed of her enthusiasm for an artisticbric-a-brac of emotion; and here he was, like some sordid mechanic whowould not talk shop with a girl.

  "I wager one thing," she fretted, "and it is that when you bring mendown to earth you have not even at all--how do you say?--the martialrage in your eyes?"

  "W'y, uh, not's I know of. It might spoil good shooting."

  "And your pipe"--her lip curled and smiled at the same time--"the pipedoes not, neither?"

  His mouth twitched at the corners. "N-o," he decided soberly, "not inclose range."

  She gave him up, he had no pose. Still, she was out of patience withhim. "Helas! monsieur, all may see you are Ameri-can. But there, youhave not to feel sorry. I forgive you, yes, because--it wasn't dull."

  "Hadn't we better be----"

  "Now what," she persisted, "kept you so long up there, for example?"

  Driscoll reddened. He had lingered behind the screen of rock to bandagehis furrowed leg. "S'pose you don't ask," he said abruptly, "there'splenty other things to be doing."

  He turned and invited the little Breton maid to come from the shack. Shewas white, and trembled a little yet. "I knew, I knew you would notleave us, monsieur," she was trying to tell him. "But if you had--oh,what would madame----"

  "Now then," the practical American interrupted, "where's Murgie?"

  Jacqueline pointed with the toe of her slipper. There were prostratebodies around them, with teeth bared, insolent, silent, horrible. Onecouldn't be sorry they were dead, but one didn't like to see them.Jacqueline's boot pointed to a man lying on his face. A silk hat wasnear by in the dust. A rusty black wig was loosened from his head. Thegirl invoked him solemnly. "Arise, Ancient Black Crow, and live anotherthousand years."

  Driscoll lifted the shrunken bundle of a man, held him at arm's length,looked him over, and stood him on his feet. The withered face was morethan ever like a death's head, and the eyes were glassy, senseless. Butas to hurt or scratch, there was none. The beady orbs started slowly intheir sockets, rolling from side to side. The lips opened, and formedwords. "Killed? yes, I am killed. But I want--my cotton, my burros, mypeons--I want them. I am dead, give them to me."

  "You're alive, you old maverick."

  The gaze focused slowly on Driscoll, and slowly wakened to a craftyleer. Believe this Gringo?--not he!

  With an arm behind his shoulders Driscoll forced him down the trail tohis caravan. Most of the animals were lying down, dozing under theirpacks. Murguia's eyes grew watery when he saw them, but he was stilldazed and his delusion was obstinate. The leer shot exultant gleams. "Arich man _can_ enter heaven," he chuckled with unholy glee.

  "Oh wake up, and give me two donkeys for the girls. Their horses gothit, you know."

  Then the stunned old miser began to perceive that he was not in heaven.His tyrant's voice! "You get my horses killed," he whined, "and now youtake my burros."

  Driscoll said no more, but picked out two beasts and bound somecushioned sacking on their backs for saddles. Then with a brisk heartyword, he swept Berthe up on the first one.

  "Next," he said, turning to Jacqueline.

  But the marchioness drew back. Next--after her maid! It nettled her thatthis country boy, or any other, could not recognize in her thatindefinable something which is supposed to distinguish quality.

  "What's the matter, now?" he asked. "Quick, please, I'm in a hurry."

  "It's too preposterous. I'll not!"

  "You will," he said quietly.

  Her gray eyes deepened to blue with amazement. She stood stock still,haughtily daring him. She even lifted her arms a little, leaving thegirlish waist defenseless. Her slender figure was temptation, the prettyducal fury was only added zest. Up among the rocks Driscoll had foundhimself whispering, "She's game, that little girl!" But at the same timehe had remembered Rodrigo's innuendo, the linking of her name withMaximilian's. She was so brave, and so headstrong, so lovablyheadstrong, and her beauty was so fresh and soft! Yet he could not butthink of that taint in what nature had made so pure. Of a sudden therewas a something wrong, something ugly and hideously wrong in life. Andthe country boy, the trooper, the man of blood-letting, what you will,was filled with helpless rage against it; and next against himself,because the girlish waist could thrill him so. "A silly littlebutterfly," he argued inwardly. Before, he had been unaware of his ownindifference. But now he angrily tried to summon it back. He set hismind on their situation, on what it exacted. It exacted haste, simple,impersonal haste. And keeping his mind on just that, he caught her up.

  "Oh, you boor!" she cried, pushing at him.

  His jaw hardened. His will was well nigh superhuman, for he battledagainst two furious little hands, against the dimple and the patch sonear his lips, against the fragrance of her hair, against the subtlewarmth of his burden.

  "No, no!" she panted. "Monsieur, do you hear me? I am not to becarried!"

  "Maybe not," said he, carrying her.

  A moment later she discovered herself planted squarely on the burro.

  "Bonte divine!" she gasped. But she took care not to fall off.

  He drew a long breath.

  "Now whip 'em up," he commanded.

  * * * * *

  The first village beyond, where Dupin had promised to meet Jacqueline,was a squatting group of thatched cones in a dense forest of Cyprus andeucalyptus. Its denizens were Huasteca Indians, living as they hadbefore the Conquest, among themselves still talking their nativedialect. The name of the hamlet was Culebra.

  The coy twilight waned quickly, and the caravan was still pushing onthrough the thick darkness of the wood, when a high tensioned yelpingmade the vast silence insignificant, ugly. But as the travelers filedinto the clearing where the village was, the curs slunk away with coyotehumility, their yellow points of eyes glowing back on the intruders.

  With a forager's direct method, Driscoll roused the early slumberingvillage. He would not take alfafa, he declined rastrojo. It was humanfood, corn, that he bought for his horse. He housed his dumb friendunder a human roof too. After which he prepared a habitation for thewomen. He swept the likeliest hut clean of ashes, brazier, and bits ofpots and jars. He carpeted the earth floor in Spanish moss, as KingArthur's knights once strewed their halls with rushes. It was luxury fora coroneted lass, if one went back a dozen centuries. There were chinksbetween the sooty saplings that formed the wall, but over these he hungmatting, and he
drove a stake for a candle.

  Supper followed. The trooper chose to change Don Anastasio from host toguest, and he exacted what he needed from the Inditos. They, for theirpart, were alert before his commands. None of them had been overlookedin his preliminary largesse of copper tlacos and they made the teamingwilderness contribute to his spread. Kneeling, with sleeves rolled fromhis hard forearms, he broiled a steak over hickory forks. The torches ofgum tree knots lighted his banquet, and the faces of the two girls, rosyin the blaze and mysterious in the shadow, were piquant inspiration.Even the sharp features of Don Anastasio stirred him into a phase ofwhimsical benevolence. He knocked two chickens from their perch in atree and baked them in a mould of clay. There was an armadilla too,which a Culebra boy and the dogs had run down during the day. Its darkflesh was rich and luscious, and the Missourian fondly called it'possum. Crisply toasted tortillas, or corn cakes, served for bread, andfor spoons as well. But to Driscoll's mind the real feast wascoffee--actual coffee, which he made black, so very good and black, ariotous orgie of blackness and strength and fragrance. Here was a feastindeed for the poor trooper. He thought of the chickory, of the parchedcorn, of all those pitiful aggravations that Shelby's Brigade had triedso hard to imagine into coffee during the late months of privation alongthe Arkansas line.

  And the Marquise d'Aumerle? Learning to eat roasting ears, which somehowjust would leave a grain on her cheek with every bite, the daintyMarquise thought how much finer was this than the tedious bumping ship.How much more tempting than the ultra-belabored viands on white chinathat had to be latticed down! Here was angel's bread in the wilderness.And the appetite that drove her to ask for more, that was the onlysauce--an appetite that was a frisson. A new sensation, in itself!

  And later, sleep too became a passion, a passion new and sweet in itsincantation out of the lost cravings of childhood. When the nearerfreshness of the woods filled her nostrils, there from the live-oak mossin her night's abode, she smiled on the grave young fellow who had lefther at the door. And both girls laughing together over the masculinenotions for their comfort, knew a certain happy tenderness in theirgaiety.

  "Eh, but it's deep, madame," said one.

  "It's the politeness of the heart," the other explained.

  Outside Driscoll spread his blanket across the doorway where his horsewas sheltered, and wrapped in his great cape-coat, he stretched himselffor a smoke. But Murguia came with cigars, of the Huasteca, gray andmusty. Driscoll accepted one, waving aside the old man's apologies. Hepuffed and waited. Conviviality in Don Anastasio meant something.

  "Ah, amigo," the thin voice cracked in a spasm of forced heartiness,"ah, it was a banquet! Si, si, a banquet! Only, if there were but aliqueur, a liqueur to give the after-cigar that last added relish,verdad, senor?"

  Driscoll tapped his "after-cigar" till the ashes fell. "Well? he asked.

  "Ai de mi, caballero, but I am heavy with regrets. I can offer nothing.My poor cognac--no, not after such a feast. But whiskey--ah, whiskey ismagnifico. It is American."

  He stopped, with a genial rubbing of his bony hands. But his sadgood-fellowship was transparent enough, and in the darkness his eyeswere beads of malice. Driscoll half grunted. A long way round for adrink, he thought. "Here," he said, getting out his flask, "have a pullat this."

  Murguia took it greedily. He had seen the flask before. The covering ofleather was battered and peeled. "Perhaps a little--water?" he faltered.Driscoll nodded, and off the old Mexican ambled with the flask. When hereturned, he had a glass, into which he had poured some of the liquor.The canteen he handed back to the trooper, who without a word replacedit in his pocket. Murguia lingered. He sipped his toddy absently.

  "I, I wonder why the friends of the senoritas do not come?" he ventured.

  "Want to get rid of them, eh, Murgie?"

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. "And why not? You may not believeme, senor, but should I not feel easier if they were--well, out of thereach of Don Rodrigo?"

  "Out of----Look here, where's the danger now?"

  "Ai, senor, don't be too sure. Colonel Dupin still does not come, and itmight be--because the guerrillas have stopped him."

  "Man alive, he had 'em running!"

  "H'm, yes, but there's plenty more. This very village breeds them, feedsthem, welcomes them home. Don Rodrigo can gather ten times what he hadto-day. And if he does, and if, if he is looking for the senoritasagain----"

  Driscoll shifted on his blanket. "I see," he drawled. "F'r instance, ifthe senoritas vanish before he gets here, he won't blame you? Oh no, youwere asleep, you couldn't know that I had up and carried 'em off.Anyhow, you'd rather risk Rodrigo than Colonel Dupin----Yes, I see." Hetucked his saddle under his head, and lay flat, blinking at the stars."This trail go on to Valles?" he inquired drowsily.

  Murguia's small eyes brightened over him. "Yes," he said, eagerly.

  "Correct," yawned the American, "I've already made sure."

  "And if----" But a snore floated up from the blanket.

  When Murguia was gone, the sleeper awoke. He carefully poured out allthe remaining whiskey. "It may be what they call 'fine Italian,'" hemuttered, with a disgusted shake of the head, but he neglected to throwthe flask away as well. Next he saddled Demijohn and two of the packhorses, then lay down and slept in earnest, as an old campaignersnatches at rest.

  The night was black, an hour before the dawn, when his eyes opened wide,and he sat up, listening. He heard it again, faint and far away, afeeble "pop-pop!" Then there were more, a sudden pigmy chorus of battle.He got to his feet, and ran to call the two women.

  "So," said Jacqueline, appearing under the stars, "monsieur does notwish to be relieved of us? He will not wait for his friends?"

  "Get on these horses! Here, I'll help you."

  Soon they three were riding through the forest, in the trail towardValles. Behind them the fairy popping swelled louder, yet louder, andthe man glanced resentfully at his two companions. He was missing thegame.

  Back in the village of Culebra a demon uproar hounded Don Anastasio outof serape and slumber. All about him were fleeing feet. They wereshadows, bounding like frightened deer from the wood, across theclearing, and into the wood again. Some turned and fired as they ran.Screaming women and children hurried out of the _jacales_, anddarted here and there. Dogs howled everywhere. A storm of crashing brushand a wild troop of horsemen, each among them a free lance of butchery,burst on the village. A second crashing storm, and they were in theforest again. They left quivering blots in their wake, and a moaninggave a lower and dreadfuller note to the wailing of women. Only theleader of the pursuers, with a few others, drew rein.

  "Death of an ox!" the French oath rang out, "We're in their very nest.Quick, you loafers, the torch, the torch!"

  Flames began to crackle, and in the glare Murguia was seen franticallydriving burros and peons to safety. The leader of the troop leaned overin his saddle and had him by the collar.

  "Who the name of a name are you?"

  Don Anastasio looked up. His captor was a great bearded man. "ColonelDupin!" he groaned.

  "Who are you?--But I should know. It's the trader, the accomplice ofRodrigo. Sacre nom, tell me, where is she? We can't find her here. Whereis she?"

  "How can I know, senor? She--perhaps she is gone."

  "With Rodrigo--ha! But he'll have no ransom--no, not if it breaksMaximilian's heart.--Now, Senor Trader----"

  He stopped and called to him his nearest men. Murguia sank limp.

  "But he hasn't got her! Rodrigo hasn't got her!"

  "Who has then?"

  "The other one, the American."

  "Which way did they go?"

  "If Your Mercy will not----"

  "Shoot him!" thundered the Tiger.

  "But if he will tell us?" someone interposed.

  It was Don Tiburcio, still the guardian angel of the golden goose.

  "Bien," growled the Tiger, "let him live then until we find theAmerican."

  "Which way did
they go?" Tiburcio whispered in Murguia's ear.

  "To, to Valles," came the reply.

  The blazing huts revealed a ghoulish joy on the miser's face. TheGringo, not he, would now have to explain to the Tiger.