Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER VII

  DESDEMONA LISTENS

  It was but slowly that Manuelita obeyed her father's order to returnhome; her little feet lagged as the girl dwelt on the scene she had justwitnessed, and wondered what it meant. Somehow this American always sether wondering about something. His very unlikeness to the men whom shehad hitherto lived among made him appear almost as strange to her as avisitor from another world. He had begun by half repelling, and hadended by fascinating her; on this point the guess of the coarse-mindedbut quick-witted Texan was not mistaken. Although in speech and manners,in all his tastes and habits, Stephens offered a complete contrast toher Mexican fellow-countrymen, he himself with his light hair and faircomplexion was not a type absolutely new to this girl, for in the placeof honour in her grandfather's dining-room had hung a portrait of agolden-haired _caballero_, the great Manuel Sanchez, the friend ofCortez; and Manuelita had woven so many romantic dreams about herglorious ancestor that this fair-haired American had come to seem to hera sort of copy of her hero of romance. It was only in dreams andtraditions that the girl had met with heroes; the secluded life led byMexican ladies was in her case more solitary than usual, for the Sanchezfamily was poor (poor for its position, that is) but proud, andManuelita turned up her pretty nose at the few young rancheros of theneighbourhood, and held them beneath the notice of the daughter of a_conquistador_. The girl's passionate southern nature, with all itscapacity for devotion, had slept longer than was usual among her people,and when her heart should awake it would be the heart of a woman, not ofa schoolgirl. The young rancheros flaunted their silver spurs and velvetjackets at the Fiestas in vain; they swore the senorita was as wild asan antelope; and, like an antelope, she was caught by her curiosity. Shecould not keep from speculating on the strange character of thisAmerican who bore the golden locks of her great ancestor. The characterof a handsome young man is a dangerous study for the peace of mind of agirl, and her interest in the stranger grew so rapidly that soon itseemed to her that there was little else worth studying "beneath thevisiting moon."

  Nor was the opportunity lacking. Stephens had struck up quite afriendship with her father in the course of the winter, and had got intothe way, especially on mail days, of dropping in for a chat with hisMexican crony, who, within his somewhat narrow intellectual limits, wasa man both of strong character and active mind. She had listened to themtalking together by the hour. The Mexican had many incidents to tell ofthe ceaseless struggles of his people with the marauding Navajo Indians,who had been but lately reduced to subjection, and of the hardly lessconstant struggle between the rival great families, the Bacas, theArmijos, the Chavez, and the rest, for supremacy among themselves. TheAmerican found no lack of matter in the tale of his wanderings betweenthe Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountains, and of the toils and hopesof a seeker after gold. To her, directly, he had not spoken very much;as an unmarried girl, under the watchful tutelage of her aunt, she wasnot expected to take a prominent part in conversation, but she went andcame freely between the living-room where her father entertained hisguest, and the sleeping-chambers which opened off it and the kitchencommunicating with it on the other side.

  Once, too, it had been her luck to see the American perform a feat thatimpressed her not a little. She had gone out one evening with Juana, theNavajo captive who had been brought up in the house as a bondservant, tobring in the milk from the corral, when she caught sight in the dusk ofan animal prowling near that seemed like a dog, and yet was assuredlysomething other than a dog. The two girls ran indoors, crying out thatthere was a wild beast of some kind, a wolf they thought, close by, andStephens, who was sitting with her father, sprang up, seized hisWinchester, which stood in the corner, and hastily threw a cartridgeinto it as he stepped forth, while she followed to point out themarauder. There, in the dim light, some seventy yards away, the animalstood, hesitating whether to advance or to fly. She well remembered thequick, smooth, steady action with which the rifle came up, came level,went off; the loud clap of the bullet hitting the object; and thenonchalant way in which the tall American had turned on his heel and,without any apparent interest in the effect of his shot, had gone in andreplaced the rifle in its corner, merely remarking, "I reckon it'snothing but a coyote."

  Pedro, the peon, had run to see, and presently brought in the limp bodyof the animal, a coyote as he had guessed, its skull shattered to a pulpby the deadly hollow bullet. But what impressed her more than thedeath-dealing powers of the terrible weapon, was the quiet confidenceexhibited by the marksman in his rapid aim, a confidence so entirelyjustified by the event; and it was this that struck deep into herimagination.

  Yes, in her eyes, without doubt, the American was a hero; and yet he wasbut a cold-hearted hero after all. He could turn a compliment because hehad picked up the trick of it from the young Mexicans whom he metoccasionally in Don Nepomuceno's house, but his compliments lacked thefanciful gallantry of the words of her countrymen; yes, he was hard, shewas sure of it, hard and cold as the ice-bound soil of his own frozenNorth; she would waste no more thoughts on him, she resolved; and thenshe thought of him more than ever, and it was in such a mood as thisthat she re-entered her father's door.

  * * * * *

  When Stephens turned his back somewhat ungraciously on Mr. Backus infront of the stage station, he rode off without casting a look behindhim, and urged his mule forward at an easy amble towards the house wherehe was expected. Those last words of the storekeeper had jarred on himvery unpleasantly. Who had asked this intruder to spy on the expressionof the girl's face? What business was it of his anyhow? Of course it wasall rubbish. He himself had never said a single word to Manuelita thatall the world might not hear. Of course he had to pay her a complimentonce in a while; he could hardly do less, coming and going at the houseas he did, and all these Mexican senoras and senoritas expected it, justas the girls back in Ohio expected you to treat them to candy andice-cream. That never meant anything particular, neither did hiscompliments, and she was much too sensible a girl to think they did. Itwas characteristic of the man that he never for a moment thought ofhimself as likely by his person and his character to make an impressionon a girl's heart. The idea that came into his head when Backus made thesuggestion was that if there was anything in it it must be due to thisprecious art of paying compliments, which was about the only point inMexican manners that he had taken any special pains to acquire. But thewhole thing was rubbish, so he assured himself again and again. Sanchezwas no fool, and no more was his daughter. They were kindly people, whohad behaved with true Mexican hospitality to a stranger--but they werepeople of another race: their customs, their beliefs, their ideals, wereall strange to him. Between an American and a Mexican there could be noreal community of feeling. And yet some Americans did marry Mexicans,and did not seem to repent it. Even that low-down skunk of astorekeeper, who was an American of sorts, had a Mexican wife. Probablyshe was not much to boast of, a mere peon's daughter most likely,--well,that was his taste. But there were other Americans who had Mexicanwives; he could count up several whom he had seen in Santa Fe,--traders,Government employes, and the like,--and they had as comfortable homes asif they had gone back to the States and married American girls. Butconfound that Backus's impudence! What should he know about theseSanchez folks anyway?

  Beneath all this anger lay two very uncomfortable suspicions. One wasthat the storekeeper was a man with a great deal of low cunning, andmight have, as indeed he boasted, most confoundedly sharp eyes forprying into other people's affairs; and the other was that he,Stephens, had never given such an affair as this a serious thoughtbefore, and knew precious little about womankind in general; and thislast thought of his was much truer than he himself realised.

  There are no men whose experience of women, as a rule, is so small asthe pioneers of a new country. In older countries there are unmarriedmen in plenty, but they are brought into frequent daily contact with theother sex unless they take deliberate pains to prevent it, and no
tseldom they prove to understand women better than those who might besupposed to have a better right. But the celibates of a new country arequite different. In their case it is not choice but necessity that makesthe mere sight of a woman's face a rare thing. In the wild, remotemining camps where Stephens's years of adventure had been mostly passed,among a thousand men there would barely be a score or so who everbrought their women-folks along. True enough, where the miners hadstruck it rich, and hundreds and thousands of dollars were being takenout by eager crowds of men, another class of women did not delay long inappearing upon the scene; but that was a class from which Stephensstudiously kept aloof. He had not even the perverted experience that maybe thus gained; and he positively knew less at nine-and-twenty about theways in which girls think and feel than he had known before he left homeat nineteen. If he knew little he had been contented with his ignorance,but now this random shaft of the storekeeper had gone home, and he wascontented no longer.

  Alighting from Captain Jinks before Don Nepomuceno's door, he waswelcomed by the Mexican, who insisted on unsaddling the mule for himhimself, loudly calling meanwhile for Pedro to come and take him roundto the corral and give him some corn. The house was built in Mexicanstyle, of sun-dried bricks, in the form of a hollow square, with apatio, or courtyard, in the centre on which all the doors and windowsgave, the outer wall being blank except for a peephole or two high up.It had a flat clay roof, with a low parapet all round. It was, in fact,a miniature castle, as was every house in the country of any pretensionsbuilt during the days when the Navajos and Apaches were a constantterror in the land. Stephens followed his host inside after taking offhis spurs, Spanish fashion. He had unbuckled his belt and handed it,revolver and all, to his host, begging him to take charge of it. This,too, he had learned was a piece of Spanish etiquette. You give him yourarms to keep, for you are under his protection. Don Nepomuceno bustledaround, laying the saddle with its "cantines" neatly in a corner, withthe saddle blanket over it, and hanging up the belt on a peg, while hekept calling out to his sister to bring in the dinner, and to the Navajocaptive, Juana, to bring water for washing. There were no chairs ortables, but a broad divan covered with gaily striped serapes ran allalong one side of the room and served as a seat.

  On this Stephens sat down, and, while the master of the house showed hishospitable ardour by urging the women in the kitchen to make a whollyunnecessary haste, the American drew from his pocket the letter he hadreceived at the stage station, and proceeded to read it. It ran asfollows:

  "THE WHAT CHEER HOUSE, DENVER, COL., "April 2, 187-.

  "_To Mr. John Stephens, among the Pueblo Indians of Santiago, N.M._

  "FRIEND STEPHENS,--It's two years and a half ago that you and me parted company in Helena, Montana, after I'd done my best to bust you that time, you remember. I've knocked around and had my ups and downs since, but I haven't done so badly on the whole. Last summer I was in Col. here, and I got on to a goodish thing up on Boulder. I wish you would come up here this summer and join me in trying to work it, for I think if it was handled right there's big money in it for both of us. I don't want to say too much, for I don't feel plumb sure of this letter reaching you. And for the same reason I don't put in a draft for what I owe you still, but I've got it here for you all right and regular, and if you can't come you've only got to let me know where and how to send it, and it's yours. I'm well enough fixed now to be able to do it right enough. I don't know if there's any chance of this letter finding you. I haven't heard sign or sound of you since we quit being pardners, till yesterday I run on to that Sam Argles as you may remember in Helena in old times; he'd been wintering away down in Arizona, and he said as how when he was passing through New Mexico a stage driver there told him as he knowed of a white man, calling himself John Stephens, that had been a miner, and was living now with the Indians of Santiago, N.M. That Sam Argles is an old gasbag, sure, but I had to allow as it sounded like you in some ways, for he said the driver said this Stephens wouldn't never drink nor gamble; but he said too another thing, that he was living there with 'em as a squawman, and then I didn't hardly believe as it could be you, but I guessed that stage driver might have been lying, and so figuring on it like that I calculated I might as well write you there. Hoping as it is you, and that you're going strong and doing fine, I remain, your former pard,

  "JEFF. A. ROCKYFELLER.

  "You can address me, care of Hepburn & Davis, 397 Arapahoe, Denver."

  Stephens perused this letter with a dry smile upon his face.

  "Yes, Rocky," he said, apostrophising his ex-partner, "it's me, surepop, that Mr. Sam Argles heard of here; but I'm not a squawman yet, notquite; you were right not to believe that, not if all the darned foolstage drivers in the country were to swear to it."

  By the code of the West, a squawman is nothing less than a renegade tohis own race, and is hated accordingly.

  He refolded the letter and placed it back in his pocket, as Juanaappeared bearing a towel and soap and a bowl, which she placed on theclean-swept floor in front of him preparatory to aiding him to wash bypouring a little stream of water over his hands. The Navajo handmaiden,having been captured as a child, had been brought up in Mexican style,but her blood was pure Indian; that showed plainly in her impassive faceas she held the towel for him to wipe his hands, and the strong animalexpression given by the heavy jaw and dark skin struck him forcibly. Hewondered what she was thinking of as she stood there as still as if shehad been cast in bronze, and he reflected, with some disgust at his ownstupidity, that that 'cute storekeeper down below could probably havemade a pretty accurate guess. Yes, in future he positively would paymore attention to what women were thinking about. In that respect therewas no doubt he must amend his ways.

  At last Don Nepomuceno condescended to settle down and seat himself onthe divan beside his guest; a low table was brought in and placed beforethem, and on it were set two bowls of rich mutton-broth. When the emptybowls were removed by Juana, the master of the house called out loudly,so as to be heard in the kitchen through the open door, "It is veryexcellent broth! Ah, what capital broth!"

  "I have often heard it said," remarked Stephens, by way of showing hisappreciation, "that the Mexican ladies make the best soup in the world."

  "It is true, Don Estevan, it is quite true. They are capital cooks,capital. I wonder now, Don Estevan, that you can be contented to cookfor yourself. Cooking seems such a waste of time for a man!"

  Stephens laughed. "It's my bad luck, senor," he said. "You see, theladies wouldn't ever look at a rover like myself."

  "Don't you believe it, don't you believe it," cried the other; "indeedyou have no call to say so. Ah, here is the stew," he added, as Juanaset down before each of them two small saucers, one of frijoles, orMexican beans boiled with onions, and one of stewed mutton with redpepper; in fact both dishes were made nearly red-hot by a liberaladmixture of the famous chili colorado. For bread she laid before themtortillas, large thin pancakes of the blue Indian corn, peculiar to NewMexico.

  Following the example of his host, Stephens broke off a piece oftortilla, formed it into a scoop, and dipping up mouthfuls of the twomesses alternately, thus consumed both bread and meat together. Hishost's approval of this course was delivered for the benefit of thekitchen as emphatically as it had been of the soup.

  "It is very savoury meat," he shouted in his commanding voice, as soonas he had tasted two or three mouthfuls from each saucer, "very savoury;and they are excellent beans, delicious beans. Ah yes, Don Estevan," hecontinued to his guest, "what a pity it is that you have not someone tocook for you like this. To live all by yourself is so solitary, so_triste_."

  "Yes," answered the American quietly; "but how should I do when I wentoff to the mountains prospecting? I'm off again, I expect, shortly, toColorado, you see; and what would I do with the cook then?"

  "But why do yo
u go?" queried his host. "Is it not time for you to leaveoff this wandering, roving life of yours and settle down? You are rich,everybody knows. You should marry, man, marry, and enjoy yourself"; hedropped into a more familiar tone,--"yes, marry before old age comes.You are a young man still, but age will be upon you before you know it."

  Stephens, instead of giving a direct answer, made play with the tortillaand the stew. "I do begin to believe that cunning Backus was nearerright than I had any idea of," he said to himself. "I suppose this meansthat my good friend here wants to suggest that he'll find me a wife inshort order if I say so--only, as it happens, he's a little tooprevious; I aint ready just yet." By this time he had consumedsufficient of the stew to set a dry man on fire, and utilised this factto change the subject.

  "Excuse me," said he, "but may I, by your permission, beg for a drink ofwater? This meat is delicious, but the chili makes me rather thirsty."

  "Oh, certainly," cried his hospitable host; "but we have coffee coming.We have coffee here. Bring the coffee, Juana, at once," he shouted tothe bondmaid.

  "Water, please, if I may be so bold, Don Nepomuceno," pleaded Stephens,whose mouth was really burning.

  "Yes, yes; bring water, then, Juana," cried the other, anxious toaccommodate his guest. "Or would you not like a little atole? There isatole, too, plenty of it."

  Atole is an old and favourite Mexican drink made of the finest Indiancorn meal boiled till it becomes a thin gruel.

  A jug of atole presently appeared with two cups, and the American waspermitted to ease the burning sensations of his palate.

  "Thank you," he said gratefully, putting down the cup; "that's veryrefreshing. Atole is a real good drink, Don Nepomuceno."

  "Oh, yes," said the latter, "it's a good drink enough; but now thatcoffee has come in so much, it is used more by our handmaidens and thepeons. All the well-to-do people here buy coffee, with sugar, now. Wewill have the coffee in in a minute. Tell them to make haste with thecoffee, Juana. Did you never hear," he continued to Stephens, "the songthat the musician of San Remo has made about Mr. Coffee and Mr. Atole?It is comic, you must know, very comic. You see Mr. Coffee comes fromfar, far away off in Tamaulipas, or farther still, to cut out his rivalMr. Atole. And then they meet, and the pair have a conversation, and Mr.Coffee tells poor Mr. Atole that he is doomed. Let me see, how does itgo? Oh yes, Mr. Coffee begins, and he says to the other jokingly:

  "'Como te va, amigo Atole? Como has pasado tu tiempo; Desde lejos he venido Para hacer tu testamento.'

  "'How do you do, Mr. Gruel? I fear you are rather unwell; I've taken a mighty long journey To ring your funeral knell.'

  That's how it goes, Don Estevan. There's a great deal more of it; theygo on arguing ever so long. We must get him in some time and make himrepeat it all for you."

  "You're most kind, I'm sure," said the American, wondering in himselfthe while how any human being could be amused by such a rigmaroleconcerning Messrs. Coffee and Atole. But there was no accounting fortastes; and he had found out that American humour did not seem at allfunny to Mexican ears, while his recent experience in blasting the ditchhad taught him that the mildest of American jokes might send red Indianson the war-path. A difference in the sense of humour goes down to thevery roots of our nature.

  They had finished dinner by this time, and the American, declining acigarette, filled his pipe, and rising went over to his saddle andextracted from the "cantines" the packet which had come for him by mail.He brought this over to his host and offered it to him.

  "Here, senor," said he, "is a little bag I will beg you to accept. It isfrom Denver; it contains some seed of alfalfa, that clover I told youabout, that grows so splendidly in California and Colorado."

  The Mexican was warm in his thanks as he untied the bag and took asample in his hand.

  "I told them to send me the best seed," said Stephens. "I think it oughtto grow well in this country. You'd better sow it soon in a piece ofyour ploughed land, and irrigate it when it comes up."

  "Yes, I will," said the Mexican. "I'll have it planted to-morrow in theland I am preparing for corn. Come and see my seed corn; I am notcontent with this common blue corn of the Indians. I have white cornwith big ears that I mean to sow. Come along to the storeroom and lookat it."

  He led the way, and as they passed through the door they almost steppedover Manuelita, who was seated on the ground just outside, busy cleaninga large basket of frijoles. Stephens paused idly to look at what she wasdoing, while her father bustled around, noisily demanding of his sisterwhere the key of the storeroom was. The girl's task struck him asterribly tedious. She took up a small handful of beans at a time andpicked out one by one the little bits of stone that had got in when thethreshing was done, in the good old style, by the feet of the wild mareson a floor of clay and gravel concrete.

  "That's a long business you're in there," he remarked sympathetically.

  "Yes," she answered, glancing up at him with a shy smile, "it takestime," and she bent her eyes on her hand again so as not to interrupther work. He caught the beautiful smooth outline of her cheek with thelong dark lashes showing distinct against it.

  "You don't mean to say you have to do the lot that way, picking out allthose bits of rock one at a time?" he asked.

  "Oh, but yes, of course," she answered. "You would break your teeth ifwe did not take them out before we cook them."

  "But," he rejoined, his practical mind revolting against waste oflabour, "it'll take you a good hour to do that lot the way you're doingit, and you could do it better in three minutes." His tone was oracular.

  "I don't think it's possible," she said, "unless you had a witch to doit. There is an old woman, the mother of Pedro, that we get sometimes,but she often leaves some in, and then my father hurts his teeth. Thepeople here call her a witch, but she would take three hours instead ofthree minutes."

  "Well, I'm no witch," said he, "though the Indians here wanted to playme for one this morning. But you give me a pan--a milk-pan'll do--andI'll show you."

  The pan was brought, and he put in the beans and poured in water enoughto set them a-swim. He gave the pan a few deft twirls and shook it fromside to side.

  "This is the way we wash gravel to get the gold, senorita," he said, ashe set it down. "The rocks are all at the bottom of that pan now, youbet. If you'll kindly give me another pan to put the beans into," hewent on, "I'll prove it to you."

  The girl hastened to bring a second pan and put it beside the first, andin doing so their hands touched.

  "You'd better hold it there," said he, "while I shovel them across," andwith his hollowed palms he scooped the beans from one to the other. Inthe pan he had shaken there now remained a little discoloured water, andat the bottom about a teacupful of gravel.

  "There you are," said he triumphantly; "here's your gravel in this one,and there's your frijoles in that one. It's as easy as rolling off alog." She looked agreeably surprised, and he laughed.

  "How would you look," said he, "if those little rocks were nuggets, eh?Coarse gold, heavy gold, eh?" He smiled a strange smile, and a strangelight shone in his eyes. "Many a thousand pounds of gravel I've washed,looking for gold in the bottom of every one; but this is the first timeI ever panned out beans to get gravel. Maybe some day I'll find thatheavy gold yet, but God knows where."

  He straightened himself up to his full height, leaving on the groundthe pan over which he had been stooping. His eyes ranged out across thecourtyard through the open gateway to distant pine-clad peaks standingout against the intense blue of the sky.

  Manuelita had likewise set down her pan, and was leaning her handagainst the side of the doorway and her head against her hand.

  "I hope you will find it," she said, with a glance from the depths ofher liquid eyes. His eyes met hers and dwelt there for a moment.

  "Thanks," he said; "your good wishes should bring good luck."

  "I wish they might"; she half sighed as she spoke; "but which of us canever
tell where good fortune comes from?"

  And then broke in the voice of Don Nepomuceno, "Come along and see theseed corn, Don Estevan. I have found the key."