CHAPTER XXIII
Darkness so dense lay over the Fernandez plain that not the faintestoutline of the rimming mountains penetrated its blackness. Like somepalpable, suffocating substance it filled the plain and mounted far upinto the air, even to the blue-black sky, whence a million gemmingstars pierced it with their diamond lances.
Perched alone among the foothills of the Fernandez range, JuanGarcia's gray adobe house glimmered faintly through the darkness.Every sound about the house was hushed, and only the burro in the_jacal_ down the hillside made known to the silent plain that he wasstill awake. The door into the _portal_ opened softly, and with aquick, gliding, silent movement a dark figure came hastily out, closedthe door, listened a moment, and then trod lightly across the _portal_and down to the road. There it paused, and Amada Garcia's face,anxious and wistful, framed in the black folds of her mantilla, lookedback at the silent house. A deep, dry sob shook all her frame and shehalf turned back, as if irresolute. Then she drew from her breast afolded bit of paper, pressed it to her heart and her cheek, and kissedit again and again. She cast another regretful, longing look at thegray adobe house, and started off in the direction of Muletown. Thefaintly glimmering track of the sandy road opened slowly before her inthe darkness, and, drawing her mantilla closely around her shoulders,she walked briskly along the dusty highway.
She kept the folded paper in her hand, pressing it to her lips andcheek with little cooing sounds of love. Once, standing still in thedarkness and silence of the wide, black plain, she unfolded the letterand kissed the open sheet. It was too dark for her to see a singleword upon the page, but she knew just where were "_mi esposa_," and"_mi querida_," and "_mi corazon_."
That afternoon, as she filled her _olla_ at the spring, a youngMexican came riding by in brave attire of braided jacket and trousersand silver trimmed sombrero. She knew him well. Indeed, she had oftenbantered back his compliments and adroitly turned to merriment thesweet speeches he would rather have had her take in earnest. Hestopped and gave her the letter, which he had brought all the way fromthe post-office at Muletown solely for excuse to see her. She poisedthe _olla_ full of water upon her head and he walked up the hill tothe house by her side, and while he talked to her mother she slippedstealthily out and hid in the _jacal_ beside the burro for a chance toread the letter. When she returned she showed so plainly that hiscompliments and sweet speeches were distasteful to her that he sulkilyleft the house and galloped home again. Then her mother reproved her,telling her that she must not discourage the young man, because he wasplainly in earnest in his attentions and would make the best andrichest husband of all the young _caballeros_ who came to the house,and that when next she saw him she must make amends for her unkindtreatment. Amada listened with terror and rebellion in her heart; andin her brain there sprang into life the purpose which she set out toexecute as soon as her father and mother were asleep.
In her pocket she had four dollars which she had saved from the saleof eggs and goat's-milk cheeses at Muletown, and which she had beencarefully keeping for the purpose of buying a new mantilla with adeep, deep silk fringe the next time they should go to Las Plumas tocelebrate the fiesta of its patron saint. And under one arm shecarried some _enchiladas_ and _tamales_, left from that night'ssupper.
She trudged on through the darkness and silence of the night, and,although she walked briskly, the frosty air now and again sent ashiver of cold through her body and made her draw her mantilla moreclosely across her chest. The staccato yelping of coyotes down in theplain was answered by short, sharp barks from the hills, and all nightlong the beasts kept up a running exchange of howls from one to theother side of the road. Sometimes Amada heard the stealthy rustle ofthe herbage as they neared the highway, or saw the gleaming of theireyes in the darkness. But she knew their cowardly nature too well tobe afraid, and when they came too near, a pebble from her hand sentthem scurrying away.
Hour after hour she followed the faint glimmer of the dusty road, overthe low, rolling hills, across the sloping upland, and down into theedge of the Fernandez plain, steadily leaving behind her the slowlymeasured miles. At last the east began to glow above the Fernandezmountains and against the golden sky shone the thin, silver-whitecrescent of the old moon. The blackness of night gradually faded intothe gray light of dawn, the sky blushed rosy red, the plain spreaditself out before her, flooded with golden red sunlight, and stillAmada held to the pace she had kept up all night long. Before her shesaw columns of blue smoke rising from the chimneys of Muletown, andshe thought longingly of the well in the plaza. But early though itwas, she feared to be seen and questioned, for she knew many people inMuletown. So she turned from the main road, leaving the town far toher right, and struck across the trackless plain for the highwayrunning toward the Hermosa mountains. When she reached it the sun waswell up in the sky and she sat down on a hillock of sand to rest andeat her breakfast. She was very tired and it seemed good to lie stillon the warm sand under the warm sun, so she rested there for a longtime, thinking at first of the little gray adobe house far back inthe foothills and wondering what the two old people would think andwhat they would do when they should find their one child gone and notrace left to tell them whither or why she had fled. These thoughtswould bring the tears to her eyes, then she would open the letter andread it slowly over and over, and kiss the words of love, and, withsoft little laughs and cooings, picture to herself her journey's end.
At last she saw a cloud of dust coming toward her from the directionof Muletown and, reminded of the possibility of being seen andquestioned by some one she knew, she got up and hurried on her way.She knew her father and mother would not at once be alarmed over herdeparture. They would think she had risen early and gone up into thefoothills to gather sweet herbs. Even after they should find that shewas gone she knew that, in the leisurely fashion of the land andpeople of _manana_, it might be two or three days before they wouldhitch the horses to the wagon and drive to Muletown to ask if any onethere had seen her. But she did not wish to be discovered in herflight by any one whom she knew, and so she hurried on, drawing hermantilla across her face until only her two great black eyes peepedfrom its folds.
The wagon behind her clattered up and its sole occupant, a middle-agedAmerican, asked her in Spanish if she would like to ride. Shehesitated, instinctively fearing speech with any one, and glancedshyly at the Americano, who was smiling down good-naturedly at herfrom the wagon. The man added that if she were going far she hadbetter ride, for the road across the plain would soon be very hot. Sheconsidered that she did not know this man, that he would not know whoshe was, and thought how much more quickly she could cross that wideplain, so, with a grateful glance of her black eyes and a "_muchasgracias, senor_," she climbed up and sat down in the seat beside him.He asked her how far she was going, and she answered, to the otherside of the Hermosa mountains. He replied that he was going to hismining camp in the mountains, but that he would drive her to the topof the pass, as the road was rocky and steep up the mountain side. Hehad some water in a canteen, from which she drank gratefully, and asmidday approached, he shared with her his luncheon of bread andcheese, while she divided with him what remained of her _tamales_ and_enchiladas_.
The man's kindly manner gave her confidence and the innate coquetry ofher nature unconsciously began to assert itself. She talked gaily withhim, her eyes by turns sparkled, invited and repelled, her mantillaalmost covered her face one moment and the next was shaken gracefullydown to her shoulders, leaving the coils of her hair shining black asa crow's wing in the sun. Her little, rosebud mouth pouted and smiled,and altogether she was so sweet and dainty and graceful that themiddle-aged, gray-bearded Americano began to beam upon her withadmiring eyes and to hover over her with jerky, heavy attempts atgallantry. He asked her name, but she took sudden alarm and answeredonly with a shrug of her shoulders and a swooning glance of her greatblack eyes. He put his arm about her waist and stooped to kiss hersmiling mouth. She struggled away from him with a terrified, appeali
ngcry, "No, no, senor!" of whose meaning there could be no mistake.
The man looked at her with wide, surprised eyes and exclaimed, "Well,I'll be damned!" and whipped up his horses. He glanced at hercuriously several times and saw that she had edged away from him asfar as she could and drawn the black folds of her mantilla well overher face. Presently he said, in her own tongue:
"Pardon me, senorita! I thought you would not care."
Her only answer was a little shiver, and they drove on in silence upthe winding mountain road to the top of the pass. There she climbedout of the wagon and smiled back at the man with a grateful "_muchas,muchas gracias, senor_," and started down the road toward Las Plumas.He looked after her contemplatively for a moment and said to himself:
"Well, I'll be damned! But you never can tell how a Greaser's going tobreak out next!" Then he turned his team about and drove whistlingback to his own road.
Amada's spirits rose as she looked down into the Rio Grande valley andsaw the thread of glowing yellow foliage which marked the course ofthe _acequia_ and the long, straggling procession of gray dots whichshe knew was the town of Las Plumas. She had been there twice with herfather and mother when they had gone to join in the fiesta of SantaGuadaloupe. They had a "_primo_" there, one of those distant relativesof whom the Mexicans keep track so faithfully, but she meant to stayfar away from his house and to be seen neither by him nor any of hisfamily. She was sure she could reach the town by nightfall. She beganto wonder if the train on which she meant to go away would come afterthat and what she should do with herself all night if it did not. Thetwo visits she had made to Las Plumas had been the only times in herlife when she had seen a railroad train, and she asked herself if shewould be afraid when she should get into the car and it should gotearing across the country so fast. Ah, it would not go fast enoughfor her, not nearly fast enough! And unconsciously she quickened hersteps to keep pace with her thoughts.
Presently mighty pains began to rack her body. She groaned andclenched her fists until the blood stained her palms. But still shehurried on, urging herself with thoughts of her journey's end, whichbegan to loom distant and impossible through the haze of hersuffering. The road wound over the rounded foothills, across the crestof one, down the hillside, and over another, and another, and another,until Amada thought their end would never come. She longed to lie downthere in the dusty road and give herself up to the agony that held herbody in its grip. But she so feared that she might yield to thetemptation, and never rise again, that she ran down the hills andhurried her aching feet up the slopes until she panted for breath. Anawful fear had come to terrify her soul. In its absorbing clutch shescarcely thought again of her wish to reach the railroad, and the loveletter that had brought her comfort and sustained her strength wasalmost forgotten. If she should die there alone, with no priest tolisten to the story of the sins that oppressed her soul, to give herthe sacrament and whisper the holy names in her ear--ah, she couldnot--any suffering could be endured better than so terrible a fate. Soshe gathered up her strength and strove to force a little more speedinto her aching, blistered feet and to endure the pains that grippedand racked her body, hoping only that she might reach the town andfind the priest before the end should come.
At last the gray, rolling waves of the foothills smoothed themselvesout and gently merged into the plain that rose from the valley below.So near seemed the houses and the long streets of the town, with theyellow cottonwoods flaming through its heart, that Amada feltencouraged. She hurried limping down the road, her black dress graywith dust, her mantilla pulled awry, her eyes wide with the terrorthat filled her soul, and her face tense and drawn with the pain thattortured her body.
She reached the edge of the town and saw people in the houses alongthe street. But she met none and she could not make up her mind tostop long enough to turn aside to one of the houses and ask the way tothe priest's dwelling. Presently she saw two children come hand inhand through a gateway. One of them, a tiny boy with flaxen curlsabout his neck and a thin white face, put his hands on the shouldersof his baby girl companion and kissed the face she lifted to his. Asshe went away she turned and threw kisses to him and he waved his handto her and called out "bye-bye, bye-bye."
Amada staggered against the fence and stood there resting a momentwhile she smiled at the pretty scene, notwithstanding her sufferingand anxiety. When the child turned back into the yard she moved awayfrom the fence and tried to go on. But her knees trembled and gaveway, a cry of pain broke from her lips, and she fell upon thesidewalk. For woman's greatest extremity was upon her and she could gono farther.
Marguerite Delarue stood upon the veranda steps smiling fondly uponlittle Paul as he came up the walk. She had noticed the strange youngMexican woman leaning against the fence, and when Amada fell she randown to the gate to see if the stranger were ill. The look of awfulagony in Amada's face and eyes frightened her, and quickly calling themaid, the two women took her into the house and put her to bed. ThenMarguerite sent in all haste for the physician, and herself removedthe dusty shoes and stockings, bathed the swollen, blistered feet,took off the dust-filled garments and clothed the suffering girl inone of her own night robes.
All night long the physician worked, his face anxious and troubled,and in the early morning he gave up hope. For Amada lay in a stuporfrom which he thought there was no probability she would ever rouse.Suddenly she moaned, stretched out her hands and called, "My baby!Where is my baby?"
Marguerite knelt beside her and tried to tell her that the little onehad never breathed, and Amada flung herself upon the girl's neck andgave herself up to such transports of grief that the physician satdown in dumb, amazed helplessness, sure that immediate collapse wouldcut short her cries of woe.
"But you can't tell a blessed thing about these Greasers," he saidafterward to Marguerite. "I was sure she was going to die, and Ireckon she would if she had not done the very thing that I thoughtwould be certain to finish her anyway. Maybe I'll learn sometime thatthese Mexican women have got to let out their emotions or they woulddie of suppressed volcanoes."
When Marguerite had sympathized with and soothed and comforted heraccidental guest Amada asked if she would send for the _padre_.
"I shall die very soon," she said, "and he must come at once. Ithought I should die long before this, but God has let me live throughall that time that I do not remember, when I was so nearly dead, onlythat the _padre_ might come and make me ready for death."
After the priest had gone Marguerite went to the sick girl's room witha cup of gruel. Amada lay back on the pillow, her face gray withpallor against the background of her shining black hair. She kissedand fondled Marguerite's hand.
"You have been very good to me, senorita, but I shall have to troubleyou one little time more, and then I shall be ready to die, and someone can ride over to the Fernandez mountains, beyond Muletown, andtell my father, Juan Garcia, that his daughter, Amada, is dead, andthat she was very, very sorry to bring so much grief to him and hermother. You will tell him that, will you not, senorita? But you mustnot tell him about the _nino_, because they do not know--ah, senorita,you must not think that I am a--a bad woman! See! Here is a letterthat says _mi esposa_! But they might not believe it--and they mustnot know--you will not tell them, senorita!"
"But you are not going to die!" said Marguerite encouragingly. "Youwill soon be strong again."
Amada shook her head. "No! I shall be dead before another morningcomes. But now the _padre_ says I must see _el Senor Don_ EmersonMead."
The girl's eyes caught a sudden, brief flicker which crossedMarguerite's face, and, weak though she was, she raised herself on oneelbow, her black hair streaming past her face and her eyes shining.She caught Marguerite's hand, calling softly:
"Senorita! You love Don Emerson! Is it not so? I saw it in your face!Ah, senorita, it is good to love, is it not? Now you must bring SenorMead to me here and I must tell him something that the _padre_ says Imust before I die. But you must not ask me what it is, for
I can nottell you. I can not tell any one but Don Emerson."
"He is in the court room now," Marguerite replied, "and they would notlet him leave. But his friend, Senor Ellhorn, is here, and I will seeif I can find him."
Marguerite met Nick Ellhorn coming out of John Daniel's office with abroad smile curling his mustaches toward his eyes. He had been on astill hunt for his Chinese queue, and had run at once upon thecertainty that something had happened which several people would liketo keep quiet. And he had not only recovered the pig tail, but hadfound out what had been done and who had done it.
"Oh, Mr. Ellhorn!" exclaimed Marguerite, "I am so glad to find you!There is a Mexican girl at my house--she dropped down dreadfully illat my gate last night and I took her in--who wants to see Mr. Mead.She says her father is Juan Garcia, and that he lives away beyondMuletown, in the Fernandez mountains. The _padre_ confessed her thismorning and now she says he told her that she must tell Emerson Meadsomething before she dies. I do not know what it is, and she says shecan not tell any one except Mr. Mead. Will you come to the house andfind out what she wants?"
Ellhorn's eyes opened wide, but he kept an impassive face. "AmadaGarcia! What the--whatever is she here for, and how did she get here!"
"I think she must have walked, for her feet were blistered."
"Walked! Walked from old Garcia's ranch! Good God! Well, I sure reckonshe must have something to say. I'll go right along and see her."
When Nick Ellhorn came out of the Delarue house he heard the whistleof the train from the north.
"I've just time to make it," he thought. "I can't stop to say a wordto anybody about this business, or I'll miss this train. Well, Ireckon I might just as well not say anything about it, anyway, as longas Tommy isn't here, until I get back--if I ever get back! They'll beonly too glad to snake me in down there, if they get the chance. I'lljust have to make a quick scoot across the line, and trust to the luckof the Irish army! If Tommy was only here we'd get this thing through,if we had to wade through hell and tote home the back doors. But Ican't stop to wait for company. I'll try it alone, and I sure reckonI'll be too smart for 'em!"
With Hoops of Steel Page 23
