by Zane Grey
Once back across the river, however, she discovered that there were obstacles to a prompt adjustment of her claim. The red tape of her own government was as nothing to that of Mexico. There were a thousand formalities, a myriad of maddening details to be observed, and they called for the services of an advocate, a notary, a jefe politico, a jefe de armas—officials without end. All of these worthies were patient and polite, but they displayed a malarial indifference to delay, and responsibility seemed to rest nowhere. During the day Alaire became bewildered, almost lost in the mazes of official procedure, and was half minded to telegraph for Judge Ellsworth. But that again meant delay, and she was beginning to long for home.
Longorio by no means shared her disappointment. On the contrary, he assured her they were making splendid progress, and he was delighted with her grasp of detail and her knowledge of business essentials. At his word all Nuevo Pueblo bowed and scraped to her, she was treated with impressive formality, and even the military guards at the various headquarters presented arms when she passed. The general’s official business waited upon Alaire’s convenience, and to spare her the necessity of the short ride back to American soil he arranged for her an elaborate luncheon in his quarters.
As on the day before, he assumed the privileges of a close friend, and treated his guest as a sort of fellow-conspirator working hand in hand with him for some holy cause.
XIII
DAVE LAW BECOMES JEALOUS
“You can never know what these two days have been for me,” the general said as he and Alaire lingered over their meal. “They will afford me something to think about all my life! It is a delicious comfort to know that you trust me, that you do not dislike me. And you do not dislike me, eh?”
“Why, of course not. I have a great deal for which to thank you.”
General Longorio fingered his wineglass and stared into it. “I am not like other men. Would to God I were, for then I could close my eyes and—forget. You have your great tragedy—it is old to you; but mine, dear lady, is just beginning. I can look forward to nothing except unhappiness.” He sighed deeply.
“I’m sorry you are unhappy,” Alaire parried. “Surely you have every pleasant prospect.”
“It would seem so. I am young, rich, a hero, I serve my country in glorious fashion, but what is all that if there is no pretty one to care? Even the meanest peon has his woman, his heart’s treasure. I would give all I have, I would forego my hope of heaven and doom myself to eternal tortures, for one smile from a pair of sweet lips, one look of love. I am a man of iron—yes, an invincible soldier—and yet I have a heart, and a woman could rule me.”
“You say you have a heart.” Alaire studied her vis-avis curiously as he met her eyes with his mournful gaze. “How is it that I hear such strange stories about you, general?”
“What stories?”
“Stories—too terrible to mention. I wonder if they can be true.”
“Lies, all of them!” Longorio asserted.
“For instance, they tell me that you shoot your prisoners?”
“Of course!” Then, at her shocked exclamation, he explained: “It is a necessity of war. Listen, señora! We have twelve million Indians in Mexico and a few selfish men who incite them to revolt. Everywhere there is intrigue, and nowhere is there honor. To war against the government is treason, and treason is punishable by death. To permit the lower classes to rise would result in chaos, black anarchy, indescribable outrages against life and property. There is but one way to pacify such people—exterminate them! Mexico is a civilized nation; there is no greater in the world; but she must be ruled with an iron hand. Soldiers make rulers. I am still a young man, and—at present there is but one other capable of this gigantic task. For the time being, therefore, I permit myself to serve under him, and—I salute him. Viva Potosi!” The speaker lifted his glass and drank. “Madero was a wicked believer in spells and charms; he talked with the dead. He, and those who came after him, fired the peons to revolt and despoiled our country, leaving her prone and bleeding. We of the Cientificos have set ourselves to stop her wounds and to nourish her to life again. We shall drive all traitors into the sea and feed them to the sharks. We shall destroy them all, and Mexico shall have peace. But I am not a bloodthirsty man. No, I am a poet and a lover at heart. As great a patriot as I am, I could be faithless to my country for one smile from the woman I adore.”
Alaire did not color under the ardent glance that went with this declaration. She deliberately changed the subject.
“This morning while we were in the office of the jeje de armas,” she said, “I saw a poor woman with a baby—she was scarcely more than a child herself—whose husband is in prison. She told me how she had come all the way from the country and is living with friends, just to be near him. Every day she goes to the carcel, but is denied admission, and every day she comes to plead with the jefe de armas for her husband’s life. But he will not see her, and the soldiers only laugh at her tears.”
“A common story! These women and their babies are very annoying,” observed the general.
“She says that her husband is to be shot.”
“Very likely! Our prisons are full. Doubtless he is a bad man.”
“Can’t you do something?”
“Eh?” Longorio lifted his brows in the frankest inquiry.
“That poor girl with her little, bare, brown-eyed baby was pitiful.” Alaire leaned forward with an earnest appeal in her face, and her host smiled.
“So? That is how it is, eh? What is her name?”
“Inez Garcia. The husband’s name is Juan.”
“Of course. These peladors are all Juans. You would like to appear as an angel of mercy, eh? Your heart is touched?”
“Deeply.”
“Bastante! There is no more to be said.” Longorio rose and went into the next room where were certain members of his staff. After a time he returned with a paper in his hand, and this he laid before Alaire. It was an order for the release of Juan Garcia. “The salvo conducto which will permit Juan and his Inez and their Juanito to return to their farm is being made out,” he explained. “Are you satisfied?”
Alaire looked up wonderingly, “I am deeply grateful. You overwhelm me. You are—a strange man.”
“Dear lady, I live to serve you. Your wish is my law. How can I prove it further?” As he stood beside her chair the fervor of his gaze caused her eyes to droop and a faint color to come into her cheeks. She felt a sudden sense of insecurity, for the man was trembling; the evident desire to touch her, to seize her in his arms, was actually shaking him like an ague. What next would he do? Of what wild extravagance was he not capable? He was a queer mixture of fire and ice, of sensuality and self-restraint. She knew him to be utterly lawless in most things, and yet toward her he had shown scrupulous restraint. What possibilities were in a man of his electric temperament, who had the strength to throttle his fiercest longings?
The strained, throbbing silence that followed Longorio’s last words did more to frighten the woman than had his most ardent advances.
After a time he lifted Alaire’s hand; she felt his lips hot and damp upon her flesh; then he turned and went away with the document.
When he reappeared he was smiling. “These Garcias shall know who interceded for them. You shall have their thanks,” said he.
“No, no! It is enough that the man is free.”
“How now?” The general was puzzled. “What satisfaction can there be in a good deed unless one receives public credit and thanks for it? I am not like that.”
He would have lingered indefinitely over the table, but Alaire soon rose to go, explaining:
“I must finish my disagreeable task now, so that I can go home to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” her host cried in dismay. “No, no! You must wait—”
“My h
usband is expecting me.”
This statement was a blow; it seemed to crush Longorio, who could only look his keen distress.
As they stepped out into the street Alaire was afforded that treat which Longorio had so thoughtfully arranged for her. There in the gutter stood Inez Garcia with her baby in her arms, and beside her the ragged figure of a young man, evidently her Juan. The fellow was emaciated, his face was gaunt and worn and frightened, his feet were bare even of sandals, the huge peaked straw hat which he clutched over his breast was tattered, and yet in his eye there was a light.
They had waited patiently, these Garcias, heedful of Longorio’s orders, and now they burst into a torrent of thanks. They flung themselves to their knees and kissed the edge of Alaire’s dress. Their instructions had been plain, and they followed them to the letter, yet their gratitude was none the less genuine for being studied. The little mother’s hysteria, for instance, could not have been entirely assumed, and certainly no amount of rehearsals could have taught the child to join his cries so effectively to his parents’. Between them all they made such a racket as to summon a crowd, and Dolores, who had also awaited her mistress, was so deeply stirred that she wept with them.
General Longorio enjoyed this scene tremendously, and his beaming eyes expressed the hope that Alaire was fully satisfied with the moment. But the Garcias, having been thoroughly coached, insisted upon rendering full measure of thanks, and there seemed to be no way of shutting them off until the general ordered them to their feet.
“That is enough!” he declared. “Hombre, you are free, so go about your business and fight no more with those accursed rebels.”
Juan, of course, was ready at this moment to fight for any one he was told to fight for, particularly Longorio himself, and he so declared. His life was at the service of the benefactor who had spared him; his wife and baby lived only to bless the illustrious general.
“They look very poor,” said Alaire, and opened her purse; but Longorio would not permit her to give. Extracting a large roll of paper money from his own pocket, he tossed it, without counting, to Juan, and then when the onlookers applauded he loudly called to one of his officers, saying:
“Oiga! Give these good friends of mine two horses, and see that they are well cared for. Now, Juan,” he addressed the dazed countryman, “I have one order for you. Every night of your life you and your pretty wife must say a prayer for the safety and happiness of this beautiful lady who has induced me to spare you. Do you promise?”
“We promise!” eagerly cried the pair.
“Good! See that you keep your word. On the day that you forget for the first time Luis Longorio will come to see you. And then what?” He scowled at them fiercely.
“We will not forget,” the Garcias chorused.
There was a murmur from the onlookers; some one cried: “Viva Longorio!”
The general bowed smilingly; then, taking Alaire’s arm, he waved the idlers out of his path with a magnificent gesture.
When, later in the day, Mrs. Austin came to say good-by and thank the Mexican for his courtesies, he humbly begged permission to pay his respects that evening at her hotel, and she could not refuse.
As the coach went bouncing across the international bridge, Dolores said, spitefully: “It will take more than the pardon of poor Juan Garcia to unlock Heaven for that bandit. He is the wickedest man I ever met—yes, probably the wickedest man in the world.”
“He has been kind to us.”
“Bah! He has a motive. Do you notice the way he looks at you? It is enough to damn him for all eternity.”
Upon her arrival at the hotel Alaire received an agreeable surprise, for as her vehicle paused, at the curb David Law stepped forward, hat in hand.
“What bloodthirsty business brings you to Pueblo?” she queried, when they had exchanged greetings.
Law smiled at her. “I came to offer free board and lodging to a poor Greaser. But he ain’t here. And you, ma’am?”
Alaire briefly outlined the reasons that had taken her to La Feria and the duties that had kept her busy since her return, while Dave nodded his understanding. When, however, he learned that she was counting upon General Luis Longorio’s aid in securing justice, his expression altered. He regarded her with some curiosity as he inquired:
“Isn’t Longorio the very man who robbed you?”
“Yes.”
“And now he offers to square himself?”
“Precisely. You don’t seem to put much faith in him.”
“Mexicans are peculiar people,” Law said, slowly. “At least we consider them peculiar—probably because they are different to us. Anyhow, we don’t understand their business methods or their habits of mind; even their laughter and their tears are different to ours, but—from my experience with them I wouldn’t put much confidence in this Longorio’s word. I say this, and I’m supposed to have a little Mexican blood in me.”
During this brief conversation they had entered the hotel, and now the lobby idlers took quick cognizance of Mrs. Austin’s presence. The lanky, booted Ranger excited no comment, for men of his type were common here; but Alaire was the heroine of many stories and the object of a wide-spread curiosity; therefore she received open stares and heard low whisperings. Naturally resenting this attention, she gave her hand to Law more quickly than she would have done otherwise.
“I hope we shall see each other again,” she murmured.
“That’s more’n likely; I’m located in your neighborhood now,” he informed her. “I’m leaving for Jonesville in the morning.”
“By train?”
“No’m. I’m goin’ to follow the river road if I can get an automobile.”
Mindful of the Ranger’s courtesy to her on their previous meeting, Alaire said: “Won’t you go with us? We intend to start early.”
“I’d love to, ma’am—but I’ll have to make a few inquiries along the line.”
“Good! It is a large car and”—she smiled at him—“if we have tire trouble I may need your help. José, my man, is a splendid horse-breaker, but he seems to think a tire tool is some sort of a fancy branding-iron. His mechanical knowledge is limited to a bridle-bit and a cinch, and I’m almost certain he believes there is something ungodly about horseless wagons.”
Dave was nearly speechless with delight, and when the mistress of Las Palmas had gone up-stairs he felt inclined to pinch himself to see if he were dreaming. He had pursued a fruitless quest during the past few days, and his resentment had grown as he became certain that Tad Lewis had sent him on a wild-goose chase; but the sight of Alaire miraculously restored his good spirits, and the prospect of a long, intimate ride in her company changed the whole trend of his thoughts. His disappointment at not seeing her upon his visit to Las Palmas had only served to enhance his memories of their first meeting, and time, now, had deepened his interest tenfold. Yes, she was “The Lone Star,” the estrella brillante of his empty sky.
When the supper-hour came he managed by carefully watching the dining-room to time his meal with Mrs. Austin’s. He even ventured to hope that they might share the same table, but in this he was disappointed. However, from where he sat he could see her profile and worship her to his heart’s content, and when she favored him with a smile and a nod he was happy.
All without his knowledge, Dave realized, this woman had secured an amazing hold over him. He had thought a great deal about her, of course, but his thoughts had been idle, and it had required this second encounter to make him know the truth. Now, however, there could be no doubt about his feelings; he was more than romantically interested, the mere sight of her had electrified him. The discovery distressed him, and he very properly decided that the affair should end here, since it could lead to nothing except disappointment.
But who can govern a wayward fancy? One moment Law promised himsel
f to see no more of this married woman; the next he wondered how she would occupy the evening, and ventured to hope that he might have a chance to talk with her.
After supper, however, she was nowhere to be found. When his first chagrin had passed he decided that this was exactly as it should be. He didn’t like to see women make themselves conspicuous in hotels.
At the time of this story relations between the United States and the established government of Mexico were at such high tension that a hostility had sprung up between the troops fronting each other along the Rio Grande, and in consequence their officers no longer crossed the boundary, even when off duty. It created a flurry of suppressed excitement, therefore, when Luis Longorio, the autocrat of the Potosista forces, boldly crossed the bridge, traversed the streets of Pueblo, and entered the Hamilton Hotel.
From his seat in the lobby Law heard the general inquire for Mrs. Austin, and then saw him ascend in the direction of the parlor. What the devil could Longorio want with “The Lone Star” at such an hour? the Ranger asked himself. Why should he presume to call upon her unless—he was interested? Mexican officers, in these parlous times, were not given to social courtesies, and Longorio’s reputation was sufficiently notorious to render his attentions a cause for gossip under any circumstances.
