by Zane Grey
“Oh, I thought you were calling on me.” Paloma pouted her pretty lips. “Dave isn’t here. He and father—have gone away.” A little pucker of apprehension appeared upon her brow.
“I must get word to him at once.”
Miss Jones shook her head. “Is it very important?”
It needed no close observation to discover the concern in Paloma’s eyes; Alaire told her story quickly. “Mr. Law must be warned right away,” she added, “for the man is capable of anything.”
Paloma nodded. “Dave told us how he had killed Panfilo—” She hesitated, and then cried, impulsively: “Mrs. Austin, I’m going to confess something—I’ve got to tell somebody or I’ll burst. I was walking the floor when you came. Well, Dad and Dave have completely lost their wits. They have gone across the river—to get Ricardo Guzman’s body.”
“What?” Alaire stared at the girl uncomprehendingly.
“They are going to dig him up and bring him back to prove that he was killed. Dave knows where he’s buried, and he’s doing this for Ricardo’s family—some foolish sentiment about a bridle—but Dad, I think, merely wants to start a war between the United States and Mexico.”
“My dear girl, aren’t you dreaming?”
“I thought I must be when I heard about it. Dad wouldn’t have told me at all, only he thought I ought to know in case anything happens to him.” Paloma’s breath failed her momentarily. “They’ll be killed. I told them so, but Dave seems to enjoy the risk. He said Ricardo had a sentimental nature—and, of course, the possibility of danger delighted both him and Dad. They’re perfect fools.”
“When did they go? Tell me everything.”
“They left an hour ago in my machine, with two Mexicans to help them. They intend to cross at your pumping-plant as soon as it gets dark, and be back by mid-night—that is, if they ever get back.”
“Why, it’s—unbelievable.”
“It’s too much for me. Longorio himself is in Romero, and he’d have them shot if he caught them. We’d never even hear of it.” Paloma’s face was pale, her eyes were strained and tragic. “Father always has been a trial to me, but I thought I could do something with Dave.” She made a hopeless gesture, and Alaire wondered momentarily whether the girl’s anxiety was keenest for the safety of her father or—the other?
“Can’t we prevent them from going?” she inquired. “Why, they are breaking the law, aren’t they?”
“Something like that. But what can we do? It’s nearly dark, and they’ll go, anyhow, regardless of what we say.”
“Mr. Law is a Ranger, too!”
The girl nodded. “Oh, if it’s ever discovered he’ll be ruined. And think of Dad—a man of property! Dave declares Tad Lewis is at the bottom of it all and put the Federals up to murder Ricardo; he thinks in this way he can force them into telling the truth. But Dad is just looking for a fight and wants to be a hero!”
There was a moment of silence. Then Alaire reasoned aloud: “I presume they chose our pumping-plant because it is directly opposite the Romero cemetery. I could have Benito and some trusty men waiting on this side. Or I could even send them over—”
“No, no! Don’t you understand? The whole thing is illegal.”
“Well, we could be there—you and I.”
Paloma agreed eagerly. “Yes! Maybe we could even help them if they got into trouble.”
“Come, then! We’ll have supper at Las Palmas and slip down to the river and wait.”
Paloma was gone with a rush. In a moment she returned, ready for the trip, and with her she carried a Winchester rifle nearly as long as herself.
“I hope you aren’t afraid of firearms,” she panted. “I’ve owned this gun for years.”
“I am rather a good shot,” Alaire told her.
Paloma closed her lips firmly. “Good! Maybe we’ll come in handy, after all. Anyhow, I’ll bet those Mexicans won’t chase Dad and Dave very far.”
José Sanchez was true to his declared purpose. With a horse of his own between his knees, with money in his pocket and hate in his heart, he left Las Palmas, and, riding to the Lewis crossing, forded the Rio Grande. By early afternoon he was in Romero, and there, after some effort, he succeeded in finding General Longorio.
Romero, at this time the southern outpost of Federal territory, standing guard against the Rebel forces in Tamaulipas, is a sun-baked little town sprawling about a naked plaza, and, except for the presence of Colonel Blanco’s detachment of troops, it would have presented much the same appearance as any one of the lazy border villages. A scow ferry had at one time linked it on the American side with a group of ’dobe houses which were sanctified by the pious name of Sangre de Cristo, but of late years more advantageous crossings above and below had come into some use and Romero’s ferry had been abandoned. Perhaps a mile above Sangre de Cristo, and directly opposite Romero’s weed-grown cemetery, stood the pumping-plant of Las Palmas, its corrugated iron roof and high-flung chimney forming a conspicuous landmark.
Luis Longorio had just awakened from his siesta when José gained admittance to his presence. The general lay at ease in the best bed of the best house in the village; he greeted the new-comer with a smile.
“So, my brave José, you wish to become a soldier and fight for your country, eh?”
“Yes, my general.”
Longorio yawned and stretched lazily. “Body of Christ! This is a hard life. Here am I in this goatherd’s hovel, hot, dirty, and half starved, and all because of a fellow I never saw who got himself killed. You would think this Ricardo was an Englishman instead of a Gringo, for the fuss that is made. Who was he? Some great jefe?
“A miserable fellow. I knew him well. Then he is indeed dead?”
“Quite dead, I believe,” Longorio said, carelessly; then turning his large, bright eyes upon the visitor, he continued, with more interest, “Now tell me about the beautiful señora, your mistress.”
José scowled. “She’s not my mistress. I am no longer of her gente. I have a debt of blood to wipe out.”
Longorio sat up in his bed; the smile left his face. “My José”, he said, quietly, “if you harm her in the least I shall bury you to the neck in an ant’s nest and fill your mouth with honey. Now, what is this you are telling me?”
José, uncomfortably startled by this barbarous threat, told as connectedly as he knew how all about his cousin’s death and his reasons for leaving Las Palmas.
“Ah-h!” Longorio relaxed. “You gave me a start. At first I thought you came with a message from her—but that was too much to expect; then I feared you meant the lady some evil. Now I shall tell you a little secret: I love your señora! Yes, I love her madly, furiously; I can think of nothing but her. I came to this abominable village more to see her than to annoy myself over the death of Ricardo Guzman. I must see my divinity; I must hear her blessed voice, or I shall go mad. Why do I tell you this? Because I have decided that you shall lead me to her to-night.” The general fell silent for a moment, then, “I intend to have her some day, José, and—perhaps you will be my right hand. See, I make you my confidant because you will not dare to anger me or—Well, my little friend, you must understand what fate would befall you in that case. I can reach across the Rio Grande.”
Amazement and then fear were depicted in José’s face as he listened; he asserted his loyalty vehemently.
“Yes, yes, I know you love me,” the general agreed, carelessly. “But what is far more to the point, I intend to pay well for your services. Perhaps I shall also arrange so that you may have a reckoning with the murderer of your cousin. What is his name?”
It was José’s opportunity to make an impression, and he used it to the full, telling all that he knew of the killing of Panfilo, and describing Law with the eloquence of hatred.
Longorio listened for a time, and then held up
his hand. “Enough. For my sake, too, you shall kill him, for you have made me jealous.”
“Impossible!” José raised protesting palms. He was sure the general was wrong. Señora Austin was above suspicion of any kind.
“And yet this man met her in Pueblo and rode with her to Las Palmas? He comes to see her frequently, you say?” The general bent his bright, keen eyes upon the visitor.
“Yes. She gave him the finest horse at Las Palmas, too, and—” A new thought presented itself to José. “Ho! By the way, they were alone at the water-hole when my cousin Panfilo was shot. Now that I think of it, they were alone together for a day and a night. I begin to wonder—”
Longorio breathed an oath and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. “You have poisoned my mind. A whole day and night, eh? That is bad. What happened? What kind of a fool is her husband? I cannot bear to think of this! See, I am beside myself. Caramba! I live in paradise; I come flying on the wings of the wind, only to learn that my blessed divinity has a lover. If only my excellent Blanco had shot this fellow Law instead of that Guzman! If only I could lay hands upon him here in Mexico! Ha! There would be something to print in the American papers.” He began to dress himself feverishly, muttering, as he did so: “I will permit no one to come between us. … The thought kills me. … You bring me bad news, José, and yet I am glad you came. I accept your offer, and you shall be my man henceforth; … but you shall not go out to be shot by those rebels. No, you shall return to Las Palmas to be my eyes and my ears, and, when the time comes, you shall be my hands, too. … I will avenge your cousin Panfilo for you, my word on that. Yes, and I will make you a rich man.”
José listened hungrily to these promises. He was relieved at the change in his plans, for, after all, a soldier’s life offered few attractions, and—the food at Las Palmas was good. The general promised him fine wages, too. Truly, it was fortunate that he had come to Romero.
“Now we have settled this,” José’s new employer declared, “run away and amuse yourself until dark. Then we will take a little journey by way of the old ferry.”
“It is not altogether safe,” ventured José. “That country over there is alive with refugees.”
“I will take some men with me,” said Longorio. “Now go and let me think.”
XVIII
ED AUSTIN TURNS AT BAY
Had it not been for her fears, Paloma Jones would have taken her visit to the Austin ranch as an unmixed enjoyment. To her Alaire had always been an ideally romantic figure. More than once, in her moments of melancholy, Paloma had envied Mrs. Austin’s unhappiness and yearned to bear a similar sorrow—to be crossed in love and to become known as a woman of tragedy. To have one’s life blasted, one’s happiness slain by some faithless lover, impressed the girl as interesting, thrilling. Moreover, it was a misfortune calculated to develop one’s highest spiritual nature. Surely nothing could be more sadly satisfying than to live alone with regretful memories and to have the privilege of regarding the world as a vain show. Unfortunately, however, Paloma was too healthy and too practical to remain long occupied with such thoughts. She was disgustingly optimistic and merry; misanthropy was entirely lacking in her make-up; and none of her admirers seemed the least bit inclined to faithlessness. On the contrary, the men she knew were perfect nuisances in their earnestness of purpose, and she could not manage to fall in love with any one sufficiently depraved to promise her the slightest misery. Paloma felt that she was hopelessly commonplace.
Now that she had an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with the object of her envy, she made the most of it. She soon found, however, that Alaire possessed anything but an unhappy disposition, and that to pity her was quite impossible. Mrs. Austin was shy and retiring, certainly, at first, but, once the ice was broken, she was delightfully frank, friendly, and spirited.
Paloma’s curiosity was all-consuming, and she explored every phase of her new friend’s life with interest and delight. She even discovered that imaginary world of Alaire’s, and learned something about those visionary people who bore her company.
“It must be lots of fun,” said Paloma.
“Yes. Sometimes my dream-people are very real, Why—I can actually see them. Then I realize I have been too much alone.”
“You ought to have children,” the girl declared, calmly.
“I have. Yes! Imaginary kiddies—and they are perfect dears, too.”
“Are they ever naughty?”
“Oh, indeed they are! And I have to punish them. Then I feel terribly. But they’re much nicer than flesh-and-blood children, for they have no bad traits whatever, and they’re so amazingly intelligent.”
Such exchanges of confidence drew the women into fairly close relations by the time they had arrived at Las Palmas, but the thought of what had brought them together had a sobering effect, and during their hasty supper they discussed the situation in all its serious phases.
In offering to lend a hand in this difficulty, Alaire had acted largely upon impulse, and now that she took time to think over the affair more coolly, she asked herself what possible business of hers it could be. How did this effort to secure Don Ricardo’s body concern her? And how could she hope or expect to be of help to the men engaged in the hazardous attempt? With Paloma, of course, it was different: the girl was anxious on her father’s account, and probably concerned more deeply than was Alaire for the safety of Dave Law. Probably she and Dave had an understanding—it would be natural. Well, Paloma was a nice girl and she would make a splendid wife for any man.
For her part, Paloma was troubled by no uncertainty of purpose; it did not seem to her at all absurd to go to her father’s assistance, and she was so eager to be up and away that the prospect of a long evening’s wait made her restless.
As usual, Ed Austin had not taken the trouble to inform his wife of his whereabouts; Alaire was relieved to find that he was out, and she decided that he had probably stayed at Tad Lewis’s for supper.
The women were seated on the porch after their meals when up the driveway rode two horsemen. A moment later a tall figure mounted the steps and came forward with outstretched hand, crying, in Spanish:
“Señora! I surprise you. Well, I told you some day I should give myself this great pleasure. I am here!”
“General Longorio! But—what a surprise!” Alaire’s amazement was naive; her face was that of a startled school-girl. The Mexican warmly kissed her fingers, then turned to meet Paloma Jones. As he bowed the women exchanged glances over his head. Miss Jones looked frankly frightened, and her expression plainly asked the meaning of Longorio’s presence. To herself, she was wondering if it could have anything to do with that expedition to the Romero cemetery. She tried to compose herself, but apprehension flooded her.
Alaire, meanwhile, her composure recovered, was standing slim and motionless beside her chair, inquiring smoothly: “What brings you into Texas at such a time, my dear general? This is quite extraordinary.”
“Need you ask me?” cried the man. “I would ride through a thousand perils, señora. God in his graciousness placed that miserable village Romero close to the gates of Heaven. Why should I not presume to look through them briefly? I came two days ago, and every hour since then I have turned my eyes in the direction of Las Palmas. At last I could wait no longer.” A courtly bow at the conclusion of these words robbed the speech of its audacity and tinged it with the licensed extravagance of Latin flattery. Nevertheless, Paloma gasped and Alaire stirred uncomfortably. The semi-darkness of the veranda was an invitation to even more daring compliments, and, therefore, as she murmured a polite word of welcome, Alaire stepped through the French window at her back and into the brightly lighted living-room. Paloma Jones followed as if in a trance.
Longorio’s bright eyes took a swift inventory of his surroundings; then he sighed luxuriously.
“How fine!
” said he. “How beautiful! A nest for a bird of paradise!”
“Don’t you consider this rather a mad adventure?” Alaire insisted. “Suppose it should become known that you crossed the river?”
Longorio snapped his fingers. “I answer to no one; I am supreme. But your interest warms my heart; it thrills me to think you care for my safety. Thus am I repaid for my days of misery.”
“You surely did not”—Paloma swallowed hard—“come alone?”
“No. I have a duty to my country. I said, ‘Luis, you are a brave man, and fear is a stranger to you, but, nevertheless, you must have regard for the Fatherland’; so I took measures to protect myself in case of eventualities.”
“How?”
“By bringing with me some of my troopers. Oh, they are peaceable fellows!” he declared, quickly; “and they are doubtless enjoying themselves with our friend and sympathizer, Morales.”
“Where?” asked Alaire.
“I left them at your pumping-plant, señora.” Paloma Jones sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “But you need have no uneasiness. They are quiet and orderly; they will molest nothing; no one would believe them to be soldiers. I take liberties with the laws and the customs of your country, dear lady, but—you would not care for a man who allowed such considerations to stand in his way, eh?”
Alaire answered, sharply: “It was a very reckless thing to do, and—you must not remain here.”
“Yes, yes!” Paloma eagerly agreed. “You must go back at once.”
But Longorio heard no voice except Alaire’s. In fact, since entering the living-room he had scarcely taken his eyes from her. Now he drew his evenly arched brows together in a plaintive frown, saying, “You are inhospitable!” Then his expression lightened. “Or is it,” he asked—“is it that you are indeed apprehensive for me?”
