by Zane Grey
The document had evidently been drawn in the strictest form, doubtless by some local priest, for it ran:
First: I commend my soul to the Supreme Being who from nothing formed it, and my body I order returned to earth, and which, as soon as it shall become a corpse, it is my wish shall be shrouded with a blue habit in resemblance to those used by the monks of our Seraphic Father, St. Francis; to be interred with high mass, without pomp—
Alaire mused with a certain reverent pleasure that Dave’s mother had been a devout woman.
Second: I declare to have, in the possession of my husband, Franklin Law, three horses, with splendid equipment of saddles and bridles, which are to be sold and the proceeds applied to masses for the benefit of my soul. I so declare, that it may appear.
Third: I declare to owe to Mrs. Guillelmo Perez about twenty dollars, to be ascertained by what she may have noted in her book of accounts. So I declare, that this debt may be paid as I have ordered.
Fourth: In just remuneration for the services of my cousin, Margarita Ramirez, I bequeath and donate a silver tray which weighs one hundred ounces, seven breeding cows, and four fine linen and lace tablecloths. So I declare, that it may appear.
Fifth: I bequeath to my adopted son, David, offspring of the unfortunate American woman who died in my house at Escovedo, the share of land—
Alaire re-read this paragraph wonderingly, then let the document fall into her lap. So Dave was an adopted son, and not actually the child of this woman, Maria Joséfa Law. She wondered if he knew it, and, if so, why he hadn’t told her? But, after all, what difference did it make who or what he was? He was hers to love and to comfort, hers to cherish and to serve.
For a long time she sat gazing at him tenderly; then she tiptoed out and delighted the naked Garcia baby by taking him in her arms and hugging him. Inez thought the beautiful señora’s voice was like the music of birds.
It was growing dark when Dave was awakened by cool hands upon his face and by soft lips upon his. He opened his eyes to find Alaire bending over him.
“You must get up,” she smiled. “It is nearly time to go, and Inez is cooking our supper.”
He reached up and took her in his arms. She lay upon his breast, thrilling happily with her nearness to him, and they remained so for a while, whispering now and then, trying ineffectually to voice the thoughts that needed no expression.
“Why did you let me sleep so long?” he asked her, reproachfully.
“Oh, I’ve been napping there in that chair, where I could keep one eye on you. I’m terribly selfish; I can’t bear to lose one minute.” After a while she said: “I’ve made a discovery. Father O’Malley snores dreadfully! Juanito never heard anything like it, and it frightened him nearly to death. He says the Father must be a very fierce man to growl so loudly. He says, too, that he likes me much better than his mother.”
It seemed to Dave that the bliss of this awakening and the sweet intimacy of this one moment more than rewarded him for all he had gone through, and paid him for any unhappiness the future might hold in store.
He felt called upon to tell Alaire the truth about himself; but with her in his arms he had no strength of purpose; her every endearment made him the more aware of his weakness. Again he asked himself when and how he could bear to tell her? Not now. Certainly not now when she was trembling under his caresses.
“I’ve been busy, too,” she was saying. “I sent Juan to the village to learn the news, and it’s not very nice. It’s good we stopped here. He says Nuevo Pueblo has been destroyed, and the Federal forces are all moving south, away from the border. So our troubles aren’t over yet. We must reach the river tonight.”
“Yes, by all means.”
“Juan is going with us as guide.”
“You arranged everything while I snoozed, eh? I’m ashamed of myself.”
Alaire nodded, then pretended to frown darkly. “You ought to be,” she told him. “While you were asleep I read your mail and—”
“My mail?” Dave was puzzled.
“Exactly. Have you forgotten that your pockets were full of unopened letters?”
“Oh, those! They came just as I was leaving Jonesville, and I haven’t thought of them since. You know, I haven’t had my clothes off.”
“I’m going to read all your love letters,” she told him, threateningly.
“Yes, and you’re going to write all of them, too,” he laughed.
But she shook a warning finger in his face. “I told you I’m a jealous person. I’m going to know all about you, past, present, and future. I—”
“Alaire! My darling!” he cried, and his face stiffened as if with pain.
Still in a joyous mood, she teased him. “You had better tremble, I’ve found you out, deceiver. I know who you really are.”
“Who am I?”
“Don’t you know?”
Dave shook his head.
“Really? Have you never read your mother’s will?”
Law rose to his elbow, then swung his legs to the floor. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
For answer Alaire handed him the frayed envelope and its contents.
He examined it, and then said, heavily: “I see! I was expecting this. It seems I’ve been carrying it around all this time—”
“Why don’t you read it?” she insisted. “There’s light enough there by the window. I supposed you knew all about it or I wouldn’t have joked with you.”
He opened his lips to speak, but, seeing something in her eyes, he stepped to the window and read swiftly. A moment, and then he uttered a cry.
“Alaire!” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “Read this—My eyes—O God!”
Wonderingly she took the sheets from his shaking hands and read aloud the paragraph he indicated: Fifth: I bequeath to my adopted son, David, offspring of the unfortunate American woman who died in my house at Escovedo—
Again Dave cried out and knelt at Alaire’s feet, his arms about her knees, his face buried in her dress. His shoulders were heaving and his whole body was racked with sobs.
Shocked, frightened, Alaire tried to raise him, but he encircled her in a tighter embrace.
“Dave! What is it? What have I done?” she implored. “Have I hurt you so?”
It was a long time before he could make known the significance of that paragraph, and when he finally managed to tell her about the terrible fear that had lain so heavily upon his soul it was in broken, choking words which showed his deep emotion. The story was out at last, however, and he stood over her transfigured.
Alaire lifted her arms and placed them upon his shoulders. “Were you going to give me up for that?—for a shadow?”
“Yes. I had made up my mind. I wouldn’t have dared marry you last night, but—I never expected to see today’s sun. I didn’t think it would make much difference. It was more than a shadow, Alaire. It was real. I was mad—stark, staring mad—or in a fair way of becoming so. I suppose I brooded too much. Those violent spells, those wild moments I sometimes have, made me think it must be true. I dare say they are no more than temper, but they seemed to prove all that Ellsworth suspected.”
“You must have thought me a very cowardly woman,” she told him. “It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to me, Dave. We would have met it together when it came, just as we’ll meet everything now—you and I, together.”
“My wife!” He laid his lips against her hair.
They were standing beside the window, speechless, oblivious to all except their great love, when Dolores entered to tell them that supper was ready and that the horses were saddled.
XXXII
THE DAWN
Juan Garcia proved to be a good guide, and he saved the refugees many miles on their road to the Rio Grande. But every farm and every village was
a menace, and at first they were forced to make numerous detours. As the night grew older, however, they rode a straighter course, urging their horses to the limit, hoping against hope to reach the border before daylight overtook them. This they might have done had it not been for Father O’Malley and Dolores, who were unused to the saddle and unable to maintain the pace Juan set for them.
About midnight the party stopped on the crest of a flinty ridge to give their horses breath and to estimate their progress. The night was fine and clear; outlined against the sky were the stalks of countless sotol-plants standing slim and bare, like the upright lances of an army at rest; ahead the road meandered across a mesa, covered with grama grass and black, formless blots of shrubbery.
Father O’Malley groaned and shifted his weight. “Juan tells me we’ll never reach Romero by morning, at this rate,” he said; and Dave was forced to agree. “I think you and he and Alaire had better go on and leave Dolores and me to follow as best we can.”
Dolores plaintively seconded this suggestion. “I would rather be burned at the stake than suffer these agonies,” she confessed. “My bones are broken. The devil is in this horse.” She began to weep softly. “Go, señora. Save yourself! It is my accursed fat stomach that hinders me. Tell Benito that I perished breathing his name, and see to it, when he remarries, that he retains none of my treasures.”
Alaire reassured her by saying: “We won’t leave you. Be brave and make the best of it.”
“Yes, grit your teeth and hold on,” Dave echoed. “We’ll manage to make it somehow.”
But progress was far slower than it should have been, and the elder woman continued to lag behind, voicing her distress in groans and lamentations. The priest, who was made of sterner stuff, did his best to bear his tortures cheerfully.
In spite of their efforts the first rosy heralds of dawn discovered them still a long way from the river and just entering a more thickly settled country. Daylight came swiftly, and Juan finally gave them warning.
“We can’t go on; the danger is too great,” he told them. “If the soldiers are still in Romero, what then?”
“Have you no friends hereabouts who would take us in?” Dave inquired.
The Mexican shook his head.
Dave considered for a moment. “You must hide here,” he told his companions, “while I ride on to Romero and see what can be done. I suspect Blanco’s troops have left, and in that case everything will be all right.”
“Suppose they haven’t?” Alaire inquired. All night she had been in the lightest of moods, and had steadily refused to take their perils seriously. Now her smile chased the frown from her husband’s face.
“Well, perhaps I’ll have breakfast with them,” he laughed.
“Silly. I won’t let you go,” she told him, firmly; and, reading the expression in her face, he felt a dizzy wonder. “We’ll find a nice secluded spot; then we’ll sit down and wait for night to come. We’ll pretend we’re having a picnic.”
Dolores sighed at the suggestion. “That would be heaven, but there can be no sitting down for me.”
Garcia, who had been standing in his stirrups scanning the long, flat road ahead, spoke sharply: “Caramba! Here come those very soldiers now! See!”
Far away, but evidently approaching at a smart gait, was a body of mounted men. After one look at them Dave cried:
“Into the brush, quick!” He hurried his companions ahead of him, and when they had gone perhaps a hundred yards from the road he took Juan’s Winchester, saying: “Ride in a little way farther and wait. I’m going back. If you hear me shoot, break for the river. Ride hard and keep under cover as much as possible.” Before they could remonstrate he had wheeled Montrosa and was gone.
This was luck, he told himself. Ten miles more and they would have been safe, for the Rio Grande is not a difficult river either to ford or to swim. He dismounted and made his way on foot to a point where he could command a view, but he had barely established himself when he found Alaire at his side.
“Go back,” he told her. But she would not, and so they waited together.
There were perhaps a dozen men in the approaching squad, and Dave saw that they were heavily accoutred. They rode fast, too, and at their head galloped a large man under a wide-brimmed felt hat. It soon became evident that the soldiers were not uniformed. Therefore, Dave reasoned, they were not Federals, but more probably some Rebel scouting band from the south, and yet—He rubbed his eyes and stared again.
Dave pressed forward eagerly, incredulously; the next instant he had broken cover with a shout. Alaire was at his side, clapping her hands and laughing with excitement.
The cavalcade halted; the big man tumbled from his saddle and came straddling through the high grass, waving his hat and yelling.
“Blaze! You old scoundrel!” Dave cried, and seized one of the ranchman’s palms while Alaire shook the other.
“Say! We’re right glad to see you-all,” Jones exclaimed. “We reckoned you might be havin’ a sort of unpleasantness with Longorio, so we organized up and came to get you.”
The other horsemen were crowding close now, and their greetings were noisy. There were the two Guzman boys, Benito Gonzales, Phil Strange, and a number of Jonesville’s younger and more adventurous citizens.
In the midst of the tumult Benito inquired for his wife, and Dave relieved his anxiety by calling Dolores and Father O’Malley. Then, in answer to the questions showered upon him, he swiftly sketched the story of Alaire’s rescue and their flight from La Feria.
When he had finished Blaze Jones drew a deep breath. “We’re mighty glad you got out safe, but you’ve kicked the legs from under one of my pet ambitions. I sure had planned to nail Longorio’s hide on my barn door. Yes, and you’ve taken the bread out of the mouths of the space writers and sob sisters from here to Hudson’s Bay. Miz Austin, your picture’s in every newspaper in the country, and, believe me, it’s the worst atrocity of the war.”
“War!” Father O’Malley had joined the group now, and he asked, “Has war been declared?”
“Not yet, but we’ve got hopes.” To Alaire Blaze explained: “Ellsworth’s in Washington, wavin’ the Stars and Stripes and singin’ battle hymns, but I reckon the government figures that the original of those newspaper pictures would be safe anywhere. Well, we’ve got our own ideas in Jonesville, so some of us assembled ourselves and declared war on our own hook. These gentlemen”—Blaze waved his hand proudly at his neighbors—“constitute the Jonesville Guards, the finest body of American men that has invaded Mexican soil since me and Dave went after Ricardo Guzman’s remains. Blamed if I ain’t sorry you sidetracked our expedition.”
It was evident, from the words of the others, that the Jonesville Guards were indeed quite as heedless of international complications as was their commander. One and all were highly incensed at Longorio’s perfidy, and, had Alaire suggested such a thing, it was patent that they would have ridden on to La Feria and exacted a reckoning from him.
Such proof of friendship affected her deeply, and it was not until they were all under way back toward Romero that she felt she had made her appreciation fully known. When she reflected that these men were some of the very neighbors whom she had shunned and slighted, and whose honest interest she had so habitually misconstrued all these years, it seemed very strange that they should feel the least concern over her. It gave her a new appreciation of their chivalry and their worth; it filled her with a humble desire to know them better and to strengthen herself in their regard. Then, too, the esteem in which they held Dave—her husband—gratified her intensely. It made no more difference to them than to her that he was a poor man, a man without authority or position; they evidently saw and loved in him the qualities which she saw and loved. And that was as it should be.
They were gentle and considerate men, too, as she discovered when they
told her, bit by bit, what had happened during her absence. She learned, much to her relief, that Ed’s funeral had been held, and that all the distressing details of the inquiry had been attended to. José Sanchez, it appeared, had confessed freely. Although her new friends made plain their indignation at the manner of Ed’s taking off, they likewise let her know that they considered his death only a slight loss, either to her or to the community. Not one of them pretended it was anything except a blessing.
The journey drew to an end very quickly. Romero, deserted now by its garrison, stirred and stared sleepily at the invaders, but concerned itself with their presence no more than to wonder why they laughed and talked so spiritedly. Plainly, these gringos were a barbarous race of people, what with their rushing here and there, and with their loud, senseless laughter. God had wisely placed them beyond the Rio Grande, said the citizens of Romero.
The crossing was made; Alaire found herself in Texas once again, and it seemed to her that the sun had never been so bright, the air so clear, the sky so high, the world so smiling, as here and now. The men who had ridden forth to seek her were smiling, too, and they were shaking her hands and congratulating her. Even the Guzman boys, who were shy in the presence of American ladies, were wishing her the best of fortune and the greatest of happiness.
Blaze Jones was the last to leave. With especial emphasis upon her name, he said: “Miz Austin, Paloma and me would like to have you come to our house and stay until you feel like goin’ back to Las Palmas.”
When Alaire declined with moistened eyes, explaining that she could not well accept his invitation, he signified his understanding.
“We’re goin’ to see a lot of you, just the same,” he promised her, “’cause we feel as if you sort of belonged to us. There’s a lot of good people in this part of Texas, and them that ain’t so good God and the Rangers is slowly weedin’ out. We don’t always know the ones we like best until something happens to ’em, but if you’d heard the prayers the folks of Jonesville have been sayin’ lately you’d know you was our favorite.” Then, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, he told her, gravely: “It seems a pity that I ain’t younger and better-lookin’. I would sure cut short your grief.” Then he raised his hat and rode away, chuckling.
