Suzanna

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  “Ruiz?” the lawyer asked interestedly.

  “No,” Don Fernando replied deliberately, and with a shaking of his head,— “his daughter, Suzanna.”

  “What?” Ramon asked. “Have you spoken to her? She has——”

  “Ramon!” Doña Luz remonstrated. “Allow your father to finish.”

  Señor Gutierrez bowed, and went on:

  “Suzanna is an unusual girl. A beautiful woman, I might add. She seems to possess intelligence beyond the scope of the average peon. Enough so, that she manages to unload her work upon the shoulders of others. Her lack of industry is the girl’s worst fault.

  “But you know,” continuing to address himself to Alvarez, “that my wife and I have long felt a peculiar attachment for her. Her father has been a loyal servant. That, as well as my interest in the girl herself has led me to make this move.”

  “It is a worthy effort, although it may prove a foolhardy one,” Doña Luz declared uneasily.

  “Surely it is a wonderful chance for the girl,” Alvarez cried heartily. “Why there is not one peon in ten thousand who can write his own name. The girl is beautiful; but, in all kindness, one must admit that she is without culture of any sort.”

  “If there is any possibility of her acquiring it,” Don Fernando answered, “she will do so at San Luis Bautista.”

  “San Luis Bautista?” Ramon echoed incredulously.

  “Yes. I received word last evening from Padre Altado saying he would receive her.”

  “Why, San Luis Bautista is many leagues away,” the boy exclaimed. “She will be gone from the hacienda for a matter of months. She is intensely happy here. Have you given any thought to the fact that she is going to be miserable and lonesome in San Luis Bautista?”

  “It is a means to an end, my boy. For it, she must be willing to suffer.”

  A sadness which he could not explain had settled upon the boy’s heart. For the first time his eyes were open to the fact that Suzanna was very, very dear to him. In kaleidoscopic procession, his lifetime association with her passed across his mental mirror. In his boy and man world there had been no one to approach her in comradeship. He had grown to take her for granted. The sudden announcement that she was to be taken away from him for a period that might well be as long as two years, filled him with consternation. The loss of impudent, tomboyish Suzanna assumed the proportions of a calamity. And although pressed as he was for time, he asked himself why this should be so.

  The lingering caress of her fingers upon his cheek, the sweet fragrance of her breath, memories of her unafraid eyes and the thrill which had suffused his body that very morning when he, in lifting her from her saddle, had held her close for a brief second, came back to smite him. The passive male in him disappeared in a twinkling as such pictures continued to flash in his brain. Long dormant primordial instincts took possession of him. Boyhood passed, and manhood gripped him. The sex impulse was in it, and the thirst to protect his own.

  Suzanna was his mate, his woman. He saw it, oh, so clearly, now. What mattered it that she was a peon? This talk of blood strains had no place in California. Before God, the two of them stood together,—a man and a woman! The thought brought him to his feet.

  His mother caught his agitation and she pressed her hands together nervously as he raised his voice.

  “Have you told Suzanna that she goes so far as San Luis Bautista?” Ramon demanded.

  Don Fernando winced at the thought that he should be expected to consult with his servants about a matter which pointed to their own welfare.

  “Certainly not,” he cried. “I am the master of this hacienda! Do you, my son, suggest that I confer with one of my peons before I raise my hand to act?”

  “Perhaps ’twere well you did, my father,” Ramon answered stoutly. “It is nothing short of cruelty to take a girl, who has never been beyond the boundaries of this rancho, to a strange place, among strange faces, and where at best she will receive scant respect from those about her.”

  The boy’s voice rang out so intensely that those at the table were not aware of Suzanna who had crept in from the kitchen in search of Timoteo and his quarry. Miguel’s rooster had taken refuge in a great wicker basket beside the door. Timoteo, missing him completely, was searching vainly beneath the table for him.

  Suzanna had not caught the mention of her name, but she sensed immediately the strife between father and son. The distraught face of Doña Luz and the excited eyes of the attorney filled her with alarm. For all her trepidation, Suzanna knew that if Don Fernando caught her intruding at this unfortunate moment that no light punishment would be visited on her. So, consigning Timoteo to the tender mercies of the saints, she turned cautiously toward the kitchen. She had taken but one tiny step when the wrathful don’s voice boomed in her ears. With every muscle quivering nervously, Suzanna cowered where she stood.

  Don Fernando had not seen her. His attention was riveted solely upon his son.

  “Your saintly mother and I know what is best for Suzanna!” he thundered wrathfully.

  Suzanna recoiled at sound of her name. Her hand went to her mouth as she realized that she was the cause of this scene.

  “I thought you would be pleased at what I intend,” Don Fernando exclaimed. “You have grown up together; I know your feeling for the girl, and I am only sorry that your present interest in her is misplaced. You should know that neither your mother nor I would do aught to hurt her. Men call me stern, but, praise God, not unjust. Remember this, my boy,—you are the descendant of kings! Suzanne is a peon. It is part of your legacy that you guide the weaker. You cannot temper wisdom with sentiment. Suzanna goes south by next train to San Luis Bautista!”

  In fitting answer to this outburst came a wild cry. Timoteo had caught sight of a stuffed eagle reposing upon a stand in a corner of the room, and its life-like appearance must have fooled the game-cock into believing that here at last was the cowardly rooster.

  Doña Luz gasped with astonishment as a feathered fury leaped from beneath the table and landed upon the eagle’s back. Alvarez was on his feet, his chair tipping over in back of him as he struggled to get free of it.

  Ramon grinned as he recognized Timoteo. Don Fernando wheeled upon seeing his son smile, and found himself looking into Suzanna’s wet eyes.

  The worthy man’s eyes snapped as he beheld the girl. Doña Luz gasped as she saw her husband’s face grow red as he fought for speech.

  “Let me speak to the girl,” she begged.

  For once Don Fernando was deaf to her entreaties. Suzanna’s nervousness but added to her guilt in her master’s eyes. He was convinced that she had stolen into the room to overhear what was being said.

  Suzanna edged toward the door as Don Fernando glowered at her.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Stand where you are until you have explained your presence in this room.”

  Dumbly, Suzanna bent her knee to him, and whispered “yes.”

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” the mighty owner of the Rancho de Gutierrez roared. “Have you been eavesdropping?”

  Miguel had been drawn by the excitement and now stood in the doorway beside poor Suzanna. She saw him dimly through her tears as she choked back a sob and replied to her master.

  “No, Don Fernando,” she said brokenly. “I was only trying to prove to—to this young gentleman—that a mongrel cannot compete with a thoroughbred.”

  CHAPTER IX

  A STRANGER IS MADE WELCOME

  WHERE El Camino Real cut across a broad expanse of fertile valley land, a most striking figure rode. His pigtail proclaimed him a toreador by profession. Even seen at a distance, the man gave evidence of possessing unusual bodily strength. With becoming grace, he sat upon his horse, a beautiful, coal-black animal. He was slender, and his colorful clothes but added to the dare-devil air which the reckless tilt of his mouth prophesied.

  The hilts of a pair of rapiers protruded from his saddle bags; behind him swung his guitar. Speed seemed to be a matter
of no concern to him, for he repeatedly pulled his horse to a walk. The morning was still young, and the air keen with earthy smells.

  The stranger cast a speculative eye at the fields which skirted the road. That the prospect pleased him was not to be doubted for he smiled from time to time and pursed his lips to whistle a bold lay. And yet, for all his care-free manner, the man seemed out of key with these rural surroundings. Indeed, he had but recently quitted Mexico City where his prowess had won him some little fame.

  He awakened from his dreaming and ceased whistling as he made a turn in the road and saw an elderly friar advancing in his direction. Halting his horse, he waited for the priest to come up to him.

  The rotund friar nodded pleasantly, and the stranger, uncovering his head humbly, addressed the Franciscan. “Good morning, good padre,” he murmured in tones both musical and flexible. “I trust your health is of the best.”

  The friar took good note of the man’s costly raiment and the style of his hair. Priest he might be, but even so, he was a Spaniard, and not without a certain fondness for those of the bull-ring. “Thank you, my son,” he answered with extreme good-will. “May the saints guard you; my health is most excellent. ’Tis passing long since I have seen one of your calling.”

  The stranger smiled at this directness.

  “You live in a new country with little time for play,” he expostulated. “I have almost convinced myself that it were well that I was done with it, too. Tell me, I pray, where lies the hacienda of Don Diego de Sola?”

  “Just a short distance beyond,” the friar answered. “In fact thou art gazing on the fields of Don Diego now. By continuing, within the hour you will come to the caserio. It lies to the left of the highway. Opposite, on your right, you will see the buildings of the Rancho de Gutierrez. You cannot lose your way. Without presuming, I might mention that you will not find Don Diego at home. He has been in Mexico City these many months.”

  “Yes, I know, kind father. He is returning shortly,” the stranger replied. “Thank you for your good offices, and may the blessings of God and his saints be upon you.”

  The rider leaned from his saddle and dropped a coin into the padre’s outstretched hand. With the holy man’s blessing upon him, he spurred his horse and soon left the priest far behind.

  Reaching the ridge of the hill pointed out to him by the friar, the man halted his horse and stood for a moment gazing out over the surrounding country—a broad expanse of beautiful land. For as far as his eyes could see, there was rolling country, dotted here and there with greenish-colored patches, but for the most part barren, except for wild grass and mesquite.

  To his right were moderately high hills, sloping upward until their browpish tips kissed the sky; vast herds of cattle wandering sluggishly over them.

  To his left, moving objects, a mile or so distant, caught his eye, and he inspected them carefully. Shortly, he made them out to be mounted men driving before them a herd of horses. They were converging upon a shallow draw beside the road from which a dust cloud rose already. Sending his horse into a hand-gallop, the stranger soon drew close enough to see what went forward.

  A large corral had been constructed here beside the road, and to it Don Fernando’s vaqueros now brought the unbroken horses which had roamed the range since the preceding fall. A smother of dust and the pungent smell of sweaty leather filled the air. Señor Gutierrez was in Monterey, so his retainers made a holiday of the horse-breaking. Whenever the dust lifted, their grinning faces could be seen ringed around the corral fence.

  Young Ramon stood back some distance from the fence, busy with a string of figures. The stranger’s eyes singled him out at once. Ramon, however, was not aware of him. The peons, though, cast many surreptitious glances at the imposing newcomer.

  Ramon had taken his stand beside a hollow log, and what was the stranger’s surprise to see a slender arm shoot out from within the log and toss a handful of dirt at him! Watching, the man saw Ramon start and look downward. The scene was repeated several times. Ramon glared with annoyance at the nearest man, but found nothing to convict him.

  Additional vaqueros with still another string of horses swept down from the hills. Both Ramon and the man at the roadside followed them as they came on. Suddenly, several of the riders uttered a cry, and breaking into a wild gallop swung toward the corral. The watchers were not long in seeing the reason for this. The men had forced a young coyote from cover and they were after him now with the laudable purpose of roping him.

  The peons sent up a cry of joy as they caught the spirit of the chase. Their noise but added to the poor animal’s confusion, and losing his head the coyote dashed directly toward the corral. A coyote will not take refuge in a hollow log or stump when possessed of his native cunning, but this was a young pup, and whatever cunning he was born to had left him. The log beside which Ramon had stood caught his eye, and with a bound he was at it, wriggling his way into its protecting embrace.

  A scream broke from the other end of the log almost simultaneously. A second later a human being scrambled into view and dashed away in the direction of the caserio. The crowd howled its pleasure. Ramon shook his head as he recognized the fleeing figure. It was Suzanna!

  “Esa chica es insoportable,” the boy muttered to himself, and with truth it seemed that Suzanna had indeed become unmanageable as the day for her departure for San Luis Bautista drew near.

  As much to hide his own chagrin as to turn the crowd’s mind from the rapidly disappearing girl, Ramon sent his men to their places in preparation for the coming herd. For the time being, he was reconciled to having Suzanna sent to the Mission. She should not have ventured to the corral, and her embarrassment could not be greater than his. With flashing eyes, and the bit of the devil in his teeth, he flung himself into the work at hand.

  Dressed as he was, he seemed surprisingly thin and narrow about the hips. It is a way with boys raised in the saddle. He elected to tame a wild-eyed piebald cayuse, which had been saddled only after a bad twenty minutes. With a wave of his hand, he ordered his vaqueros to let go. A flying leap landed him squarely in the heavy saddle. For a second the battle was his; but the horse had only been stunned by the suddenness of his action. With an angry snort the animal leaped into the air and came down stiffly upon all fours. It is a back-breaking experience for the rider. Ramon clung on, and with his spurs straightened out the horse.

  The spectators applauded vociferously as the boy sent the animal round and round the corral, meeting every trick the horse tried. Ramon was no mean rider and inside of forty minutes he had subdued the animal to the point of being able to mount him without having him buck.

  The boy had caught a glimpse of the handsome stranger, and recognizing an audience, had done his best, as is the way with youth. The fellow’s devil-may-care swagger had quite won him. As he left the corral, Ramon saw the man bow to him. Returning his greeting, he addressed the stranger.

  “My compliments,” the latter murmured. “From experience, I know that the proper breaking of a horse is solely a matter of touch,—an art in itself. Allow me to introduce myself, sir: I am Juan Montesoro, of Mexico City, dubbed Pancho for short, by those who know me.”

  “You honor me, sir,” the boy replied. “I am Ramon, the eldest son of Don Fernando Gutierrez. I take it, you are a stranger in this land.”

  “I am, indeed! Was that piebald the last of the remuda?”

  “No. We have some fifteen ahead of us, but only one a trouble-maker,—that gray with the lop ears.”

  Ramon wiped the perspiration from his face as he surveyed the animal about which he had just spoken. It was unbearably hot for so late in the year. The men had saddled another horse, and he raised clouds of dust as he tore, riderless, around the corral. A lariat swished through the air, and the horse went down. Vargas, the hacienda’s best vaquero, was upon him when he reared erect.

  This work was hard, dangerous, but these men accepted it as an adventure. Vargas soon led his mount from the corral,
and Ramon and Montesoro saw the lop-eared gray singled out for his turn. The boy voiced a foreboding grunt as he watched his men approach the horse.

  “Is he so bad?” Montesoro asked.

  “He threw the best of us yesterday afternoon. The horse has got the devil in him. But for a lucky leap, Vargas, our best man, would have been dashed to death against the fence”

  Montesoro studied the gray for another minute. Then:

  “I’ll break that horse for you, if you’ll permit me, Señor Gutierrez.”

  The offer came as so great a surprise to Ramon that he looked at the other dumbly for a second. At last:

  “It is no easy task, señor. I wonder if you realize what a mistake would cost?”

  Montesoro nodded his head. “I assure you, I am no fool. I have yet to see the horse that could throw me. Have I your permission?”

  Ramon had half-hoped that the stranger would insist, for naturally he was human enough to want to see the mettle of this dashing caballero. As you wish,” he answered, then: “I warn you, keep him away from the fence.”

  Vargas was none too well pleased at hearing that he was not to be given a chance to redeem himself for yesterday’s fiasco. With bad grace he held the hat and jacket which Montesoro handed to him.

  Four others got the gray into the corral and threw him. Montesoro shouted instructions as they struggled to put on a saddle. The feat was accomplished finally, and with a cry to stand clear, the stranger leaped to the gray’s back.

  Ramon had not underestimated the horse. Whirling, kicking, bucking, the gray careened around the corral. Straight up into the air he reared, and although the stranger ripped him with his spurs, he did not flatten out. But these were only parlor tricks. When they failed, the horse began bucking in earnest. He stood, stiff-legged, and bucked from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose, in whip-snapping, hack-breaking lunges.