Uncle Billy Beemer’s grove,—twelve town lots set out in fine,
well-grown cottonwood trees, delightful to look upon, or to listen to,
as they swayed and rippled in the wind. Uncle Billy had been one of the
most worthless old drunkards who ever sat on a store box and told filthy
stories. One night he played hide-and-seek with a switch engine and got
his sodden brains knocked out. But his grove, the one creditable thing
he had ever done in his life, rustled on. Beyond this grove the houses
of the depot settlement began, and the naked board walk, that had run in
out of the sunflowers, again became a link between human dwellings.
One afternoon, late in the summer, Dr. Howard Archie was fighting his
way back to town along this walk through a blinding sandstorm, a silk
handkerchief tied over his mouth. He had been to see a sick woman down
in the depot settlement, and he was walking because his ponies had been
out for a hard drive that morning.
As he passed the Catholic Church he came upon Thea and Thor. Thea was
sitting in a child’s express wagon, her feet out behind, kicking the
wagon along and steering by the tongue. Thor was on her lap and she held
him with one arm. He had grown to be a big cub of a baby, with a
constitutional grievance, and he had to be continually amused. Thea took
him philosophically, and tugged and pulled him about, getting as much
fun as she could under her encumbrance. Her hair was blowing about her
face, and her eyes were squinting so intently at the uneven board
sidewalk in front of her that she did not see the doctor until he spoke
to her.
“Look out, Thea. You’ll steer that youngster into the ditch.”
The wagon stopped. Thea released the tongue, wiped her hot, sandy face,
and pushed back her hair. “Oh, no, I won’t! I never ran off but once,
and then he didn’t get anything but a bump. He likes this better than a
baby buggy, and so do I.”
“Are you going to kick that cart all the way home?”
“Of course. We take long trips; wherever there is a sidewalk. It’s no
good on the road.”
“Looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. Are you going to be
busy to-night? Want to make a call with me? Spanish Johnny’s come home
again, all used up. His wife sent me word this morning, and I said I’d
go over to see him to-night. He’s an old chum of yours, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I’m glad. She’s been crying her eyes out. When did he come?”
“Last night, on Number Six. Paid his fare, they tell me. Too sick to
beat it. There’ll come a time when that boy won’t get back, I’m afraid.
Come around to my office about eight o’clock,—and you needn’t bring
that!”
Thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and
began to kick the side of the wagon, shouting, “Go-go, go-go!” Thea
leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. Dr. Archie stepped in front
of her and blocked the way. “Why don’t you make him wait? What do you
let him boss you like that for?”
“If he gets mad he throws himself, and then I can’t do anything with
him. When he’s mad he’s lots stronger than me, aren’t you, Thor?” Thea
spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. He grunted approvingly as
his sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off
and soon disappeared in the flying currents of sand.
That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted
back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp. All the windows were
open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was
moist where it hung over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his
book and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. When Thea Kronborg
entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his
paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the
case. It was one out of the long row of uniform volumes on the top
shelf.
“Nearly every time I come in, when you’re alone, you’re reading one of
those books,” Thea remarked thoughtfully. “They must be very nice.”
The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still
in his hand. “They aren’t exactly books, Thea,” he said seriously.
“They’re a city.”
“A history, you mean?”
“Yes, and no. They’re a history of a live city, not a dead one. A
Frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the
kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it’s very
interesting. You’ll like to read it some day, when you’re grown up.”
Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, “A Distinguished
Provincial in Paris.”
“It doesn’t sound very interesting.”
“Perhaps not, but it is.” The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low
enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. “Yes,”
he went on with some satisfaction, “I think you’ll like them some day.
You’re always curious about people, and I expect this man knew more
about people than anybody that ever lived.”
“City people or country people?”
“Both. People are pretty much the same everywhere.”
“Oh, no, they’re not. The people who go through in the dining-car aren’t
like us.”
“What makes you think they aren’t, my girl? Their clothes?”
Thea shook her head. “No, it’s something else. I don’t know.” Her eyes
shifted under the doctor’s searching gaze and she glanced up at the row
of books. “How soon will I be old enough to read them?”
“Soon enough, soon enough, little girl.” The doctor patted her hand and
looked at her index finger. “The nail’s coming all right, isn’t it? But
I think that man makes you practice too much. You have it on your mind
all the time.” He had noticed that when she talked to him she was always
opening and shutting her hands. “It makes you nervous.”
“No, he don’t,” Thea replied stubbornly, watching Dr. Archie return the
book to its niche.
He took up a black leather case, put on his hat, and they went down the
dark stairs into the street. The summer moon hung full in the sky. For
the time being, it was the great fact in the world. Beyond the edge of
the town the plain was so white that every clump of sage stood out
distinct from the sand, and the dunes looked like a shining lake. The
doctor took off his straw hat and carried it in his hand as they walked
toward Mexican Town, across the sand.
North of Pueblo, Mexican settlements were rare in Colorado then. This
one had come about accidentally. Spanish Johnny was the first Mexican
who came to Moonstone. He was a painter and decorator, and had been
working in Trinidad, when Ray Kennedy told him there was a “boom” on in
Moonstone, and a good many new buildings were going up. A year after
Johnny settled in Moonstone, his cousin, Famos Serrenos, came to work in
the brickyard; then Serrenos’ cousins came to help him. During the
strike, the master mechanic put a gang of Mexicans to
work in the
roundhouse. The Mexicans had arrived so quietly, with their blankets and
musical instruments, that before Moonstone was awake to the fact, there
was a Mexican quarter; a dozen families or more.
As Thea and the doctor approached the ‘dobe houses, they heard a guitar,
and a rich barytone voice—that of Famos Serrenos—singing “La
Golandrina.” All the Mexican houses had neat little yards, with tamarisk
hedges and flowers, and walks bordered with shells or whitewashed
stones. Johnny’s house was dark. His wife, Mrs. Tellamantez, was sitting
on the doorstep, combing her long, blue-black hair. (Mexican women are
like the Spartans; when they are in trouble, in love, under stress of
any kind, they comb and comb their hair.) She rose without embarrassment
or apology, comb in hand, and greeted the doctor.
“Good-evening; will you go in?” she asked in a low, musical voice. “He
is in the back room. I will make a light.” She followed them indoors,
lit a candle and handed it to the doctor, pointing toward the bedroom.
Then she went back and sat down on her doorstep.
Dr. Archie and Thea went into the bedroom, which was dark and quiet.
There was a bed in the corner, and a man was lying on the clean sheets.
On the table beside him was a glass pitcher, half-full of water. Spanish
Johnny looked younger than his wife, and when he was in health he was
very handsome: slender, gold-colored, with wavy black hair, a round,
smooth throat, white teeth, and burning black eyes. His profile was
strong and severe, like an Indian’s. What was termed his “wildness”
showed itself only in his feverish eyes and in the color that burned on
his tawny cheeks. That night he was a coppery green, and his eyes were
like black holes. He opened them when the doctor held the candle before
his face.
“MI TESTA!” he muttered, “MI TESTA,” doctor. “LA FIEBRE!” Seeing the
doctor’s companion at the foot of the bed, he attempted a smile.
“MUCHACHA!” he exclaimed deprecatingly.
Dr. Archie stuck a thermometer into his mouth. “Now, Thea, you can run
outside and wait for me.”
Thea slipped noiselessly through the dark house and joined Mrs.
Tellamantez. The somber Mexican woman did not seem inclined to talk, but
her nod was friendly. Thea sat down on the warm sand, her back to the
moon, facing Mrs. Tellamantez on her doorstep, and began to count the
moon flowers on the vine that ran over the house. Mrs. Tellamantez was
always considered a very homely woman. Her face was of a strongly marked
type not sympathetic to Americans. Such long, oval faces, with a full
chin, a large, mobile mouth, a high nose, are not uncommon in Spain.
Mrs. Tellamantez could not write her name, and could read but little.
Her strong nature lived upon itself. She was chiefly known in Moonstone
for her forbearance with her incorrigible husband.
Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with Johnny, and everybody liked
him. His popularity would have been unusual for a white man, for a
Mexican it was unprecedented. His talents were his undoing. He had a
high, uncertain tenor voice, and he played the mandolin with exceptional
skill. Periodically he went crazy. There was no other way to explain his
behavior. He was a clever workman, and, when he worked, as regular and
faithful as a burro. Then some night he would fall in with a crowd at
the saloon and begin to sing. He would go on until he had no voice left,
until he wheezed and rasped. Then he would play his mandolin furiously,
and drink until his eyes sank back into his head. At last, when he was
put out of the saloon at closing time, and could get nobody to listen to
him, he would run away—along the railroad track, straight across the
desert. He always managed to get aboard a freight somewhere. Once beyond
Denver, he played his way southward from saloon to saloon until he got
across the border. He never wrote to his wife; but she would soon begin
to get newspapers from La Junta, Albuquerque, Chihuahua, with marked
paragraphs announcing that Juan Tellamantez and his wonderful mandolin
could be heard at the Jack Rabbit Grill, or the Pearl of Cadiz Saloon.
Mrs. Tellamantez waited and wept and combed her hair. When he was
completely wrung out and burned up,—all but destroyed,—her Juan always
came back to her to be taken care of,—once with an ugly knife wound in
the neck, once with a finger missing from his right hand,—but he played
just as well with three fingers as he had with four.
Public sentiment was lenient toward Johnny, but everybody was disgusted
with Mrs. Tellamantez for putting up with him. She ought to discipline
him, people said; she ought to leave him; she had no self-respect. In
short, Mrs. Tellamantez got all the blame. Even Thea thought she was
much too humble. To-night, as she sat with her back to the moon, looking
at the moon flowers and Mrs. Tellamantez’s somber face, she was thinking
that there is nothing so sad in the world as that kind of patience and
resignation. It was much worse than Johnny’s craziness. She even
wondered whether it did not help to make Johnny crazy. People had no
right to be so passive and resigned. She would like to roll over and
over in the sand and screech at Mrs. Tellamantez. She was glad when the
doctor came out.
The Mexican woman rose and stood respectful and expectant. The doctor
held his hat in his hand and looked kindly at her.
“Same old thing, Mrs. Tellamantez. He’s no worse than he’s been before.
I’ve left some medicine. Don’t give him anything but toast water until I
see him again. You’re a good nurse; you’ll get him out.” Dr. Archie
smiled encouragingly. He glanced about the little garden and wrinkled
his brows. “I can’t see what makes him behave so. He’s killing himself,
and he’s not a rowdy sort of fellow. Can’t you tie him up someway? Can’t
you tell when these fits are coming on?”
Mrs. Tellamantez put her hand to her forehead. “The saloon, doctor, the
excitement; that is what makes him. People listen to him, and it excites
him.”
The doctor shook his head. “Maybe. He’s too much for my calculations. I
don’t see what he gets out of it.”
“He is always fooled,”—the Mexican woman spoke rapidly and tremulously,
her long under lip quivering.
“He is good at heart, but he has no head. He fools himself. You do not
understand in this country, you are progressive. But he has no judgment,
and he is fooled.” She stooped quickly, took up one of the white
conch-shells that bordered the walk, and, with an apologetic inclination
of her head, held it to Dr. Archie’s ear. “Listen, doctor. You hear
something in there? You hear the sea; and yet the sea is very far from
here. You have judgment, and you know that. But he is fooled. To him, it
is the sea itself. A little thing is big to him.” She bent and placed
the shell in the white row, with its fellows. Thea took it up softly and
pressed it to her own ear. The sound in it startled her; it was like
something
calling one. So that was why Johnny ran away. There was
something awe-inspiring about Mrs. Tellamantez and her shell.
Thea caught Dr. Archie’s hand and squeezed it hard as she skipped along
beside him back toward Moonstone. She went home, and the doctor went
back to his lamp and his book. He never left his office until after
midnight. If he did not play whist or pool in the evening, he read. It
had become a habit with him to lose himself.
VII
Thea’s twelfth birthday had passed a few weeks before her memorable call
upon Mrs. Tellamantez. There was a worthy man in Moonstone who was
already planning to marry Thea as soon as she should be old enough. His
name was Ray Kennedy, his age was thirty, and he was conductor on a
freight train, his run being from Moonstone to Denver. Ray was a big
fellow, with a square, open American face, a rock chin, and features
that one would never happen to remember. He was an aggressive idealist,
a freethinker, and, like most railroad men, deeply sentimental. Thea
liked him for reasons that had to do with the adventurous life he had
led in Mexico and the Southwest, rather than for anything very personal.
She liked him, too, because he was the only one of her friends who ever
took her to the sand hills. The sand hills were a constant
tantalization; she loved them better than anything near Moonstone, and
yet she could so seldom get to them. The first dunes were accessible
enough; they were only a few miles beyond the Kohlers’, and she could
run out there any day when she could do her practicing in the morning
and get Thor off her hands for an afternoon. But the real hills—the
Turquoise Hills, the Mexicans called them—were ten good miles away, and
one reached them by a heavy, sandy road. Dr. Archie sometimes took Thea
on his long drives, but as nobody lived in the sand hills, he never had
calls to make in that direction. Ray Kennedy was her only hope of
getting there.
This summer Thea had not been to the hills once, though Ray had planned
several Sunday expeditions. Once Thor was sick, and once the organist in
her father’s church was away and Thea had to play the organ for the
three Sunday services. But on the first Sunday in September, Ray drove
up to the Kronborgs’ front gate at nine o’clock in the morning and the
The Song of the Lark Page 5
