Ramona

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  XXII

  DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey theyscarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk onhis breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxiousfear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.After they were camped for the night, she said, "Dear Alessandro, willyou not tell me where we are going?"

  In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in hertone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: "MyMajella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell whatto do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling roundas leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think Ican be going mad? It was enough to make me!"

  Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could."Dear Alessandro," she said, "let us go to Los Angeles, and not livewith the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play atdances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewingto do, too. It would be better, I think."

  He looked horror-stricken at the thought. "Go live among the whitepeople!" he cried. "What does Majella think would become of one Indian,or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and driveus out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh,Majella is foolish!"

  "But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardinoand other places," she persisted. "Why could not we do as they do?"

  "Yes," he said bitterly, "at work for whites; so they are, Majella hasnot seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, whenthe Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my fatherhas told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that awhite man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella.And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimesin bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and ifhe will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him togo, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would nottake a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in thecheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent anymore! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should killsome man, Majella, if I saw things like that."

  Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: "If Majellawould not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, whereno white man has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I wasfollowing a bear. The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then,it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little greenvalley. We could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, itis very small, the valley. Majella would be afraid?"

  "Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh,do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is thereno other Indian village you know?"

  "There is Saboba," he said, "at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I hadthought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it isa poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it.Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. Therewas a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,--Senor Ravallo; hefound the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is oneof the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said theyshould never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons havethe estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise tothe Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go backto Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, asthey did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley.We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, wewill stay."

  It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of SanJacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the skyover their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeasternpart of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy andgolden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San JacintoMountain shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built ofrubies. The glow seemed preternatural.

  "Behold San Jacinto!" cried Alessandro.

  Ramona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen!" she said. "We are goinginto the sunlight, out of the shadow;" and she glanced back at the west,which was of a slaty blackness.

  "I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow follows too fast!"

  Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, andtearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying massesacross the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall.

  "Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. Heurged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too mucheven for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loadedwagon.

  "There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if wecould but reach it!" groaned Alessandro. "Majella, you and the childwill freeze."

  "She is warm on my breast," said Ramona; "but, Alessandro, what ice inthis wind! It is like a knife at my back!"

  Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fastthickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.

  "Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did," said Ramona, her teethchattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.

  "I would rather it blew than not," said Alessandro; "it will carry thesnow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more thanin the night."

  Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, asAlessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,--this strangeopaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presentlythe rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. Thehorses stopped; refused to go on.

  "We are lost, if we stay here!" cried Alessandro. "Come, my Benito,come!" and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force backinto the road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sankwithin her. She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could shehold the baby safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; thewind had risen again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was likemaking headway among whirling snow-drifts.

  "We will die," thought Ramona. "Perhaps it is as well!" And that was thelast she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shakenand beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, "Sorry ter handle yer sorough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!"

  "Fire!" Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she putthe baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and triedto rise from her seat; but she could not move.

  "Set still! set still!" said the strange voice. "I'll jest carry thebaby ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git upon yer feet;" and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorouslydisturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry.

  "Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. "The childis alive! Majella!" he called.

  "Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voicelike a distant echo past him.

  It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corralthan Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beatentravellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it.Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had thought to himself,in almost the same despairing words as Ramona, "This will end all ourtroubles," he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned thehorses' heads towards it. The ground was rough and broken, and more thanonce he had been in danger of overturning the wagon but he had pressedon, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, andanother light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towardshim,--a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, "Wall,stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as intelligible to Alessandroas if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect.

  Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's gra
teful reply in Spanish.

  "Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!" thought Jeff Hyer tohimself. "Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn'tknow better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!" And as he putthe crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, "Ef I'dknowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They'remore ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks."

  "Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a humancreetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this," replied thewoman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at itsfirst touch, and ceased crying.

  "Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!" she exclaimed, as she lookedinto the baby's face. "I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein'aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit."

  "Better see't th' mother fust, Ri," said Jeff, leading, half carrying,Ramona into the hut. "She's nigh abaout froze stiff!"

  But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative forRamona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered.It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in thecorner of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whosebright eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of hisdisease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardenedand wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hairwound in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flyingover her forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spiteof her careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignityin her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust andwarmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; andas she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, "This ain't nocommon Mexican, no how." "Be ye movers?" she said.

  Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was notincluded. "Ah, Senora," she said regretfully, "I cannot talk in theEnglish speech; only in Spanish."

  "Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can'ttalk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter.Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,--fur warm climate! 'pearslike it, don't it?" and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance ofineffable tenderness at the sick man. "Ask her who they be, Jos," sheadded.

  Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona,said in Spanish, "My mother asks if you are travellers?"

  "Yes," said Ramona. "We have come all the way from San Diego. We areIndians."

  "Injuns!" ejaculated Jos's mother. "Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reellytook in Injuns? What on airth--Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's ennywhite woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to staynaow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thetbaby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes."

  Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing.Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She hadnever before heard so many English sentences without being able tounderstand one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonestwords, that she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently,"I know very little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will ittire you to interpret to me what your mother said?"

  Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her whatyou wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part on'tshe'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till thestorm is over," he said to Ramona.

  Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carriedit to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion."Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried.

  "What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother.

  "Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady."

  "Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody roundwhere we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call mewhichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken."

  With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the titleof Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.

  Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after himboth names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finallysaid, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one."

  "Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n theswilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say terhum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter seeennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thetain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feelenny different."

  "There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd find outfast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you airter everybody."

  Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close toher breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, shenow saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm whichraged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knockedtogether for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, andmany of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, atevery blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth wereburning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyerhad hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few moresticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poorprovision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" she asked.

  "Not very, mammy," he said; "but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet'ssomethin'."

  It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they hadalways possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they sufferedfrom it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all SouthernTennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs.But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking,it was "jest like aour luck," they said, and did nothing, or next tonothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; afterall, they got more comfort out of life than many a family whose surfaceconditions were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldestchild and only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, andthe doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across theplains in a wagon to California, they said, "What good luck 'Lizy wasmarried last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm'n goin' right off." And they sold their little place for half it wasworth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, and setoff, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the bottom of thewagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pairof steers "to spell" the horses, and a cow to give milk for Jos, theydrove before them; and so they had come by slow stages, sometimescamping for a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the SanJacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was getting well. Another sixmonths, they thought, would see him cured; and it would have gone hardwith any one who had tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyerthat they were not as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they notsaved Joshua, their son?

  Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularlylike those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, thelazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down alltheir family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where onewill answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean,quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever havingheard her name, "Maria," in full; as a child, and until she was married,she was simply "Ri;" and as soon as she had a house of her own, tobecome a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by commonconsent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universalaunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and honor than shedreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her reach, that did not callher or know of her as "Aunt Ri."

  "I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not," she saidreflectively; "ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin'
, we'll comeshort o' wood, thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut burstopen, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both coveredwith snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of alittle clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods fromthe house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering thehorses in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff,seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own,and followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warmfor hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted toRamona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, theninto hers; then he said devoutly, "The saints be praised, my Majella! Itis a miracle!"

  Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef they ain't Catholics!"he thought. "What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammythey're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be.Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuzborn."

  By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became wellacquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling offriendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them.

  "Jeff," said Aunt Ri,--"Jeff, they can't understand a word we say,so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seemhardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language buttheir own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uvInjuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want tercome nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ezsweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer couldask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jestworships the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever Isee a white man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer thinkyer ever did yerself?"

  Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Herideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or twoof narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabondbands or families they had encountered in their journey across theplains. Here she found herself sitting side by side in friendlyintercourse with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose appearance andbehavior were attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularlydrawn.

  "I'm free to confess, Jos," she said, "I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. Ihain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've tookto like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger inTennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but shedon't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yernotice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thetfeller? 'N' I don't blame her."

  Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandrowithout perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And nowthere was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety whichmade its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason.She had hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dweltwith her. She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear.

  The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was asolid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.

  "It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said Alessandro to Jos, who wasdreading the next day.

  "Not really!" he said.

  "You will see," said Alessandro. "I have often known it thus. It is likedeath while it lasts; but it is never long."

  The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of thevalley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the watersfor Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in theirprimitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with greatanticipation she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband'santicipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that therewas good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandroknew the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, hewas rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guidein hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestioncompanionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--companionship,the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond.This hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the Saboba village,of which they had spoken as a possible home; which she had from thefirst desired to try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought of anIndian village; she already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with anyIndian people. She had become, as Carmena had said, "one of them."

  A few days saw the two families settled,--the Hyers in their tent andwagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, ina little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to anold Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live witha daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her ownhouse. It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly madeadobe bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. WhenAlessandro heard Ramona say cheerily, "Oh, this will do very well, whenit is repaired a little," his face was convulsed, and he turned away;but he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village,and there were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it.Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered theearth floor; a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hungon the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calicocanopy was again set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its redmanzanita frame, stood near. A small window in the door, and one morecut in the walls, let in light and air. On a shelf near one of thesewindows stood the little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in SanPasquale.

  When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she putboth arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, hereyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation:"Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!"

  Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which hadthe expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could notunderstand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understoodit. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: "It beats all ever Isee, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't nomore'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, furall three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow,Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does.I'd jest like you to see it."

  And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Rihad been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here whichhad never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, andit could not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to thegood-hearted wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionatedisorderly genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when,one day, after the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularlysuccessful hunt, the two families had sat down together to a supperof Ramona's cooking,--stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles withchili,--their wonder was still greater.

  "Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos," said Aunt Ri. "I neverthought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!"

  Ramona laughed. "No; it is Mexican," she said. "I learned to cook froman old Mexican woman."

  "Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git thetime to fuss with it," said Aunt Ri; "but I may's well git the rule,naow I'm here."

  Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. Hehad been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramonacheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passionAlessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awakein him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things inthe village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken littlehandful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large;their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end andtwo or three on the sou
th side, had manifested no disposition to crowdthe Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still,and there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella wascontent. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akinto it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house;Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, whenhe spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was notAlessandro comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer beforebuilding.

  Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been awayon his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She hadgone to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets orlace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. Shedid not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say,"If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stockbefore winter is over." "Yes," said another; "and look at those damnedIndians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in theirvillage! It's a shame they should have that spring!"

  Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept itlocked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warningand prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the springin the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at thebubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigatingditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivatedfields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himselfhad fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for thehorses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whitestook away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the springbegan in the very heart of the village, they could not take it withoutdestroying the village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that bedone," thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen."

  It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulledup their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three monthshad stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the watershad seemed to do such good to Jos. But, "We ain't rich folks, yer know,not by a long ways, we ain't," said Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nighdown to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin gitsettled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done.Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn'tthink it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a goodcarpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest dulove weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nighabout a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, doyer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was freeto say I didn't know's I should."

  "Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was wonderfulwhat progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made inthese six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directlyto her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation.

  "Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't," said Aunt Ri. "I don't s'pose I'm much of ajedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set inthe loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don'tremember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried toteach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn;it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o'the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in SanBernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' beglad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin'though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plentyo' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'dsay. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fitfor carpet-rags, than any place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftlesslot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I sayInjuns, I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed tome one mite like an Injun."

  "Most of our people haven't had any chance," said Ramona. "You wouldn'tbelieve if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; howthey are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes."

  Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, toJos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast;she found no words to express her indignation.

  "I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it." she said. "Why,they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee,fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar."

  "I think it's the people in Washington that have done it," said Ramona,sadly. "Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?"

  "I bleeve so!" said Aunt Ri, "Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't,makes the laws?"

  "I bleeve so." said Jos. "They make some, at any rate. I donno's theymake 'em all."

  "It is all done by the American law," said Ramona, "all these things;nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has tobe killed or put in prison that was what the sheriff told Alessandro,at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriffdid; but he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't anyhelp."

  Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. "I sh'll make a businesso' findin' out abaout this thing yit," she said. "I think yer hain't gotthe rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!"

  "It's all cheating." said Ramona; "but there isn't any help for it, AuntRi. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money."

  "I'm an Ummeriken!" cried Aunt Ri; "an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We'reUmmerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, notout er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're abovecheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o'this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's aburnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be doneabaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!"

  A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die forwant of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse todo something. "I ain't nobody," she said; "I know thet well enough,--Iain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout thecountry I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeffhez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest,nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aoutwhat all this yere means she's been tellin' us."

  But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to landsand homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the babyhad been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible forRamona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterdayno loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to thespring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt thatshe had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chillin the snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Beforethat, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now herpinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made afeeble wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remediesthat Aunt Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact,Aunt Ri from the first had been baffled in her own mind by the child'ssymptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his handsclasped, his face set. Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out,he bore her in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayerto the Virgin, to the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen,though money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all invain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see adoctor. "Find Aunt Ri," she said; "she will go with you, with Jos, andtalk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just asshe did when they were here, only weaker and thinner."

  Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of SanBernardino. "Not to rights yit," she said,--as if she ever wo
uld be.Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little onpleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for hismother,--a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, anda roof; one small square window,--that was all; but if Aunt Ri hadbeen presented with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased.Already she had woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one fora neighbor, and had promised as many more as she could do before spring;the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatchall through the lower walks of San Bernardino life. "I wouldn't hevbleeved they hed so many rags besides what they're wearin'," said AuntRi, as sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Rihad gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly,impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of people, andknew who was who, and what was what, and why, among them all, far betterthan many an old resident of the town.

  When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down fromher high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and beforeAlessandro had dismounted, cried: "Ye're jest the man I wanted; I'vebeen tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeffcouldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet,'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come inther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowedyer hadn't got the rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't onthe side o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an'they've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,--totake keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. Hecome last month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him aspell, last week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there'sa doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt payshim; yer don't hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o'savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin'!"

  Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said.He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken Englishhe tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do.

  "Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid bythe Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yerter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drivedown 'n' see her!"

  Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter thedoor bringing a doctor!

  Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house asinterpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this newphase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listenedwith trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of AuntRi's voluble narrative.

  The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro'serrand he listened indifferently, and then said, "Is he an AgencyIndian?"

  "A what?" exclaimed Aunt Ri.

  "Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?"

  "No," said she; "he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him,jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives inSaboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout."

  "Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?" said the doctor,impatiently. "You ought to have taken him to the Agent first."

  "Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?" asked Aunt Ri,wrathfully. "Thet's what I heerd."

  "Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;"and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro allthe time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life anddeath; "I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians willsooner or later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd bettertake this man over there. What does he want now?"

  Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctorsaid, "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that willhelp her;" and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle ofdark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it toAlessandro, saying, "That will do her good, I guess."

  "Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro.

  The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in thisoffice," he said. "You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis."

  "What's that, Jos?" said Aunt Ri, as they went out.

  "Donno!" said Jos. "I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good."

  Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Wouldit make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that greatGovernment in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man,who had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasqualefarm for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.

  From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Rifelt herself more at home.

  "I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv," she said, with a waveof her hand toward Alessandro. "We've ben ter ther doctor's to git somemetcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd."

  The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he didso, "The man's never been here before, has he?"

  "No," said Aunt Ri.

  "What is his name?"

  Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. "Stop him."cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. "Don't let him write, till I knowwhat he puts my name in his book for!"

  "Wait," said Jos. "He doesn't want you to write his name in that book.He wants to know what it's put there for."

  Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet tryingto speak kindly, the Agent said: "There's no making these Indiansunderstand anything. They seem to think if I have their names in mybook, it gives me some power over them."

  "Wall, don't it?" said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. "Hain't yer got anypower over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got itover? What yer goin' to do for 'em?"

  The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well, Aunt Ri,"--she was already"Aunt Ri" to the Agent's boys,--"that's just the trouble with thisAgency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all myIndians on a reservation."

  Alessandro understood the words "my Indians." He had heard them before.

  "What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?" he asked fiercely. "I will nothave my name in his book if it makes me his."

  When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper."That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let himgo, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!"

  "Oh, no, no." cried Aunt Ri. "Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'llmake him understand."

  Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedinglysuspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whitesexcept Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that wasimpossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simpleand ignorant, Alessandro well knew. "Let us go!" he said. "I do not wishto sign any paper."

  "Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!" said AuntRi. "Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin'his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injunswants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?" she added, turning tothe Agent. "Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on theAgency books."

  Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save hisbaby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the namebe written, rather than that.

  "Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro, doggedly; but he wentout of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck.