“It is Tula who asked. She is proving she is a woman; Clodomiro goes for her because that is his work. Your white way would be a different way,––of an alcalde and the word of many witness. Our women have their own way, and no mistake is made.”
“But Rotil, the general,––he will not permit–––”
“Señor, for either mother or grandmother the general had an Indian woman. He has the knowing of these things. I think Tula gets the man they ask for. She is wise, that child! A good woman will be chosen to have speech with the Deliverer––when they come.”
“There is a thought in that,” mused Kit, glancing sharply at the old man. “Do they make choice of some wise woman, to be speaker for the others? And they come here?”
“That is how it is, señor.”
“Then, what better way to hide Doña Jocasta than to place her among Indian women who come in a band for that task? Many women veil and shroud their heads in black as she does. The music of her voice was dulled when she spoke to Marto, and General Rotil had no memory of having ever heard it. Think,––is there to be found an old dress of your wife? Can it be done and trust no one? Doña Jocasta is clever when her fear is gone. With Tula away from that door the rest is easy. The dawn is not so far off.”
“Dawn is the time the women of Palomitas will take the road,” decided Isidro, “for by the rising time of the sun the Deliverer has said that his rest here is ended, and he goes on to Soledad where José Perez will have a trembling heart of waiting.”
“Will they tell him whose trap he is caught in?”
“Who knows? The Deliverer has plans of his own making. It was not for idleness he was out of sight when the trap was sprung. He sleeps little, does Ramon Rotil!”
In a mesquite tree by the cook house chickens began to crow a desultory warning. And Isidro proceeded to subtract stealthily a skirt and shawl from wooden pegs set in the adobe wall where Valencia slept. She startled him by stirring, and making weary inquiry as to whether it was the time.
“Not yet, my treasure, that fighting cock of Clodomiro crows only because of a temper, and not for day. It is I will make the fire and set Maria to the grinding. Go you to your sleep.”
Which Valencia was glad to do, while her holiday wardrobe, a purple skirt bordered with green, and a deeply fringed black shawl, was confiscated for the stranger within their gates.
Thrusting the bundle back of an olla in the corridor he touched Tula on the shoulder.
“The señor waits you in the kitchen,” he muttered in the Indian tongue, and she arose without a word, and went silent as a snake along the shadowy way.
It took courage for Isidro to enter alone the room of Doña Jocasta, as that was the business of a woman. But Kit had planned that, if discovered, the girl should apparently have no accomplices. This would protect Tula and Valencia should Rotil suspect treachery if an occupant of the house should disappear. It would seem most natural that a stolen woman would seek to escape homeward when not guarded, and that was to serve as a reasonable theory.
She slept with occasional shuddering sighs, as a child after sobbing itself to sleep. That sad little sound gave the old Indian confidence in his errand. It might mean trouble, but she had dared trouble ere now. And there could not be continual sorrow for one so beautiful, and this might be the way out!
She woke with a startled cry as he shook her bed, but it was quickly smothered as he whispered her name.
“It is best you go to pray in the chapel room, and meet there the women of Palomitas. Others will go to pray for a Judas; among many you may be hidden.”
She patted his arm, and arose in the dark, slipping on her clothes. He gave her the skirt and she donned that over her own dress. Her teeth were chattering with nervous excitement, and when she had covered herself with the great shawl, her hand went out gropingly to him to lead her.
As they did not pass the door of the sala, no notice was given them by Rotil’s guard. Mexican women were ever at early prayers, or at the metate grinding meal for breakfast, and that last possibility was ever welcome to men on a trail.
In the kitchen Kit Rhodes was seeking information concerning Clodomiro from Tula, asking if it was true he would fetch the women of Palomitas to petition Rotil.
“Maybe so,” she conceded, “but that work is not for a mind of a white man. Thus I am not telling you Clodomiro is the one to go; his father was what you call a priest,––but not of the church,” she said hastily, “no, of other things.”
Looking at her elfin young face in the flickering light of the hearth fire, he had a realization of vast vistas of “other things” leading backward in her inherited tendencies, the things known by his young comrade but not for the mind of a white man,––not even for the man whom Miguel had trusted with the secret of El Alisal. Gold might occasionally belong to a very sacred shrine, but even sacred gold was not held so close in sanctuary as certain ceremonies dear to the Indian thought. Without further words Kit Rhodes knew that there were locked chambers in the brain of his young partner, and to no white man would be granted the key.
“Well, since he has gone for them, there is nothing to say, though the general may be ill pleased at visitors,” hazarded Kit. “Also you and I know why we should keep all the good will coming our way, and risk none of it on experiments. Go you back to your rest since there is not anything to be done. Clodomiro is at Palomitas by now, and you may as well sleep while the dawn is coming.”
She took the strip of roasted meat he offered her, and went back to her blanket on the tiles at the door of the now empty room.
Chapter 15
THE “JUDAS” PRAYER AT MESA BLANCA
Isidro was right when he said Ramon Rotil slept but little, for the very edge of the dawn was scarce showing in the east when he opened his eyes, moved his wounded leg stiffly, and then lay there peering between half-shut eyelids at the first tint of yellow in the sky.
“Chappo,” he said curtly, “look beyond through that window. Is it a band of horses coming down the mesa trail, or is it men?”
“Neither, my General, it is the women who are left of the rancherias of Palomitas. They come to do a prayer service at an old altar here. Once Mesa Blanca was a great hacienda with a chapel for the peons, and they like to come. It is a custom.”
“What saint’s day is this?”
“I am not wise enough, General, to remember all;––our women tell us.”
“Um!––saint’s day unknown, and all a pueblo on a trail to honor it! Call Fidelio.”
There was a whistle, a quick tread, and one of the men of Palomitas stood in the door.
“Take two men and search every woman coming for prayers––guns have been carried under serapes.”
“But, General–––”
“Search every woman,––even though your own mother be of them!”
“General, my own mother is already here, and on her knees beyond there in the altar room. They pray for heart to ask of you their rights in Soledad.”
“That is some joke, and it is too early in the morning for jokes with me. I’m too empty. What have Palomitas women to do with rights in Soledad?”
“I have not been told,” said Fidelio evasively. “It is a woman matter. But as to breakfast, it is making, and the tortillas already baking for you.”
“Order all ready, and a long stirrup for that leg,” said the general, moving it about experimentally. “It is not so bad, but Marto can ride fasting to Soledad for giving it to me.”
“But, my General, he asks–––”
“Who is he to ask? After yesterday, silence is best for him. Take him along. I will decide later if he is of further use––I may––need––a––man!”
There was something deliberately threatening in his slow speech, and the guards exchanged glances. Without doubt there would be executions at Soledad!
Rotil got off the cot awkwardly, but disdaining help from the guards hopped to a chair against the wall between the two windows.
The general eyed the ornate drawnwork of the linen with its cobweb fingers, and grinned.
“I am not a bridegroom this morning, muchachita, and need no necktie of such fineness for my beauty. Bring a plainer thing, or none.”
Tula’s eyes lit up with her brief smile of approval.
“I am telling them you are a man and want no child things, my General,” she stated firmly, “and now it proves itself! On the instant the right thing comes.”
She darted out the door, bumping into Rhodes, and without even the customary “with your permission” ran past him along the corridor, and, suddenly cautious, yet bold, she lifted the latch of the guest room where she had seen what looked to her like wealth of towels,––and felt sure Doña Jocasta would not miss one of the plainest.
Stealthy as a cat she circled the bed, scarce daring to glance at it lest the lady wake and look reproach on her.
But she stepped on some hard substance on the rug by the wooden bench where the towels hung, and stooping, she picked it up, a little wooden crucifix, once broken, and then banded with silver to hold it solid. The silver was beautifully wrought and very delicate, surely the possession of a lady, and not a thing let fall by chance from the pocket of Valencia.
Tula turned to lay it carefully on the pillow beside the señora, and then stared at the vacant bed.
Only an instant she halted and thrust her hand under the cover.
“Cold,––long time cold!” she muttered, and with towel and crucifix she sped back to the sala where Rotil was joking concerning the compliment she paid him.
“Don’t make dandies of yourselves if you would make good with a woman,” he said. “Even that little crane of a muchacha has brain,––and maybe heart for a man! She has boy sense.”
Kit, seeing her dart into the guest room, stood in his tracks watching for her to emerge. She gave him one searching curious look as she sped past, and he realized in a flash that his glance should have been elsewhere, or at least more casual.
She delivered the towel and retired, abashed and silent at the jests of the man she regarded with awe as the god-sent deliverer of her people. Once in the corridor she looked into Valencia’s room, then in the kitchen where Valencia and Maria and other women were hastening breakfast, and last she sought Clodomiro at the corral.
“Where did you take her, and how?” she demanded, and the youth, tired with the endless rides and tasks of two days and nights, was surly, and looked his impatience. “She, and she, and she! Always women!” he grumbled. “Have I not herded all of them from over the mesa at your order? Is one making a slow trail, and must I go herding again?”
She did not answer, but looked past him at the horses.
“Which did the señora ride from Soledad?” she inquired, and Clodomiro pointed out a mare of shining black, and also a dark bay ridden by Marto.
“Trust him to take the best of the saddle herd,” he remarked. “Why have you come about it? Is the señora wanting that black?”
“Maybe so; I was not told,” she answered evasively. “But there is early breakfast, and it is best to get your share before some quick task is set,––and this day there are many tasks.”
The women were entering the portal at the rear, because the chapel of the old hacienda was at the corner. There was considerable commotion as Fidelio enforced the order to search for arms;––if the Deliverer suspected treachery, how could they hope for the sympathy they came to beg for?
“Tell him there is nothing hidden under our rags but hearts of sorrow,” said the mother of Fidelio. “Ask that he come here where we kneel to give God thanks that El Aleman is now in the power of the Deliverer.”
“General Rotil does not walk, and there is no room for a horse in this door. Someone of you must speak for the others, and go where he is.”
The kneeling women looked at each other with troubled dark eyes.
“Valencia will be the best one,” said an old woman. “She lost no one by the pale beast, but she knows us every one. Marta, who was wife of Miguel, was always mother and spoke for us to the padre, or anyone, but Marta–––”
She paused and shook her head; some women wept. All knew Marta was one who cried to them for vengeance.
“That is true,” said Valencia. “Marta was the best, but the child of Marta is here, and knows more than we. She has done much,––more than many women. I think the daughter can speak best for the mother, and that the Deliverer will listen.”
Tula had knelt like the others, facing a little shelf on the wall where a carven saint was dimly illuminated by the light of a candle. All the room was very dark, for the dawn was yet but as a gray cloak over the world, and no window let in light.
The girl stood up and turned toward Valencia.
“I will go,” she said, “because it is my work to go when you speak, but the Deliverer will ask for older tongues and I will come back to tell you that.”
Without hesitation she walked out of the door, and the others bent their heads and there was the little click-click of rosary beads, slipping through their fingers in the dusk. Among the many black-shawled huddled figures kneeling on the hard tiles, none noticed the one girl in the corner where shadows were deepest, and whose soft slender hands were muffled in Valencia’s fringes.
Kit stood until he noted that the searching for arms did not include her, and then crossed the patio with Fidelio on his way to the corrals. If the black mare of Doña Jocasta could be gotten to the rear portal, together with the few burros of the older women, she might follow after unnoticed. The adobe wall at the back was over ten feet high and would serve as a shield, and the entire cavalcade would be a half mile away ere they came in range from the plaza.
He planned to manage that the mare be there without asking help of any Indian, and he thought he could do it while the guard was having breakfast. It would be easy for them to suppose that the black was his own. Thus scheming for beauty astray in the desert, he chatted with Fidelio concerning the pilgrimage of the Palomitas women, and the possibility of Rotil’s patience with them, when Tula crossed the patio hurriedly and entered the door of the sala.
The general was finishing his breakfast, while Isidro was crouched beside him rewinding the bandage after a satisfactory inspection of the wound. The swelling was not great, and Rotil, eating cheerfully, was congratulating himself on having made a straight trail to the physician of Mesa Blanca; it was worth a lost day to have the healing started right.
He was in that complacent mood when Tula sped on silent bare feet through the sala portal, and halted just inside, erect against the wall, gazing at him.
“Hola! Niña who has the measure of a man! The coffee was of the best. What errand is now yours?”
“Excellency, it is the errand too big for me, yet I am the one sent with it. They send me because the mother of me, and Anita, my sister, were in the slave drive south, and the German and the Perez men carried whips and beat the women on that trail.”
Her brave young heart seemed to creep up in her throat and choke her at thought of those whips and the women who were driven, for her voice trembled into silence, and she stood there swallowing, her head bent, and her hands crossed over her breast, and clasped firmly there was the crucifix she had found in the guest room. Little pagan that she was, she regarded it entirely as a fetish of much potency with white people, and surely she needed help of all gods when she spoke for the whole pueblo to this man who had power over many lives.
Rotil stared at her, frowning and bewildered.
“What the devil,––” he began, but Isidro looked up at him and nodded assent.
“It is a truth she is telling, Excellency. Her father was Miguel, once major-domo of this rancho. He died from their fight, and his women were taken.”
“Oh, yes, that!––it happens in many stat
es. But this German––who says the German and Perez were the men to do it?”
“I, Tula, child of Miguel, say it,” stated the girl. “With my eyes I saw him,––with my ears I heard the sister call out his name. The name was Don Adolf. Over his face was tied a long beard, so! But it was the man,––the friend of Don José Perez of Soledad; all are knowing that. He is now your man, and the women ask for him.”
“What women?”
“All the women of Palomitas. On their knees in the chapel they make prayers. Excellency, it robs you of nothing that you give them a Judas for Holy Week. I am sent to ask that of the Deliverer.”
She slid down to her knees on the tiles, and looked up at him.
He stared at her, frowning and eyeing her intently, then chuckled, and grinned at the others.
“Did I not tell you she had the heart of a boy? And now you see it! Get up off your knees, chiquita. Why should you want a Judas? It is a sweetheart I must find for you instead.”
“I am not getting up,” said Tula stolidly. “I am kneeling before you, my General. See! I pray to you on the tiles for that Judas. All the women are praying. Also the old women have made medicine to send El Aleman once more on this trail, and see you,––it has come to pass! You have him in your trap, but he is ours. Excellency, come once and see all the women on their knees before the saint as I am here by you. We make prayers for one thing:––the Judas for our holy day!”
“You young devil!” he grinned. “I wish you were a boy. Here, you men help me, or get me a crutch. I will see these women on their knees, and if you don’t lie–––”
With the help of Fidelio and a cane, he started very well, and nodded to Kit.
“You pick well, amigo,” he observed. “She is a wildcat, and of interest. Come you and see. Por Dios! I’ve seen a crucifixion of the Penitentes and helped dig the hidden grave. Also I have heard of the ‘Judas’ death on Holy Friday, but never before this has so young a woman creature picked a man for it,––a man alive! Courage of the devil!”
Tula arose, and went before them across the plaza to the door of the chapel. Kit knew this was the right moment for him to disappear and get the black mare back of the wall, but Rotil kept chuckling to him over the ungirlish request, and so pointedly included him in the party that there seemed no excuse available for absenting himself.
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