CHAPTER X AN ELOPEMENT
Once again Felipe waited patiently for the setting of the moon, in the dark corner between the mud oven and the wall where we saw him first. Thoughts keen almost as sensations chased each other through his mind as he crouched there watching. Dominant was the feeling of the eternal sense of need: "I want her and I'll have her." All this trouble, and strife, and disappointment only made him more obstinate. "I will succeed," he said to himself. "I will. If I fail now I shall be a loser all my life—always wanting, never getting. If I win I shall have what I desire all my life and be happy." This was frank egoism. Felipe's moral standpoint may be guessed from the fact that had he been told he was egoistic he would not have understood the implied reproach. To himself his position was simply natural.
But it would be wrong to suppose that generous and unselfish impulses did not run side by side with self-regarding ones. He thought of Josefa, lonely and sad in her father's house. His anger rose as he thought of the unkindness and the threats she had to endure, and of the heartless way in which she was being disposed of. He longed to save her from the present trouble and from the hateful future that threatened her. How sweet she was and how beautiful! Every fibre in his frame thrilled at the thought of becoming her protector, at the delicious idea of her seeking safety in his arms, while he acted as her shield against tyranny and wrong. And through her sweet eyes there looked out, he knew, the faithful soul of a true and loving woman. She was good. He felt as sure of that as he did of his own existence. Her kindness and dutiful spirit he knew, for he had seen her behaviour in the daily life of the village. What a shame it was that she should be so ill-treated just because she was by nature gentle and obedient! Poor girl, she would want to be comforted a great deal to make up for all the trials she was undergoing now. He would have to be very good to her in every way, and he swore to himself that he would be so; he would do his best to make her happy. Ah, if they could but once get to the padre at Ensenada and be married by him, it would be all right; and at the thought his pulse beat high.
At last the welcome hand appeared at the hole in the wall he had been watching so long, and he flew to the spot.
"Is that you, sweetheart?" he whispered as he stretched his hand along the wall to meet the little fingers. "I always tell myself you will not come, just to tease myself, for I know all the time that you will. And at last I see the signal and I know it is all right."
"You know I always do come," she returned, "you bad boy, as soon as I feel sure they are sound asleep. But now tell me what news you have."
"Bad enough," said he despondently. "I asked the American—I begged hard of him; but he would not lend me one of his beasts. I waited till he was in a good temper, after he had blasted the rock; but it was no use. I will go to-morrow to the sierra for my father's horse and I will come back for you in the night. He is thin and cannot travel fast, so you must come early before the moon sets or we shall not have time enough; but we must take our chance as we can get it. I will tie him away off on the edge of the mesa, so that there will be no horse tracks for them to follow close here. You must come afoot so far."
"Stay, Felipe," said she. "I have been thinking. Can you get a saddle—now—to-night?"
"I can get one of the American's," he said. "He has an old one he never uses. He would lend me that, I know."
"Yes, but can you go to him to-night, Felipe?"
"Oh, yes," he answered. "I would wake him—he doesn't mind what I do. But what horse are you thinking of? One of his?"
"No, no," she cried; "I have a better plan than that. We must take my father's horse. I got the key this evening after he went out. Go first and get the saddle, and then here is the key."
His fingers tightened eagerly on hers. "You darling!" he whispered. "How clever you are! Ten times cleverer than I. Why didn't I ever think of that before? Wait. I'll be back in a moment." He gave her hand one more rapturous pressure, and loosing it, darted off like the wind to Stephens's house.
Stephens was a sound sleeper, but in the middle of the night he was waked by a sudden angry growl from Faro. He opened his eyes, but it was pitch-dark. A low knock was heard at the door. "Who is it?" he cried, first in English, then in Spanish.
A voice answered, likewise in Spanish. "Oh, Don Estevan, it's me, Felipe."
"Felipe!" he exclaimed. "Why, what the mischief are you up to now? But come in, the door isn't locked."
He heard the latch pulled, and seized the collar of Faro, who was snarling savagely. The door opened and the cool night air blew freshly in. A figure was dimly seen in the starlight. Felipe approached the bed. "Oh, Don Estevan!" he began at once, "do be kind to me; lend me your saddle—the old saddle, not the good one. You know the old one hanging on the wall in there."
"Why, what's up, Felipe?" said Stephens, surprised at being roused by this request in the middle of the night. "What do you want with it? What makes you come bothering me now?"
"Oh, please don't be angry, but lend it me," pleaded the boy. "I will bring it you back, and I know you don't want it; you never use it."
"What mischief are you after?" said Stephens. "You want to go off sweethearting somewhere—that's what it is, you young rascal. That's what you wanted my mare for to-day. I know what you are up to."
"Oh, Don Estevan," begged the boy,—"the saddle, please. If you won't lend it to me, sell it to me. I have money,—five dollars."
"Hold on till I strike a light, and shut the door, will you?" said Stephens. "Lie down, Faro, and be quiet." The prospector got out of bed, struck a match, and lit a candle. "You're a pretty sort of fellow, to come roaming around this time of night!" he went on as, candle in hand, he stepped cautiously across the floor in his bare feet to the door of the inner room, which he unlocked. "Sensible people are in bed and asleep at this time of night," he grumbled. "Come in here and get your saddle."
Felipe followed him instantly to the storeroom where he kept his powder-keg, mining-tools, pack-saddles, and provisions.
"There it is," said Stephens, pointing to an old saddle hanging by one stirrup from a peg in the wall. "Get it down. And the bridle; yes, that's it"—and the pair emerged again into the outer room.
Stephens locked the door again, and turning round encountered Felipe's hand with a five-dollar bill in it. "Here it is, Don Estevan; five dollars," said the young Indian.
"Tut, tut, I don't want your money," said the American cheerfully. "Keep it or give to your sweetheart to keep for you. She'll do that fast enough"—and he chuckled at his own wit. "Now don't you smash that saddle," he continued; "and mind you bring it back when you've done with it."
"Oh, thank you, Don Estevan, a thousand times!" cried the young Indian. "God will reward you for it."
"Likely story," growled his employer, "when I guess it's the devil's business you're riding on. There, that'll do; be off with you," he added; and he escorted Felipe, still protesting his gratitude, to the door.
As the boy stepped outside, Stephens asked through the half-shut door, "Who's going to look after my stock to-morrow?"
"Oh, Don Estevan, my brother, my little brother Tomas. He will see to them. I have told him."
"Much good he'll be!" retorted the Californian. "Whom did I hire, him or you?"
"Why, me, Don Estevan, but my little brother will——"
"Yes, your little brother will play the mischief," said Stephens, cutting him short. "I know you. There, get along with you. I'm tired of you,"—and the sarcastic prospector turned growling to his blankets again. "Who is she? for there's some woman at the bottom of it, as sure as fate," said he to himself as he turned over on his bed before going to sleep. "One of the young squaws I suppose. Felipe used to be a pretty good sort of a boy, but durn my skin if I don't believe he's going to turn out just as ornery as the rest of 'em. Who is she, I wonder, anyway?" He was just dropping off to sleep when the thought struck him, "Maybe he's gone to the corral to get the mare!" He half rose at the idea, but lay down again, soliloquising slowly, "No, he never would have come here to borrow the saddle if that had been his game; he dursn't. I'd break every bone in his confounded young carcass if he dared do such a thing"; and comforting himself with this hypothetical revenge, he finally dropped asleep.
With the saddle safely tucked into the fold of his blanket, Felipe flew round the corner and down the street to the back of the cacique's house. When he came to the place he stooped down and picking up a tiny pebble he tossed it through the hole. Josefa was waiting inside and answered his signal instantly.
"Have you got the saddle?" she whispered.
"Yes, yes, all right," answered her lover.
"Here is the key," said she rapidly; "take this and go to my father's stable and get out the horse and take him away outside the pueblo and tie him, and then come back for me. I mustn't risk being caught getting out unless we are quite sure to succeed; it would prevent our ever having another chance."
"Good!" said Felipe shortly; and without a moment's delay he started off.
"Stop, Felipe, stop an instant," she whispered. "Don't tie him near the corrals; he'll neigh to Don Estevan's animals."
"As if I didn't know that!" returned the boy almost indignantly, and he turned again and darted away. It was all plain sailing now. How clever of Josefa! How thoughtful she was!
He reached the cacique's stable, looked stealthily round to be sure he was not watched, and then turned the key in the lock and entered. The horse, a noble and intelligent creature, was standing there quietly. In a minute Felipe put the saddle on him and brought him out, locking the door again behind him. He led him straight away from the pueblo, up along the acequia; a few dogs began to bark at the unwonted sound of hoofs in the night. He tied him to a tree in a peach orchard, and gave him a handful of corn fodder which he had brought from the stable to keep him quiet. Then he flew back to the village.
"All right, Josefa, come! I have him tied ready," he whispered.
The little hand met his once again through the hole in the wall, and he pressed it. It trembled in his clasp. "You will always be good to me, always?" she said. "I shall have nobody but you now."
"Yes, I swear it, my heart's joy, I swear it!" he cried earnestly. "But come, come quick!" The clasped hands unlocked, and the Indian boy sank down once more to wait; this was to be the end of his waiting.
It was not for long. Three minutes later, a head peeped over the edge of the terrace above him, and in a moment more Josefa dropped into her lover's arms. One long kiss, one long, rapturous embrace, was all they dared delay for; and then without a word, hand in hand and side by side, they fled with stealthy steps up the street.
Perhaps it was the fact of a woman's being abroad at that hour of the night that excited the suspicions of the dogs; but whatever it was, the whole hundred-and-odd of them belonging to the pueblo seemed to begin to bark just then. The clamour brought one or two Indians to their doors, but they saw nothing; the lovers had already disappeared.
Up along the acequia they ran. They reached the peach orchard. The horse was there all right. Felipe bridled him in a moment and then sprang across the acequia with the lariat in his hand. He pulled at the rope, but the horse refused to follow. "Hit him, Josefa," said he to the girl, "hit him." She shook the fold of her blanket at the animal, and with a snort he sprang across after Felipe. She bounded over lightly and stood beside him.
He lifted her to the saddle and vaulted on to the croup behind her. He slipped his arms round her waist, both to hold her securely and to grasp the reins, and striking the horse's sides with his feet, he urged him forward. The noble creature made nothing of his double burden, and bounded forward.
"It's no use trying to dodge," said he as he guided the animal straight towards the trail that led to the Rio Grande. "They'll track us anywhere to-morrow; but they can't see to trail before daylight, and by that time we must be at Ensenada."
"Hark to those dogs," said she, as the chorus of barkings from the village rose and fell upon the night wind.
"Never mind; we're off now," said he, holding her closer to him. "The dogs are always barking anyhow. They'll think it's only some Mexican going down the valley. Why, if they did wake up and miss us now, they must wait till morning to know which way we've gone, so don't you be frightened, sweetheart."
They struck into the trail at last—a well-marked bridle-path, which led across the mesas. There was no fear of their missing it, dark as it was after the moon had set, for both the horse and his rider knew the trail well enough. On they pushed, on, on, the keen night wind from the east blowing freshly in their faces, and causing them to fold their blankets more closely to them. The stout little Indian horse was used to carrying double, as indeed most horses in those parts are, and he travelled onward without flinching or staggering under his burden, cantering where the ground was not too rough, and picking his way with wonderful sure-footedness up and down the steep sides of the ravines, which here and there intersected the broad table-lands.
Felipe had to tell Josefa of his vain attempts to borrow the mare of the American, and he gave her a laughing description of the way in which he had roused him at midnight to borrow the saddle. "I'm glad, though, he didn't take the five dollars from me," said the boy. "Perhaps I should not have had money enough left for the padre if he had."
"But you have enough?" inquired Josefa eagerly. "How much have you?"
"Oh, I have fifteen dollars," replied he. "I have saved my wages, every cent, since Don Estevan came here last autumn, and my father let me keep half. Fifteen dollars is more than enough. It is only the rich people who pay twenty and twenty-five dollars. Why, lots of poor people pay only ten. I am sure we are poor enough."
"I am afraid we are indeed," sighed she sadly.
"Never mind," said he cheerfully, trying to keep up her spirits, which were failing somewhat at the strangeness of this lonely ride over lands unknown to her, under the immense vault of night. "Never mind that. Why, I have sown six bushels of wheat more than last year, and I am going to put in plenty of corn too. There is plenty of land, and if we have not enough the head Turquoises must give us some more. There is lots of water now in the ditch to sow a thousand bushels more than we used to."
"Yes," said Josefa thoughtfully. "I know how hard you have worked, dear Felipe, and that you will not be slack now, but are you quite sure of your father? Will he not turn us out?"
"How can he?" said the boy scornfully. "You know he is too poor to hire anyone to work for him. He cannot do without me. He is getting old and cannot put in a crop by himself, and Tomas is too young to be much good. It is I who do the work on the land. You know, Josefa, I would work ten times harder for you," and he pressed her closer to him again.
"Yes, yes, Felipe," she cried, "I know that. I am sure of that. I never could have trusted you so if I had not known you were good at home. But, Felipe dear, if they are cross to me at your house I shall hate it."
"They sha'n't be cross to you," he cried hotly. "I am a man now, and they must listen to me. If I support them they must do what I say—at least sometimes," he added, correcting himself. "Besides, my mother loves me, and when she sees how I love you, and how you are all the world to me, she will love you too; I know she will."
"Ah, perhaps not, Felipe," said the girl doubtfully. "You talk like a man. Women are not always like that, you know."
"But she will; she must," said Felipe decidedly. He had a comfortable masculine conviction that women's feelings were something that could always be put down or got round. He felt that he was acting a man's part now, and that it was time for him to assert himself. How could he feel otherwise with his arms round his sweetheart's waist, with the free sky above them and the broad mesas around, fifteen dollars in his pocket to pay the padre, and a good horse (he did not stop to think whose) to carry them to Ensenada! For the first time in his life he felt himself a man and free. They had left behind them the village with its narrow, cramping laws and customs, its parental tyrannies, and its hateful distinction of rich and poor. To Felipe, Ignacio with thirty cows was an odious monopolist. How delightful it was to have hoodwinked the watchful guardian of Josefa and baffled his miserly rival!
While the fugitives thus sped onward through the night, peace once more reigned supreme over the pueblo. The barking of the dogs at their departure had soon ceased, and no one took the trouble to inquire seriously into the source of their wrath. They might have been barking at a hungry coyote, come to explore the heaps of household refuse deposited day by day outside the village by the tidy squaws, or at some belated Mexican passing up or down the valley, or even at some stray donkey escaped from his owner's corral. At any rate, no one cared enough to prosecute his inquiries, and no movement was perceptible in the village till the first grey dawn.
Dawn caught the lovers descending the long hill that leads from the mesas down to the wide flats of the Rio Grande valley. The light was too dim as yet to do more than show vaguely the broad line of the wooded banks of the river, still some distance ahead of them. The sun rose as they were pushing across the sandy flats and passing through the poverty-stricken hovels of the Mexican village of La Boca, past a surprised-looking, unkempt peon, who blinked drowsily at the couple from his doorway. On they pressed and still onward, making for the point where the road forded the river.
But what roar was this that met their ears as they neared the grove of cottonwood trees through which the road to the ford ran,—a dull strong roar as of the rushing of many waters? Felipe recognised it, and on the instant his heart felt like lead in his breast.
"Valgame Dios, Josefa!" said he, "I believe the river is up. Oh! what luck! what luck!"
CHAPTER XI MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER
The grey dawn that awoke the household of the cacique did so to some purpose. "Josefa," called the step-mother as she arose, "Josefa"—but no answer came. "Why, where can she be?" exclaimed the Indian woman, looking round and calling her other daughters. Salvador himself rushed into the inner room to look for her. In a moment he sprang out again.
"She has gone!" he shouted. "She has got through the trap-door and escaped. Oh, the wretch!"
"Where can she be?" wondered his wife helplessly.
"Where can she be?" he echoed scornfully. "Why, with that pauper scoundrel of a Felipe. I know her. Oh, I'll make her pay for this!"
He seized his revolver and slipped his belt through the loop of its case, and grasping a horsewhip he darted from the house. The rest of the family followed him somewhat timidly, anxious to see what was going to happen, wishing, perhaps, that he would punish her a little for not being so good and steady as they were, hoping, too, to intervene and save her from the extremity of his passion, for they knew how pitiless he was when roused.
The cacique flew straight to Atanacio's dwelling, and thrusting the door open burst rudely into the apartment.
"Where is Felipe? Where is my daughter?" shouted he in tones of fury.
"I don't know. I don't know anything about it," said the old man humbly. "Isn't your daughter at home? Perhaps she is over at Sahwaquiu's." Sahwaquiu was Josefa's uncle, her own mother's brother, and Josefa was a pet of his.
"Where's Felipe, I ask you? Answer me, you old reprobate!" roared the angry cacique.
"I don't know," said the old man again, in the humblest tones. "I have not seen him. He was here last night when we lay down, but he got up and went out. I don't know where he is."
"He's run off with my daughter, that's where he is," shouted the indignant parent; "and I believe you know about it too," he added, threatening the old man with his whip. "You had better say what you know, or I'll make you."
He was a thick-set, muscular man, and looked well able to carry out his threat, as he stood over old Atanacio, who remained passive, seated on a sheep skin near the hearth, neither attempting to defend himself nor to escape. The cacique's black eyes flashed fury, and his coarse features worked with passion, as with taunts and threats he cowed the helpless being before him.
But meanwhile the news of the elopement had spread, and the Indians were buzzing about their village like a swarm of bees round the hive. Up dashed one of the younger men with news. "Cacique, Cacique," he cried, "the stable! Your horse has gone, but the stable is locked. His tracks go all up by the acequia"; and he pointed to where two Indians, with their heads bent low almost to the ground, were busily questing from side to side like sleuth-hounds on a scent.
"Oh, the villain!" roared Salvador. "He's got my horse. He shall be hanged." And he ran first of all to the stable to satisfy himself by seeing with his own eyes what had happened.
It was true. The stable was locked, but the steed was stolen, as could be seen by lying down and peeping under the door. The cacique got up with his white shirt and buckskins all dusty from the ground, and turning to the crowd called out:
"Here, get me a horse, some of you—Tito, Miguel, Alejandro. Go get me the mare of the Americano, and mount yourselves, too." And he himself started out towards the acequia to look at the tracks. Several Indians ran towards the corrals.
"The saddle," said one; "we want a saddle; go get yours, Alejandro. You live nearest."
"Hadn't we better tell the Americano," said Tito, "before we take his mare? Maybe he won't like to lend her."
"But he must lend her," retorted Miguel impatiently. "The cacique wants her. Isn't that enough?"
By this time they had arrived at the bars of the corral where the prospector kept his stock, and they stopped to wait for Alejandro to bring the saddle. Tito took advantage of the delay to act on his own motion, and darting over to the door of Stephens's dwelling began to knock vigorously.
"Hullo! who's there?" called out Stephens in response to the knocking. He was still between the blankets, and had not yet turned out.
"The cacique wants your mare," cried Tito through the keyhole.
"Wants my what?" exclaimed Stephens, who failed to catch his words exactly. "Open the door, can't you, and let me hear what you've got to say," he added, sitting up in bed.
Tito held the door ajar and put half his face into the aperture. He had a wholesome respect for Faro and did not care to adventure farther.
"The cacique wants to take your mare to ride, to go after his daughter," he explained.
"Well, he can't have her, that's all about it," said Stephens, getting out of bed and beginning to put on his moccasins. He had adopted the Indian foot-covering as more comfortable as well as more economical than boots. "Just tell him," he continued, "that I'm not lending horses just now. When I am I'll let him know. But why can't he take his own?"
"He hasn't got it. It's gone," said Tito, at the same time signalling with the half of him outside the doorway to Miguel not to take the mare. "It's gone. Felipe's run away with the cacique's horse and his daughter."
"The dickens he has!" said Stephens. "When did he do that?" As he spoke he recollected Felipe's midnight visit to him for the purpose of borrowing the saddle, and a light dawned on him. But under the circumstances it seemed better to say nothing about the matter.
He put on his hat and came to the door. Tito volubly expounded all he knew of the story. Presently Salvador himself came bustling up from the acequia, whip in hand and revolver on hip.
"Looks considerable on the war-path," said the prospector to himself. "Wonder what he means to do about it."
"Here," said the cacique in a loud voice to the Indians round, "where's the horse? why isn't it saddled?"
Stephens stood leaning carelessly against the doorpost, but took no notice of his speech. There was silence for a moment, and then Tito said in a apologetic tone, "Don Estevan says he doesn't want to lend her."
"Oh, nonsense!" said the cacique; and then turning to the American and mastering his passion as well as he could, he said, "Lend me your mare, Don Estevan."
"I can't do it, Salvador," said the prospector deliberately. "I want to go to the sierra to-day."
"Oh, the sierra!" said the cacique impatiently. "That will do to-morrow. My daughter is gone and my horse is gone and there's nothing else to go after them on. You must lend yours for once."
"Not to be ridden to death after them," said Stephens. "Why, they're leagues away by this time. You'll have to ride like the very mischief to catch them." There was an accent of contempt in his voice which infuriated the Indian. Stephens valued the mare, which he had brought with him from Denver, above all earthly things, and the idea of letting an Indian ride her near to death in a long, stern chase seemed to him the blankest absurdity. "Why, I wouldn't do it for my own brother!" he went on. "You can't have her, Cacique, and that's flat."
"But I must," said the Indian, enraged at an opposition he had not expected. "I must and I will. What's a horse for but to ride?" He turned to the crowd of Indians behind him, and called out, "Saddle her up, will you, quick!"
Two or three began instantly to run towards the corral, and the rest were starting to follow when the loud, clear voice of the prospector arrested their movement.
"Stop right there!" were his words. "You do no such thing. If anyone touches my stock without my leave I'll shoot him."
The Indians stopped.
"I'll drive you out of here, you Americano," said the angry cacique, laying his hand upon the butt of his revolver and advancing directly towards Stephens, who was of course quite unarmed.
"Drive away then, and be d—d to you," returned the American. "I've hired these rooms from old Reyna till the end of April, and I sha'n't budge before." And his eyes flashed back defiance.
Salvador kept advancing in a threatening manner, and the younger Indian men, of whom there were thirty or forty on the spot, closed up behind their leader; they half felt that he was wrong, but still he was their chosen cacique.
Stephens stood his ground, and faced the mob with dauntless coolness. An odd thing struck him. He knew them all personally quite well, but now he hardly seemed to recognise them. The expression of their faces, usually so peaceful, was entirely altered. It gave him quite a turn to think that people who had crowded round him so full of fun, and so eager to show their friendship and gratitude only the day before, should change so quickly to a cruel mob. Yesterday's momentary outburst of suspicion excited by the dreaded charge of witchcraft had revealed to him the explosive forces that lay hidden under their quiet exterior, but that had been dissipated by his own prompt repudiation of the charge, and by the cacique's influence. Now it was the cacique himself who was assailing him, and there was none to help, nor hope of anyone. A hundred black, flashing eyes were fixed on him with an angry glare. He felt as if he were shut up in a den of wild beasts. He was quite alone; the new storekeeper at San Remo was the only other American within sixty miles.
"Take your hand off that pistol, Salvador," said he quietly. "You can't scare me, so don't you try it on."
The Indian stopped, but his hand plucked nervously at the hilt of the weapon. Stephens observed his opponent's indecision, and continued: "A pretty lot of fellows you are, to come crowding round me as you did yesterday, and call me your best friend, and say how you'll sing my praises to the third generation, and now this morning you're ready to cut my throat before breakfast, all about nothing! I've heard of the gratitude of Indians before now," he continued, "but this beats all."
The Indians visibly winced at this taunt, the justice of which they could not but acknowledge, and began to interchange rapid words in their own language, thereby making themselves unintelligible to Stephens.
Just at this moment came a most welcome diversion. Round the corner dashed Miguel full charge on a fiery steed. The Indians scattered right and left before him. With a jerk on the terrible Spanish bit he set the horse on his haunches, and as he sprang to the ground he cried, "Here, Cacique! Here's the horse of the new storekeeper at San Remo. I've got him for you."
Salvador never spoke, but seizing the rein offered him by Miguel he sprang to the saddle, turned his back on Stephens and the crowd, and dashed wildly forwards to the trail.
All eyes were bent on his rapid course. The trackers on foot had already traced the hoof-marks from the acequia across to the Ensenada trail, and were running half a mile off like hounds in full cry. In less than two minutes the galloping horseman overtook them, and cantered alongside to hear what they had to tell. They reported that the tracks were several hours old and that the horse carried double.
"I could have told you that," said Salvador, as he plied the whip freshly, and galloping ahead disappeared in the direction of the mesas from the sight of those who were watching him.
"Wonder what he'll do if he catches Felipe!" said Stephens to himself as he saw him vanish over the hills. "That young man'll have to look out for himself, as sure as he's a foot high. Rather lucky for me," he ruminated, turning to go in, "that chap Miguel's coming up with Backus's horse! I wonder, by the way, how he came to get him. I don't know what I should have done if Mr. Salvador had gone for me with that six-shooter, and he was just about mad enough to try it on. Blamed if it wasn't the suddenest scare I ever did get let in for! Why, hallo, Faro, old man," said he aloud, on finding the dog at his heels, "what's up with you? I don't often see you out of the blankets before breakfast. Blamed if I don't believe you heard me a-talkin' to them fellers and just come out to take a hand!" He was right. The dog's quick ear had caught the note of danger in his master's voice, and he had flown to his assistance.
Stephens took another look at the Indians around. Some were still watching the mesas; others were going about their daily business. It seemed as if those who knew him best kept aloof, feeling ashamed to come up and speak to him. However, an old man whom he hardly knew, and who spoke Spanish badly, approached him in an apologetic sort of way, and said, "Salvador very angry!"
"Well," answered Stephens, with a grim laugh, "I should think he's gone mad."
"Yes, mad, silly," assented the old man; "for why get angry? No good, no good,"—and he stood there wagging his old head and saying "no good" in a way that the prospector quite understood to be intended for an amende honorable on the part of his fellows.
Nor was he the only one. "Señor Americano," said a cracked voice close beside him, and Stephens felt a light touch on his elbow. He turned and found himself face to face with Reyna, the Turquoise squaw from whom he rented his rooms. She and her husband lived next door to him, and from her he often bought eggs and meal. She of course had been a witness of the whole affair. She now produced two eggs, and holding them out to him said, "See, two."
"Yes, I see," said Stephens, "but I don't want 'em to-day. Haven't got the five cents."
"No, no!" she cried. "No money—two."
Her Spanish was weaker even than the old man's. Stephens turned to him. "What does she mean?" he asked. "I can't make out what she's up to."
The two Indians exchanged some words in their own language.
"She means, your honour," said the old Indian man, speaking with painful elaboration, "that this is for the gratitude of the Indians. Excuse her, your honour, she does not speak much in Spanish—that is, not like us, the men"—he added explanatorily, "but she can understand, and she heard you say the Indians got no gratitude, and this is for her."
Stephens turned to the old squaw and took the eggs, thanking her as well as he knew how. "And I'm going now to cook them for breakfast," said he, as he went back to his room.
"Well, who'd have thought that?" he said to himself, as he began to whittle shavings from a piece of fat pine to light his fire with. "They're a queer lot, Indians are, but I suppose it takes all sorts of people to make a world." His thoughts wandered back to Salvador and the fugitives. "Wonder what Salvador'll do," he said half aloud. "He's mad enough to kill the boy, if he gets close enough. Blamed if I don't think he was about mad enough to kill me! He's real ugly when he's mad, and it's no foolin' when it comes to six-shooters." He went over the scene of the early dawn again in his mind. "It does beat cock-fightin'," he continued to himself, "how folks like these Indians, that's as quiet and decent and orderly as can be, should flare up all in a moment and glare at you like a lot of wildcats, and all for nothing. Why, if I'd gone and killed somebody, or run off with somebody's wife, there'd be some sense in it, but to burst out just because I wouldn't lend my mare to be rode plumb to death! It does beat all."
The fire now burned up brightly, and after setting the coffee-pot on to boil he filled the nose-bags himself, and went out to feed his stock. "Confound that boy, running off like this," he grumbled, "and leaving me this job! Told his little brother Tomas, indeed! I don't see him around yet; not much; don't expect to neither."
He leaned up against the fence waiting while the stock ate their feed. Someone must keep watch in order to drive off the hungry Indian pigs, who prowled around and would have disputed their corn with the horses. The sun had just risen, and his level rays lit up like a flame the red cliffs crowned with dark pines, which formed the western side of the valley. But Stephens did not see them. He was facing east, with the sunlight full in his face, and his eyes fixed on the bare, flat-topped table-lands which divided the Santiago valley from the Rio Grande. "Confound him!" he growled again. "What a fool trick for him to play! I'm mighty glad it isn't my mare he's playing it on. He'll find himself in a muss, too, if he don't mind out, sure. I don't more than half like the notion of that ugly savage of a cacique getting after him with a six-shooter."
He waited till the stock had finished feeding, and then went back to his rooms. But he decided not to start for the sierra till the next day. "Confound the boy!" said he the third time. "I can't take that little fool, Tomas, and I want somebody to help me dry the meat and pack it down. Why the dickens couldn't he run off some other time! He want a wife! He wants a nurse and a birch rod, I should say."
Thoroughly vexed, he prepared to put in the rest of his morning, or at least as much of it as he could spare from swearing at Felipe's escapade, in fixing up pack-saddles, mending his tent, cleaning his beloved repeating rifle, and generally getting ready for the trip he so unwillingly postponed.
But his plans for the day were destined to be interfered with for the second time. The inquisitive face of Mr. Backus appeared suddenly in the open door.
"Mornin', Mr. Stephens," he began; "can I come in? So this is where you live when you're at home." He dragged a heavy saddle across the threshold and took a seat. "I told you I wouldn't be long before comin' up to take a squint at your white squaw."
"She's no squaw of mine, Mr. Backus," said Stephens with rising anger. "I think I told you so already. And if you want to see her you can't, for it so happens that she has just eloped." He turned his back on the storekeeper, kneeling down to arrange his pack-cinches with a preoccupied air.
"Oh," returned the other, "is that it? I didn't tumble to it that she was the one who had bolted." His eye wandered around Stephens's modest abode, taking in every detail, as he tried to gratify his curiosity concerning the prospector's domestic arrangements. It seemed to him an incredible thing that a man should settle down like this among the Indians and not provide himself with at least a temporary wife. But in these bachelor's quarters there was no sign of feminine occupation, temporary or permanent. The one novelty that puzzled him was the neatly built assaying furnace, which he at first took for a new sort of bread oven, until he detected the parcels of ore beside it and its true nature dawned upon him. But postponing the idea of asking questions about it for the present, he went babbling on: "And here I've been and loaned my horse to a chief to go chasing after her upon, and left myself afoot. Guess I'll have to try and borrow that mule of yourn to get back to San Remo on." Stephens's face at this suggestion became the picture of disgust. "Say, though," he went on, "I was forgetting. You're badly wanted down there. I come up partly just to tell you that. Don Nepomuceno is in a mighty awkward fix. What do you think that son of his, Andrés, has been up to? You'll never guess in a month of Sundays. He's bin and had a fuss with a Navajo up yonder in the mountains over a game of cards, and killed him, and half burned the body in the camp-fire to try and get rid of the thing. And the Navajos have got right up on their ear about it and there's a whole band of 'em now down at San Remo wanting old Sanchez to turn 'em over his whole sheep herd to pay for it. How's that for high, eh?"
Stephens leaped to his feet. "Who told you this?" he cried.
"Why, Andrés himself," replied the storekeeper. "I've seen him. He's hidden away now in an inner room down at the house. The Indians are having a big pow-wow outside. Oh, they'd just murder him if they could get their hands on him once."
Without a word Stephens caught up his saddle and his Winchester and started for the door.
"Where are you off to so quick?" asked Backus, rising also.
"To get my mare," was the answer, "and go straight down there. And you'd best come along, too. You can have that mule."
CHAPTER XII PACIFYING A GHOST
"Say," asked Mr. Backus, as the pair rode out of the pueblo side by side, "how're ye getting on with the silver-mine question? Had any new developments?"
"No," replied the prospector, "I bounced them straight out about it last night, and learned nothing. They just won't open their heads on the subject at all. They simply swear there never was a mine, and I don't believe it's any use to go on working at them."
"And what'll you do next?" queried the storekeeper.
"To tell you the truth," said Stephens simply, "I've not quite made up my mind what I want to do, but I'm much inclined to chuck it up."
"Look at here," interjected Backus, "did ye ever think to try them Navajos? They used to roam all over these mountains in the old days, and they know 'em still just like a book. They know what silver is, too, for you see all their high-u-muck-a-mucks wearing plates of it all over 'em. How about them knowing where the mine is?"
"I doubt it," returned Stephens. "They'd have sold the secret of it to the Mexicans long ago if they had known it."
"They're too suspicious of the Mexicans to do that," said the other; "they don't trust 'em. They'd be afraid they'd cheat 'em; but mebbe they might trust you or me enough to think we'd pay 'em if we promised to."
"They don't trust the Mexicans far, by all accounts," said Stephens, "I allow that much. But say—I want to know more about this fuss between Don Andrés and the Navajo. How was it?"
"Oh," said Backus, "the Navajo came to the sheep camp where Andrés was with his two herders. The Navajo had his squaw along. And he and Andrés got to playing cards by the firelight, and Andrés won all the money he had, six dollars and a half. And then the Injun got mad and swore Andrés had cheated him. And Andrés told him to go to Halifax! And then the Injun got madder, and drawed his butcher-knife and went for Andrés right there. But Andrés was too darn quick for him, and pulled his gun,—he wears a mighty nice pistol, does Andrés, a Smith and Wesson nickel-plated,—and he plugged him just under the heart and laid him out. And then the squaw bawled and ran off into the woods, and Andrés and the two sheep-herders were powerful frightened over what they'd done, and they chucked the body on the camp-fire to burn it up, and they packed their camp outfit and drove the sheep herd that night right away to the Ojo Escondido. But when the squaw got back to the other Injuns and told them, they just naturally knew their best plan was to come down on old man Sanchez at oncet. That's why they're here. They got here this morning, and Andrés come in only a few hours ahead of 'em, about midnight last night."
"Well I'm sorry for Don Nepomuceno," said Stephens.
"And he's tarnation sorry for himself too, you bet," added the Texan. "He's in an awful sweat over his flock of sheep. I never saw a man look sicker. Why, if the Navajos was to run off his sheep it'd bust him wide open. He's liable to have to make the original herd good to old man Baca, you see."
"By George!" returned Stephens, "I don't wonder he's in a sweat. What does he want to see me for, d'you know?"
"Wal'," replied Backus, "he reckons that as an American you might be able to help him some. The Americans are running this Territory now, and the Navajos have darned good reason to know it, and he thinks they'll mind you. I left him and some of his compadres pow-wowing away with them outside the house, but they hadn't come to no conclusion. Pretty Miss Manuelita"—he looked knowingly at the prospector—"was just crying her eyes out over her brother inside. She thinks he'll be killed, sure."
Stephens touched his mare with the spurs. "I'll gallop ahead, I think," he said, raising his reins, "but I'll be obliged to you if you'll bring that mule along quietly and just put him in your stable till I can come round for him. So long." He gave the mare her head, and in a moment she was skimming like a swallow over the gentle undulations of the dusty stretch of the Indian lands. Backus jogged along, watching the mare and her rider grow smaller and smaller in the distance.
"You don't just know what you want yourself," said he, apostrophising his late companion, "but I think I know about what you want, and I'll make it my business, Mr. Stephens, to see that you don't get it." The look in his eye as he spoke was not amiable.
It was not exactly a cheerful sight that greeted the American on his arrival at San Remo. The palaver was in progress, and there against a blank wall outside the Sanchez house squatted eleven very glum-faced Navajos, while on the ground opposite to them in the strong morning light sat Don Nepomuceno and three of his relations who had come to give him their support.
The eleven Indians were the first Navajos Stephens had ever seen, and he eyed them with no little curiosity. "Call these wild Indians?" he felt like saying: "why they look as civilised as the Pueblos." This was because of their dress mainly. They did not have their hair braided in locks with beaver fur like the mountain Utes, or twisted up like any of the plains Indians; each had a bright red kerchief bound turban-wise round his snaky black locks, just like the Pueblo Indians, except that he wore no "chungo," or pigtail, at the back. Neither was their colour as dark as that of the Utes or the Sioux; they were distinctly lighter. "Perhaps living further south they wash more," he thought, "and that may account for it." Then, in lieu of buffalo robes and buckskins they were clad in neat belted tunics and loose cotton breeches, and for a wrap or mantle had gaily striped blankets of their own weaving. "Real tony their blankets are," said he to himself, "and just as pretty as a painted mule." A pinto, or piebald, mule is an extraordinary rarity, and it is quoted in the Far West as the highest standard of picturesque beauty.
No; as far as dress went they did not look like wild Indians at all, at least not like any he had ever seen. But when he came to look at their faces he changed his mind. Not that they were all alike; on the contrary the diversity of types was remarkable. There were lowbrowed, thick-lipped, thick-nosed, heavy-jawed men among them, and there were others with fine aquiline features and regular, well-shaped mouths. But their bold, impudent, cunning eyes betrayed them. One and all they looked thorough rascals. As Stephens ran his eye over them, his acute glance rested on a big, hawk-faced man with a sullen expression, who sat in the middle of them smoking a cigarette with an air of unconcern. His broad leather belt was studded with great bosses of shining silver.
"How," said Stephens, dismounting and looking straight at this Indian whom he took for the chief, but the latter gazed at him stolidly without taking any notice. The Mexican rose and welcomed him warmly.
"Come round with me to the corral, Don Estevan," said Sanchez as he dismounted; "let me put the mare up for you. Pedro, the peon, is keeping the house door. My unlucky boy Andrés is inside. Ah, what a foolish boy to go and gamble with an Indian! The storekeeper will have told you of our trouble."
"Yes," said Stephens, "he told me that the Navajos were demanding your whole flock of sheep."
"Oh, not really," replied the Mexican; "that is, they only threaten to take them if I don't pay. But they positively and actually have the impudence to demand that I should pay them a thousand dollars, silver dollars, for one scrub Indian," he groaned.
"It sounds a good lot," said Stephens reflectively.
"Oh, it's ridiculous," said the disconsolate Mexican. "A thousand dollars for one miserable, low-down Indian. I've offered them a hundred and twenty-five, and that's more than he was worth to them twice over. But they say he belonged to Ankitona's family." He busied himself undoing the latigo strap of the hair cinch.
"But, look here," rejoined the American, to whom this exact appraisement of the value of one "low-down Indian" was a novelty; "according to the way Mr. Backus gave me the story as we rode down, I can't see why you should have to pay anything to them at all. If Don Andrés killed the Indian in self-defence, any court in this country would clear him. Do they deny it? Do they say that he attacked the Indian first?"
"Oh, no," said the Mexican, "you don't understand; his acting in self-defence doesn't make any difference." He spread the saddle blanket over the mare, tying it on with a cord surcingle. "She's hot," he observed, "she'd best have it on till she's cool. No," he repeated, as they turned back to the scene of the palaver, "it isn't a matter where law courts count for anything. Our courts don't ever bind the Navajos. The one thing that does count in our dealings with them is whether we are at peace or at war. Now, if we were at war with them at present they wouldn't come here to ask for pay. No, they'd go straight off and just kill or carry away captive any Mexicans they could catch in revenge. But, you see, we're at peace; so the rule is, if any Mexican kills a Navajo he must pay. They think that if his family don't make the Mexicans pay up for the dead man his ghost will haunt them. Their religion, you see, binds them, if I don't pay, to kill my son, or else maybe me, or some other member of my family; and very likely they'll cut my sheep herd some night and run off a lot of the sheep besides. Oh, I've got to pay." He groaned again.
"Well, Don Nepomuceno," said the American, "I'm real sorry to hear of your ill-luck. I call it a very hard case. If there's anything I can do to help you, you can count on me. All the same, if that Indian came at Don Andrés with a knife I don't myself see what else he could do except shoot, and I ain't the man to blame him for defending himself. Say, now, before we go back to where the Navajos are, you just tell me what you think I can do to be of assistance."
The strictly business footing, so to speak, on which Don Nepomuceno dealt with the subject puzzled the prospector not a little, and he was afraid lest by interfering ignorantly he might only make things worse.
"Well, Don Estevan, these Navajos think a deal of an American's opinion, naturally; so, since you are so kind, I want you to use your influence with them to make them take a more reasonable sum. A thousand dollars is all nonsense. He was quite a poor scrub Indian. He had hardly any sheep of his own, and no pony. They admit that he lived off the richer men of his family, so I say that they're well rid of him. They're really richer without him. He was, among them, like one of the poorest of our peons here. I declare if I gave them fifty dollars for him it would be plenty. But he was one of the family of Ankitona, and he's a very powerful chief, with lots of relations. He's not here himself—not he. He has sent his sister's son though, Mahletonkwa. He's that tall Indian with a hooked nose and the big row of silver plates all round his belt. He's a terribly bad Indian. He boasts that he never surrendered to the Americans,—that they never could take him to the Pecos. I think he's rather afraid of them all the same, though he says he isn't, and swaggers about with his band of desperadoes. But he's quite the worst Navajo going, and there hasn't been a piece of mischief done in the last two years without him and his gang having a hand in it. They're the terror of the whole country. There's another rascal there that's pretty near as bad as he is. That's the one with two feathers in his head-dress—Notalinkwa his name is. He's a villain too."
"I see," answered Stephens; "you want me to talk to this—what do you call him—Mahletonkwa, and tell him that he's got to come down a bit in his price. Do you think that'll do any good?"
The Mexican turned his eager eyes full on Stephens, and laid his hand on his arm. "I think it will," he cried; "you are an American, and all the Navajos think that it's their cue to keep on good terms with the Americans. They are a good deal afraid of them since the time of their defeat in the Cañon de Chelly, when they learned to fear the brave Coronel Christophero Carson and that valiente capitan, Albert Pfeiffer. That was several years ago, and after that they surrendered and were taken away beyond Santa Fé and kept over on the Pecos. They did hate that; they were nearly starved there, and lots of them died, and a good job too. It is only a couple of years now since they have been allowed to come back to their own country. But even those who never were caught and taken to the Pecos heard the story of it, and they, too, fear the Americans. Oh yes, they listen to their agent, Señor Morton, at Cañon Bonito."
"Well, then," exclaimed Stephens, "there's our man. Of course the Indian agent is the proper person to appeal to in a matter of this sort. Shall I tell this Mahletonkwa, then, that the moment he goes to cutting up any didoes on his own hook round here the agent will be down on him like a knife? I'll just inquire what right Mr. Mahletonkwa has got to come here anyhow—yes, or to be off his reservation at all. If Don Andrés had gone on to their reservation and killed a Navajo there, then there might be something to be said for their side of the argument, but if a Navajo comes here among the Mexican sheep herds he's got to abide by the laws of New Mexico, I say."
"Oh, Don Estevan, that's no use," answered the other sadly. "He don't care two reales about the laws. No, you tell him that Señor Morton will make the soldiers come and shoot him if he or any of his family kill my son; make him believe that, if you can, and you'll be doing some good."
"I'll try," said the American doubtfully, "but I hardly expect he'll mind much what I say."
The pair walked round the house to the south side, where the Navajos were sitting, and squatted down on the dry, sandy soil opposite them, alongside of the three Mexicans. Stephens got out his tobacco-bag and passed it round before he filled his own pipe, and began to smoke with calculated deliberation. He had at least learned one lesson, that it is no use to hurry an Indian if you want to do business with him.
Having got his pipe thoroughly alight and returned his tobacco-bag to his pocket, he looked at Mahletonkwa, and said, "You come from Fort Defiance?"
The Agency at Fort Defiance, called by the Mexicans Cañon Bonito, is just over the border line between New Mexico and Arizona, and well in the middle of the Navajo country.
"No," said the Indian briefly; "more this side."
"You got leave from the agent to be off the reservation?" asked Stephens sharply.
The Indian parried this question. "I come from my mother's brother, Ankitona," he said. "He mucho bravo—very angry about this thing." He indicated the killing by Don Andrés.
"Likely enough," said Stephens, "but that's no answer to my question. What I want to know is if you've got leave."
"I don't ask anybody's leave," said Mahletonkwa defiantly. "I'm not the slave of the Americans. I never went to Bosque Redondo." Bosque Redondo was the scene of their captivity over on the Pecos River.
"Indeed!" retorted Stephens; "but, if you hear me talk, it might have been better for you if you had. You might have had a chance to learn how to behave yourself." If this audacious redskin was going to put on any frills with him he proposed to check him up short right at the start.
Mahletonkwa chose to look very surly at this rebuff. Then he repeated his previous assertion. "Ankitona very angry indeed about this."
"And quite right of him too," said Stephens. "He ought to be very angry with your man who went and got himself killed. You've got no right to say it's Don Andrés's fault, if he had to defend himself. The man who drew the knife is to blame."
The Indian dissented by a gesture, but made no verbal reply. Disregarding Sanchez's warning of the futility of this argument, Stephens laboured to prove that killing done in self-defence was nothing more than justifiable homicide. But his words seemed to take no effect on the Indian, who smoked on stolidly till it was evident that all this talk was to no purpose. In an undertone Don Nepomuceno hinted as much.
When at last the Navajo condescended to answer, his view of the affair proved to be very much as the Mexican had prophesied. To him it did not matter three straws, he explained, who struck the first blow or who was to blame for the quarrel. His point was that the family had lost a valuable asset in the shape of a warrior, for which they required a good round sum in compensation, and not only that, but enough to enable them to give their lost relative a number of gifts that would make him comfortable in the next world. He would require a good deal to make him comfortable, too, for not only had he been killed, but he had been sadly disfigured; an undeniable fact, for of course the charred object that had been partly destroyed with fire was a horrid sight. The dead warrior's spirit was exceedingly angry, said Mahletonkwa, and required to be appeased with liberal offerings, and if he wasn't properly mollified he would take it out of his neglectful family by haunting them. Under this spiritual compulsion it was clear that all the family were bound to rise to the situation, he argued. There was no choice left them; they were absolutely bound, by some means or other, to extract satisfaction from the family of the slayer. He was very much in earnest. It wasn't war by any means; no, it was a mere family affair, so to speak. But there it was, and it would have to be arranged.
It took Stephens some time to become convinced that Don Nepomuceno was right, and that the dead man's ghost was at the bottom of it all.
"You see, this is how it is, Don Estevan," said the Mexican, speaking to him aside. "These Navajos have a sort of Purgatory of their own. Heaven forgive me for comparing their heathen superstitions to our holy religion, but I want to make you understand. You know when our friends die we give the proper offerings to the priest to say masses to make their stay in Purgatory shorter. Well, now you have heard Mahletonkwa say that these Indians have their religion, which is all false, of course, only they are obstinate and believe it, and according to that it is necessary for the family to give presents to make the spirits of the dead more happy. And they are very much afraid if they don't do it; oh yes, they are grossly superstitious; but how can I help it? How can I teach them better? These heathens are very expensive to deal with. If he were a Christian it wouldn't cost me half so much, but I don't suppose you could make him see how foolish he is."
He paused, as if a new idea had struck him. "Could you, do you think"—he added eagerly—"could you show him the error of his ways?"
"Jerusalem, no!" cried Stephens, taken considerably aback, "I rather guess not. I'm not a missionary by a long shot. No sir-ee, that's a trade I never had a go at, but I'll tell you what we used to say up in Montana: 'The best missionary is a gain-twist, hair-trigger rifle that will convert a Sioux Indian at three hundred yards every pop.' That's what we said there; but I'll admit that these southern Indians down here are a very different sort of folk. The Sioux were pure, unadulterated savages, but these Navajos seem to be part human. Still, I don't see my way to wading in at Messrs. Mahletonkwa and Co. with a hymn-book." He chuckled to himself at the naïveté of the Mexican's suggestion.
"Yes," said the latter regretfully, "I feared you couldn't do it. After all, to be missionaries is the business of the padres and not of you or me. But I like what you told me about the missionary rifle of the Americans that converts an Indian at three hundred yards. You tell him that; preach that to him; put it strong." He evidently had great faith in the moral influence of the American over the Navajos from the mere fact of his being an American.
"Very well," replied Stephens, with a certain pride of race in the appeal thus made, "I'll see what I can do. Look here, Mahletonkwa," he continued, addressing the chief, "I've heard your talk about this unfortunate incident, and I quite see that you've got reason on your side, looking at it from your point of view. Of course, our point of view is quite different; but we'll waive that for the moment. Very well. Here's Don Nepomuceno making you a very liberal offer of a hundred and twenty-five dollars to settle the matter. Now that's a lot of money; and if you're the wise man I take you for, you'll close with it and accept his offer. That's my advice to you. You'll find it best in the end, much better business than trying to fight the United States soldiers. The soldiers have got repeating rifles, heap-shoot guns, mind you. If you refuse, and go and take the law into your own hands, and attack Don Andrés, or any of his family, you'll smart for it. I give you fair warning. If you touch them I'll have the soldiers sent after you. Captain Pfeiffer aint dead yet. You've heard of him, so don't you make any mistake about that. You hear me talk; and what I say I'll do. My tongue is straight. I have spoken."
His words carried weight and produced some effect, as two of the Navajos at once began to urge something on their chief with great earnestness in their own language, apparently wishing him to comply. Stephens had adopted the crisp, pungent sentences that appeal most to the redskin's taste. But Mahletonkwa was in no hurry to come to terms, and presently replied to Stephens at some length, explaining that the offer was most inadequate. More cash for themselves and gifts for the dead man were indispensable, absolutely indispensable. His terms were still a thousand dollars, neither more nor less.
"I believe that other chap—what d'you call him? Notalinkwa, looks as if he was inclined to vote for taking your offer," said Stephens to Don Nepomuceno. He had been observing the faces of the rest of the Indians very closely while Mahletonkwa was speaking. "Look here. Let's leave him and his friends to argue it out; I'm sure by their looks some of them want him to give way. They'll talk better if we're not by. Come along to the store or somewhere."
"Come into the house," said the Mexican, jumping up; "we can talk better too when we are by ourselves," and he led the way to the great door leading into the patio, now strongly barred and fastened. At the master's summons the peon who was on guard hastened to unbar; the door was partly opened and they slipped in, the master of the house quickly assisting the peon to replace the wooden beams that secured it as soon as they were inside, while Stephens shook hands with Don Andrés, a tall, well-built young Mexican, who would have been very handsome had he not been marked with smallpox.
"How do you do, Don Andrés?" he said heartily. "I'm sorry for this trouble you've got into. However, let's hope it can be fixed up all right."
"It's very unlucky," returned the young Mexican; "I didn't want to kill him, but he would have it. I had to do something to defend my life."
"That's just what I say," assented Stephens; "I was putting it to Mahletonkwa like that just now, only he wouldn't see it. He jumped the track entirely, and went off into a rigmarole about ghosts and such like stuff, where I couldn't follow him, nohow."
"You were an exasperating, foolish boy!" exclaimed Don Nepomuceno testily to his son, as the door-beam was finally wedged into its place. "It's all your fault," he broke out, with vexation and almost despair in his voice. "What I shall do I don't know. You've gone and acted like an idiot. I've told you to stop your gambling a thousand times, and then you must go and gamble with an Indian, a scrub Indian! Yes, an idiot, that's what you are. Come in, Don Estevan, come into the house," and he led the way to the big living-room, Don Andrés following rather sheepishly. Not a word did he venture to say in reply to his angry father's tirade. "Honour thy father" is a commandment that is far from being obsolete in New Mexico. If his father had taken a rod in his wrath and beaten him, this tall young man would have dutifully submitted himself.
"Sit down," said the master of the house hospitably, pointing to the divan; "take a seat here, Don Estevan. Will you have something to eat?"
"Well, thank you, Don Nepomuceno," answered Stephens, "since you are so kind, I think I will, if it isn't too much trouble. The fact is, I came down without my breakfast."
"Ho, there, Juana!" cried the Mexican, running to the door, "and you, my sister! Make haste, set breakfast for the señor. He is hungry. Be quick now." A scurrying of feet was heard in the kitchen at the sound of his commanding voice. "And make him tortillas of wheat flour," his loud tones went on, "hot tortillas with fat, and coffee; see that you make coffee."
He came back and seated himself beside Stephens. "What do you think about it, señor?" he inquired. "What is the best thing to be done?"
"Well, if you ask me my deliberate opinion," said Stephens, leaning back and crossing his left leg over the other with his hands clasped round the knee, "I should say this: It seems to be perfectly clear that these Indians are outside the law; it's no use to appeal to it with them. Now the mail goes by here to-day, noon, towards Santa Fé. I say, write to the governor of the Territory at Santa Fé, and to the general commanding the United States troops there, and tell them about it, and ask their protection. They're bound to give it you. And write to the Navajo Agency at Fort Defiance, and tell the agent there, and ask him to have Mahletonkwa and his band brought back on to the reservation. And I should tell the Indians exactly what I was doing, and warn them once more that they'll certainly have the United States cavalry after them if they don't behave. If that makes them any more inclined to accept your offer of a hundred and twenty-five dollars, why, of course you'll count them out the money and settle it out of hand. I should call a settlement cheap at a hundred and twenty-five dollars cash down. More than that, if I was you, I'd raise my offer a trifle, if I thought I could afford it, so as to meet them. You heard Mahletonkwa say he wanted gifts, some sheep and a pony, to sacrifice for the dead man's ghost. I gather by what you tell me about their religion, that he thinks that if he kills them for him specially, the dear departed can go and corral the ghosts of the pony and sheep in the happy hunting-grounds, and have the full benefit of them there. Now, you must have in your flock some old six-tooth ewes, that likely will never breed another lamb; give him a dozen or two to butcher. And then, couldn't you trade for, or borrow, some old stove-up pony, very cheap, and let him have that, too? That won't ruin you. I take it the Navajos mean to keep your good hard silver dollars for themselves, and they'll religiously send the foundered old sheep and pony ghosts to keep their defunct relative company in the sweet by-and-by." The notion of this ghostly herd tickled his cynical humour mightily.
"Yes, perhaps I might do that," said Sanchez in a saddened voice. To part with any of his cherished flock is like drawing eye-teeth for a Mexican. "I might let them have a few of my oldest ewes; they come in very useful for mutton, but if I must, I must. And my brother-in-law has a handsome pony who is inyerbado; he ate poison-weed over on the Rio Grande a year ago, and has never been any use since. That dead Navajo was a very poor scrub, and it would be more than good enough for him; he ought to be uncommonly grateful for it."
He spoke so feelingly that it really seemed as if he almost half believed in the Purgatory of the Navajos himself. He hesitated and then went on. "But as for the letters, Don Estevan, it's not so easy. For one thing, the governor and the general don't know Spanish; and then, you know, I haven't much English, and I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing anyhow. I couldn't manage the letters."
"Oh, if that's all," returned the other, "I'll write the letters for you willingly enough. Indeed, as I'm an American, it's just possible they may be a trifle more ready to pay attention to them. Yes, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write out an account of the killing of the Navajo for Don Andrés, like an affidavit, and he shall sign it, and then we'll have Mr. Backus witness it and put on the post-office stamp. He's a sort of a United States official, and it may help to make them feel more called upon to take notice of it. That'll come as near to being a regular legal document as anything we can scare up out here. I do like to do everything in correct legal style, when I can. I'm all for law and order every time. That's me."