Part 26
Pepé muttered his adieus and bowed himself away in some confusion. Chinita looked after him meaningly; he caught her glance and then the motion of her lips. His heart beat wildly; they formed the refrain of a popular song,—
“Adios, my dearest love!”
Pepé reached the court quite dizzy. Ashley Ward and Captain Ruiz were both waiting for him. His excitement had reached a crisis. He seized Ruiz by the arm. “If you would please her,” he hissed in his ear, “find Ramirez, and let him, and not Gonzales, lead the troops.”
“You are drunk!” answered Ruiz; yet he clutched the youth by the arm, and led him into his room.
Pepé came to his senses with the shock as he sank upon a stone bench against the cold, hard wall. Presently he gave a brief account of Chinita’s desires and reasons. Ruiz listened without a smile. Childish and unprincipled as they were, they were not more so than scores he had heard discussed in the course of the years of anarchy in which he had entered upon manhood. Find Ramirez, pledge him to the Liberal cause, leave it to him to gain such an ascendency over the troops that they would themselves proclaim him their leader! It was an easy task. It set him thinking, and Pepé slunk away to hope, to doubt, to despair, to hope again.
“Adios, my dearest love!”—
just the refrain of a song, yet it pursued and bewildered him. For less, stronger men than Pepé the ranchero have committed unimaginable crimes.
The next morning when they met in the court, Captain Ruiz stopped Pepé. “Tell her her wishes are law to me!” he said. “If she but love me, I—”
“_Caramba!_” cried Pepé, savagely. “Am I an old woman or a priest that I should carry your messages? She love you! she would needs have been born to lead apes, to love you.” And Pepé flung himself off in a rage, while the astounded Ruiz gazed after him in open-mouthed amazement.
“By my life, he loves her himself!” he muttered vacantly. “Señor Don ’Guardo, heard you ever such presumption? The bare-skin beggar loves the favorite—what shall we say?—niece of Doña Isabel!”
“Let us say you are both fools!” said Don ’Guardo in good round English and with a sudden rage, the motive of which was to himself inexplicable; and the discomfited captain bowed, not doubting that his own expression of disgust had been echoed.
“_Caramba!_ a woman so beautiful gazed at by every beggar, like an image of the Virgin of Remedios carried in procession! I swear I will not forget thee, Pepito, and will keep a close eye on thee, now I know thou hast been tampered with!” continued Ruiz, hotly. “A word to the General Gonzales will be enough if he is of my mind!”
That day, in spite of Doña Isabel’s diligence, a pink note found its way to Chinita. “Good!” she said after reading it, “My General Ramirez will have the men; the Señor Gonzales will be helped, and Doña Isabel will do a double good. This is not so bad a subject,—this Ruiz; and his eyes are as black and large as those of Ramirez himself. All is well. All things will come right at last. Ah, if only what Don Rafael told Feliz one night should come true, and the convents are opened, then—”
She paused. It seemed too utterly impossible even to dream of. She looked again at her first love-letter; a twinge of remorse seized her as she thought of Rosario. She laughed, but she tore the paper into infinitesimal shreds.
What was the writer thinking? “Onward! I have gone too far to turn back even at the word of Chinita. A promise will gain her love, but the essential thing is the good-will of Doña Isabel. ‘A pearl is all the better for a golden setting!’ No treaties then with Ramirez. Though he is my godfather, I need not his patronage. Doña Isabel, a straight path, and Juarez! Forward! Ruiz, fortune favors you!”
XXX.
A few days later the troops had left Tres Hermanos, and Ashley Ward stood in the silent graveyard on the mountain side, pushing back with his foot the loose sand his tread had disturbed, as it threatened again and again to cover the rude wooden cross upon which his eyes were fixed. It bore the name of his murdered cousin, faint yet distinct, preserved by the sand, for the wind had soon prostrated it after Chinita’s shallow replanting. The words seemed to Ashley to call to him aloud from the dust of his kinsman; in the hot sunshine their spell was as potent as though a ghostly voice had spoken at midnight. For the first time, something more intense than the desire to satisfy conscience by proving that he wronged no rightful heir in entering upon property which would have been John Ashley’s had he lived, arose in his mind. The absolute reality of his cousin’s death for the first time seemed to become an overwhelming conviction; and with it came memories of the young and daring man whom he had in childhood held in wondering admiration. And as he stood within sight of the spot where the brilliant young life had ended in a bloody tragedy, a deep wave of sorrow surged over his soul, and from its depths, as from the loose sands of the wind-levelled grave, appeared to rise a cry for vengeance.
Though not till now had Chinita’s charge that he be taken to the American’s grave been carried out, the message from Doña Isabel, which Pepé had not failed to deliver, had reached him some days before, and had been supplemented by a visit from Don Rafael. Although a certain fascination had inclined Ashley to linger still at Tres Hermanos, he had so little hope of adding to the information he had already gained of his cousin’s life,—there seemed so little possibility that the marriage which John Ashley had intimated had taken place, could ever have been more than a mere sentimental dedication of the lovers one to the other, in which they deemed themselves man and wife in the sight of God, but which in the sight of man was a mere illicit connection, to be condemned or ignored,—that he had not dared to present himself before the haughty mother of the one Herlinda whom he suspected to have been the object of his cousin’s passion, and to insult her with questions or insinuations that would cast a doubt upon her daughter’s purity and a stain upon the fame of the house of Garcia, which even the blood of John Ashley and his own added thereto would be insufficient to wash away.
The young man had decided then to accept the order of dismissal, so delicately conveyed in the intimation that by accepting the escort of the troops as far as they might proceed toward Guanapila, he would not only reach a point whence in all probability he might in safety proceed to that city, but that he would thus render a favor to Doña Isabel, who was minded by the same opportunity to withdraw from the hacienda,—her presence there being liable to act as a lure to either party, who might after seizing her person levy a ransom upon the family which even their large resources would be severely strained to meet.
Although the fiction was maintained that her assistance of the Liberal cause was involuntary, it was readily surmised that Doña Isabel Garcia was in reality seeking to avoid the vengeance of the Conservatives, while their forces were so demoralized and scattered that she might hope to reach Guanapila, which was then occupied by a patriot guard, before the tide of the war should turn and bring the army of the Church again to the fore en masse,—collected by the clarion cry of fanaticism, and lavishly rewarded from the hoards of silver and gold drawn from the vaults into which for generations had been drained the prosperity and the very life-blood of the peasantry.
Ashley Ward had been struck with admiration of the woman who thus dared the dangers of the road,—to which she had been no stranger. He had felt something of the chivalrous enthusiasm of a knight of old, as he joined the irregular band which by daylight had gathered upon the sandy plain before the straggling village. The soldiers had fallen into march with something like order, with Ruiz at their head,—for once with an anxious face, for he felt that the die was cast, and that he had raised up for himself an enemy whom it would be mad temerity to face, and hopeless to attempt to conciliate. The baggage-mules were driven by the leathern-clad muleteers, who even thus early had begun their profane adjurations to the nimble-footed beasts, that listened with quivering ears thrown back in obstinate surprise at every unwonted silence. The women who had come from other villages had laughed and chided their unruly infants, as they arranged and rearranged their baskets of maize and vegetables upon the panniers of their donkeys, if they were fortunate enough to possess any, or upon their own shoulders if they were to walk; and those who were for the first time leaving their birthplace to follow the fortunes of husband or sweetheart, had burst into loud lamentations. Ashley had been glad to find these changed to laughter, however, before they were well past the broken wall of the reduction-works; which they skirted, entering upon the bridle-path which led across the hill, where the rough heaps of sand showed through the scattered cacti, and where, by the rude wooden crosses, he now for the first time learned lay the village graveyard.
Pepé had ridden sullenly by his side. He had been sent back with a sharp reprimand from the station he had taken among the mounted servants who surrounded the carriage of Doña Isabel, Ruiz in petty tyranny refusing him so honorable a place. A glance from Chinita had been the deepest reproof of all; and as he pondered upon it, certain words which she had uttered, and which he had hitherto forgotten, had come into his mind. As they neared the graveyard his eye caught Ward’s, and suddenly laying his hand upon the bridle of the American’s horse, he had muttered,—
“Señor, she thinks I have forgotten all her wishes; but there is not even one so foolish that I scorn it. Turn aside but for a moment, Señor,—here where the adobe has fallen, your horse can scramble through the wall. Follow me, they will not miss us before we can reach our places again. _Caramba!_ Don Fernando watches me as a cat watches a mouse. Here, Señor,—never mind the women. Stupids! how they herd their donkeys together, when they might have the whole hillside to pick their own paths on! Patience! Let us wait a little, Señor! Ah,” he reflected, as they remained silent and motionless, “there is the spot. I have never forgotten it since I followed her through the rushes down there by the stream, and scratched my face in the tuñas, darting behind them that she should not see me. I was not half so tired as Chinita was though, when she sat down to rub sand upon her smarting hands, and fell asleep with the sun beating upon her head. I wonder if she ever thought it was I who covered her face with her ragged reboso,—she wears one of silk now, as clean and soft as a dove’s breast,—or that I lay behind the big pipes of the flowering organ-plant as she turned over the fallen cross which her hand struck against, and read the name and age of the American who had been murdered years before? Who ever would have thought—for I hated her then if I did follow her, as she maddens me now with her soft eyes and her mocking smile—that I should be bringing here the man who perhaps is just the handsome, woman-maddening demon they say that other was, and at her will too? _Ave Maria Purissima!_ what God wills the very saints themselves may not say No to,—much less a poor peasant like Pepé Ortiz.”
These thoughts, perhaps scarcely in the order in which they are set down, passed through the mind of Pepé, as lingering until the straggling procession had passed, he emerged from the shade of such an organ-plant as had once sheltered him years ago, and taking his bearings with unerring eyes, beckoned to Ashley,—who had waited within touch of his hand, and whose heart had begun to beat suffocatingly, though he knew that it was utterly improbable that anything more important than the mound that covered the body of his cousin would meet his eye,—and led the way to the most wind-swept and desolate portion of that paupers’ acre, and presently stooping where the ground was sunken rather than heaped, turned with some effort the half-buried cross, and exposed to Ashley’s view the name from which his own had been derived.
The young man gazed at it in a sort of fascination, actually spelling the letters over and over. He felt as if a part of himself must be buried there. His eyes burned; the glaring sunshine leaped and quivered above the ill-carved letters, distorting and confounding them. His heart beat violently; every sense but that of hearing seemed to fail him, and every sound upon the air became a weird, mysterious voice,—blood crying unto its kindred blood.
This deep emotion fixed the indifferent and wandering eye of Pepé, who, holding the bridles of the horses, stood near, impatient to be gone, yet intending to watch out of sight the last stragglers; for it was with a double purpose he had turned aside to point out the grave of the American,—first, perhaps, to gratify the seemingly jesting wish of Chinita; and then to seize the opportunity to turn his fleet steed into the narrow bridle-path which led to mountain villages, where he shrewdly suspected Pedro might be found, or at least be heard of. He had promised to carry the message of Chinita to Pedro, and would have set forth upon the very night she had charged him with it, but until mounted by Ruiz’s command had found it impossible to provide himself with a horse, without which it was hopeless for him to attempt his quest. To escape the discipline of the ranks, he had induced Ashley to retain him as his servant, feeling no scruple at his intended abandonment. As his eye rested upon the pale and excited countenance of Ashley, Chinita’s words, with which she had bade him taunt him, flashed into his mind; yet he forbore to utter them, saying presently in a tone of concern,—
“Let us go now, Señor, it is growing hot. It is almost noon, and you are faint. Let us ride on, and I will point out the way that you must take when we have crossed the face of the hill. Then comes a slight descent, Señor, and upon the little plain that lies between that and the cañon of the Water-pots will the troop stop for the nooning. This has been a rapid march. Doña Isabel will feel all the safer when she is once on the highway. But as for us, Señor, we must part company. You will find a better servant; I should but ill serve your grace. You know yourself I am but a stupid fellow, and it is only the patience of your grace that has been equal to my ignorance.”
Ashley heard neither the excuses of Pepé nor his own praises, but with a gesture at once commanding and entreating the servant to leave him, said: “Pepé, I had forgotten. There is something which will keep me still at Tres Hermanos. The Señora Doña Isabel must pardon me. Go! go to your duty, as I must to mine. God! how could I have forgotten it? Oh John, John! does time and distance make men so unnatural? Is it possible I could leave the place where you were so foully murdered, without knowing why or by whom? Who killed him, and why was the deadly and secret blow struck? Ah, that involves the question of the very mystery I came here to fathom, and which I was turning my back upon; for I am convinced that it is here, and not by following Doña Isabel Garcia, that it may be solved. She is too resolute, too astute; nothing is to be forced or beguiled from her lips! But now that the spell of her presence is removed, I may learn everything from these people, who with all their cunning and clannish devotion can surely be influenced by reasons such as I can give.”
“Who would have guessed the sight of a grave would so stir the blood?” soliloquized Pepé. “Can it be that Chinita—But no, she was more in jest than earnest; she always laughed at the _niña_ Chata for her sorrow for the foreigner.—Well, all must die!” he said aloud. “Believe me, Señor, after all these years a knife-thrust is a little matter to inquire into. _Caramba!_ Chinita herself would tell you that to turn back on a journey because of the dead is an omen of evil; ’twas not for that she would have me show you the grave of your countryman,—God rest him!”
Ashley looked at him keenly. “Ah,” he said, “it is then no accident that you have brought me here? God! what a mystery! Pepé, tell Chinita I know her thoughts, and that I never will rest till I prove them right or wrong. She is a strange creature, and likely to prove an enigma to more men than myself. Poor lad, she is not for you to dream of.”
“I will not see her again till I can tell her that which shall please her,” said Pepé. “Look you, Señor, she is one who will have the world turn to suit her.”
“A wilful girl,” thought Ashley, with judicial disapproval. “She has all the craftiness and deceit of the Indian and the pride and passion of a Spaniard; yet what if I should follow her? No, no! mere circumstance and conjecture shall not turn me!—_Adios_, Pepé,” he said aloud, “and beware! It is Doña Isabel you serve, and not the young girl who has bewitched you.”
Pepé smiled vaguely; his glance roved over the landscape. “Her heart is virgin honey in a cup of alabaster!” he murmured. Ashley was becoming accustomed to the poetic expressions of these unlettered rancheros, and with some impatience took in his own hand the bridle-rein of his horse, and reminding Pepé that it was nearly noon, and that he would be missed should he longer delay, bade him mount and hasten with messages of excuse to Doña Isabel for his own sudden return to Tres Hermanos.
With the customary apparent submission of a peasant, Pepé prepared to obey. He was in fact anxious to set forth as soon as he could be certain that no straggler was near to mark his movements. The troops and their followers had disappeared. “The Señor Don ’Guardo should leave this solitary spot on the instant,” he said with genuine concern; “in these days of revolution, one can never say what dangerous people may be wandering abroad.”
“I have nothing to fear from them,” answered Ashley, “unless it should be that they might attempt to rob me of the horse Doña Isabel has lent me. Well, for its sake, I will be prudent; though in truth the sight of a ghost in this desolate spot of sunken graves would seem more probable than that any living being should pass here. Now, then, good-by, Pepé.”
“Until our next meeting, Señor!” replied Pepé, gravely lifting his hat. He had attached himself to Ashley, and it seemed to him an evil omen that they should part at a grave, and he thus attempted to console himself by the pretence that it was but for a little while. “For a short time Señor, and God keep you!”
Ashley shook his hand warmly. The ranchero drew his hat over his eyes, adjusted his serape so that his face was almost hidden, and dropping into that utterly ungraceful posture into which the skilled horseman of Mexico relapses when he suffers his steed to take his own way and pace across a wearisome stretch of country, he turned his horse’s head toward the bridle-path they had left, and slowly receded from Ashley’s gaze. Once however beyond the crest of the hill, the rider’s eye brightened, his figure straightened; a distant sound of voices reached his keen ear,—it was so remote that but for the rarity of the atmosphere it would have failed to reach him. Bending his head, he listened intently for a moment; then raising it he gazed searchingly on every hand, rode for a short distance to the right, guided his nimble-footed beast down the cleft sides of a deep ravine and along the dry bottom of a rock-strewn path, which rapid floods had in some past time cut in their fierce descent from the steep sides of the frowning mountains, and so gradually gained the dark and solitary defiles that led directly to those eyries of bandit mountaineers, who under the guise of shepherds, charcoal-burners, and goat-herds had been, as Pepé well knew, the chosen comrades of Pedro Gomez and his mates in the boyhood days of that Don Leon whose wild deeds were still the theme of many a tale, and like the story of his death became more mythical with every repetition.
Pepé rode steadily on for hours, picturing to himself his meeting with Pedro should he find him, or the quiet exultation of Chinita when she should hear that he had deserted the troops, or of the return of Don ’Guardo to the hacienda. In his heart he was not displeased that the American should be separated from Chinita, though it left her the more completely to the gallant care of Ruiz. He had comprehended instantly the emotion which had seized upon Ashley at his kinsman’s grave,—the instinct for revenge. He said to himself that those Americans, after all, were people of sensibility, and he felt a certain satisfaction that he had been the instrument of calling into action a sentiment that did the foreigner so much credit.
Meanwhile the heat of noon passed, and Ashley’s horse stood with patient dejection in the shadow of the huge cactus to which he had been tethered, not even taking advantage of the freedom allowed by the length of the rope, so little temptation to browse was offered by the sparse and coarse tufts of herbage which struggled into existence here and there. The time wore on, and an occasional stamp attested his disapprobation of a master who lay prone upon the ground under a mesquite tree when the sun shone hottest, and who when the cool breeze of afternoon swept over the silent spot, stood long and still beside the grave he had not sought, and yet felt infinite reluctance to leave.
It was a foolish thought, but as he gazed across the broad valley to the great square of buildings set among the fields, the youth imagined how indeed the dead man might at times steal forth to visit again those fertile scenes where he had lived and loved. As he stood there, Ashley could see the people like pigmies passing in and out the great gateway, or going from hut to hut in the village. There was one figure—it seemed that of a woman—which his eye sought from time to time, as it appeared and disappeared in the corn and bean fields, and at last came out on the open road that lay between them and the reduction-works. He was becoming quite fascinated by its hesitating yet persistent progress, when he was startled by a sound; and glancing up, he saw a man leaning upon the crumbling wall and regarding him with a gaze so bewildered, so fixed, that involuntarily he moved a step toward him.
The stranger started, as if some frightful spell had been broken. Ashley saw that he crossed himself, and muttered some invocation; yet that he had not the look of a nervous man or a coward, but rather of a somnambulist pacing the earth under the impulse of some horrible dream. The man was not ill-looking,—no, decidedly not; and though his skin was deeply browned as if from much exposure, and his cheek bones were prominent, giving his face a certain cast below the eyes that was plebeian or Indian in character, the eyes themselves were dilated and brilliant, and the straight nose and pointed beard gave him the air of a Spanish cavalier, though he wore the broad sombrero and serape of a common soldier of the rural order. Perhaps on ordinary occasions even a more practised eye than that of Ashley Ward would have accepted the stranger for what he purported to be; but the American with an extraordinary feeling of repulsion little accounted for by the mere sense of intrusion caused by the man’s unexpected appearance, at once leaped to the conclusion that his dress—though he had no appearance of strangeness in it—was virtually a disguise, and that instead of a soldier of the ranks, the man before him was of no ordinary position or character.