Part 14

Life in the foothills of the Sierras may be monotonous, but it has its pleasant features, not the least of which was the fare of the humble Miner’s Rest. I found that Mr. Jim Truesdell, the landlord, had not boasted when he said genially, “We ain’t much on style hereabouts, Mister, but you kin bet your bottom dollar our feed is just as good, an’ just as plenty as it is at the Frisco Palace; tho’ we ain’t braggin’ none about variety on our meenu kyards.”

Having finished my supper, I lighted a cigar and strolled out upon the rude, tumble-down veranda of the little inn. Seating myself with my feet planted upon the railing and a book upon my lap, I proceeded to enjoy my smoke. Then--my book forgotten--I fell into the revery which the fragrant smoke wreaths of a good cigar and the glorious flame of a dying sun bring to him who is at peace with himself and his surroundings.

More beautiful sunsets there may be than those of my native heath, but I have never seen but one that could in any way compare with them, and even there, in a harbor of far-off Guatemala, the conditions, save for the brilliant ocean rim below which the sun sank to sleep, were much the same. The mountains to the eastward of Vallecito recalled the Sierra Madre, of that distant alien land. There were the same fleecy clouds, illumined by the waning fire of the God of Day, reflecting colors that surely would have been the despair of the most ambitious brush, and floating with soft caress over the snow-capped peaks which, like grim and watchful sentinels, walled in the valley where nestled the little town. There was just breeze enough blowing to give a keen zest to the balm-laden air of the mountains--a feature which that ever to be remembered scene in the Bay of Ocos distinctly lacked, for ’twas a miniature hell down there, night or day.

Save for the weird cry of some mysterious night bird, who ever and anon called his mate, and the infrequent whir of a diminutive species of bat, everything was as quiet as a blue Sunday in staid old New England. The “chug” of the pick, the clamorous ring of the shovel and the rattling of the miner’s cradle were conspicuously absent in the valley and the hills and ravines round about. So still was the little mining town, that a giant elk who was sniffing the air in a spirit of curious and careful investigation far up the mountain side, came nearer and yet nearer, tossing his head with its burden of enormous horns in defiance at first, and then standing stock-still as if amazed. When he had finished his tour of investigation, he turned and stalked majestically away down the side of a rocky gorge that would scarcely have afforded safe footing for a cat. He glanced back several times as though he did not quite understand his undisputed kingship, and then, with a farewell belligerent toss of his mighty antlers, plunged into the obscurity of the beautiful manzanita, and scraggly _mésquite_ and chapparal that fringed the steep canyon sides of the awesome Sierras.

As the elk disappeared, a long, sobbing, terrifying wail was wafted from amid the scrub firs and tall bread pines still higher up on a distant mountain side. It was the cougar’s warning to his tawny mate. The elk was not king, nor yet was the hungry panther, for somewhere amid those far-off mountain ravines was the lair of the grizzly, fiercest of his kind.

The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the western sky and the chill of night was fast gathering, yet I still sat there upon the veranda, half asleep, but breathing in deeply the invigorating fragrant balm that was borne to me by the cool evening breeze from the spicy mountain firs and pines and giant redwoods. As I dozed my cigar fell from my lips and bounded off the veranda to the ground, where it lay glowering reproachfully at me for a few moments before it finally went out altogether, smothering in its own ashes and spitefully emitting, as a farewell indignant protest, the acrid odor of dead tobacco.

“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero._”

I came to myself with a start, and turned in the direction of the voice.

At the foot of the two or three steps that led to the veranda where I was sitting, stood a man and a woman--evidently Mexicans--as queer a couple as it had ever been my fortune to meet. The man was apparently about sixty years of age, taller than most of his race, still stalwart and erect and, despite his years, a handsome fellow of his type. He carried his head as haughtily as might an hidalgo of Old Spain. His picturesque costume was bedecked with finery which, faded though it was, indicated the garb of a Mexican of the higher caste. His swarthy face was shaded by an ornate sombrero, from beneath which flashed piercing, fiery eyes that would have compelled attention anywhere. A broad silk sash encircled his waist, and artistically draped over his shoulder were the graceful folds of a bright, many-colored _serape_. Through the sash was thrust the inevitable murderous-looking _cuchillo_--the symbol of his individuality and a declaration of that belief in personal responsibility which is as inseparable from the hot Latin blood as though it were dependent upon a special corpuscle.

Unlike her companion, the woman presented a figure that was pathetic, rather than picturesque, although she too showed in her apparel something of the fondness for color and tinsel that characterizes her race. She appeared to be old--much older than her companion, although appearances are very deceptive in judging the age of women of the Latin races. They mature young, and their youth and beauty begin to fade very early, so early that at a period when the woman of fair Anglo-Saxon blood is yet in her prime, her darker-skinned sister is already old and wrinkled.

The old crone--for so she appeared--was bent and withered, with hair as white as human hair ever becomes. Her face was fearfully disfigured by smallpox, that loathsome disease which had become a curse to her people. As she raised her eyes towards me, I noted with something of a shock that she was totally blind--the dull and expressionless eyes showed that only too plainly. Used as I was to the sight of human misery and helplessness, there was something in the poor old woman’s face that impressed me.

“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero_,” again said the man, with a polite bow. “_Comprende V. Espanol?_”

“_Muy poco_--very little--_Señor_,” I replied.

“Then will I speak the tongue of the _Americanos_, though I speak it not well,” he continued. “I hope _el Señor_ he is not disturb in his smoke of the evening by the speaking to him.”

“Not at all, Sir,” I answered politely.

“Then, maybe, it is not too free to ask _el Señor_ if he will have the fortune told.”

“Oh, you are a fortune teller, eh?”

The Mexican raised his head proudly.

“_Non, Señor_, it is not I that have fortunes to tell. Ramon Pasquale never has told yet the fortune. He does not know. It is my Chiquita here, she the great fortunes can tell. She can see, oh, so far! She sees not as _el Señor_ sees, with the eyes of the head;--it is with the eyes of the mind, with the eyes of the soul that Chiquita sees. She knows how the past to tell. Aye, and the future too, she knows. She the stars can read--she reads them true. The grave to her is not closed. Fate is to the eyes of her mind as is to _el Señor’s_ eyes the open book upon his knee. She is wonderful, my Chiquita! Is it not so, _cara mia_?” There was a tender note in his voice as he addressed his aged companion.

“It is so, my Ramon,” replied the woman, in a voice that fairly startled me, so clear and youthful did it seem. “It is so, and if the great _Señor_ will allow me it to tell, I will to him read the story of the past of his life, and for him open the book of the future, that he may know what shall come to him.”

My expression must have betrayed the interest I felt, for the Mexican said eagerly: “To-night must _el Señor_ listen to Chiquita. To-morrow she will be gone, and it too late will be. It is not dear, _Señor_, it is _muy barato_--very cheap; only one _peso_; that is all. And so wonderful, so wonderful, _Señor_! There is none so wonderful as Chiquita. _El Señor_ he will never forget the fortune she for him will tell--and only one _peso_.”

And Chiquita told my fortune, and evidently tried to give me good measure, for the stars were out and the moon was silvering the eastern sky ere she had finished.

Granting that Ramon was sincere, and not merely attending to business in his enthusiastic praises of Chiquita’s professional skill, he and I differed somewhat in our estimate of it. There was nothing very new about the fortune the old woman mapped out for me. It had the same rose color as many others I had heard. There were the usual platitudes about the honors I was to win, and the riches I was to gain. I would become famous, also, and was destined to marry a woman for whom my own country surely could hold no place, for, according to the fortune teller’s description, she was to be a duchess, no less. Of course, as I did not tell Chiquita that I was already married, I could find no fault with the bride to be, especially as she was of the blood royal.

But Chiquita was eloquent, in her broken way, and both she and her picturesque companion were so interesting that I did not begrudge the dollar which, after all, she had fairly earned. To hear pleasant things about one’s self is always worth the price--and there always is a price, although we are not often wise enough to know it.

There was that in the poise of Chiquita’s white head and the sweetly modulated tones of her voice which, with her small, slender, beautifully formed brown hands suggested that her birth and breeding were more aristocratic than is usual with itinerant vendors of fortunes.

I was curious to know more of the interesting couple, but had been riding hard that day, and the prospect of a good bed was just then more attractive than character study with a pair of strolling Mexicans for subjects. The séance of fortune telling ended, I was glad to pay for my entertainment and say good-night to them.

“_Gracias, Señor--buenos noches._ We are much thankful, my Chiquita and I. Is it not so, my Chiquita?”

The old woman bowed gracefully, and echoed her companion’s expression of appreciation and farewell greeting. As I turned to enter the inn the landlord met me at the door, saying:

“Your room’s all ready, Mister. It’s been ready for more’n an hour. I seen you was havin’ your fortune told, an’ as the old gal allus dishes up as good ones for the money as can be had in these diggin’s, I thought I wouldn’t disturb ye. I hope ye got all the trimmin’s that was comin’ to ye,” and he grinned expansively.

“I have no fault to find with the fortune the old woman told me,” I replied smilingly; “it was doubtless better than I deserve, and I suspect much better than I will ever experience. I was far more interested in Chiquita and Ramon, her companion, than in her skill as a fortune teller. I am curious to learn something of them. Do you know anything about them?”

“Why, no, leastwise not enough to hurt. The old gal is some sort of a gypsy, I reckon. She sure is, if there’s any Mexican gypsies. The feller with her is a Greaser all right, though I’ll allow I don’t know nothin’ else agin him. They blew in on this town about ten years ago, an’ have been comin’ here off an’ on, workin’ the fortune tellin’ racket ever since.”

“Well, they are not likely to get rich at it,” I said. “Vallecito does not seem to be a very profitable field for their particular specialty.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied the genial Jim. “Of course, this town ain’t what she was in the early days,” and the old “forty-niner” sighed retrospectively. “But it ain’t so bad, after all. It’s a little out o’ season now, but when strangers come through here on the way to Mariposa and Calaveras, I reckon it’s pretty good pickin’ for the old woman and her pal. The Big Trees and the Calaveras caves draw pretty good crowds, and they’re the kind of people that’s got mighty tender feet, too--an’ some money. I sort o’ like them kind, myself.”

“Is anything known of the history of those Mexicans before they came to this part of the country?” I asked.

“No; we folks don’t ask questions much, an’ Ramon, the Greaser, aint one of the talkative kind. Anyhow, he don’t talk much to us. I reckon though, that some o’ them tourists knows how to make him loosen up. There was a feller here once that writ stories for magazines an’ such, who told me that Ramon had spun him some pretty wild yarns, an’ I believe he writ some of ’em down in a book.”

“Ah, then a story has been published about them.”

“Well, I don’t reckon it was published none,” replied mine host, facetiously. “That writer feller tumbled off the foot-bridge into the Tuolumne Canyon about a week after that, an’ I’m afraid he didn’t go to press.

“But I’m runnin’ a hotel, such as it is, an’ hain’t got much time for fairy tales, an’ still less time for Greasers, which the same I don’t like nohow.”

Needless to say, my conversation with the landlord had only served to increase my curiosity. As I bade him good-night I resolved to seek for Chiquita and Ramon in the morning. I had scented a romance; which meant with me that I must take the trail and run the story to earth.

* * * * *

I found the fortune teller and her companion in the cabin of a Mexican sheep herder, among the hills a little way out of town. This is the story that Ramon told me:

“Our story, _Señor_? It is not much, our story. What you have seen, that is all it is to tell. It is the story of Chiquita, my Chiquita, there, that you should hear. I, Ramon, know the story. Alas! too well do I know it. Listen, _Señor_:

“Many, many years ago, in the days when _los Americanos_--the _mineros_--were by hundreds here in Calaveras and in the valley of Tuolumne, a great _hacienda_ there was, and a great mansion, near Sonora, just by the road that now runs to Vallecito. When the _Señor_ rides to Sonora, at the right hand of the road will he yet see the stones of the crumbling walls of the house. He cannot mistake, for all along the road is there none other like it.

“Don Pedro Salvia, the name was, of the owner of the _hacienda_. Many broad acres of the hills and valleys were his, and over those acres by the thousands grazed his cattle. All the land it was black with his droves of the long-horned breed of _la España_. Horses too, there were in vast herds. Never were seen mustangs so many and so fine and swift as those of Don Pedro. Many cattle and many mustangs mean always much money, and Don Pedro was _muy rico_--of great riches.

“The old Don was proud, oh, so proud, but not his great wealth was it that made him so. Of a famous and haughty race he was. None older was there in all Castile. His blood was what the _Americano_ would call--what is it that they call the blood of the grandee? Ah, I remember--he was of the blue blood. None was there in all Spain so blue.

“In Sonora for many years had the Salvias been--so long that no _Americano_ could remember when the family was not there. Before Don Pedro came, many, many generations of the Salvias had lived and died on the _rancheria_.

“Fate had laid its hand heavy on the blood of the Salvias, for the Don was of his race the last man. He had one child only--a daughter. La Doña Teresa, her poor mother, had died when she came--the little one.

“Chiquita was of Don Pedro’s life the sun. He worshipped her even as worships the good Catholic the Madonna. Never was maiden so beautiful or so graceful. Ah! like the deer was she graceful. And she was no plant of the hot house. There was none among all the herders who could throw the _riata_ as could Chiquita. Of all the _caballeros_ of Sonora there was not one who in riding could match her. There was no mustang so wild that she could not tame him. And shoot! Not in all California was there a better shot with rifle or pistol than Chiquita.

“And, _Señor_, she was not afraid--as any _caballero_ she was brave. As free and fearless as the young eagle she came and went among the rough hill people. Once only, was any man so bold as to give to Chiquita the insult. Ah! _Señor_, beautiful to see it must have been! Almost dead they found Léon Bodigo, the half breed. All of his blood it had run out. The maiden’s little _cuchillo_, it was sharp, _Señor_.

“No companions had Chiquita, save the birds and flowers, and the trees and brooks of the mountains,--and Juan, her cousin. But she was happy and had never the--what you call it, eh? Ah, I have it, care. She had not the care. She had never sorrow, and never had tears wet her beautiful eyes since she was small--so very small.

“Juan it was, who was of Chiquita the slave. He was not so old as Chiquita. He was a lad only--fourteen years of the age he was--but there was no _caballero_ more strong of heart than he. Happy also, was Juan, for loved he not Chiquita? Yes, with all his soul he loved her. A thing wonderful to see was the love of Juan for the beautiful Chiquita!

“When the _vaqueros_ made of the cattle the round up, with them rode Chiquita, and beside her was Juan--always Juan. You should have seen the riding, and of the herds the gathering, _Señor_. Nothing so grand is there now anywhere to see.

“Many times when the throw was made for the branding, and the fierce long-horn to the ground was brought, it was with the _riata_ of Chiquita. And, Juan, too, made his throw for the iron. The count of Chiquita and Juan in the throwing of the cattle the best _vaquero_ could not beat.

“But Paradise it is never to last. Dark days there came to the _rancheria_ of the Salvias. It was over again the story of--Eden, yes? In the beautiful garden the serpent?

“One day to the _rancheria_ came _un Inglés_, an English Milord. A letter he bring from a friend of Don Pedro’s, asking that he be made welcome. That Englishman he was sick, very sick, _Señor_. Like a man who is starved he looked. _Dios!_ he was white. He was so thin that when the wind blew he trembled like a leaf that on the tree is dead, and poof! poof!--how he had the cough! He could not sit the mustang, and the _vaqueros_ they smile at him when he ride. So weak he was that on the ground he fall off--bang!

“But _el Medico_ he have said that the Englishman he must ride, ride, ride--or with the lungs he will surely die. And so he try and try, for he had the pluck, that Englishman. By and by, he grow strong--strong like the bull. The air of the hills is like the old wine of Oporto and makes the great miracles. _Carramba!_--the air it did not know.

“When that Englishman he was strong to ride steady, Juan was happy no more. Wherever Chiquita was, there was Milord. He learned to throw the _riata_ and with the _vaqueros_ to ride the herd. They ride not badly, these cursed _Inglés_. This fellow he ride bob! bob! bob! up and down, always up and down--but he ride straight like the soldier.

“How Juan hated that English Milord! Little fool, that Juan! He did not know that it was Juan that was too many in the riding of pleasure. Ah! he was the great fool--he thought it was the Englishman! For many days he thought this foolish thought. So it was, until one day Chiquita sent him away on a mission that was useless. When he came back, he saw her riding far away from the _hacienda_, far away in the hills. The Englishman he was beside her; so close to her he was that together their knees were touching. And then Juan knew! And then, so quick, like the lightning, grew he from boy to man--and such a man!

“It runs hot, the blood of my people, _Señor_, and in the veins of none of his race had it ever run hotter than it ran that day in the veins of Juan. And bitter it ran, and everything it was red to the eyes of Juan. One thing only was there to do; the Englishman must die, and Juan he must kill him!

“The next day again into the hills rode Chiquita. Milord, the cursed Milord, was as always beside her. Juan saw them at the corral in the starting, and taking his rifle he crawl, like _una serpiente_, on the belly through a gulch between the hills that open on the road at the turning. In the chapparal he crouched and waited, like the panther that is hungry. Nothing could save Milord, for when did Juan ever miss the mark?

“But Chiquita made with the Englishman a race, and so swift was her mustang that far behind she left him. To the turn of the road she came alone. Juan heard the beating of the hoofs and thought it was time. He stood straight up behind the brush of the greasewood and manzanita, with his rifle at his shoulder--so! Chiquita saw, and all at once she knew.

“So sudden it all was, and she ride so quick, that Juan was close--oh, so close--to killing Chiquita before he saw who was the rider.

“Straight at him the mustang she rode, and then she stopped and looked into his eyes; oh, so sad she looked. For a long time she looked at him. He saw that she knew, and it was not the eyes of Chiquita that fell--it was Juan’s. And then she spoke:

“‘It is not for me, that my cousin he waits. In his eyes is there murder, but it is not for his Chiquita that he sees red. Is my cousin Juan a coward, that he lies in ambush? Does he love me no longer? Is it that he would kill one whom I love? Go, and go quickly, that he may not see you--that he may not know that my little Juan has put upon Chiquita and the house of Salvia the great shame.’

“The Englishman he was not come to the bend of the road before Juan was gone. And Juan came not back to the _hacienda_ for the many, many days. No one knew where he had gone, but he was not far. He was near in the mountains; like the cougar and the grizzly he was hiding. Far from Chiquita he could not go. Many the times she have passed him as he crouched in the _mésquite_, but she did not know. Always was her Englishman to ride beside her. Three, four, ten times could Juan have killed him, but would not! Was it not that Chiquita had said she have come to love the Milord? And she have said, too, that it is coward to shoot from the ambush. Juan loved Chiquita; her heart he would not make to ache, and, _Señor_, he was not coward, that little Juan!

“Every day, for many, many days, Juan, from his hiding could see of the rides, the starting--Chiquita and the Englishman--always the cursed _Inglés_! Not always would they ride near Juan. One way sometimes, then next day another way, but every day some way they ride--Chiquita and her Englishman. And they ride so close, so very close--so close together they ride that Juan sometimes forgets almost, and then he looks at the rifle. So hungry he looks at it, and how the itching it is in the fingers! Always is it loaded, the rifle, and it carries far and true the bullet when Juan fires it. He is fine shot, that little Juan.

“One day Chiquita and the Englishman they not ride together. The Milord is alone. Next day is he alone once more. He does not ride the way of Juan. That is good, for Chiquita is not there, and to remember is hard when she is not there, and the gun it is loaded.

“Two days, then, the Englishman he ride alone. The second day, in the evening, Juan sees the _vaqueros_ and the women run, and run--they run about like jack-rabbits. And then they gather together and talk, talk, always they talk; like _el loro_, the parrot, they talk. There is no work. For two days, Juan has not seen Don Pedro.