CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN.

On the morning after the _Junta_ Dionysio returned from the large ranch where he had been helping the harvesters. Or, rather, he returned on the evening of that day, but came down to the Pages' camp in the morning.

Margarita, in her pretty red dress and new shoes and stockings, came to meet him, with many childish expressions of joy. He took her in his arms, fondled her cheek against his, and said in Spanish:

"_Querida_, you love your brother?"

"_Si_," replied the child. "Dionysio knows it well."

"And you love also the white people who have been so kind to you?"

"_Si_, very much," was the reply.

"And would you be willing, _Querida_, to go far away with them to stay?"

"Will you come, too?" asked the child.

Dionysio shook his head and looked at her steadfastly.

"Not to see you any more?"

Again he shook his head.

"Then I shall not go. Where my Dionysio stays there will I stay. You will not send me away."

"No, my sweet one, I shall not send you away."

He put her down and sought Mr. Page, who was smoking back of the tent. After they had exchanged a few remarks he said:

"Last night I had a long talk with Cecilio. He thinks it is not well that I give my little sister to the white people. And Cecilio knows. Good and kind you will be to her, I am sure; but if you die, and your wife--then what? And even before that? If you keep her like one of yourselves, no other white people will do so--then where is she? Thrown on the world like so many have been--a stranger to her people, not wanted by the others--what is to become of her then? And even if I am living she will have forgotten me. Is it not right what I say?"

"Yes, in some respects it is," answered Mr. Page. "But we were speaking of the child last night, Dionysio--my wife and aunt and myself. My aunt has formed quite an affection for the little one, and proposed that she should take her back to the East, educate her, and have her for a companion."

"Your aunt is no longer young," replied Dionysio.

"No, she is not young."

"And when she dies, what then?"

"You may be sure the child would be well provided for."

"That may be true. But it is the same thing. She would still be alone."

"You have the right to decide, Dionysio," said Mr. Page. "She belongs to you. What would you do with her? Would you send her to the Mission until she is grown?"

"Then she would not care for me, maybe. No; I think not the Mission."

"But she would learn to read, then, and to sew, and to cook, and to be neat."

"I can teach her to read, and our women--some of them, can cook well and sew."

"But you do not mean that you and she will live alone together? You are away so often--how could you manage it?"

A smile appeared on the stolid face of the Indian, and a little shamefacedly he replied:

"You have been good to the child, Mr. Page, and to me. I will tell you: On the ranch where I have been working there is an Indian family in charge. The owners do not live there much. These Indians are good people, and know well how to keep house. The girl was for a time at the Mission. That is where I will take my little sister."

A light burst upon Mr. Page.

"Oh," he said laughingly. "You are going to be married, Dionysio?"

"Yes, sir," replied the Indian, also laughing. "I am going to marry Victoria. It is all settled. I can have work there as long as I wish."

"Then you do well to keep your sister," said Mr. Page. "And I congratulate you, Dionysio; you deserve a good wife."

And so it was that the little Indian girl who had so endeared herself to the family was left behind when they departed from the village. Aunt Mary was sorely disappointed. She had made many plans for the future of the child; but on reflection she, too, saw that Dionysio's plan was the most proper and natural. But never did a small daughter of Cupa have a neater or more attractive outfit than that which arrived from town as soon as possible after the Pages returned.

At last the morning came for their departure. It seemed as though all the women and children in the place had assembled to bid them good-by.

Alfonsa, almost hidden under pots, pans, kettles, blankets and clothing which they had given her, followed the wagon to the beginning of the diverging road. Mauricio was absent, but Francisco rode beside them as far as the top of the mesa land which looked down upon the village. There was regret in every heart as they made their adieux, but they hoped to see him again, for he had promised to bring them a load of wood for the winter.

They did not forget to look out for the bells of Santa Isabel. When near the end of the first stage of the homeward journey they saw them in the distance. The framework, gnarled and blackened by age, looked like a gibbet against the sky. When they came nearer Charlie asked Walter if he did not want to get down and ring the bells.

"What would the Indians think?" asked Walter. "Might they not imagine they were being called for something?"

"That's so," was the reply. "I did not mean to ring them, exactly, but to strike them. They have such a beautiful, clear tone. I have a fine hickory stick here; do you want it?"

"Yes," replied Walter; "give it to me."

He left the wagon and, going up to the bells, gave each a sharp, quick stroke on the side. The sound reverberated again and again, filling all the valley with its clear, musical tone.

"That is not how," said a voice beside him, and an Indian boy about his own age suddenly appeared as though from the earth. He had been sleeping, however, in the shadow of the bells, and the sound had awakened him.

Taking the stick from Walter's hand, he touched them one after another, but softly and slowly. How different were the echoing sounds from those which Walter had evoked!

"You know how to do it," said Mr. Page, handing him a quarter.

"It is in my family," said the boy gravely. "My grandfather, he ring them, and my father, and now I."

"Ah, I see," said Walter. "They are the finest bells I ever heard."

"I think they are the best in the world," said the boy, still with the hickory stick in his hand as they drove away. Charlie had forgotten to ask him for it, and probably he was not averse to keeping such a good defence against snakes and reptiles.

As they proceeded across the valley they could still hear at intervals the soft, delicious notes played upon the ancient bells of his people by him of the third generation of bell-ringers of the fast diminishing, poverty-stricken but still devout Santa Isabels.

They stopped at Ramona for the night, and noon next day found them nearing home. Charlie was about to turn into a delightful woodland copse for luncheon when two ladies on horseback were seen approaching. Mr. Page at once recognized the Almirantes. The recognition was mutual. The Señora and the granddaughter came to the wagon and shook hands cordially with the occupants.

"Now you are only a mile and a half from my home," she said. "I beg that you will come and take dinner and pass the night with us."

At first they demurred, the party was so large, but the Señora was insistent.

"Come and see an old Spanish ranch house," she said. "You will possibly never see another. Come, I beg of you; all that we have is yours."

Ramona, the granddaughter, joined her entreaties to those of the Señora, and the Pages at last consented. The ladies rode ahead to give notice of their coming, and when the party reached the ranch everything was found in readiness as though for long-expected guests. Two neatly furnished bedrooms, each large enough for a salon, were placed at their disposal, with plenty of water and fresh towels, very welcome after the long and dusty morning ride. Afterward, while waiting for dinner to be served, they sat in the long, covered porch, extending all around the large _patio_. There beautiful plants and flowers were growing, and several parrots hung in gilded cages.

When dinner was over the Señora took the elder ladies to show them her laces. Mr. Page rambled in the gardens and fields. The children, with Ramona and her brother, gathered at the edge of the ruined fountain, watching the toads that hopped over the rank moss.

"The Gordons are coming back soon," said Alejandro. "Then we shall have fine times again."

"But you will be at school," said his sister; "you will not be here."

"In vacation I will," he replied. "I wish I did not have to go back to school. I like it when I am there, but I would rather stay at home."

"What are you going to be when you are a man?" asked Walter. "A lawyer or a doctor?"

"Neither," said Alejandro. "I am going to stay here and be a rancher. I mean to plant the finest fruits, and put in nuts, and do everything in the best possible way."

"That is so," laughed Ramona. "He is like that. He will be a rancher, as he calls it. And my grandmother will be pleased."

"Say, Alejandro," said Walter, who had been attentively regarding the boy; "you won't be mad if I tell you something, will you?"

The brother and sister looked at each other and smiled.

"You are going to say I have very dark skin, or something like that," said Alejandro. "So many people do who do not know us."

"No, not that," replied Walter. "But it was this--you look so much like Francisco, an Indian boy we liked so much at the Hot Springs, only you are not so dark."

"Francisco Perez?" asked Alejandro. "So I ought--he is my cousin."

"Your _cousin_!" exclaimed Walter and Nellie.

"Yes, he is our cousin," repeated Alejandro, stoutly. "He and Mauricio--and Cecilio--and many others at Warner's. Our mother is an Indian."

"Oh, I am sorry," said Walter, fearing he had made a mistake. "I would not have said anything----"

"And why not?" interrupted the other boy. "We are not ashamed of it, Ramona nor I. Our mother is a good woman. Our father was the son of my grandmother."

"Naturally," said Ramona, and they all laughed, at the expense of Alejandro.

"I am not sure that I would have told you," said Alejandro, "only I knew that you did not despise the poor Indians as some do----"

"Despise them!" exclaimed Nellie. "We like them, and we love Francisco."

Ramona gave the child's hand an affectionate little squeeze. Nellie looked up at her and said:

"You are so sweet. I wish we had known you all summer. And your hair is so lovely." Ramona was wearing it in one long, heavy braid. Nothing could have been more simple or becoming.

"We will be friends, then," she rejoined, playfully. "We have so few. My grandmother does not know the Americans well, but the Gordons she likes a great deal. And now that they are coming home and are your friends, we shall be all friends together."

"That will be nice," said Nellie. "I hope mamma will let me come and stay with you sometimes----"

"I don't call that nice," remarked Walter, "inviting yourself to a visit when you are hardly acquainted."

"Don't tease her," said Ramona. "She means well, and she shall come and stay with me."

"You can't help asking her now," said Walter, looking very glum. "I never knew her to be so impolite and bold before."

"But Walter," said Nellie, "I meant for Ramona--may I call you Ramona?--to come and visit us, too. We are going to be great friends."

"Bold?" chuckled Alejandro, with a smile. "That makes me think of something. When I first went to Santa Clara I did not know English as well as I do now, although I had been at the Mission."

"With the Indians?" inquired Walter, thoughtlessly.

"With the Indians--yes," said Alejandro. "And why not? My mother put me there; it was a good place, and I liked the Sisters very much."

Walter looked mystified. Ramona hastened to explain. "When he was little," she said, "Alejandro did not live with us. I have been with my grandmother since my father died. Alejandro was a little baby then. Our mother sent him, when he was old enough, to the Mission."

"And then my sister found me," added the boy. "But for her I should never have come here or known my grandmother."

"Well, that is too long a story," said Ramona. "Maybe some other time you will hear it, but not now. What were you going to say before, 'Jandro?"

"About 'bold,'" replied her brother. "When I first went up there some English words were strange to me. Or, rather, I did not understand their different meanings. One day a big boy, a new one, too, said he did not like bold girls. 'I like every one to be bold,' I said. 'Girls are horrid when they are bold,' said he. 'Sometimes they have to be,' I said. 'Suppose a mountain lion should come, and a girl would have to save herself from him, and would shoot, though afraid--then she would be bold.' Oh, how he laughed; and he said, 'You mean brave, don't you?' And then he told me the difference."

"If you like Indians maybe you would be pleased to hear some Indian songs," said Ramona.

"We would," replied Nellie. "There was a little baby up at the Springs, and its father used to put it to sleep in the afternoons by swinging it in a hammock. He sang in the queerest way. His song was pretty, too; but whenever he saw that we were listening he would stop."

"Come, then, to Concelio in the kitchen--she will sing for you," said Alejandro.

They followed their young host, Nellie holding fast to Ramona's hand. Concelio was shelling peas.

"You must sing for these friends of ours, Concelio," said Alejandro. "Shall I get your guitar, Ramona? It sounds so much prettier with the guitar."

"Maybe they will not like," said the old woman, "my voice is so cracked."

"Oh, but we will," rejoined Walter. "We love the Indians, and we like their songs." The old woman murmured something in Spanish, still smiling, however.

"What did she say?" whispered Nellie to Ramona.

"She said you were strange white people if you loved the Indians, but that she believed you were speaking the truth and would sing for you."

Alejandro returned with the guitar. Concelio seated herself on the doorstep with the group around her.

"This is putting the baby to sleep," said Concelio, beginning to sing in her own tongue, the while she touched a few minor chords of the guitar:

[H]Alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-a! Swinging in the trees, Swinging with the breeze, Baby, go to sleep. Away, you naughty flies, Don't sting my baby's eyes. She must sleep--sleep. Alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-a!

"That tune would put anybody to sleep," said Nellie; "but it is pretty."

"Here is another," said the old woman. "It goes much quicker."

Amonda was a thief, And she stole a piece of beef.

But the beef was very tough-- Soon old woman had enough.

Butcher Amonda sees, Laughs at her behind the trees.

Laughs because the stolen beef Was too tough for wicked thief.

"Now one more, Concelio," said Ramona; "that little hymn."

Changing the expression of her face at once to one of the deepest devotion, the Indian woman sang:

O Maria, O Maria, Save us from our foes, From the heat and snows; Save us while we sing From every evil thing, O Maria!

When at morn we rise, Watch us from the skies; When at night we rest, Fold us to thy breast, O Maria!

Keep us in thy care, Always, everywhere; Lead us to thy Son When our days are done, O Maria!

There was something very pathetic and beautiful in the refrain of this song. While Concelio was singing the elders came to listen. They would fain have heard more but, laughingly shaking her head, Concelio ran away and hid in her own room until they were gone.

The Señora would not permit her visitors to leave till next morning. When at last they tore themselves away it was with the understanding that Ramona and her brother should visit the Pages for a couple of days before school began.

The friendship thus formed still continues, and is shared with that of the Gordons, who have returned to California.

Francisco, true to his promise, came in October with a large load of wood, and several sacks of walnuts which he had gathered for the children.

He told them there had been another _Junta_, the people still persisting that they did not wish to leave their homes. "At last," he said, "the white men grew angry, and said some Indians must come with them and help choose, since they knew best what they would like. 'Will you come Captain Cecilio?' said one.

"'No, I will not,' said Cecilio. 'First I will die.'

"'That is wrong,' said the man. 'You will be sorry in the end, for you will have to go, and you will give a bad example to your people.'

"'My people may do as they please,' said Cecilio. 'I give them no counsel. I tell them nothing. Whosoever wishes to go along with you, he may; but not I.' And Captain Cecilio walked away, oh, very, very sorrowful."

"And who went?" asked Mr. Page.

"My uncle, Mauricio, Ambrosio and Velasquez. They did not want to go; but someone must go. Soon they will choose, and it may be that once more we shall be permitted to harvest our crops at Cupa--but for the last time, Señor, for the last time."

* * * * *

And so it came to pass. Once again, and only once, were the harvests gathered; once more was heard the sound of the primitive flail in the granaries of Cupa. Then its children were bidden to make ready their goods and chattels, their horses and cattle, their women folk, their little ones and their dogs, weeping and wailing as they went reluctantly forth from their dismantled homes. Some among them there were--these the very old--who escaped to the mountains, and who were never heard of again.

In the end no resistance was made. The Indians obeyed the mandates of the stronger race like the sullen but not insubordinate children they are. And as wagon after wagon from the deserted village reached the summit of the hill, giving the last view of the vapory cloud rising from the _Agua Caliente_ of their fathers and their fathers' fathers, each paused upon its onward course, and the occupants looked back upon the home they were leaving forever. Then, folding their garments about them and bowing their heads in voiceless sorrow, the children of Cupa, lonely and broken-hearted, passed into exile.

[Footnote H: A free translation.]

PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

Transcriber's Note

Footnotes have been placed at end of their respective chapter.

Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been repaired.