Days of '49/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
1
Hales, Mateo, and young John Taylor rode hard. Mateo, like all native Californians, men or women, sat a horse as if he had grown to the saddle. Most Californians did get a large part of their growth out of the saddle, which they used nearly as much as they used a bed.
As Mateo rode he chattered with a kind of gossipy merriment to Hales, for Mateo knew all about all the old Spanish families in that part of the country. El Crucifijo, he said, did not belong to the man Cowden; it belonged to Gaspar de Coronal, whose daughter Señor Cowden had married. Señor Cowden had bought some land near the rancho which he used as his own because of the marriage; but El Crucifijo belonged to—and so, on and on, with the rattling repetition of a woman. Mateo thought it a thing to be laughed at merrily if this colonel had bought Señor Cowden's few acres in the belief that he was getting historic El Crucifijo.
The night was overhung with half a moon, dotted with all the stars, the landscape covered with soft light and heavy shadows.
As they pounded into the curve of road that circled embracingly before the ranch house of El Crucifijo, a broad-chested figure emerged into the moonlight, and as they pulled down, his deep low-spoken voice, with every appearance of anxious warning, cried in Spanish:
"On, on, señors! Ride for your lives! The blasted gringos lie near here and wait!"
"We fly from no man, señor!" said Mateo. "We bring news!"
"Eh?" said Ferdinand, with shake of head, clutching at the bridle of Taylor's horse, peering up into his face. "You are yourself an American?"—this in English. Ferdinand had wasted his good lie with which he had meant to keep unwelcome friends, who might want to pause and rest, on their way.
"Where is Miss Tesla?" Hales demanded.
"Who are you, señor? An' why is it you ask for her?"
"Mr. Tesla has been shot and is dying."
"Eh, señor!" Ferdinand peered up searchingly. "E-ah! I beleeve you, señor, but say to me it is not so! In God's name, lie to me, señor! He dies?"
"He is dying and wants his daughter. This man"—Hales gestured at Mateo—"showed the way. This boy"—"he indicated Taylor—"is a friend she knows. There is no time to lose."
"An' who, who, señor?" asked Ferdinand with a kind of stealthy menace in his voice. "Who keeled the father of my people's daughter?"
"It is not known. We lose time. Go tell her."
"There is always time for sorrow, señor, lose what you may of it. An' you say it is not known—how not known?"
"He was shot from the dark. Awaken Miss Tesla, say"
"Not known? From the dark?" Ferdinand repeated blankly, as if such things could not be. "Then our good God makes me the knife blade!" With rising savagery: "Ferdinand will know—e-ah! though he mus' deeg into hell an' read names of all who have keeled good men! E-ah!I will swear it—an' death upon heem!"
He raised his two hands and faced toward the moon; without lowering his eyes and speaking a most strange gibberish, he drew his knife, holding it aloft. All the superstition and criss-cross lore of his youth had, with the coming of Kredra, swept back upon him; and now with sudden passion he took the sacred oath of Steel and Moon that binds a man, irrevocably.
Mateo, seeing, hearing, understanding nothing except such as was responsive in his own superstitious blood, reined back his horse, putting more distance between himself and this strange man who took a knife-oath. John Taylor, understanding even less than Mateo, felt a troop of chills running up and down his back. And for the moment even Hales, though impatient as a man must be who has ridden hard with a message, kept silent, listened in puzzlement, wondering what tongue this man who seemed a Spaniard spoke.
2
Ferdinand, with lighted candle in hand, pushed aside the tanned bullock hide that hung before the doorway of a room and said softly:
"Kredra? Kredra the Wise, do you sleep?"
"I do not sleep," she answered wearily.
He entered, cupping the flame with his hand against the air current of the moving hide, and coming to the bed where she lay motionless, her deep black eyes without fear, without curiosity, gazing fixedly at him, he said quietly:
"Within the time that a leaf falls from twig to earth, I have taken the Oath!"
"What oath?"
"Of Knife and Moon. A man dies!"
"Who?" said Kredra, rising quickly to her elbow.
"I do not know. But a man has come"
"I heard the hoofbeats."
"—no lies are written on his face. He says the father of our little one dies. She must go!"
Kredra sat upright, glowering darkly.
"Who?"
"He killed from the dark. But he dies. I have sworn!"
"Eah! Eah!" she cried, beating her breast. "The warning came! It was here—here within me and I did not know!"
"God loves us! I too read the warning by flight of birds!"
"Almost I see—almost—now" Her eyes were closed, her fingers fumbled in the air just before her face as if trying to grasp the tenuous sensation of clairvoyance that trembled through her.
Ferdinand, candle by his face, watched her with the hovering intentness of one who watches mysteries.
These two strange people of a strange blood that had emerged from the racially unknown thousands of years before, of a people that, defeated but never conquered, had for generation upon generation hugged the birth-soil of the Pyrenees, were touched with elemental fears and faiths almost as ancient as the Aryan camp-fires from which the races of the world took their departure before history found a tongue. Some among them had, or made others believe that they had, the gift of hidden knowledge; Kredra had believed this of her mother, and believed too that within herself there was the confused shadow of this gift.
"Almost I know—it is near—but—but it does not come! Oh, that my mother lived in me! She knew such things as God does not want hid. Ah—it is gone! The shadow of it was upon me—almost I knew, but it is gone!"
Ferdinand gave a great-chested sigh; then, gently:
"Up, Kredra the Wise. You must tell her as softly as the voice can speak."
Then he stuck the light candle in a niche made for a saint, and went out, with a hurried sweep of hand pushing aside the bullock hide.
With candle in hand, Kredra came to the broad bed where Ilona lay on her side, her hands clasped under her cheek; now a woman, ripe for a man's love, but lying and looking as Kredra had seen her a thousand times when a little child, and the sleepless Basque often through the night had come softly to see whether the covers were drawn, and the motherless little one slept well.
Kredra spoke. Ilona opened her eyes, but did not stir except that a drowsy smile half curled along her lips.
"Arise, little one. Rise and dress."
"Ump-nn," Ilona answered with deepened smile, closing her eyes and moving her head slightly in protest. "I'm asleep. Go 'way. I hate you."
"A horseman has come. Your father sends. You must go."
"My father!" Ilona pushed off the covers with a flurry of movement and sat up. Her hair fell about her in a tangle of caresses, her eyes glowed with alarm.
"Why? Kredra, why does my father send at this hour! It is night!"
"When God has done a thing, one should not lie," said Kredra, adding simply, "He dies."
"He dies?" Ilona cried, merely blankly repeating the words she could not believe. "My father—dies? Kredra, oh, waken me! I dream that you say—Kredra, O Kredra, who—who would hurt my father? Oh—oh!"
She put her hands to her face and fell against Kredra, who pressed her tenderly, but said:
"Up, Life of my Life, dress and do not cry."
"But, Kredra, how? My father—who? Oh, Kredra!" Ilona clutched at her: "Oh, who—who would hurt my father?"
"It is known to God! Do not weep. He has heard the Oath of the Knife. Come. We go now."
"My father—oh, that city! Barbarians—ruffians—murderers My father, Kredra—my father, of all good men!"
3
Little Pedro, finding himself not called Don Turnip, nor pinched by the ear, grew anxious over what was wrong when roused to help catch and saddle horses. There were horses in the corral, but the one called Prince, because Ferdinand loved him well, was feeding abroad with hair woven hobbles on his forelegs that he might be fat and happy for Ilona to ride about the ranch. And though a horse with hobbles cannot go far, he can go too far to be searched out in the moonlight when men hurry for mounts.
Ilona and Kredra waited near the moon-cast shadow of El Crucifijo itself, and Ilona stood by young John Taylor, and looked at Hales with all the reproachfulness that he had dreaded.
Then Pedro, clucking and swearing as he pulled at the reins, and Ferdinand, silent, came with the horses.
"I come home again, soon, Friend Pedro," said Ferdinand as a word of parting. "Greet all men as friends until I return. Tell them nothing that is true, and keep silent about the rest!"
They mounted and rode off. Pedro, mystified, watched them go; they went rapidly, and their misty outline soon passed from view in the night-light; for a time the muffled clatter of many hoofs was heard though no one was seen, then nothing was heard or seen.
4
Hales and Mateo, riding at the gait Ilona set, kept by her side and left the others on the road. They thundered through the city with reckless regard for anybody that might be in the way of the horses in those dark streets and brought up the panting horses at the rear of the Magnolia.
Ilona jumped from her horse at the foot of the stairs that led up to the balcony, and ran up them. She threw the door wide and with a rush entered.
No one was there. Only the dead waited for its own. There was scattered colored glass on the floor, cigar stubs and ash, a basin with wet red cloths hanging over the side was on the table; a lamp, nearly without oil, glowed dimly. From the Magnolia below came the hum of voices; men played, gambling and drinking. No one had kept company with the lonely dead.
Mr. Tesla lay as he had died, face up; his aristocratic face thinned, chilled, icy, bloodless, with the waxen emptiness that remains to flesh after Death has taken away that which Death feeds upon.
Ilona stood motionless for a moment, looking with startled agony. Her own death would have had in it less pain. She murmured with sad reproachfulness, "Father—oh, my father!" Then by the bedside she sank to the floor, head bowed, hands writhingly clasped, and in an attitude of prayer, wept.
Hales had followed with light step, respectfully, sombrero in hand, and stood in the helpless embarrassment of one who feels deeply, but does not know what to say or do.
He glanced down into the Magnolia where men still clustered in groups about the gamblers' tables, where they were bunched, glasses in hand or at the elbow, by the bar. Among those there he recognized Col. Nevinson.
In a way, she was under this colonel's protection; he had been her father's friend and partner.
Hales hesitated, then went down into the Magnolia, to the bar, directly up to Nevinson, who eyed him with sharp appraisal. Men who knew both of them edged back a little anxiously.
"Miss Tesla has come," said Hales, just that, nothing more.
"Thank you, sir," said Col. Nevinson, with no friendliness, but unaggressive, and he made a slight movement toward turning at once and going to her, then paused. His glance met Hales' in a level stare. Abruptly Col. Nevinson pointed behind the bar, to a buckskin pouch resting on the bottom of inverted glasses.
"There, sir! There is one thousand dollars, gold! Who names me the name of the man that shot Tesla—it is his, sir!"
Hales answered::
"You know, of course, that the bullet that killed him was meant for me."
"That, sir, is your affair! Tesla was my friend!"
"So was Bruce Brace!"
With oath on oath, Col. Nevinson reached for his gun; instinctively he jerked for it with his right hand, but he carried this hand in a sling, and the sling checked the motion.
Hales felt a slight sensation of amazement that one who drew his arms so, almost, inexpertly should have such incredible rashness. With a movement too rapid for the eye to follow anything but the blur of motion, Hales had lifted his gun from its holster, muzzle-on at the hip. Nevinson's hands were still empty; they remained empty, for not even he would try to draw against a gun when he looked into its mouth. For many moments no one moved. The very onlookers hung with breathless gaping, too intent to dodge away. Not a word was said. Hales slowly returned the gun to its holster. They stared, each at the other, for a few tense seconds; then Hales turned and walked away, out of the front door, leaving the Magnolia.
Had he shot, Nevinson might have forgiven him; but this was unforgivable.
5
Ferdinand and Kredra came; and Kredra, after a long stare in silence at the dead man, drew a cover over the body, and going to Ilona enfolded her as if she were once again a child.
"A word with you, Ferdinand," said Col. Nevinson, and they drew aside. "For the present, I believe Miss Tesla had best return to the ranch. And as a mark of respect, sir, I shall have the body conveyed to the ranch for burial. Now, sir, I know something of your indebtedness to Miss Eton. I want to know how far I can depend upon your devotion to Miss Tesla?"
"That question," said Ferdinand softly, with eyes so nearly closed that nothing could be seen but a glint, "is one I ask of you, too."
"What! What, sir! The impudence of"
"Oh-ooh! Don't wow-ow-row like that to Ferdinand, my Colonel. An' do not forget the good Doña, my Colonel. More devils sleep in her than in ten women, an' ever' woman she mus' have two devils at leas'—one when she hate an one when she love. Ah-ah, my Colonel, if she hear of the leetle one, look out queek! The good Doña nevare forgives."
"I, sir, can look after my affairs without your advice," said Col. Nevinson, and would have strode away, but Ferdinand checked him, and pointed backward toward the bed.
"Who? Who deed it?"
"It is not known. It is not known, Ferdinand." His voice was almost friendly. "Some say it was the gambler, Dawes. They guess, mere guesses. I can't believe that of Dawes. No, sir. But if I thought—by God, sir, Dawes or devil, I would hold him to answer!"
Ferdinand gestured to Kredra when the Colonel had walked away, and Kredra came. He whispered low:
"I know the name of a man. I will go ask questions till I find him. I will say to him, 'Did you?' As he looks then, I can tell. If you do not see me again here, know that the Oath is done and I have gone back to the rancho and wait."
"Who?"
"One gambler man, Dawez."
Kredra caught his arm, and the pressure of her fingers almost bruised his powerful muscles.
"It is the man! Woe upon me that I saw death in his face! I saw, but I could not read! Evil-faced one! And look, you will see the shadow-trace of some man's knife that passed from here to here." She drew her finger across her temple from the tip of eyebrow to hair. "I now know. He is the man!" she repeated with the calmness of one who is sure of her knowledge, and her deep black eyes were set in the far-off stare of a seer who looks upon what is hidden.
6
A hotel clerk with a half-smoked and partly chewed cigar in his mouth, rested with feet on the table that served for a desk and with chair tipped against the walls. A three-months-old newspaper lay spread on his lap and his head was drooped forward as if the shock of some item had stopped his heart, suddenly; but it was more likely the tedium of exaggerations about California gold that had put him to sleep. The hotel was full and, it now being near dawn, he was not so frequently disturbed by people coming and inquiring for a place to lie down.
"O-ho, my frien'!" said a deep rich voice, and the clerk awakened with a start.
"Not a place to flop under the roof," he said peevishly and let his head fall again.
"Up, up, up, my frien', an' tell me where I can fin' the man Dawez. I have news for heem. He is here now?"
"Come in early tonight, for once he did. What you want?"
"If I had come for to tell it to you," said Ferdinand with a queer smile, "you would know all by thees time. I come for Dawez."
Grumbling that Dawes might not like to be awakened, which was partly from sympathy through his own irritation at being awakened, the clerk aroused himself sufficiently to go to the foot of the stairs and point vaguely, saying:
"Third door to the right. Got a red chalk mark. That means a steady."
"Steady?"
"Sure. Takes the room by the month. If he gives you hell, don't blame me."
"All right, my frien'," said Ferdinand with that careless audacity which had often got him into trouble, "you do not have the blame if he goes to hell."
Ferdinand went up to the third door on the right, which was marked with red chalk. He cautiously struck a match to see. The hall was dark, black, wholly unlighted. He could hear men snoring. He put his ear to the door, but no one within was snoring. He raised his hand to knock softly, but did not knock. He had a better thought, and gently pushed against the door. The door opened. There was a faint squeak of a badly hung hinge. He paused, listening. All was still. No one moved. Inch by inch he opened the door, then slipped through. The room was solidly black. Carefully he felt his way, touching this and that noiselessly, until he reached the bed. He ran his hand up over the cover and across. No one was there.
Ferdinand held a lighted match above his head and looked about the small room in which there remained only the litter of one who had departed hurriedly.
"Son of two devils and beloved of both! They guard him!"