The Full of the Moon/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
"Drop That Gun!"
The day of the baile the mail brought Nan a peremptory letter from her father. It said in part:
"You have carried your impossible escapade too far already; you must come home else I shall send some member of the family to stay with you until you are ready to return."
Nan knew that he would keep his word and, unless assured of her speedy return, her brother, sister, perhaps her mother, would be sent somewhat in the capacity of guardian to, or keeper of, the mildly insane.
It would be sheer martyrdom to any of the family to share, even for a week, the picturesque life with its indolence and idleness which had gripped her so hard.
From the time of her arrival the days had slipped by with incredible swiftness. In the cool of the mornings she saddled her horse and followed the trails along the river, flushing great coveys of quail, startling innumerable jack-rabbits from tbei sage-brush and their burrows, or wandered over the mesa listening to the mournful coo of the turtle-doves, and enjoying to the utmost the wonderful colorings of the plains and distant ranges.
Then, when the afternoon's sun beat down upon the sand of the river valley, Mrs. Gallagher sprinkled the dirt floor, closed the door, and Nan, like all of Las Rubertas, lay down upon her sheepskin couch until the coolness of evening crept in upon the blistering day.
She ate the tortillas which Mrs. Gallagher patted out between her hands, and assiduously cultivated a taste for the hot chili-sauce of which Mrs. Gallagher partook with such relish. In the evening she sauntered with the populace in the plaza, or sat in her own doorway listening to the roar of the Rio Grande and the tinkle of guitars.
But her father's letter meant more than the abandonment of the life which had laid a hypnotic spell upon her. It meant that she must come to some decision in regard to Ben. She must either break with her family and marry him in spite of their opposition, or she must give him up entirely and return to the life from which she had fled.
She could not ask Ben to share it, that was certain. The idea filled her with dismay, and she was further perturbed to discover that her dismay arose chiefly from the thought of Ben's unfitness for such surroundings.
She squirmed mentally, to use a figure, at the picture of Ben running the gantlet of her argus-eyed family and his foregone failure to come within even hailing distance of their standards of culture and good breeding.
They would consider him, she winced as she admitted it, a kind of picturesque lout. They could never make allowances as she did for his mental limitations, for his crude ideas and expression of them, and sometimes, yes, sometimes for his raw selfishness and vanity.
No, he belonged here, in his own setting. To transplant him was out of the question; she never would subject him to their criticism. She could adapt herself to his life, she thought, but he could never become a part of, or at home in, the world to which she belonged. It was a momentous question to decide, though it seemed easy enough when Ben was there and she was drawn to him by the attraction of his super-abundant vitality.
No, she would not go to the baile. She remained obdurate under Mrs. Gallagher's final plea, and was proof against the alluring strains of a Spanish waltz which the musicians played as they marched through the plaza to notify Las Rubertas that the ball was about to open.
So Mrs. Gallagher, with her black braids freshly oiled and redolent of bergamot, took her departure, to return almost immediately with the news that Ben Evans and Edith Blakely were riding in to attend the baile.
"Perhaps you go, now," and she looked at Nan keenly.
Nan did her best to reply indifferently:
"Oh, are they? No, I don't think I shall go."
Why had Ben not sent her word that he was coming to the dance, and why had he not asked her?
There was no mistaking the nature of the pang she felt, it was too sharp and as astonishing to Nan as it was real. She was jealous—jealous of the girl from the Longhom bosque! It was no easy matter to greet them without constraint when a little later they rode up to the bars.
"Why, ain't you going!" he asked in surprise.
"I hadn't thought of it," she replied coolly.
"I supposed of course you'd be ready," he said in a disappointed tone.
"Yes?"
Ben had an uncomfortable feeling that some how he had blundered.
Edith with feminine intuition understood.
"We planned to stop for you as soon as we decided to come." She emphasized the "we" elaborately.
Edith really liked Nan as Nan liked her, but on the impulse of the moment she could not resist the temptation to patronize Nan who had unconsciously given her so many wretched hours.
Nan's long eyelashes lay for just an instant on her cheek. But her eyes were enigmatic enough when she raised them squarely to Edith's and said sweetly:
"It was good of you both to include me."
"Aw, say you'll come?" Ben urged uneasily.
"Yes, I will, if you don't mind waiting," Nan replied in quick decision. And added laughingly: "It will be a lark, won't it?"
"I thought you wouldn't mind even if it did seem like second choice." Edith gave a nervous little laugh. She was not accustomed to being mean; but jealousy has a way of forming acids in the sweetest natures.
"Not at all, so long as it only seems so." Nan was still able to smile.
Nan had in her nature a great deal of something very like chivalry, a masculine sense of justice, a desire to be fair, and this quality would have prevailed in all her intercourse with Edith had not the girl so frankly shown her claws.
Ben was not too astute, but it required little discernment to see that Edith was making more of their appearance together than the occasion warranted. Even while it made him uncomfortable, his vanity was flattered by it and, as always in Edith's society, he had an exalted sense of importance.
"I THOUGHT YOU WOULDN'T MIND EVEN IF IT DID SEEM LIKE SECOND CHOICE." EDITH GAVE A NERVOUS LITTLE LAUGH
Edith untied a package from the back of her saddle and followed Nan into the dobe, where she shook out a gaudy dancing dress. "Ben likes me better in this than anything," she said complacently.
Nan vowed mentally that if the contents of her trunk could produce anything bizarre in color effects she would outdo the rainbow itself.
She owed Edith a debt of gratitude; she was not the person to forget that, but, because of Edith's attitude she reasoned, there must be some other way of liquidating the obligation than by meekly yielding her feminine prerogative to be admired.
Mrs. Gallagher, learning that Nan had changed her mind, hovered about to be sure that Nan did not fall short of what was expected of her in the matter of dress; and so, puffing excitedly upon her cigarette, she watched each garment as it came from the trunk, and a glance at her face was sufficient to tell Nan whether or not it met with her approval.
As a matter of fact Mrs. Gallagher, who was both fond and inordinately proud of Nan, had boasted extensively of the splendor of Nan's wardrobe though it must be admitted she never had seen it.
She eyed a simple white frock with conspicuous coldness, but her eyes sparkled at a clinging lemon-colored gown with striking dashes of black velvet, while her delight approached rapture when Nan unearthed a pair of red slippers and stockings.
"But red and yellow!" protested Nan.
"0h, very beautiful!" declared Mrs. Gallagher, and it was at her earnest solicitation that Nan wore coral beads and a large purple velvet bow in her hair. With these additional touches Mrs. Gallagher rocked to and fro in ecstasy.
"Your approval is most gratifying," laughed Nan. "It makes it worth the effort," and when she appeared before Ben he stared in round-eyed admiration.
"Gee!" he said, straggling for some appropriate expression. "Gee! you look like one of these here cactus flowers in spring."
Nan made a curtsy in appreciation of his compliment.
"You think," she asked archly, "that the Señorita Perfecta Torres will be only a dingy moth beside me?"
"She'll look like a horse-fly," Ben returned heartily, "alongside a butterfly."
Edith was silent. Her small moment of triumph was already a thing of the past. Ben never had told her that she looked like a flaming cactus flower in spring, or likened her to a butterfly.
All Las Rubertas was assembled in the rear of the Señor Apedaca's long dobe store building when Nan, Edith, Ben and Mrs. Gallagher arrived. A large space had been cleared of boxes and barrels, and the dirt floor well sprinkled to keep down the dust.
A platform had been built in the end of the room which the orchestra occupied, and the guests now sat on the benches ranged against the wall, or on their individual sheepskins, listening in respectful silence to the tuning of the instruments.
Señor Apedaca, portly, and every inch a personage in the only derby hat in the county, moved about turning the three kerosene lamps to their very highest notch, flicking invisible dirt from the polished reflectors with his pocket handkerchief, and flirting water from a basin with his finger-tips upon spots which to his critical eye needed a trifle more, a mere suspicion of moisture to lay the dust, and all with a large and capable air, which made Doña Marianna rear back in pride.
Doña Marianna wore her famous filigree cross of silver and her justly celebrated gown of chintz, while the Señorita Perfecta Torres was prepared to struggle to retain her supremacy as the belle of Las Rubertas in the creation of green and yellow which first brought El Paso to local notice.
Nor was their best too good for the innumerable Fuentes, Ramons and Montejos who, with bracelets jingling and brass rings to their knuckles, presented a solid phalanx of amiable and receptive feminity coyly bidding for attention.
Nan burst upon this assembly like a bird of paradise. The movements of Señor Apedaca no longer attracted attention; the scraping of the school-master's violin fell upon deaf ears, while bile was suddenly disseminated throughout the system of the belle of Las Rubertas.
Fat señoras whose days were over, looked at Nan in sullen curiosity, while their swarthy consorts shot her bold or surreptitious glances of admiration.
Nan and her party, which included Mrs. Gallagher in her blanket, took her seat upon a bench apparently as unconscious of the concentrated gaze as though she were alone.
All was in readiness, but the great moment had not arrived until the floor manager, having previously given each male dancer a number, took his place in the center of the floor and designated those who were to choose partners for the coming waltz or quadrille.
The floor-manager of a baile is supreme, and to ignore his commands is a serious breach of etiquette, if not an insult.
But who could ignore Ignacio Bojarques? Certainly no unattached woman in Las Rubertas could be indifferent to this dashing beau. With his oiled and scented hair, a row of perfect teeth flashing beneath a fascinating mustache, a pair of bold and roving eyes, dapper grace and a genius for meeting all social exigencies, Ignacio Bojarques was the last man to lurk bashfully in the shadow of obscurity.
Therefore, all things considered, it is small wonder that a thrill of suppressed excitement was felt throughout the ballroom when this important figure raised his hand imperiously for silence.
But before he could speak, the jingling of spurs and the scuffling of feet diverted the attention of the guests, and directed all eyes to the door, where they beheld the L.X. outfit arriving in a body, breathless, with color high from haste, and dressed to the last notch in gay silk neckerchiefs and tallowed boots.
The Mexicans frowned perceptibly, but the faces of their women lighted with covert smiles of welcome. The socially gifted floor-manager advanced with expressions of pleasure, which his eyes belied, and requested them with velvet firmness to lay their so large six-shooters in the woodbox until such time as he, the floor-manager, should, with so great regret, see them depart.
The cowboys' looked at one another uncertainly, suspicion written on each face.
"I feels kind of necked without my gun," demurred Joe Brindell.
"Naked!" declared the cook, "'tain't modest, I says."
The floor-manager waited politely, but resolutely.
"We might as well humor the little cuss," whispered Kansas Ed. "We kin git 'em quick if any ruckus starts."
Consequently the six-shooters were unstrapped and stacked reluctantly in the woodbox.
"I feel about as safe as rompin' with a bunch of hyeners," grumbled Joe Brindell, who was not the least conspicuous person present in his pink shirt and a flaming red handkerchief draped jauntily about his neck.
The thanks of Ignacio Bojarques held much gratitude as, after having given each newcomer a number, he turned away.
The first dance was a quadrille and to Ben's chagrin his number was not among those called, but the floor-manager, having opened the ball with all due ceremonies, stood flashing his teeth before Nan, frankly conscious of the honor he was doing her.
"Isn't it fun!"" whispered Nan, while her eyes sparkled with mischief as the "catch" of Las Rubertas led her away.
There was nothing in Ben's expression to indicate that he regarded it in that light.
Joe Brindell slid into the seat Nan had left vacant.
"You look kinda lonesome, Ben," he jeered, "settin' here all by yourself like a wall-flower. In fact you look some sour."
"I feel sour!" Ben declared wrathfully. "If that there chicken king"—in slurring reference to Ignacio Bojarques's occupation of poultry raising—"don't call some Americano numbers next time I'll tell him where to get off at."
"It does look a little p'inted," Joe admitted, "but you don't want to forget that our principal argamints is cached over there in the wood-box. We hadn't ought to have give 'em up; it's takin' chances in this kind of a crowd. Or any kind of a crowd for that matter; you never can tell what kind of a play is comin' up when you're out in society. The coldest-blooded killin' I ever see was at a Sunday School picnic in Missouri."
But Ben was staring disconsolately at Nan, who, the center of attraction, was moving lightly and with animation through the figures of the quadrille in striking contrast to the solemn jog of the other dancers.
"How do you 'spose they gits 'em so white!" Joe Brindell made the inquiry of the world in general, but the cook, who had come up, answered.
"Hands, you talkin' about!" Nan was giving her finger-tips to Señor Pedro Apedaca at the time. "They soaks 'em in buttermilk and plasters 'em with bran. Them stylish ladies back east," explained the cook kindly—"sets more'n half a day with their faces and hands plastered with bran."
"Shoo," replied Joe Brindell, impressed and interested by the information—"ain't women the proud ones!"
"Has she noticed your shirt yet?"
"She ain't spoke about it, Clarence."
"I doubt if she sees it," opined the cook unfeelingly, "for your face is so red you can't tell where your skin leaves off and your shirt begins."
"Pink ain't my color anyhow. I more'n half wish," said Brindell disconsolately, "that I had my Navvyho back. Looks to me like this greaser outfit is goin' to give us fellers the double cross."
"They wouldn't dasit!" But in spite of the cook's sanguine opinion they did "dast," and when the numbers were called for the second time there was not an American dancer on the floor.
"Is this here slight a accident or a insult?" inquired Mossy Green who "placered" over in Bay Horse Gulch. "Because," continued Mossy, deftly running the point of his jack-knife between the thick soles of his miner's shoes and the uppers to remove traces of clay, "if it's a meant insult I hopes it doesn't happen again."
"I jest put a fine aidge on my ax this afternoon," observed the cook in apparent irrelevance, as he ran his eye contemplatively over the ramshackle building, "wisht I'd brought it."
"When I rides fifty mile to shake my Methody foot I aims to shake it," continued Mossy in growing wrath. He added: "Wisht Riley was here. He can handle these greasers like a steam-shovel, and his fist—they'd rather be hit with a drill."
"He's freightin' between here and Hopedale. Say"—the cook suddenly drew one corner of his mouth down and conversed from it in a whisper of exultation—"did you see the look that señorita give me?"
Mossy jammed his jack-knife into his pocket and returned sourly:
"I kin see she's laffin, at somethin'."
Unperturbed by such open envy Clarence sat from that moment with his eyes boldly glued upon Señorita Perfecta Torres, and as he stared the cook's inflammable heart took fire.
Desire quickly changed to purpose, and when the numbers for the third dance were called with the Americans still excluded, the cook, with a gallant daring none had suspected he possessed, slipped his arm about the waist of the coquettish Señorita Perfecta and whirled her from the very embrace of her Mexican partner.
Inspired by the cook's example, the L.X. outfit, as though moved by a common impulse, each seized in his arms the woman nearest and followed the cook in a dizzy whirl. Fat señoras, feeling themselves once more objects of conquest, laid their heads quite contentedly upon broad American breasts, which position it is tacitly conceded is infinitely preferable to hanging a chin over a five-foot shoulder.
The violin shrieked, the guitar whanged, the accordion wheezed its loudest; whirling skirts displayed ankles not too slender, and the dust rose in clouds, while glowering husbands and lovers but added piquancy to the situation.
"Looks to me like we ought to git them guns." Mossy Green's finger-tips barely met in the singular hold he had about Doña Marianna Apedaca's ample waist.
"Don't bother me," panted Clarence, as he spun by rolling his eyes in ecstasy, "I haven't time."
Momentarily the resentment deepened in the sullen faces of the Mexicans who leaned against the wall, twirling their mustaches or fingering brass watch-chains.
Ben himself had passing twinges of uneasiness as he noted their ill-temper and increasing jealously; but with the cowboy's characteristic carelessness and his share of the overweening American self-confidence, he dismissed the feeling with the thought that although they were outnumbered three to one, there were enough Americans present to cope with twice that number if necessary.
Then the floor-manager signaled the orchestra to stop; the cook commanded it to continue. The floor-manager repeated his signal, and the cook promptly lifted his hand and cuffed the oiled and plastered head of the village beau.
Instantly there was confusion. Both Americans and Mexicans made a rush for the wood-box, but the Mexicans acted together, as though it were a prearranged maneuver.
Blocking the way of the Americans they reached it first, with the result that not a single American obtained possession of a gun, though the Mexicans fell before their blows like tenpins. For a moment they stared at each other blankly. Then above the tumult, the shrieking of women and the scrambling of the old and timid to escape, rose Ignacio Bojarques's voice, shrill with excitement:
"Shove up your hands, gringos!" His gun covered Ben Evans in particular.
Anger and chagrin were ludicrously commingled in the cowboys' faces. The Mexicans had them at their mercy, and the Americans knew that, in their hysterical excitement, they might carry out the threat which the menacing gun-barrels implied.
Slowly, as though the action gave them actual physical pain, their hands were lifted above their heads, and Ben Evans's was the last reluctant pair to go up.
There was a strange silence, a hesitating, even embarrassed silence, for the Mexicans, having the advantage, did not for the instant know what to do with it. They dared not shoot the cowboys down in cold blood for they were only too familiar with the swift vengeance of the Americans, and they were afraid to let them go. Nor did they want to let them off so easily. The occasions when they had such an advantage as this were too rare.
Finally the sight of the dapper village beau, who would have been as a rat to a terrier had he had him in his clutches, covering him with his own gun became too much for Ben Evans's self-control.
"You infernal greaser"—he yelled the epithet with insulting emphasis—"I'll make you sweat for this!"
Epiphanio Montejo, fairly safe behind a bench in the corner, shrieked shrilly:
"Shoot the American pigs!"
Other voices took up the cry, until it became a high-pitched, hysterical chorus:
"Shoot the dogs!"
Ben Evans stood quite still, but he dropped his hands.
"Oh, Ben!"
For the first time he heard Nan's trembling voice behind him.
"If they begin to shoot, stoop low and run for the door," he said quietly.
His jaw was rigid, and there was no fear in the steely eyes he fixed on Ignacio Bojarques, only anger—the white anger of the Anglo-Saxon. He looked the personification of physical courage as he stood there, and at the moment Ignacio Bojarques feared his vengeance more than the law. Just for an instant his glance wavered, then he lowered the gun on a level with Ben's heart.
"You pull that trigger, you Mexican mongrel, and every mother's son of you will swing in the cottonwoods!"
Bojarques's mouth stretched in a grimace rather than a grin, and in a kind of desperation he took aim.
"Drop that gun!" The ringing command turned every head to the doorway.
A tall young man—a stranger in modish clothes—determined, alert, covered Ignacio Bojarques with a gun as businesslike as his own.
Nan sat down weakly upon the nearest bench.
"Bob!" 
"DROP THAT GUN!" THE RINGING COMMAND TURNED EVERY HEAD TO THE DOORWAY