The Splendid Idle Forties Part 28

"And where will you live when you are away from me?" asked Eulogia, carelessly. "In a cave in the mountains? Be careful of the bandits."

"Senorita," he replied calmly, "I do not know what you mean by the things you say sometimes. Perhaps you have the idea that I am another person--John Power, or Pio Lenares, for instance. Do you wish me to bring you a certificate to the effect that I am Abel Hudson? I can do so, although I thought that Californians disdained the written form and trusted to each other's honour, even to the selling of cattle and lands."

"You are not a Californian."

"Ah, senorita--G.o.d! what is that?"

A tremendous knocking at the outer door sounded above the clear soprano of Graciosa La Cruz.

"A late guest, no doubt. You are white like the wall. I think the low ceilings are not so good for your health, senor, as the sharp air of the mountains. Ay, Dios!" The last words came beneath her breath, and she forgot Abel Hudson. The front doors had been thrown open, and a caballero in riding-boots and a dark sc.r.a.pe wound about his tall figure had entered the room and flung his sombrero and saddle-bags into a corner. It was Pablo Ignestria.

"At your feet, senora," he said to Dona Luisa, who held out both hands, welcome on her charming face. "I am an uninvited guest, but when I arrived at San Luis and found that all the town had come to one of Dona Luisa's famous b.a.l.l.s, I rode on, hoping that for friends.h.i.+p's sake she would open her hospitable doors to a wanderer, and let him dance off the stiffness of a long ride."

"You are welcome, welcome, Pablo," said Dona Luisa. "Go to the dining room and get a gla.s.s of aguardiente; then come back and dance until dawn."

Ignestria left the room with Diego Quijas, but returned in a few moments and walked directly over to Eulogia, ignoring the men who stood about her.

"Give me this dance," he whispered eagerly. "I have something to say to thee. I have purposely come from Monterey to say it."

Eulogia was looking at him with angry eyes, her brain on fire. But curiosity triumphed, and she put her hand on his shoulder as the musicians swept their guitars with lithe fingers, sc.r.a.ped their violins, and began the waltz.

"Eulogia!" exclaimed Ignestria; "dost thou suspect why I have returned?"

"Why should I suspect what I have not thought about?"

"Ay, Eulogia! Art thou as saucy as ever? But I will tell thee, beloved one. The poor girl who bore my name is dead, and I have come to beg an answer to my letter. Ay, little one, I _feel_ thy love. Why couldst thou not have sent me one word? I was so angry when pa.s.sed week after week and no answer came, that in a fit of spleen I married the poor sick girl. And what I suffered, Eulogia, after that mad act! Long ago I told myself that I should have come back for my answer, that you had sworn you would write no letter; I should have let you have your little caprices, but I did not reason until--"

"I answered your letter!" exclaimed Eulogia, furiously. "You know that I answered it! You only wished to humble me because I had sworn I would write to no man. Traitor! I hate you! You were engaged to the girl all the time you were here."

"Eulogia! Believe! Believe!"

"I would not believe you if you kissed the cross! You said to yourself, 'That little coquette, I will teach her a lesson. To think the little chit should fancy an elegant Montereno could fall in love with her!' Ah!

ha! Oh, Dios! I hate thee, thou false man-of-the-world! Thou art the very picture of the men I have read about in the books of the Senor Dumas; and yet I was fooled by thy first love-word! But I never loved you. Never, never! It was only a fancy--because you were from Monterey.

I am glad you did not get my letter, for I hate you! Mother of Christ! I hate you!"

He whirled her into the dining room. No one else was there. He kissed her full on the mouth.

"Dost thou believe me now?" he asked.

She raised her little hand and struck him on the face, but the sting was not hotter than her lips had been.

"May the saints roll you in perdition!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely. "May they thrust burning coals into the eyes that lied to me! May the devils bite off the fingers that made me shame myself! G.o.d! G.o.d! I hate you! I--I, who have fooled so many men, to have been rolled in the dust by you!"

He drew back and regarded her sadly.

"I see that it is no use to try to convince you," he said; "and I have no proof to show that I never received your letter. But while the stars jewel the heavens, Eulogia, I shall love thee and believe that thou lovest me."

He opened the door, and she swept past him into the sala. Abel Hudson stepped forward to offer his arm, and for the moment Pablo forgot Eulogia.

"John Power!" he cried.

Hudson, with an oath, leaped backward, sprang upon the window-seat, and smas.h.i.+ng the pane with his powerful hand disappeared before the startled men thought of stopping him.

"Catch him! Catch him!" cried Ignestria, excitedly. "It is John Power.

He stood me up a year ago."

He whipped his pistol from the saddle-bags in the corner, and opening the door ran down the road, followed by the other men, shouting and firing their pistols into the air. But they were too late. Power had sprung upon Ignestria's horse, and was far on his way.

VIII

The next day Eulogia went with her mother and Aunt Anastacia to pay a visit of sympathy to Dona Jacoba at Los Quervos. Eulogia's eyes were not so bright nor her lips so red as they had been the night before, and she had little to say as the wagon jolted over the rough road, past the cypress fences, then down between the beautiful tinted hills of Los Quervos. Dona Pomposa sat forward on the high seat, her feet dangling just above the floor, her hands crossed as usual over her stomach, a sudden twirl of thumbs punctuating her remarks. She wore a loose black gown trimmed with ruffles, and a black reboso about her head. Aunt Anastacia was attired in a like manner, but clutched the side of the wagon with one hand and an American sunshade with the other.

"Poor Jacoba!" exclaimed Dona Pomposa; "her stern heart is heavy this day. But she has such a sense of her duty, Anastacia. Only that makes her so stern."

"O-h-h-h, y-e-e-s." When Aunt Anastacia was preoccupied or excited, these words came from her with a prolonged outgoing and indrawing.

"I must ask her for the recipe for those cakes--the lard ones, Anastacia. I have lost it."

"O-h-h, y-e-e-s. I love those cakes. Madre de Dios! It is hot!"

"I wonder will she give Eulogia a mantilla when the chit marries. She has a chest full."

"Surely. Jacoba is generous."

"Poor my friend! Ay, her heart--Holy Mary! What is that?"

She and Aunt Anastacia stumbled to their feet. The sound of pistol shots was echoing between the hills. Smoke was rising from the willow forest that covered the centre of the valley.

The Indian whipped up his horses with an excited grunt, the two old women reeling and clutching wildly at each other. At the same time they noticed a crowd of hors.e.m.e.n galloping along the hill which a sudden turn in the road had opened to view.

"It is the Vigilantes," said Eulogia, calmly, from the front seat. "They are after John Power and Pio Lenares and their lieutenants. After that awful murder in the mountains the other day, the men of San Luis and the ranchos swore they would hunt them out, and this morning they traced them to Los Quervos. I suppose they have made a barricade in the willows, and the Vigilantes are trying to fire them out."

"Heart of Saint Peter! Thou little brat! Why didst thou not tell us of this before, and not let us come here to be shot by flying bullets?"

"I forgot," said Eulogia, indifferently.

They could see nothing; but curiosity, in spite of fear, held them to the spot. Smoke and cries, shouts and curses, came from the willows; flocks of agitated crows circled screaming through the smoke. The men on the hill, their polished horses and brilliant attire flas.h.i.+ng in the sun, kept up a ceaseless galloping, hallooing, and waving of sombreros.

The beautiful earth-green and golden hills looked upon a far different scene from the gay cavalcades to which they were accustomed. Even Don Roberto Duncan, a black silk handkerchief knotted about his head, was das.h.i.+ng, on his gray horse, up and down the valley between the hills and the willows, regardless of chance bullets. And over all shone the same old sun, indifferent alike to slaughter and pleasure.

"Surely, Anastacia, all those bullets must shoot some one."

"O--h--h, y--e--e--s." Her sister was grasping the sunshade with both hands, her eyes starting from her head, although she never removed their gaze from the central volume of smoke.

"Ay, we can sleep in peace if those murdering bandits are killed!"

exclaimed Dona Pomposa. "I have said a rosary every night for five years that they might be taken. And, holy heaven! To think that we have been petting the worst of them as if he were General Castro or Juan Alvarado.

To think, my Eulogia!--that thirsty wild-cat has had his arm about thy waist more times than I can count."