For the Soul of Rafael Part 31

Teresa, seated beside her, saw her changing color, and reached over, patting her hand.

"Even when thou wert little the Capitan made a pet of thee," she said, kindly; "and now every friend he ever had is being watched. If--if--in any way you could warn him--"

"Warn him? How can we, when no one knows? I would walk barefoot across San Juan Mountain if I knew where he was hidden. He may be dying, or dead."

"That is so," decided Teresa, placidly; "and it would be better. They will always hunt him if he is alive."

There was silence between them for a little while, and then she added, "Well, there will be no mourning for him in the Arteaga family. Rafael will be glad."

"Oh, he!" muttered Ana, with impatience. "He is hanging on the skirts of Dona Maria these days, when he should be here with these other fine gentlemen." She pointed to the plaza where the vigilantes and their friends were gathered preparatory to starting on a new trail suggested by an Indian who had seen a white man without a horse somewhere in the hills.

"On the skirts of Dona Maria," repeated Teresa, her little eyes twinkling with interest. "It is true, then--it is that English woman still?"

"Still? How you talk! Is it so long since Los Angeles?"

"Oh, it was long, long before that! I was--Santa Maria!--I had a fright for a while! I thought there would be no wedding. He was crazy as a boy over her. It started, oh, with only a pin-point of a chance; for the Americano Bryton was here, and her eyes were for him! And then--Basta!

All at once things changed, and Dona Angela and Don Rafael were never apart; and if she had not been married, I think always Raquel Estevan would have had no husband here in San Juan Capistrano."

"Raquel--does she know?"

"Raquel Estevan is too proud to show if she knows, just as she is now!

Never will she go along or follow him when he rides abroad, but if she knew his time was with that heretic--she hates the heretics!"

"She is patient with him."

"Oh, sure; she is a good wife. But if she cared more, would she do as she did when the girl Marta came to the Mission with her child? On my soul, I think Rafael was afraid when she gave to Marta the bed and the clothes, and counted out how many cattle she could have,--to say no word as to how she stood herself as G.o.dmother at the baptism! The padre laughs over that!"

"And Rafael--?"

"Rafael--G.o.d knows what he said to her! He tried to make her send some one else as G.o.dmother, and she would not. Ysadora heard her say 'It is for your soul's sake, and the souls of your children, Rafael,' and he turned white and walked away."

"Poor Rafael," mocked Ana, "I do not think that he has much of a soul.

It is as when a man sees he is beloved for his bravery, and all the time he is afraid of his own shadow, and hopes the one who loves him will not discover his weakness: that is how Rafael feels when his wife does penance, and prays for the soul he has not."

"How you talk! We have all a soul; the padre says so."

"Oh, the padre! The soul of our padre is also like a grain of mustard seed--so small, and no soil to grow in! Never could I confess to him. I wait until Padre Sanchez comes; no one but a Franciscan priest do I believe in."

"Ai! and if you should get sick and die, and Padre Sanchez on some other side of the world? He is always travelling; never will he settle and gather 'dobe dollars like our padre. Suppose he should not come; you would die without confession?"

"No; I would hang on to the edge of life by some thread of prayer until he came."

"Padre Pedro of the north was here last month: that man makes me afraid.

He tries to be a saint, and is so often under vows. This time it was a vow not to speak, and Padre Andros was glad when he took to the road. It was like a black ghost to see him walk the plaza with a black hood over his head, and never a word or look up from the ground. You would think the saints he prayed to lived somewhere in the roads. We thanked G.o.d and emptied some bottles with the padre when he was out of sight."

"But he is a good man."

"Oh, he is a saint; but we can't feel easy with saints in San Juan. That is why your Raquel Estevan will always be outside."

"You mean above," retorted Ana. "The devil's face in the stone of the Mission dome fits better this place of the necklace of ears."

Teresa shuddered.

"It is bad luck to say things of that face," she warned. "Some think maybe it was an Indian G.o.d,--I heard an old Indio say so once. Never will I go under the dome of that old vestry since that day."

"How would an Indian G.o.d be put in a Christian church?"

"No one knows," and Teresa crossed herself. "The old Indios say it is bad luck to talk about it; so whatever the story is, it has been forgotten, and that is better. When I was a little child the old Indios told strange ghost and curse stories, and we were all much afraid; now the old Indios are mostly dead, and no one else remembers, only all are still afraid of the earthquake ruin at night."

"They are sheep; they are afraid of their shadows at night," retorted Ana; "that is why Raquel will always be, as you say, 'outside'!"

"Well, she goes against the padre, and that is always bad. It is bad luck to fight a padre; he can refuse absolution."

Ana made no reply. She was very weary of the endless, endless stories of Raquel's unlikeness to the other women; and what they did not understand they would like to condemn. She knew so well that in Mexico the Dona Luisa and the Dona Raquel had met only the hidalgos when they went for a brief visit to the world of people, but in San Juan there were no hidalgos; only the mixed races without pride of birth or distinction, apart from the lands and cattle around them on the ranges. Ana could feel, better than any other, why the wife of Rafael rode alone to the cliffs above the sea, seeking kins.h.i.+p there in the isolation.

In vain Ana had tried to solve the problem given her by the padre at the San Joaquin ranch that strange evening: his quick change of att.i.tude toward the Americano,--even asking her friendliness and her welcome for him if he crossed her path. The queer idea of the Americano's love affairs was the most puzzling of all: it never occurred to her that he meant Raquel--Raquel, who avoided all heretics! Still, it was strange that she never thought of the Americano's love affair without involuntarily trying to picture a woman who would look like Raquel. And she did not dream those two had ever met.

As Pico and his men got into the saddles and started north she heard him mention Bryton's name. The latter had evidently tired quickly of vigilante work; at any rate he had disappeared as effectually as El Capitan,--no one had seen him for over a week. And of course no one had time to hunt him up.

At Trabuco Creek the vigilantes pa.s.sed an Indian boy loping easily along the valley road. When stopped and questioned, he stated he was going to the Mission from San Joaquin ranch. The brand on the bronco corroborated his story, and he was let pa.s.s with slight attention; yet they would have found him quite worth while.

Ana had gone with Teresa to make a little visit to Don Juan Alvara, who was still ill, and very impatient at being housed up when all the world of San Juan was astir to see the cavalcade of avengers. He was asking sharply why Rafael Arteaga was following his English partner's example, and keeping out of the work of search or battle. It was to be expected that Don Eduardo Downing, after being forced by El Capitan to pay over a thousand dollars as tribute to the Flores bandits, would feel that he was exempt from active service in pursuit of them; they had cost him quite enough. And of course he had never anything but an alien's interest in the country, the interest of dollars; but with Rafael Arteaga it was different. What was he doing these days, when every man who held stock and could fight rode abroad?

The women exchanged glances. Of what use to tell Alvara it was a woman?

He would only be more disgusted, and might say things to Dona Raquel, and that would never do.

Teresa's curiosity as to results led her very close to it, for her new sister-in-law was a thorn in the side of the bovine ponderous Californian, by whom the "brown girls" had been accepted as a part of domestic life. Ever since she had listened that day to the story of vengeance in Old Mexico, she had resented everything about it, even the child of that strange marriage, the child who had inherited--who knew how much?--of the blood and instincts of that saintly, half-Indian nun.

Yes, Teresa would have dearly loved to watch Raquel Estevan when the story was told; also the story of Rafael's latest infatuation; yet, all the Arteaga boys had died violent deaths, and she had no wish to see the last one of them murdered. She was certain that if it did happen, the ghost of Dona Luisa would be at the foot of her bed every night, and she would have to pay a lot for ma.s.ses. They cost thirty-five dollars since the padre was building new fences around his orchards. So she contented herself with wis.h.i.+ng as much as she dared without being held liable by the ghost of Dona Luisa in case of accidents. And then Ana was always there with her eyes, and if any one did tell Alvara, Ana would ferret it out, and she had such a tongue!

While they rea.s.sured the old man, and told him the troublous days of San Juan were nearly over, the Indian boy from the San Joaquin ranch stopped at the gate.

"There is a letter for Dona Ana Mendez," he said. "It came last night.

Dona Refugia sent it."

"Dona Refugia?" Ana knew that her aunt could not write, and that the accomplishments of her daughters in that line extended to the ability to inscribe their own names. She glanced at the message, and her lips grew suddenly white as she noted the writing.

It was in pencil, written very plainly. The envelope was folded from a page of letter-paper and sealed with gum of some sort. When she opened it, she found the written page was a communication to Mr. Bryton concerning saddle-horses. But a pencil was drawn through the lines, and around the Bryton letter was written the real message, and it was very brief:

_"A man is hurt here. Can you in quiet help him to San Juan?"_

An arrow and a cross were the only signature.

Teresa watched Ana questioningly. Letters to women were rare in San Juan, where few women could read; it must be of a death, or something of great importance.

But Ana told nothing, only ordered the boy to go to Ysadora for some lunch before he started back, and to tell Dona Refugia that all was well at San Juan. Though Dona Teresa listened closely, that was all she could hear that was said, and then she knew, of course, that Ana did not intend to remain a widow. She had a lover who wrote letters, an Americano perhaps; the Mexicans did not trouble themselves with such useless learning, now that the old padres were gone.

Ana sat quietly on the veranda for a little while, speaking of matters in general, and then arose languidly and confessed she wished she had gone with Raquel. A ride to the beach was better than to stay shut up in the town. Now that the vigilantes had gone, women would dare ride abroad without growing gray with fear.