For the Soul of Rafael Part 7

She turned dismayed though roguish eyes on Raquel.

"He did not expect us when the rains came," said Raquel with quiet certainty. "If he received Dona Luisa's letter, he has gone by sea to San Diego. Did she not say so, Anita?"

"Oh, he can do much, your handsome Rafael," agreed Ana, "but he cannot yet stop the tide, or dam La Christienita! Such a dry bed in Summer! and now it is a river."

"But not deep?" hazarded Raquel. "Not so deep as the carriage bed."

"Deep? There is one ford that is safe if one knows it; but, Holy Maria!

on each side are pits of a depth to drown us all!"

"Oh, if there is a good ford to be found--" The rest of Raquel's sentence was drowned in Ana's shrieks of protest, as her horse was spurred into the torrent in search of the roadway safe for a carriage.

Ana was right; there were pits, and there were great round bowlders on the edges of them. The horse stumbled on one, recovered, and stumbled again where the current swung into a whirlpool; and then, as the water roaring in her ears almost drowned Ana's screams, a sharp authoritative voice sounded from the bank--

"Loose the stirrup!"

Raquel did so mechanically, just as a rope circled about her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides, and with a quick, cruel jerk she was wrenched from the saddle; and as her horse, relieved of her weight, swam straight for the opposite sh.o.r.e, she felt herself caught by a strong arm and lifted across another saddle. The man with the reata had caught her first, lest she be dragged downward into the whirlpool, but it was another man who dashed through the whirl of waters and bore her to the sh.o.r.e, where half a dozen men waited. They were evidently vaqueros; one of them had thrown the reata, and hastened now to loosen it, to lift her from her rescuer and stand her on her feet. She swayed a trifle, and reaching blindly for support, she caught the arm of a man beside her, the one who had lifted her from the water. Then for the first time she noticed that he wore the garb of a priest, evidently a secular priest, for he wore a beard, and even then it struck her as strange that he looked so bronzed and rugged. His grasp was that of a rider of the range, rather than a priest of the Church.

"Father, the Virgin have you in her keeping! You saved my life then. I shall always--always--"

Then she could no longer distinguish priest from vaquero; the earth seemed to meet the sky, and between them she was extinguished.

When she awoke she no longer could hear the screams of Ana, and the red rays of the lowering sun touched the face of the priest as he bent over her. It had more of youth than she had at first perceived.

"Lie you still," he said, as one used to command. "The water was rough with you, and the reata rougher. Swallow some of this wine; it came from your own carriage, and is better than ours."

"From the carriage?" The carriage was on the opposite side of the stream, but her horse had followed her and was tied near, shaking himself like a great dog.

"Yes. I sent one of the boys--the vaqueros--across. Your friends know you are safe, but the carriage cannot come over--not yet; you have had good fortune to get out."

"The good fortune was to find you here, father," she said, and catching his hand she kissed it reverently. "It is a good omen and shows me a blessing is on my journey to my father's land. You may have known him by name. I am Raquel Estevan, and it was my father Felipe who once owned this land from mountain to sea."

"Felipe Estevan--you! But that cannot be. He is dead, and his one child is in religion--I was told so--I--"

The color came back to her face, and she raised herself on her elbow.

"It is true--I was for the Church--but I will tell you all--some time!"

"Go on," said the priest, authoritatively, "tell me now!"

"I was told it was better to work for G.o.d out in the world," she said, softly, "and so I am coming with my Aunt Luisa, father's cousin, and--"

"And--" he looked at her strangely. "Then it is you--you they bring to marry with Rafael Arteaga. Holy Mary! And it is Felipe's daughter--Felipe Estevan--who sold for a song rather than live under the Americanos; and it is for his daughter I wait here by San Onofre--for his daughter!"

Raquel stared at his evident agitation, not understanding. The sentences of the padre sank to muttering beneath the black beard, as he turned and strode away. The vaqueros, standing together holding their horses as if eager to be gone, exchanged wondering glances and eyed the girl curiously. Directly he came striding back and halted beside her.

"Yet you marry with Rafael Arteaga," he said, accusingly. "You are Felipe's daughter, yet you are much Americano--eh? You are of the States, is it not so? Between you two, old California will no longer have foot-room from San Jacinto to the water out there. G.o.d!" and he ground his heel into the turf. "Yet are you Felipe's daughter, and we must let you go!"

"No!" she cried as vehemently as he. "I go nowhere from the rules of my father in this land. The things he loved I love; the things he fought for I will guard! It is for that, father, I marry with Rafael. He is--he is not so much for old California, I know--I hear! His mother is afraid; she grieves over that much! But the two of us--the two of us, with your prayers to help, and we keep him always for our father's country--always till he die--with your help!"

"With my--help?"

"Your prayers, father! You will see I am Felipe Estevan's daughter, even while I am born in Mexico. I will do what a son would do for our land and our Church. You will see--you will see! It is a blessing from G.o.d that you meet me here like this at the edge of the land. Always I have thought these thoughts in my heart, but only to you--a priest--could I say them in words, and it is well you meet me here like this. Your words are the words I needed to make me see what I want to do. It is like a baptism that I went under that water a girl, and your hand lift me out a woman! The Virgin sent me here this day that I meet you. You have opened the gate of the land for Felipe Estevan's daughter."

He leaned against the trunk of a young live-oak and stared at her with a derisive smile in the smoke-black eyes.

"Yes, the Virgin sent me," he said at last, "and she came near sending me too late. The trail is bad along La Christienita for the night-time, and the night is close. The man will take you back to your friends."

"But you, father? You come to the carriage and see the mother of Rafael--no? They wait for us. Dona Luisa is so very old; she will be anxious till she speak with me--and with you."

She arose and held out her hand. He regarded her strangely, and shook his head.

"The men have other work than to camp with a pleasure party. I stay on this side and have far to travel before sunrise. This once I talk with you--maybe nevermore, and to San Juan you take one message for Rafael Arteaga."

"A message? Yes?"

"Tell him Felipe Estevan's daughter has saved to him this once a treasure; but no woman can guard him always, for--El Capitan is never too far to come quickly!"

"Oh--Capitan?" she said with sudden comprehension. "I was told at San Luis Rey how much he is the enemy of Rafael. But it must not be, father.

Cannot we help that? I have heard of Capitan from an old soldier of the wars, who told me all I know of my father: he was a brave boy and--he fought beside my father. I remembered that when I pa.s.sed his mother's grave at San Luis Rey--it will never be bare and forgotten again--never!

I planted it thick with the pa.s.sion-vine. Dona Luisa tells me she was a great woman. She prays that some day the two cousins may be friends."

"Dona Luisa prays for what only the good G.o.d could make happen," said the priest, grimly. "But of course all things are possible to the good G.o.d, even in the land which G.o.d forgot. Fidele is waiting."

He made a movement toward the Mexican holding her horse, and without further words mounted another animal himself, and galloped away along the fringe of trees skirting the canon. Several of the others followed.

Only three remained to watch Fidele pilot his charge across the ford, where the ford was safe though deep; and once her animal's feet touched the opposite bank, her attendant, with a sweep of sombrero, but no words, wheeled his own horse and fell in line after his comrades, who were disappearing one by one toward the mountains.

Raquel Estevan sat her horse at the edge of the stream and stared after them, giving little heed to the shrill calls and exclamations of the women. Even after they had stripped her of the soaked riding-dress and wrapped her in serapes for the night, she maintained a thoughtful silence, and all Ana's hints of romances went for nought, so far as gaining replies or special notice.

What treasure had Felipe Estevan's daughter saved for Rafael Arteaga?

And why--why--that strange intensity of the priest? These questions were turned again and again in her mind as she lay there in the light of the camp-fire watching the stars move across the high blue. The other three women were sleeping as best they could in the carriage, smothered in serapes. Jacoba lamented every waking moment, because of much-feared rheumatism,--she was so certain it would mean a camp at the hot springs for a month, just at the time of the wedding!

Dona Luisa made no complaint. When told the carriage could not by any means cross safely, she braced herself for the ordeal of the night, and Raquel, glancing toward her, could see her face gray-white in the gathering dusk. All the night that gray profile met her eyes, for she slept not at all.

The driver had stretched himself where his horses were tethered, but the two Indian boys who rode with the carriage kept a fire of aliso boughs burning. They would nod at times with sleepiness, but the whispered command of the girl ever wakened them quickly, and the dying fire would blaze again. There was no conversation, only brief commands and prompt obedience; and thus the girl pa.s.sed the first night in the land of her father, the roar of the sea and the wild calls of the coyotes keeping silence from the night.

When the coyotes ceased and the birds heralded dawn, one Indian boy rode across at the ford and gauged the depth of the water on his cow-pony's legs. It was "muy bueno"--very good indeed, the water had gone down a foot, and before the dawn broke, the whole cavalcade was again under way. There was breakfast to ride for, and it was several miles across the hills.

Pedro was of the opinion that there was a round-up in the canon of La Paz, about half-way to San Juan. If so, there might be "carne oeco" and coffee to be had--perhaps tortillas. The vaqueros would be eating by dawn, but if it was possible to drive fast, there might be hope of coffee at least.

So Raquel rode ahead, alert at the coming day and the promise of it. Ana was glad to stay in the carriage with the older women, complaining that she had caught cold from the sea-damp. At one bend of the road she noticed Raquel far ahead, bending low over the neck of her horse, scanning the ground. Then she turned out of sight under the live-oaks in a narrow canon, and came galloping back to the main trail as the carriage came up.

"One would think you were searching the sand for grains of gold washed down from the mountains!" called Ana; but the girl shook her head, and rode thoughtfully up the incline to the mesa above. She had been noting the curious fact that the party of vaqueros and the priest had left the trail one by one, heading toward the hills wrapped still in the mist of the morning.

[Music: _El Charro_.]

Nescesito buen caballo, Buena Silla, y buen gaban.