Part 19

* * * * *

It happened the very next morning. Señor John was in the garden, sketching the peacock, and humming the song of the sun and the moon and the veil as he sketched, and Father José was close by, busy with the roses, a violet-bordered square of black silk tied over his ears, and his hands full of dislodged pickets and lengths of string. Suddenly they heard the screams of a girl--screams sharp with grief--then, wild broken cries--“Padre! Oh! oh! _Mamita! Dios!_ It is blood!”

“Señor John!” called the father. “Something unlucky has befallen Miguel. Come!”

They hurried into the kitchen by one door and out of it by another and along the path that led back of the chapel. A middle-aged lady was standing beside the path--a bareheaded, fat lady, whose face, though gentle and somewhat dirty, suggested the round face of Paloma; with her was Paloma--her head upon her mother’s breast, and her form shaking with tempestuous sobs. At their feet, on the smooth-packed ground, was a little round dark pool.

“It is as I feared,” said the father, when he stopped and looked down. “Here are some yellow-grey hairs, and here, cloven hoof-marks.”

Paloma, seeing out of one eye that Señor John was present, now began to wail more vigorously than before. “O my Miguel!” she exclaimed. “You were so pretty and so good! O _padrecito_, he but pruned the roses!”

Her mother wept, too, but silently, and strove to sooth Paloma by patting her on the shoulder. Her own tears she dried against the scarlet shawl, after she had smiled a sad greeting through them.

“Do not cry,” said Father José, wiping surreptitiously at his cheeks with a flowing corner of the silk square.

“Because Miguel isn’t dead,” declared Señor John. “The dogs have only wounded him probably, and he’s run away to hide.”

The words of comfort had an effect opposite to that desired. Paloma’s sorrow mounted. She threw herself upon her knees, clinging now to her mother’s dress, and now catching at the black skirt of the father, and “Oh! oh! oh!” she sobbed.

“I’m going to start right out and hunt him,” said the young painter. “If he’s dead, I’ll find his body.”

The father shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe,” he said. “But you forget, señor, the deer is good to eat.”

“At _this_ time of the year?” asked the other, significantly.

At that the two men exchanged glances of meaning. Then, “Let us hunt until we know,” advised Father José, in a low tone. “And, meanwhile, let us say nothing.” He laid a finger on his lips.

Paloma had listened--between sobs--to what was being said. Now, she sprang up excitedly. “Know?” she cried. “I know this moment. _He_ did it! None needs to tell me different. Every day he has come. ‘Marry me or give back the ring,’ he has said. And I have said, ‘No,’ to both. And he has done this to revenge himself. The rattlesnake!” The next moment she straightened resentfully, and stared past Señor John and the father. Then, “Rattlesnake!” she cried again, and stamped a foot.

The others turned about, and beheld Anastacio sauntering down the path that led from the pueblo to the chapel. He returned their look defiantly--almost triumphantly--and took off his sombrero in a wide, mocking sweep.

There was that in the gesture which made the father resolve on a rebuke. “Anastacio!” he called peremptorily, and hurried toward the vaquero, his eyes severe, his thin face flushed even up his bald forehead to the roots of his white hair. “Anastacio,” he said, as he neared the path, “the cock that crows the loudest catches the eye of the cook.”

The vaquero’s eyes widened in innocent wonderment. “What is it that I have done?” he questioned, in an aggrieved voice.

“Miguel is gone. It was a coward’s trick, I say, even though he nibbled my roses.”

“Miguel gone! Since when, father? Alas! Too bad! But if a man is in Albuquerque all the night----” he pulled at his moustache.

“Where do you visit in Albuquerque? You busy yourself with gambling, I have no doubt, or with drinking--surely some sin. Where?”

“At Riley’s, father, on the street which has a car. There till midnight. Then, at Georgio’s, for the stupid Riley shuts his door when it is twelve.”

“So? I trust you do not think to throw ashes in my eyes. For I get the truth always, do I not?” Then, suddenly pointing, “I see that you crossed the river _on foot_.”

Anastacio regarded his boots. They showed a recent wetting, and one end of his serape--from which a small, bright square had been torn--hung as heavy as if it had been trailed in a stream.

“Do you _walk_ to Albuquerque?” inquired Father José, eyeing him narrowly.

The vaquero tried to smile, but it was only a drawing back of his lips from over his white teeth. “Sometimes I walk,” he answered evasively.

“Then the Rio Grande is plainly like a sea for you,” declared the father. “For you are the tint of an unripe lemon.” With that, he walked away.

Instead of searching for the lost Miguel, Señor John rode to Albuquerque that afternoon, that being Father José’s wish. When he returned at sunset, it was with the expected news. Anastacio had not been seen in the town the evening previous. And neither could venison be purchased at a certain little Spanish shop, though the young painter had first winked across a piece of silver and then asked for a cut of the deer brought from Los Morales.

But the day following the hunt began. As many as three Indians reluctantly consented to help, and led by Señor John and the girl on the spotted mustang, made off to the marshes north of the town. Late rains had deepened the ooze of the marshes, and even the road which crossed them was a channel for running water. The two on horseback floundered from one muddy pool to another, while the Pueblos, wound in bright blankets, stationed themselves on a dry eminence and solemnly rotated.

Paloma watched the searchers from the roof of her home, and when they returned, gave herself over to tears of rage and desolation. Fortunately, Anastacio came to talk with her at suppertime, and to declare his guiltlessness solemnly. So her unhappiness found a vent. She berated him. She cried that never, _never_ would she marry him. And in the end, when she had said all her say, she stuffed her fingers into her pretty ears and bade him begone.

After that, seven days passed without incident.

The morning of the ninth day following Miguel’s disappearance, Señor John chanced to be painting by the river. At Los Morales the Rio Grande is wide, and the colour of the crumbling dirt banks between which it runs; the colour, too, of the high, crumbling dirt-cliffs that stand back of the pueblo on the west, and the colour of the low, square, flat-roofed adobe houses of the Indian village. Two high, white crosses marked its ford--one being set on the farther shore and one on the near. At the base of the latter the young painter had his easel, and over him, made fast to the cross so as to shade him from the sun, was a huge umbrella, yellower than the river.

As he worked he glanced, now at the shallow stream, and now at his canvas--this as painters do. Suddenly, something close to the bank caught his eye--a greyish something, almost submerged, around which the water purled and played with little whispers. He sprang up in haste, overturning easel and stool, and ran down the narrow, sloping beach which here stretched between river and bank.

There was no need to doubt what he saw. For there, thrust up through the moving water, almost in reach of his hand, was the point of a sharp horn.

His first thought was that Paloma might see it; his next, that Father José must be summoned.

The father came at once, adjusting his spectacles upon his high nose as he hurried along. And when he saw what was lying near the shore, with the water urging it inch by inch downstream, he fell back with a shocked and sorrowful face, murmuring his pity. “The gentle creature!” he said. “I trust I was never over-bitter against him. Though he had green to feed upon, yet he would rather crop at my flowers. Señor, how human!”

“But what is that, Father José?” Señor John pointed to a bit of bright-coloured cloth that was now spread out upon the surface of the water from the tip of the horn. By wading a step and poking at the cloth with the end of his brush-handle, he dislodged it, whereupon it gave a sudden whirl, floated for a few feet, then rode into shore on an eddy.

“Ah, señor!” cried Father José, as he caught it up--and anger succeeded pity on his face. “He thought to throw the little beast where he would be sucked down. But the sands have shifted! And here is telltale proof! Come with me, señor. It requires discussion.” And he led the way hastily to Paloma’s.

What befell at the council needs no particular recounting. Paloma’s mother said little and that in Spanish. Paloma wept and threatened, and vowed that now she truly would _not_ marry Anastacio, though he lived to be as old as the father himself and as rich as the richest man in Albuquerque. As for Señor John, he said little, but listened respectfully to Father José, who spoke chiefly of the law.

After the drum had beaten, and midday prayers had been said in the chapel, Father José took a cup of coffee to fortify him, then donned cloak and hat and climbed up to the little railway station at the top of the crumbling dirt-cliffs. There he asked on the telephone for the office of the sheriff of the county, and when the sheriff spoke at the other end of the wire, Father José asked him to hasten to Los Morales to arrest one Anastacio Galvez, for killing a deer out of season.

* * * * *

When the sheriff came, Anastacio, swaggering cheerfully, again sought Paloma. “_Ninita_,” he began, “I come for a farewell word. I am sorry now that Miguel is dead, since it makes you so unhappy. But do not forget that love urged me to do away with him.”

“Then murder again!” retorted Paloma, enraged; “--my mother, the dear father, the guinea-pigs which _Mamita_ has just given me--all! So you will have my heart alone--perhaps.” And she laughed harshly.

There was a suspicion of merriment in his eyes, but he pulled a long face. “I am going to prison for the sake of my love,” he protested. “I _must_ go to prison, for I have not a cent with which to pay the fine.”

Now Paloma almost shrieked in her triumph. “_Good!_” she cried. “And perish in prison. I am pleased! I am pleased! And because you have been in prison I shall never marry you. The killing of Miguel was very much. But a prison is much more. I could never marry a man who had been in prison. My pride would not let me.”

“Then all is over between us?” questioned Anastacio, meekly.

“All! _All!_ I tell you I would not marry you now if you were covered thick with gold and silver and jewels from your head to your ugly feet--no, not even if you had thousands of pearls as big as this one.” And she flashed the ring before his dark eyes.

“In that case,” he went on, “I think it but honest that you should give back this pearl.” And he watched her keenly.

“The pearl!” she cried. She was walking to and fro, her head high “The pearl will pay me for the loss of Miguel. Yesterday I said, ‘I shall give Anastacio back the ring, for I hate the sight of it. And, besides, the pearl is doubtless only glass, after all, and I can easily get a better.’ But now--I shall keep it.” (This with an imperious glance of her eyes.)

“Miguel was not worth so much,” argued Anastacio. “He was little and thin. And the pearl----” His eyes rested upon it, where it flashed on the hand at her side.

“You shall not have the pearl,” she declared, “not if you _die_ asking for it. You killed my pretty Miguel--and it was not even on a feast-day. So now, this is how you pay.” As she crossed the floor with slow grace, she smiled mockingly.

Again his look rested longingly on the round whiteness of his gift. “Ah, Paloma,” he said tenderly, “you but increase my passion as you storm. Little dove, your sweet mouth is the colour of pepper-tree berries. Your eyes----”

“Have done with my mouth and my eyes!” ordered Paloma, pausing against the window. But she spoke perhaps a shade less angrily than before. “They are not for you. Go hunt among the Indian girls for a wife. One of these you can lead about on a rope, as you do your cows. But, ah, I pity the one you would choose! A squaw is too good for you--much too good.”

“I must speak of your beauty,” insisted Anastacio. “It fills my eyes like the light of the sun. When I shall see it no more the night will fall for me. O my Paloma!” And he took one step toward her.

She waved him back with her two hands. “Keep your compliments!” she said haughtily. “I do not want them. And take yourself off. I never wish to see you again.”

But Anastacio, undaunted, approached another step or two. “Do not be cruel, Paloma,” he begged. “Say farewell kindly to me, sweet dove. And before I go let me--yes, be merciful--let me kiss your little hand.”

“No! _No!_ I say!” She leaned farther away, and struck at him as he came--though not hard.

With a tender cry of “Ah! my beautiful one!” he caught her two flying hands in his. Then, holding all her fingers firmly, he bent his dark head down to her left hand swiftly. The next moment, he retreated, almost with a leap, swung the door open, closed it behind him, ran swiftly to where the sheriff was waiting for him on the path by the chapel, threw himself on to a horse, and led the way at a gallop to the river.

Paloma pursued him, and so fleetly that her hand all but touched the _tapadero_ of his stirrup as he rode into the river. Those who saw her then, standing at the edge of the stream, splashed upon face and dress with the yellow water sent into the air by his horse’s hoofs, were appalled as they looked at her. She was livid with anger and screamed wild things that no one understood--execrations and threats. Then she fell down at the ford in a very spasm of wrath.

It was Señor John who lifted her up and gave her into the comforting arms of her mother. “What did he do?” he questioned. “He’s a bad, heartless wretch, that’s what he is.”

“Señor! My adored pearl!” wailed Paloma, finding her voice. “Oh, he has taken my precious pearl!” She held out her left hand tremblingly.

“The pearl?” echoed Father José, joining the others.

“See what he did!” wept Paloma. “He made as if to kiss my fingers--_and bit the pearl from my ring_!”

* * * * *

At sunset Anastacio was back at Los Morales again, where he bade fair to become a hero before long, since the Indians could not but honour a man who was able so promptly to throw off the clutches of the jailer. Anastacio related his adventures to those Pueblos who were lounging before the single store of the town, and who, as they listened, surrounded him in an eager, many-hued circle. It was easy, he explained, to guard against being kept in custody if one but used a little forethought. As for his own case, it had presented no difficulties. He had paid his fine with the pearl.

When the boast reached the ears of Paloma, what could have maddened her more? At once she sat herself down to think. Revenge was what she most desired. Revenge was what she must have--but how? Not till she had paced the floor many times, and torn all the fringe from the bottom of the scarlet shawl, did she think out the best way.

The girl who rode the spotted mustang came past the chapel the very next morning. Paloma ran to halt her, holding up a flower culled from Father José’s garden by way of an inducement to stop. And when Paloma had made sure that no one was watching them, or listening, she divulged an earnest wish. It was that Señorita Roberta would give her the loan of a ring.

A pair of blue eyes laughed down at her knowingly. “Punish him well!” whispered Señorita Roberta, and slipped a band from a finger. “Here--take this one with a green stone. It will make him _terribly_ jealous!” Then she rode to where Señor John was painting beneath the empty belfry in the shadow of the chapel wall.

Putting on the borrowed ring Paloma hastened to dress herself with great care. After which, strolling carelessly, she made through the sunlight to the store.

The man who kept the store was young, but with the pallid skin and sad, hollow eyes that denote a mortal illness. He could move about but slowly in the little room, and take down and display and put away only with much effort.

As he waited upon her, Paloma walked to and fro with a gay step, all the while talking: “Show me the calico with the yellow flower, señor. Yes--a yard, please. Did you hear that Señor Gordon is to paint me? Well, he is--and with the padre’s peacock. I am to wear a certain white dress that I shall not use for the purpose it was once intended. No; I shall buy another white dress--very soon, I think--a much richer dress. And, look, señor, is this ring not beautiful? The stone came from beyond the Pacific Ocean.”

Behind the stove, as she sauntered about, boasting, sat a figure wrapped to the ears in a torn serape. But the figure did not move, or appear to see, or even so much as cough.

“Yes,” babbled Paloma, “first I’m to be put in a picture. Then--who knows?--I may go on a long trip. Oh, farther than Albuquerque, señor. Yes, one spool of white thread, very fine. I may even go as far as Chicago.” She tossed her pretty head with meaning. “A girl cannot always live in Los Morales,” she added. “It is but a poor place.” Thereupon, she gathered up her packages, put down some coins upon the counter, gave the sick young man a saucy smile, and went out.

Perhaps it was ten--perhaps fifteen--minutes later when Anastacio rose from his seat by the stove. A change had come over him--a change that was not good to see. His thin face was as ghastly white as the face of the man behind the counter. Out of it gleamed his black eyes, which were so wide open that each was rimmed with white. And his lips were purple under his long moustache and parted to show the line of his set, white teeth. Now his hat was not hiding his forehead, but back upon his shining hair; nor was the torn serape about his shoulders--it was wound around his left arm. He went down through the village, out upon the path which led to the chapel, along this to where Señor John was still painting under the belfry, and so on to the ford, where he disappeared from sight under the high bank that stood a little way back from the river.

* * * * *

The day had begun warm and still, and the noon had been hot, without a breath of air to stir the drooping flowers in Father José’s garden or wave the bright fan of the strutting peacock. But at the middle of the afternoon black clouds suddenly lowered upon river and town, dropping from off the high dirt-cliffs to the west, and bringing twilight with them. A gusty wind marshalled the clouds along, bent the reeds in the marsh, drove through the winding streets of the pueblo and caught at the blankets of the Indians who were scurrying to cover, and brushed all the surface of the river into a white lather. Then came great drops of rain.

Señor John fled into Father José’s kitchen. “Do you think I’d better start home now?” he inquired, “or wait a while?”

“Wait,” advised the father. “There will be _tamales_ for supper, and a loaf of bread heated with butter. After a day like this one, señor, the storm soon passes.”

But as night came on swiftly the wind grew to a gale and the rain began to drive, beating upon the panes of the wide-ledged window like whips of grass.

Señor John ate his supper in silence, getting up nervously every now and then to open the front door a trifle in order to look out, or he shaded his eyes from the lamplight as he peered through the window. The father touched little food, and following supper took his seat in the cane chair before the open grate of his stove--his head lowered and his eyes closed.

Before long the young painter could not contain his impatience further. “I think I’d better start,” he said. “It doesn’t act like quitting for sometime.”

Father José rose. “Why go home to-night?” he asked. “You will not be able to see the cross on the other side, señor. You are welcome here.”

“Oh, I must get over somehow. They would worry about me.”

The father looked grave. “The storm still increases,” he said.

The rain was coming in sheets against the window now, but at short intervals, so that it was as if a white wraith were returning noisily again and again to peer through the blurred glass. The blue blinds outside the father’s bedchamber were banging forward and back with a rattle of loose laths. Upon the level roof overhead sounded the unbroken roar of the tempest.

“A cloudburst and a hurricane,” went on the father. He also opened the front door a little to look out. “I have never seen its like before, señor. They will surely not expect you to brave this.”

The young painter’s face had grown suddenly anxious. “But _she_ might try to come--looking for me,” he said.

“Señorita Roberta? No. She knows how dangerously the river rises in a storm and how the sands shift.”

Señor John was pulling his soft hat down to his ears. “You said yourself, though, father, that she doesn’t know what it means to be afraid of the Rio Grande. I _must_ go. My horse is all right. He’ll take me over.”

“Do not risk it,” advised Father José. “Listen!” And he held up a finger.

There was now a deep voice in the tumult outside--a voice that boomed in heavy undertones.

“It is the river, señor. Oh, I shall worry too.”

“I’ll yell when I get across.”

“I could not hear. But I have an old pistol which I took from a quarrelsome Indian.” The father disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying a long-barrelled revolver of an old make. “Fire this when you reach the other side.”

“Good-night, Father.”

“Good-night, my son.”

They shook hands and Señor John went out through the door leading into the garden.