CHAPTER X

THE FALSE FRAILE

Steven found himself, after parting with Don Tiburcio, in a level valley fertile as an Oriental garden. Fifteen miles of sandy desert lay between the river and the sheer spur of Rockies which they had crossed. This was a desert land, fruitful only where the river flowed, barren save where water touched; but in that rich strip of earth along the river banks were groves of ancient cottonwood. The pink tamarack waved its plumes against the blue sky, and among them nestled many comfortable little ranchos, all Mexican, for the land of the Pueblo Indians had been left far behind along the upper valley of the Rio Grande.

There were other Indians westward, an old Mexican told him. All beyond was the land of the Navajo, a country of a great desert and a vast rift in the earth, greater than any canyon man had ever seen. This painted canyon was near the Mission of San Xavier del Bac, near the homes of the Moquis, too. A country for one to adventure in.

But Steven’s feet were drawn where his heart lay, and, failing that, homeward. Youth and pride and the hopelessness of first love would not let him turn back to Santa Fe, so down to Vera Cruz, whence one could take ship for New Orleans, and so home, he must go. Of the two hundred silver dollars which had remained to him when he set out across the prairies from Independence there still remained one hundred and fifty. For if life were cheap in this land where mankind was so scattered, living cost nothing at all, hospitality was to be had for the asking.

One evening at sunset at a place where the ditch banks burgeoned with flowering locust and the bird-of-paradise tree, Steven came to a low rambling ranch house whose stoutly pillared portal was framed in sweet clematis. The place was like an oasis. He had trotted his weary little mare over many a dusty mile across a sandy arid mesa. It was with relief that he dismounted and took water from a gourd offered by a young girl whose dark beauty was like a madonna’s. There was no wife in the house, but the father, a grave, silent man, appeared in the door and offered his house to the strange blond traveler, questioning neither his name nor his race, his destination nor his business. An older brother to the girl came up to take Steven’s horse. He was dark and silent, too, like the father, with a sharp, suspicious gleam in his eye. As they talked, a fraile, or friar, in the habit of a Franciscan, emerged from a wing of the house and joined them with an easy, merry flow of talk.

The fraile was fat and, though well robed, was illy groomed, unshaven, and therefore unpleasant to Steven. Yet in spite of a certain grossness the prelate had charm, wit that was most welcome. When Steven had been shown to a room and had washed away the dust of travel he went outside again and sat with the men beneath the paradise trees, where the fraile talked of many things and held his listeners’ attention undiverted. Fray Bartolomeo had been for a number of years in Albuquerque, but he had been recalled, _gracias a Dios_, and was going back to his beloved Mexico.

Fray Bartolomeo rubbed his hands with unaffected gusto when the _mosa_ came calling them to dinner. This was but a farmer’s house, not that of a poor peon by any means, but a prosperous ranchero, who was called “Don” by his neighbors and servants, but who was not of the Spanish hidalgos, nor made pretense of being. There was plenty of the foods to which Steven had already become accustomed in New Mexico, but of which he had not eaten in a week, for the poor and the shiftless had little but beans and chili, and night had brought him only to such places heretofore. Here was melon such as he had never known surpassed, soup of strange herbs and greens, filled with balls of finely ground meat rich with chili and mutton fat. There were squashes baked in the outdoor _estufas_, rich and mealy, and little cakes made of corn flour and covered with white honey and chopped piñon nuts.

Fray Bartolomeo ate with a smacking of lips; he leaned over his deep plate and scooped the food untidily into his mouth with wisps of tortilla, although Don José, his host, had two silver spoons set at the plate of each guest. Don José owned a silver bowl and pitcher, and for the rest the reddish earthenware of Mexico. The Madonna-faced girl who ate silently with them rose during the meal and brought in a bowl of luscious grapes, both small and large. Fray Bartolomeo spat the skins on the bare earthen floor, which, though uncarpeted, was scrupulously swept and clean, as was indeed the entire room, with its whitewashed walls and sturdy hand-built furniture.

Don José sent for wine, and poured from the bulging kidskin that was brought in a silver pitcher full. They quaffed it from gourd cups. The fraile grew red with content and, draining his _copa_ at a gulp, passed it back for more. The pitcher was filled again and again, and while the fraile consumed an incredible quantity of wine and the girl carried away the remains of the supper, Don José, his son, and Steven listened to talk of gaming birds, of the virtues of good cooking, and the skill of the Indians at gaming and as silversmiths.

Strange talk from a fraile for pious ears. The lean features of Don José contracted with disapproval, and after the candles had been lit he arose and withdrew. The son remained, held by a gloomy fascination with the conversation, and as the evening wore on Steven himself listened with delight and amazement. Low, unclean, cunning as the fraile showed himself to be, growing less and less careful as he bibbed at the wine, nevertheless he was a man whose knowledge was wide, whose tastes were cosmopolitan.

He was a Cachupin, a Spanish-born resident of old Mexico, and for that reason was being recalled along with the other Spanish born who were to be expelled from the land. He did not make mention of the fact that there were certain charges which he would be compelled to face before his superiors of the Church.

“Yet what difference does it make,” he shrugged, “whether I am in Spain or here? One would scarcely know the difference. The same mountains, the same faces, same types. I think the wine of Spain is better, yet the grapes are not so good, so rich.” He sighed. “Spain has little gold or silver. No jewels, much as she craves them. Her rubies come from the Orient, her sapphires from France. Mexico has gold and silver, opals and aquamarines, and for precious gems pearls from the Gulf on the western coast.

“But Spain, ah Spain,” the fraile sighed with genuine rapture. “There is a finished life. What paintings! Did you know that last year the great Goya died? Never has there been a greater depicter of Spain. For one of his canvases I would give----” His voice died away. But he had been lucky, the fraile said, always lucky. Lucky at cards, lucky in love. To the horrified ears of the two youths he roared of his conquests and spoke of matters beyond their comprehension. And now his luck still held, the babbling tongue went on, for had he not won at cards, from a youth of the Villa, a thousand times the amount of the boy’s losses, payment, by an old painting, a priceless canvas which should have gone to the Church, anyway, but which he would sell when he got to Mexico City, or to Spain. The proceeds would make him rich beyond avarice.

The impious bragging of the prelate, imposing thus on the respect and hospitality due his garb from faithful Catholics, had broken the spell of his speech, and without ceremony the two youths left him, bowed soddenly over the table. Yet the next morning Fray Bartolomeo was brisk and fresh and ready to start forth upon his way. Steven declined his invitation to be a partner on the road as far as El Paso del Norte, where the Cachupin was to join a caravan for safety down the Cordilleras. Steven preferred traveling alone, and made excuse that he was saddle-sore and would remain for a matter of weeks right here.

So the friar rode off and Steven spent a quiet day, resting, getting his linen washed, chatting with the pretty child, winning the sober friendliness of the youth. Don José was gone all day and did not appear until sundown. He had been away looking after his sheep, he said, and brought back a lamb for stewing. With dawn the next morning Steven was on his way. He rode along briskly and uneventfully, mile after mile, passing the laborious oxen and their clumsy carts, and tiny burros laden with vast burdens like moving haystacks. He had received a map from Don Tiburcio and was making toward the pass of the north, where he would leave the Rio Grande behind and follow the mountains down to Chihuahua.

A well-traveled road lay before him, stretching smooth and hard between rolling dunes where stunted palms and Spanish dagger pricked the desert. Suddenly between the ruts he came upon a body prone, lying with arms outflung beneath its black cassock--the fraile, dead, his glazed eyes staring into the sun. One tale too many the night before. Here was unexpected reprisal far from the scene of some forgotten injury.

Shrinking from the unwelcome office of giving the fraile decent burial, Steven nevertheless pulled at the heavy body that lay as it fell with a knife in the heart. He dragged it to the side of the road, intending to cover it with stones in a sandy grave so that neither coyotes nor wolves could scratch it forth. He owed the fraile that much for what entertainment and information he had yielded him two nights before.

The movement disclosed a long, rolled-up piece of canvas protruding from beneath the cassock of the dead fraile. Steven drew it forth and, loosing the deerskin thongs with which it was bound, unrolled a painting, cracked, old, yet to his eyes undoubtedly beautiful and perhaps of value. Then in a flash he recognized the painting of the “Madonna and Child” which he had seen upon the wall of the sala in Don Anabel Lopez’s house upon his first night in Santa Fe. The talk of the fraile came rushing back to him and he recalled it with new significance. Why had it not occurred to him at the time that this coveted treasure had been dishonestly secured from Santa Fe?

Steven stood in the road for some time, gazing at the painting, putting the story together. Then he rolled the canvas up again, replacing the thong that had bound it. The fraile’s care that so valuable a thing should not leave his person had saved the painting, for his mules had either been driven off or had run away by themselves, all his possessions upon them, while this most priceless article had remained concealed beneath his long robes. Whoever had made an end of Fray Bartolomeo had not stopped to touch him or to look for gold or silver upon his person.

Steven tied the roll upon the side of his mare, fastening it to the wrought-leather saddle securely. Then he turned to the fraile. An hour later a fresh heap of stones marked a spot by the roadside and two buzzards appeared high in the sky. Steven straightened up, heaved a thoughtful sigh, and brushed the sweat from his temples. Mounting his mare, he turned her head about and, pressing his spurs upon her flanks, set off at a canter toward Santa Fe.

It was the only thing to do. He was secretly relieved to have the matter of decision taken out of his hands. There was obviously no one to whom he could safely intrust the return of the canvas. He must take it himself, just as Don Tiburcio de Garcia had taken Doren back to his sister.

Steven returned that night to the house which he had left in the early morning. His reception was gentle and cordial. He told Don José that he had changed his mind and why he was returning to Santa Fe. Don José exchanged a swift look with his son, and nodded to his guest in acknowledgment without changing expression. Steven brought in the roll of canvas, opened and spread it before their gaze. They knelt before its beauty, crossing themselves.

“I am taking it back where it came from,” Steven said, simply. Don José gazed at him with a deep, searching look, and the two clasped hands after the manner of the country, left hands upon the other’s arm.

Steven thought, “Perhaps they think it was I who stabbed the fraile.” But neither would have told whatever he thought or whoever had done the deed.

Steven came after many weeks to the ford above Albuquerque. “I will not cross here,” he thought, “but above, nearest the Sandia Mountains.” To the north he could faintly see the tips of the snow-capped peaks that towered above Santa Fe. It was late winter and the giant cottonwoods were turned to copper and polished brass. The nights were cold. Steven was weary of travel alone; he longed once more to be with friends. Adventuring was hard business and he was glad that he was not a trapper, yet the wilderness had forged a claim that he could never forget, upon him, too, a claim that he could never shake off.

He rode along the river bank, thinking of these things, and before he realized it came upon a large hacienda before which lay a garden of at least two _varas_, surrounded by a stout wall, well fortified, and with many outbuildings behind. He was surprised to see so expansive a dwelling here, for there were fewer _ricos_ near the town named after the famous Spanish duke than there were at Santa Fe. By rising in his stirrups he could peer over the wall, and in the garden he saw a boy playing, shooting at a target with bow and arrows. It was Doren Bragdon! Steven hallooed, and in a few moments the heavy gate was opened and he rode through to alight before Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia.

This was an occasion of great rejoicing. The hacienda was set aflutter with preparations of an honored guest. Don Tiburcio apologized for the meanness of his furnishings; he had been able to procure little there in the territory fit to set up an establishment with. They had built on to an already old and seasoned house, and were still building; Don Tiburcio had already sent a messenger to Mexico for silver and robes and furniture and brocade and the finest tapestries to be procured in the capital. As soon as he and Hope had been married they had come down here. They wished to stay in New Mexico so that Hope would be near to some Americanos.

Hope smiled shyly at Steven. She wore a sapphire that would ransom a General of Mexico; her gown was ridiculously rich to be trailing about in the dust. “But Don Tiburcio will not let me wear gingham,” she protested, not pridefully, but in real distress. “Even when I am working I must be dressed in fine clothes.”

Don Tiburcio took Steven to a workroom where he had a cabinet-maker carving furniture, and he had engaged an Indian silversmith who was melting up silver to make plates and forks and spoons and other service worthy of his wife’s table.

“Come,” said Hope, drawing Steven to one side, “sit here in the garden with me, for I want to tell you something.” She was silent for a moment and her eyes were moist. “I owe you everything--all this happiness--Doren, my husband, everything. They have told me, Don Tiburcio, and Doren, too, how you went after my father and how you found them at last. But it is not of that I want to speak, for I can never thank you. I want to talk to you about Consuelo. I know that she sent you to save Doren. She told me when I was ill and so worried. She wanted to give me courage. And it did. To know you had gone after him, it kept me alive. And I cannot forget Consuelo. She loved you, Steven Mercer, when she sent you away; but she thought you didn’t care about her.

“Steven, why didn’t you go back to her? Why don’t you go now, right away? She has been waiting there, eating her heart out, worrying about you, and she feels so badly, Steven, that she sent you away and didn’t say she loved you. For she does love you, Steven. She told me so.” It embarrassed Hope to speak about love, but she did it with painful honesty.

“I’m going back as fast as I can travel,” Steven assured her smilingly.

“Come,” said Don Tiburcio, “I see you two Americanos have much to talk about, but I want to show Señor Estevan my store, my warehouse. Did I not tell you,” he asked with evident pleasure, as he led the way to the bodegas, “that it would be less than six months and not so far away as Mexico that we should meet? I felt that this would somehow come about.”

He showed Steven the grains and wheats, the pelts and hides, with which the bodega was stored. “What do you say, _amigo_, to going into partnership with me here? I will handle whatever goods you wish to import from New Orleans and to pass on to me here, and I will supply you with as much Spanish merchandise from Mexico, with silver ore and gold bullion, as you need to carry on your end of the trade in Santa Fe. There is a great future. Don Anabel Chavez is our greatest competitor; but when he is gone there will be little opposition from Luis, for he is both lazy and incompetent. You can buy as you see fit from incoming traders. You can collect furs. The fur business has definitely been transferred from the Northeast to the Southwest and for a number of years the Rocky Mountain Company will be the richest field for hunter and trapper. There is room for many here. Let us, too, build up a business in this country. What do you say, my friend?”

Steven was radiantly pleased. Here was the opportunity to trade in a big way. He could show his father that capital was available without asking a dollar from Mercer & Co. He could trade, buying his own cargo and paying for it. He could build up a great business. His dreams soared, all before he had answered Don Tiburcio de Garcia.

“That I’ll do, señor,” he responded.

“Let us strike hands on the bargain, then,” the Mexican proposed. “You are going on to Santa Fe? Good. I shall follow you there within a week or so and we will complete the details. I shall finance the caravan loads that come from St. Louis each year.”

Steven slept in a wide fresh room, with linen sheets upon a hair mattress, such luxury as he had not known in months. He left shortly after his breakfast and departed right merrily, while Doren and Hope would not say good-by, but _hasta la vista_ (till we meet again).