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When dreams come true

by Ritter Brown · English · Gutenberg #28593 · 550,077 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: When dreams come true

Author: Ritter Brown

Illustrator: William Merritt Berger


        
Release date: April 23, 2009 [eBook #28593]
                Most recently updated: March 18, 2023

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE ***




[Illustration: SHE GLIDED AND WHIRLED IN THE MOONLIGHT, GRACEFUL AS A
WIND-BLOWN ROSE. _PAGE 284_]




                         WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE

                                  BY

                             RITTER BROWN
                     AUTHOR OF "MAN'S BIRTHRIGHT"

                             ILLUSTRATED BY
                              W. M. BERGER

                                New York
                        Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.




                            Copyright, 1912
                      By Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.




                                   TO
                                 MY SON




ILLUSTRATIONS

    "She glided and whirled in the moonlight, graceful
        as a wind-blown rose"                     _Frontispiece_
                                                         FACING
                                                           PAGE
    "The picture which she presented was one he carried
        with him for many a day"                            130

    "Instinctively he raised the casket with both hands"    272

    "'Madre! Madre _mia_!' she cried and flung herself
        into Chiquita's arms"                               292

    "They were startled by a low moan and saw Blanch
        sink slowly to the bench"                           330




    There is a tradition extant among the Indians of the Southwest,
    extending from Arizona to the Isthmus of Panama, to the effect
    that, Montezuma will one day return on the back of an eagle,
    wearing a golden crown, and rule the land once more; typifying
    the return of the Messiah and the rebirth and renewal of the race.




WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE




I


The beauty of midsummer lay upon the land--the mountains and plains of
Chihuahua. It was August, the month of melons and ripening corn. High
aloft in the pale blue vault of heaven, a solitary eagle soared in ever
widening circles in its flight toward the sun. Far out upon the plains
the lone wolf skulked among the sage and cactus in search of the rabbit
and antelope, or lay panting in the scanty shade of the yucca.

By most persons this little known land of the great Southwest is
regarded as the one which God forgot. But to those who are familiar with
its vast expanse of plain and horizon, its rugged sierras, its wild
desolate _mesas_ and solitary peaks of half-decayed mountains--its tawny
stretches of desert marked with the occasional skeletons of animal and
human remains--its golden wealth of sunshine and opalescent skies, and
have felt the brooding death-like silence which seems to hold as in a
spell all things living as well as dead, this land becomes one of
mystery and enchantment--a mute witness of some unknown or forgotten
past when the children of men were young, whose secrets it still
withholds, and with whose dust is mingled not only that of unnumbered
and unknown generations of men, but that of Montezuma and the hardy
daring _Conquistadores_ of old Spain.

But whatever may be the general consensus of opinion concerning this
land, such at least was the light in which it was viewed by Captain
Forest, as he and his Indian attendant, José, drew rein on the rim of a
broken, wind-swept _mesa_ in the heart of the Chihuahuan desert, a full
day's ride from Santa Fé whither they were bound, to witness the
_Fiesta_, the Feast of the Corn, which was celebrated annually at this
season.

The point where they halted commanded a sweeping view of the surrounding
country. Just opposite, some five leagues distant, on the farther side
of the valley which lay below them, towered the sharp ragged crest of
the Mexican Sierras; their sides and foothills clothed in a thin growth
of chaparral, pine and juniper and other low-growing bushes. Deep,
rugged _arroyos_, the work of the rain and mountain torrents, cut and
scarred the foothills which descended in precipitous slopes to the
valley and plains below. Solitary giant cactus dotted the landscape,
adding to the general desolation of the scene, relieved only by the
glitter of the silvery sage, white poppy and yucca, and yellow and
scarlet cactus bloom which glistened in the slanting rays of the
afternoon sun and the intense radiation of heat in which was mirrored
the distant mirage; transforming the desert into wonderful lakes of
limpid waters that faded in turn on the ever receding horizon.

Below them numerous Indian encampments of some half-wild hill tribe
straggled along the banks of the almost dry stream which wound through
the valley until lost in the thirsty sands of the desert beyond.

"'Tis the very spot, _Capitan_--the place of the skull!" ejaculated
José, the first to break the silence. "See--yonder it lies just as we
left it!" and he pointed toward the foot of the _mesa_ where a spring
trickled from the rock, a short distance from which lay a human skull
bleached white by long exposure to the sun.

Instinctively the Captain's thoughts reverted to the incidents of the
previous year when he lay in the desert sick unto death with fever and
his horse, Starlight, had stood over his prostrate body and fought the
wolves and vultures for a whole day and night until José returned with
help from the Indian _pueblo_, La Guna. Involuntarily his hand slipped
caressingly to the animal's neck, a chestnut with four white feet and a
white mane and tail that swept the ground and a forelock that hung to
his nostrils, concealing the star on his forehead; a magnificent animal,
lithe and graceful as a lady's silken scarf, untiring and enduring as a
Damascus blade. A horse that comes but once during twenty generations of
Spanish-Arabian stock, and then is rare, and which, through some trick
of nature or reversion, blossoms forth in all the beauty of an original
type, taking upon himself the color and markings of some shy, wild-eyed
dam, the pride of the Bedouin tribe and is known as the "Pearl of the
Desert." The type of horse that bore Alexander and Jenghis Khan and the
Prophet's War Chieftains to victory. As a colt he had escaped the
_rodeo_. No mark of the branding-irons scarred his shoulder or thin
transparent flanks. Again the Captain's thoughts traveled backward and
he beheld a band of wild horses driven past him in review by a troup of
Mexican _vaqueros_, and the beautiful chestnut stallion emerge from the
cloud of dust on their rim and tossing his great white mane in the
breeze, neigh loudly and defiantly as he swept by lithe and supple of
limb.

"Bring me that horse!" he had cried.

"That horse? _José y Maria, Capitan!_ He cannot be broken. Besides, it
will take ten men to tie him."

"Then let ten men tie him!" he had replied, flinging a handful of golden
eagles among them.

Many attempts had been made to steal the Arab since he had come into the
Captain's possession. It was a dangerous undertaking, for the horse had
the naïve habit of relegating man to his proper place, either by
ignoring his presence, or by quietly kicking him into eternity with the
same indifference that he would switch a fly with his tail. José might
feed and groom and saddle him, but not mount him. To one only would he
submit; to him to whom a common destiny had linked him--his master.

"_Sangre de Dios, Capitan!_" began José again, breaking in upon the
latter's musings. "Is it not better that we rest yonder by the spring
than sit here in this infernal sun, gazing at nothing? 'Tis hot as the
breath of hell where the Padres tell us all heretics will go after
death!" The grim expression of the Captain's face relaxed for a moment
and he turned toward him with a laugh.

"Aye, who knows," he replied, "we too, may go there some day," and
dismounting, he began to loosen his saddle girths.

"The gods forbid!" answered José, making the sign of the cross, as if to
ward off the influence of some evil spell. "I do not understand you
_Americanos_," he continued, also dismounting and untying a small pack
at the back of his saddle. "You are strange--you are ever gay when you
should be sober. You laugh at the gods and the saints and frown at the
_corridos_, and yet toss alms to the most worthless beggar."

The foregoing conversation was carried on in Spanish. Although José had
acquired a liberal smattering of English during his service with the
Captain, he nevertheless detested it; obstinately adhering to Spanish
which, though only his mother-tongue by adoption, was in his estimation
at least a language for _Caballeros_.

The two men were superb specimens of their respective races. Their
rugged appearance, height and breadth of shoulder would have attracted
attention anywhere. The Captain wore a gray felt hat and a rough gray
suit of tweed--his trousers tucked in his long riding boots. José was
clad in the typical _vaquero's_ costume--buff leggins and jacket of
goat-skin, slashed and ornamented with silver threads and buttons, and a
red worsted sash about his middle in which he carried a knife and
pistol. From beneath the broad brim of his _sombrero_ peeped the knot of
the yellow silken kerchief which he wore bound about his head and under
which lay coiled his long black hair.

Captain Forest was unusually tall and stalwart, deep chested and robust
in appearance, with not a superfluous ounce of flesh on his body,
hardened by the rigors of long months of camp-life. His head was large
and shapely, well poised and carried high on a full neck that sprang
from the great breadth of his shoulders. His face, smooth and sensitive,
and large and regular in feature with high cheek-bones and slightly
hollowed cheeks, was bronzed by long exposure to the sun and weather,
adding to the ruggedness of his appearance. The high arching forehead,
acquiline nose and firm set mouth and chin denoted alertness, action and
decision, while from his eyes, large and dark and piercing, shone that
strange light so characteristic of the dreamer and genius. And yet, in
spite of this alertness of mind and body and general appearance of
strength and power which his presence inspired, there lurked about him
an air of repose indicative of confidence in self and the full knowledge
of his powers. Sensitive to a degree, keen and alive at all times, the
strength of his personality, suggestive of his mastery over men,
impressed the most unobservant. Yet owing to his poise and self-control
those about him did not realize wholly his power until such moments when
justice was violated. Then the latent force within him asserted itself
and he became as inexorable as a law of nature in his demands. An
intense spirit of democracy oddly combined with fastidiousness made an
unusual and attractive personality in which the mundane and the
spiritual were strangely blended. Outwardly he was a man of the world,
yet inwardly he had advanced so far into the domain of sheer
spirituality he scarcely realized that others groped their way among the
most obvious material modes of expression.

Having removed their saddles and turned their horses loose to find what
scant cropping the desert afforded, the two sought the shelter of the
narrow strip of shade beside the spring at the foot of the _mesa_. Here
they would rest until the heat of the day had passed, resuming their
journey that evening. José unwound his _zerape_ from his shoulders and
spreading it on the ground between them, deposited two tin cups and a
package of sandwiches upon it which, with the addition of a flask of
_aguardiente_ which the Captain drew from his pocket, formed their meal.

Two years previous the Captain had rescued his companion from a street
mob in Hermosillo, the result of a feud that had broken out between her
citizens and the Yaqui Indians; José having been mistaken for one of the
latter. With his back against a wall and the blood streaming from his
wounds, he was making a desperate stand. Three citizens who had run upon
his knife, lay squirming at his feet; but the odds were too great. In
another moment all would have been over with him had it not been for the
Captain who chanced upon him in the nick of time. Snatching a club from
one of his assailants and accompanying each blow with a volley of
Spanish oaths, he rushed through the mob, scattering it in all
directions. Whether it was the oaths or the Captain's exhibition of his
fighting qualities that impressed José most it is difficult to say. Be
that as it may, from that hour he belonged to Captain Forest body and
soul. He was the grand señor, the _Hidalgo_, in comparison to whom
other men were as nothing.

The meal over, José with head and shoulders on one end of the _zerape_,
stretched himself at full length upon the ground and, as was his wont,
fell asleep almost immediately. Captain Forest swallowed a last draught
of liquor. Then leisurely rolling a cigarette he lit it, and with back
against the cliff and gaze fixed abstractedly on the mountains opposite,
smoked in silence.




II


Jack Forest's life was rich and full to overflowing with the things of
this world which are generally considered to make for happiness and
culture. Into the measure of his life, the comparatively short span of
thirty-five years, had been crowded a wealth of incident and experience
that seldom falls to the lot of the most fortunate men in this
commercialized era whose tendency is to pull nations like individuals
down to a common level of mediocrity, and seems bent upon extinguishing
even their few remaining national traits and characteristics.

Born in Washington and a graduate of Harvard, he had traveled to the
four corners of the earth, and hunted big game from the arctic circle to
the equator. During a winter's sojourn in Egypt he made the acquaintance
of Lord X----, then Consul-General of Egypt, upon whose advice he
entered the diplomatic service of his country. Five years were
subsequently spent as first Secretary of the American legations in
London and St. Petersburg. The enthusiasm with which he threw himself
into the work and the natural executive ability which he displayed soon
marked him as a coming man in diplomatic circles. But the speculations
of his friends concerning his future career were destined to be rudely
shattered by one of those inexplicable tricks of fate which, in the
twinkling of an eye, so often change the lives of individuals.

The spirit of adventure which had lain dormant within him ever since his
decision to adopt diplomacy as a profession was suddenly awakened by the
outbreak of hostilities between Spain and the United States. Through the
influence of his father, General Forest, a Civil War veteran, and that
of his uncle, Colonel Van Ashton, retired, he received the appointment
of Second Lieutenant of Volunteers and shipped with his regiment for
Cuba. He was wounded at the battle of Santiago, though not seriously. At
the close of the campaign in the West Indies his regiment was ordered to
the Philippines, where, at the end of a year, he was promoted to a
captaincy in the regular army. At this juncture in his career the sudden
death of his father necessitated his return to America on leave of
absence.

The estate to which he and his mother fell heirs was an unusually large
one, the administration of which demanded his immediate and entire
attention if they wished to keep their holdings intact. But as this was
clearly incompatible to the life of a soldier, he was forced to resign
from the army. He took this step without great reluctance, for brief
though his career as a soldier had been, it was a brilliant and
satisfactory one. It was not for the glory of the profession that he had
entered the army, but purely in the spirit of the patriot; and he had
fought his battles and returned with newly won laurels and a fund of
interesting experiences. Besides, campaigning in the Philippines had
convinced him that diplomacy, though perhaps not always so exciting,
was preferable to a life whose daily routine was enlivened only by
target practice, dress-parades and the occasional diversion of chasing
naked men about in the bush.

As soon as the estate was settled it was his intention to reënter the
diplomatic service for which he knew himself to be better fitted than
before his two years experience in the army.

The bulk of the fortune consisted of mines in Mexico, whither he was
called to superintend his interests. At the end of a year, however, he
received word from his uncle informing him that the Ministry to Greece
would be open to him if he chose to accept it. Jubilant over the
prospect of reëntering the world of Diplomacy so soon, he immediately
telegraphed his acceptance, and the following day addressed a letter to
the girl he had known from his youth, Blanch Lennox, whose character,
personal charm and ambition marked her as the one to share the future
with him. There was as little doubt in his mind that she would accept
him, as there was in hers that he would make the proposal; and when a
week later, he received a telegram confirming his conjecture, the answer
came as a matter of course.

The business at the mines was settled, but Mexico and her people were a
new experience. Its vast expanse of plains, virgin forests and wild
sierras lured him on; and in the company of a friend whose acquaintance
he had made at the mines, he passed the remaining time left at his
disposal traveling in the interior of the country, gathering data and
visiting the wild tribes who, though of the same blood, were in
characteristics a distinct people from the slavish _peon_ classes. A
people that have never actually submitted to the rule of the White man,
and have held tenaciously to the ancient beliefs and customs of their
forefathers.

He was impressed by the fact that, although living entirely independent
of the outside world, they were nevertheless self-supporting and in
certain instances had developed marked degrees of civilization.

He saw how they tended their flocks and fields, made their own clothes
and articles of use, and wrought gold and silver ornaments embellished
with native stones, and used the bow and arrow in the chase. They knew
nothing of modern civilization. Their daily lives were sufficient unto
them, and they were therefore happy. God seemed infinite and dwelt in
their midst, and spoke to them from the dust as well as from the stars.
But why was this? Why was life for them, in the natural course of
events, so easy and simple, and so difficult and complicated for the
civilized man?

His thoughts continually traveled back to the Eskimo of the frozen
North, and to Africa and her sun-parched deserts and star-strewn skies
with the roaming Bedouin in the background who regarded the earth as a
footstool to be used only as a means to an end and houses as habitations
fit only for slaves.

The picture he saw was not the ideal one--the emancipated man of whom
men of all times have dreamed and to whose advent some men are still
looking forward. But the care-free life of the primitive man set him
thinking--opened his eyes to certain truths which, until now, he had
failed to observe. Longings for the unattainable began to stir within
him and take hold of him in a manner entirely new. Hazy, fragmentary
glimpses of hitherto undreamed possibilities began to shape themselves
in his mind. The immensity and profundity of the universe and the
mysterious growth of its hidden life held and enthralled him.

The last word, he felt, had not yet been spoken. There was something
lacking in the so-called civilized man's economy--a lack which his
philosophy failed to account for, but which was not observable among
animals and primitive men. There, the economy of the infinite cosmic
mechanism which binds and holds all manifestations of life in one
harmonious whole was too apparent to even suggest the detachment of a
single form of life from this whole, but with the civilized man it was
different. He alone seemed to have detached himself from this harmonious
whole--his life stood out as a thing separate and apart from it. There
seemed to be no permanent place for him in the economy of nature.

But how had this estrangement taken place? Why was he, the
intellectually developed man, incapable of living in harmony with the
universal law of life when it was so easy for the primitive man to do
so? It was evident that he had lost his way somewhere along the path of
normal development. Everything pointed to this--its signs were apparent
to all who wished to see. Nature voiced it on every hand, in the forests
and plains and on the mountain tops, and during the silence of night as
he lay on the ground gazing at the stars overhead.

The wind that sighed among the ruined temples of the ancient races and
the mountains that looked down upon them seemed to speak to him in the
ever recurring refrain: "Behold the works and glories of men--we are
enduring! The same wind that sighs among them this day, sang to them
when their walls and pillars stood erect. The same mountains that
shadowed them in the past, will still stand guard over the valleys in
the days to come when the works of the present and future generations of
men have passed away forever!"

He knew that these questions had been asked during countless
generations, and that men were still asking them to-day. He knew also
that man's situation in the universe was taking on a new aspect, and yet
it was strange that such thoughts should absorb him, a man of the world,
of the fighting type, whose wide experience with men and things had
hitherto convinced him that the world, though not perfect, was
good--that present progress made for good, and the best western
civilization had thus far attained was probably about all men of the
future could look forward to so far as happiness was concerned. These
views, however, were no longer tenable if our arts, philosophies and
scientific attainments fail to civilize and refine us. Clearly, modern
man's conception of ethical progress was as deficient in certain
respects as that of the great historic civilizations. The secret of
right living had not yet been discovered. History proved this, and
unless the trend of modern materialistic tendencies was supplanted by
something higher, the same fate that overtook the Ancients must
inevitably overtake us.

But the date of their wedding had been set, and the time for their
departure for Athens was drawing nearer. Santa Fé lay a day's ride from
the railroad. Instead of performing the journey in a single ride, he
decided to pass the night at the _hacienda_ of a friend, Don Felix de
Tovar, some twelve miles distant from the old Spanish town. Thither he
would ride during the cool of the evening, completing the remainder of
the journey the following day. Between Santa Fé and Don Felix's
_hacienda_ lay the Indian _pueblo_, La Jara, situated some distance off
the main road. By following the trail that led past this village, José
explained, they would reduce the distance to Don Felix's _rancho_ by at
least two or three miles.

The country through which they traveled was broken and rugged. Twilight
had descended upon the land, and as the two, following the trail that
skirted the foothills, rode to the crest of the _mesa_ upon which the
village was situated, they came suddenly upon a woman riding at full
gallop. The soft, sandy formation of the soil was such that neither
heard the approach of the other, and all three reined in their horses
with a jerk; the woman throwing hers well back upon its haunches; a
high-strung, black, wiry animal whose foam-flecked mouth and breast told
that she had been riding hard.

How free and wild she looked! She was either a Spaniard or an Indian,
and rode astride. A bunch of red berries adorned her heavy black hair
which fell in masses about her shoulders, accentuating the curve of her
throat and well-formed, clear-cut features just discernible in the
waning light as she sat motionless and erect on her horse, gazing at
him in silence and evidently as much surprised as he was by their sudden
encounter. Then with a smile and a nod of the head by way of
acknowledgment, she lifted her reins and spurred past him; disappearing
in the gathering darkness on the trail below them. Her unexpected
appearance and grace and type of beauty, so different from that of the
woman who occupied his thoughts, thrilled him for the moment as he
listened to the soft, muffled hoof-beats of her horse which grew fainter
and fainter until all was silence, save for the sighing of the wind
among the _mesquit_ and _manzanita_ bushes that grew about them. All
trace of her was gone. She had vanished into the night as swiftly as she
had come.

Then a strange thing happened. Something suddenly gripped his heart;
that indefinable something after which he had been groping and which had
been knocking so persistently at the portals of his inmost being, but
which until now had eluded him. The sight of that strange woman had
shown him that, to be beautiful is to be free and natural. That the
world he knew and revered was purely an artificial world of man's
invention, transitory and a thing apart from the universal life in the
midst of which he had been placed and apart from which it was impossible
for him to develop naturally. That nature is more perfect than all the
artificialities of civilization and a more efficient environment for the
normal development of man. That man's happiness and true relationship to
the universe were attainable only through direct contact and communion
with this life whose creations are the only great and lasting
realities. Thus only was it possible for him to quicken and vitalize
his powers to their fullest. That when creation finished its task, peace
and harmony reigned in the midst of the terrestrial garden, rendering
man's pursuit of happiness through diverse acts and infinite forms of
diversion quite unnecessary.

He had discovered the wild man's secret--why the stars still sing to him
as of yore--why the winds and the waters, the animals and the rocks and
the trees still speak to him in harmonies long since forgotten by
civilized man. A great and secret joy, such as he had never before
experienced, filled his soul; uplifting, consuming and mastering him....
But what would Blanch Lennox say? She with whose inner life he felt in
perfect accord? She who was his ideal, the inspiration of his eager
youth and well-spring of his ambitions of later years? The woman who
always met his problems with quick sympathy and comprehending interest?
Could she understand him now, sympathize with his new views of life? He
knew a battle royal would ensue between them, but felt confident of his
power to convince her. He found, however, upon his return to Newport
where she awaited him, that he had reckoned without his host. She
attributed his enthusiasm and changed convictions to his ardent love of
nature and the roving spirit that animated him, but could not be
convinced that the world of society in which she moved and shone and for
whose adulation she lived, was the lesser world. She refused to
relinquish their present life so full of the things of this world, the
only realities which she knew or recognized, for some vague
uncertainty. Surely the _wanderlust_, the love of the primitive, had
gotten into his blood!

At first she laughed scornfully, then hysterically.

"Was he mad to suggest such folly--imagine that she could even dream of
participating in such a life? He might give up the ambition of a
lifetime, fling aside a brilliant career to follow the path of his mad
fancy if he chose, but she would not be a partner to his folly!"

Again he noted her set lips and the pallor that succeeded the flush on
her cheeks after her first furious outburst. Again he saw her as she
rose, pale and trembling, her eyes blazing.

"And you dare come to me with this after all the years I have waited for
you? Go back to your deserts--your wild woman and her land of savages!"
she had cried in a voice of suppressed indignation and contempt. After
all he could not blame her, knowing as he did the world in which she had
been reared. She was right. And yet, as he sat there in the desert with
his back to the cliff and smoked in silence, living over again the
poignant memories of the past, the bitterness he experienced at the
moment was even keener than on that memorable night when they had
parted.

Could he ever forget her? The memory of that night clung to him in spite
of every effort to banish it from his mind.

Above them shone the stars, golden as the apples of Hesperides. He heard
again the rhythmic sound of the sea and the plashing of the fountain
near at hand, and noted the rose petals which the breeze had shaken from
the bushes to the path where they stood; filling the soft night air
with their fragrance, and she, with the white moonlight in her face and
the pink rose in the golden wreath of her hair, fair as the woman of
Eden.

The vision passed before him in kaleidoscopic review, warm and living
and tempting and haunting, and then faded from his sight.

The shadows of evening began to lengthen. Close at hand a lizard that
had been sunning itself all day against the cliff raised its head for an
instant, then slipped noiselessly away with the shadows into a crevice
in the rock. The Indian camp-fires flickered in the valley below, their
slender, ghostlike columns of smoke, rising heavenward straight as the
flight of a flock of cranes, floated away in a pale, blue white cloud on
the evening. The soft, plaintive notes of the night-hawk and prairie-owl
mingled with the prolonged cry of the wolf in the distant foothills. The
night breeze sprang up, fanning the parched desert with its cool breath.
The stars came forth and the silver rim of the moon emerged above the
dark towering mass of the Sierra Madres, outlining their crests in
broken silvery lines as its full white disk swept into view; flooding
the valley and plains with strange ethereal light.

José's sleep seemed troubled. He moved uneasily and muttered
incoherently.

Where was she now--what was she doing? The woman he still loved in spite
of himself? And whither was he drifting--what was the real end in view?
What subtle, irresistible influence was it that impelled him to take the
step, sacrifice all that men prize and hold dear? During such moments
he questioned the seemingly blind destiny by which he felt himself
impelled. A thousand miles he had ridden in search of the realization of
his dreams, but had not found it. That which at first had lured him on,
now seemed to mock him. The vision that beckoned to him still maintained
a sphinx-like attitude toward his questioning.

Where was the new life he had promised himself? Was it only a vision he
had conjured up in his mind? Either he had overlooked something in his
calculations, or his logic was at fault.

Was this all? Had the human race attained its zenith--was there nothing
beyond, nothing to look forward to, and he merely the latest dreamer and
enthusiast who was pursuing the same will-o'-the-wisp that others had
sought through the ages? If so, then what fatality was it that
encompassed him and continually urged him on? Doubt counseled him to
return, but pride and confidence in self still cried forward. Come what
would, he either must go on to the end or accept the humiliation that
awaits him who turns back. But why was the realization withheld from one
so willing--from one who had dared face the world alone?

For the first time the loneliness and isolation of his life was borne in
upon him as he reviewed the past, step by step, and thought of the woman
he had chosen to share the future with him and whom it was impossible to
disassociate from his plans.

Fortune seemed to have deserted him. A sudden revulsion and sickening
sense of failure swept over him, crushing and overwhelming him. Would
the voices never break silence? Must he forever ride alone with the sun
in his face? Save for a cricket that chirped dreamily in a cleft of the
rock close at hand, and the distant, subdued sounds of voices and
barking of dogs in the Indian camps below him, there was no response to
his query.

Strange that he, Jack Forest, the possessor of twenty millions, the
associate of the great people of this world, and who was never referred
to by his family and friends as other than the Magnificent, the man who
did things, should find himself in the heart of the Mexican deserts
apparently as far from his goal as when he started. It was incredible,
but true, nevertheless. For was he not there in the midst of the
wilderness with the scent of the sage in his nostrils and the alkali
dust on his boots?

He closed his eyes and let his head sink forward on his breast, wearied
by the oft-repeated endeavor to solve that which was fast becoming a
riddle, a chimera to him, and he probably would have fallen asleep had
he not been startled suddenly into a consciousness of his surroundings
by a low whinny; soft and plaintive as a child's voice. Looking up, he
saw Starlight standing before him with ears erect and pointed forward,
gazing inquiringly into his face.

Again the Chestnut whinnied, and lowering his head, caressed his
shoulder affectionately with his nose. Then raising his head, he began
to paw the ground impatiently, indicating as plainly as words that it
was time to resume their journey.

The night wind sighed across the desert and there was a chill in the
air as the moon mounted higher in the heavens; an ideal night for
travel. José awoke with a start and sitting bolt upright on the ground,
gazed about him with a dazed, bewildered air, trying to collect his
scattered senses.

"_Capitan!_" he cried, regarding him intently. "I have just dreamt that
the shadow of a man came between you and a woman! I can't see their
faces, but they are there!"

"Bah!" returned the Captain, rising to his feet and stretching wide his
arms, preparatory to saddling his horse. "'Tis only the _aguardiente_,
José!"

"Ah! do not jest, _Capitan_! Three times have I dreamed this dream--the
shadow comes ever nearer!"




III


The _Fiesta_, the "Feast of the Corn," had been declared, and there was
dancing and feasting, and song and laughter on the lips of men as
Captain Forest and José rode into Santa Fé late the following morning
and turned their horses' heads in the direction of the _Posada de las
Estrellas_, the Inn of the Stars, which was situated just outside the
principal entrance to the town.

The low gray adobe walls of the houses fronting directly upon the narrow
winding streets leading to and from the plaza were gay with the blossoms
of the pink and scarlet geranium, honeysuckle, and gorgeous magenta of
the bougainvilléa and golden cups of the trumpet-vine.

Pigeons fluttered from the house-tops to the streets, or hovered about
the plaza and bosky _alamedas_ of poplar, pepper and eucalyptus trees in
search of stray grains of corn. Humming-birds and butterflies flashed
their wings and gorgeous plumage in the sunshine as they darted in and
out among the foliage in the _patios_ and gardens at the rear of the
houses, luxuriant with fruit and flowers as was attested by the orange
and lemon, pomegranate and fig trees, heavy with ripening fruit and the
delicately mingled perfume of orange and lemon blossoms, hyacinth,
jasmine and Castilian rose.

Through the center of the town, beneath the walls of the half-ruined
convent, flowed the little river, Santa Maria, at whose banks young
girls and women were wont to wash their linen and beat it out on the
large, smooth stones which lay strewn along the water's edge. The notes
of the wood-dove and oriole mingling with the silvery voice of the
river, fell in rhythmical cadences upon the ears of the inhabitants who
rested in the shady seclusion of their _patios_ and gardens during the
hour of the _siesta_; rolling and smoking _cigarillos_ as they leisurely
discussed the latest bit of news or gossip over their black coffee,
_mescal_ and _tequila_, or engaged in a game of _moles_.

There had been much rain that season, the best of reasons why the people
should give thanks to the heavens and the fields receive the blessing of
the Church as well as that of the gods of the _Indios_ at whose altars
the Red men still worship and upon which still is written "blood for
blood," as in the days when the White men first came from the South,
bearing the fire and thunderbolts of heaven with which they overthrew
them. This was in fulfillment of the curse which the people had brought
upon themselves. The fate which their ancient Sachems had foretold would
overtake them in those days when they should forget the commands of the
gods and neglect the land, and the hand of brother be lifted against
brother until the coming of a Fair Child with a face like the sun unto
whose words all men would hearken and their hearts be united in love.

According to custom, runners had been sent forth to the north, east,
south and west to proclaim the annual _Fiesta_. For this ceremony the
choicest ears were selected from the new harvest, and, after being
borne aloft in the procession that took place during the benediction of
the fields, were placed in the churches where they remained until the
following year. The golden ears represented the sunrise, the red, the
sunset, the blue, the sky, the white, the clouds, and all together,
their Mother, the Earth, from which they sprang.

As the season for rejoicing drew near, the _rancheros_ of the
neighboring _haciendas_, together with the Indians of the distant
_pueblos_ and half-wild hill tribes, chance strangers and adventurers,
streamed toward Santa Fé and swarmed within her walls; some eager for
trade and barter, but most of them bent upon pleasure. Her streets and
plazas became a surging mass of struggling humanity, bright with the gay
costumes of men and women. In her market-booths were displayed
innumerable commodities; animals, fruit, vegetables, fowl--flowers,
goldfish, caged finches, canaries--jewelry, rugs, stamped leathers and
drawn-linen work--bright cloths, blankets, baskets and pottery--wines,
laces, silks, satins, cigarettes and cigars.

Bidding was brisk and at times vehement, but always good humored.
Sellers of lottery-tickets, writers of love-letters, jugglers and
mountebanks plied their trades. The cries of the water-carrier and
vender of sweet-meats mingled with those of the inevitable beggar who
asked alms for the love of God; invoking blessings or curses upon the
head of him who gave or refused him a _centavo_. Babel reigned. Donkies
brayed, geese and turkeys hissed and gobbled, chickens cackled and
fighting-cocks, tethered by the leg, strutted and crowed, while brown
children of all sizes and ages laughed and screamed as they chased one
another in and out among the crowds or rolled in the dust beneath the
pedestrian's feet.

Old Santa Fé, christened by the early Franciscan Friars, "City of the
Blessed Faith," but in reality a fair wanton, a veritable Sodom and
Gomorrha of iniquity with her _corridos_, her cock-pits and dance and
gambling-halls, threw wide her gates and bade the stranger welcome; and
if he did not receive the worth of his gold in pleasure and substance,
surely it was no fault of Santa Fé's. Besides, it was only a step from a
gaming-table to a Father Confessor.

The soul of old Spain still lived in the land. The click of castanettes
was heard daily in her plazas and streets where the _fandango_ and
_jotta_ were gayly danced; while at night the soft sounds of guitars and
voices issued from out the deep shadow of her walls. Soft hands drew the
latches of casements, and slender figures stepped out upon moonlit
balconies or beneath purple black heavens studded with myriads of golden
stars, and passionate words and vows were exchanged under the cover of
night.

Having passed the day at the Inn of the Stars, where they had been
resting after the fatigues of the long night's ride, the Captain and
José again directed their steps toward the town in the cool of the
evening; José making for Pedro Romero's gambling-hall, the Captain for
Carlos Moreno's theater, the _Theatro Mexicano_.

Owing to the tardiness of his arrival, he found the house packed to the
doors. The performance, vaudeville in character, had already begun, and
it was only after much elbowing and crowding that he finally succeeded
in making his way to Carlos' private box where the latter awaited him.

A tall, dark woman had just ceased dancing, and as she paused before the
footlights amid a burst of musical accompaniment, the audience with one
impulse rose to its feet and gave vent to prolonged salvos of applause.
Showers of glittering gold and silver coins, bouquets and wreaths of
flowers were flung upon the stage, burying her feet in a wealth and
suffusion of color as she stood smiling and bowing before the audience,
vainly endeavoring to still the tumultuous applause which continued with
deafening uproar until she consented to repeat the performance.

"Delicious--divine--'tis the Chiquita, _amigo mio_!" cried Carlos;
pausing in the midst of his _vivas_ to greet the Captain.

"You shall know her and fall in love with her like all the rest of the
world--" but his speech was cut short by a fresh burst of applause from
the audience. The floral tributes that had been showered upon her were
hastily removed to one side of the stage and piled high against the
wings. The musicians struck up their accompaniment and the dance began
again.

It was evident that she was a favorite of the audience which perhaps
partially accounted for the remarkable demonstration with which her
performance was received. But be this as it may, Captain Forest felt
that he had never witnessed such a remarkable exhibition of subtle grace
and beauty and extraordinary execution and dash as she displayed in the
dance. He recalled the names of the famous dancers he had known, but
none of them had risen to such heights--succeeded in vitalizing and
inspiring their art with so much poetry and life.

To all appearance she was either Spanish or of Indian extraction, and
yet there was a foreign touch about her that seemed to set her apart
from the women of Santa Fé.

Who was she, this unknown genius, this master of the terpsichorean art,
living in this far away Mexican town? Such talent could not remain in
obscurity for long. Another great Spanish dancer was about to burst
unheralded upon the world. It only remained for her to dance into it--to
captivate and conquer it.

This then, was the surprise Carlos had promised him if he came to the
theater that evening. His curiosity was aroused, and he turned to him
for an explanation, but he was no longer by his side; he had rushed
behind the scenes to felicitate the dancer on her remarkable success.

The air was hot and stifling, and not caring to witness the remaining
numbers on the programme, he took advantage of the intermission that
followed the dance and left the theater.

Outside the air was deliciously cool. The moonlight and myriads of
artificial lights strung across the streets and on the façades of the
houses, together with the flaming torches in front of the many booths,
lent the appearance of day to night as he slowly made his way through
the surging crowds in the direction of Pedro Romero's gambling-hall
where Carlos had agreed to join him after the performance.

Pedro's establishment was the chief and only respectable place of its
kind of which the town could boast. It was the resort of the better
element of Santa Fé, and if one were looking for a friend or
acquaintance, he was usually to be found there. The hall was spacious
and well lighted with electricity and resplendent in gilt and mirrors.

The gay strains of a string band enlivened the scene as he entered.
Clouds of tobacco smoke hung over the throngs that crowded round the
gaming-tables to try their luck with the Goddess Chance.

José was playing roulette, and judging by the satisfied expression of
his face which the Captain noted in passing, he rightly conjectured that
luck was on his side.

Like Carlos, Pedro had taken a great fancy to the Captain, and had
generously placed his private stock of wines and cigars at the latter's
disposal. Many an evening had the three passed together smoking and
drinking and chatting; Pedro and Carlos listening with rapt attention to
the Captain's anecdotes and adventures of which he seemed to possess an
inexhaustible store. The hall was greatly overcrowded, rendering it
difficult to find an acquaintance, but as the Captain paused in the
midst of the tables in order to obtain a better view of the faces about
him, he felt a touch on the shoulder from behind and turning, saw Pedro,
the object of his search.

"_Por Dios!_ but I'm glad to see you again, _amigo_!" exclaimed the
proprietor, a dark little man with a kindly face pitted by the smallpox.
He grasped and shook the Captain warmly by the hand.

"How are you--when did you return?" he inquired; leading him to a table
in one corner of the hall around which were seated a number of his
friends who, on the appearance of the Captain, rose and greeted him
effusively.

"_Mozo--mozo!_" shouted Pedro to the waiter, "a glass for the Captain!"

The others also had been to the theater, and like him, had left during
the intermission following the dance. Naturally the dancer formed the
sole topic of conversation.

"Had the Señor _Capitan_ seen the Chiquita--had he ever seen such
dancing before--what did he think of her?" And by the time Carlos
appeared on the scene, all agreed that the latter's fortune was
made--that he would soon desert the sleepy old town for a tour of the
world with his newly found star of the footlights.

"A tour of the world--with the Chiquita?" echoed Carlos, a fat,
broad-shouldered little man of mixed blood, pausing and pulling back a
chair in the act of seating himself at the table.

"_Dios!_ if such a thing were possible," he exclaimed, pushing his hat
on the back of his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes,
"I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he
added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, _mis
amigos_. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance
for a living."

To this last remark the company agreed.

"_Caramba_--how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of _pulque_.
"Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats
doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the
spectators."

"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face
resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at
the doors."

"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a
_cigarillo_ between the tips of his stubby fingers.

"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos
Moreno," continued Miguel, his head cocked knowingly on one side, while
he squinted over the rim of his glass between puffs of cigarette smoke.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_," answered Carlos. "But by the Virgin, it
was worth it!"

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" ejaculated his auditors with one breath.
Old Miguel dropped his glass which fell with a crash, scattering its
contents and fragments over the floor.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" he gasped. "_Alma de mi vida!_ Soul of
my life! 'tis the salary of a Bishop! Are you mad, Carlos Moreno?"

"Perhaps. But only Carlos Moreno can afford to pay such salaries during
the _Fiesta_," he answered complacently, taking a fresh sip of
_pulque_.

"How did you ever persuade her to dance?" asked Pedro. "It's not the
first time you have made overtures to her."

"Ah, that's the mystery! I'd give something to know why she danced. You
know," he continued, "it's the first time she has ever appeared in
public."

"The first time?" interrupted the Captain in surprise. "Why--she
possesses the composure of a veteran of the footlights."

"Just so," rejoined Carlos. "Nothing is more characteristic of her;
she's at home everywhere. When I first saw her dance three years ago in
the garden of the old _Posada_ at the birthday fête of Señora Fernandez,
I knew instantly that she was either possessed of the devil or the
ancient muse of dance; also, why Don Felipe Ramirez went mad over her.

"_Dios!_ she's a strange woman--almost mysterious at times!" he added
reflectively, with a shrug of the shoulders and gesture of the hands. "I
thought, of course, that it was the money she wanted when she finally
consented to dance, but I'm not so sure of it now."

"What reason have you for supposing otherwise?" asked Pedro.

"Every reason. What do you think she did with the heap of gold and
silver that was showered upon her by the audience?"

"What?" excitedly demanded old Miguel, who by this time had fortified
himself with a fresh glass of _aguardiente_.

"Why, after it had been gathered up and handed to her, she, without so
much as looking at it, tossed it lightly into the center of the stage
and bade the musicians and stage-hands remember her when they drank to
their sweethearts to-night."

Captain Forest's interest began to be aroused.

"_Caramba_--'tis strange!" muttered old Miguel, eyeing his glass
meditatively; his head nodding slightly from the effects of too much
liquor. "But what will Padre Antonio say when he hears of it? How
fortunate he wasn't here to witness a sight that must have caused him
the deepest humiliation. Poor man," he continued, assuming a sympathetic
tone, "it is already the scandal of the town."

"Bah! what of that?" returned Carlos.

It was evident to all that the delights of the _Fiesta_ were beginning
to tell on the old man. Already it had been noted on previous occasions
that an overindulgence in _aguardiente_ usually invoked a religious
frame of mind in him, but which in Miguel's case resembled rather the
groping of a lost soul than the prophetic vision of the seer.

"What of that?" echoed Miguel, an ominous light flashing from his eyes.
"Those golden _pesos_ so lightly earned will just about pay for a
thousand masses in order to avert excommunication and enable the Church
to snatch the soul of the Chiquita from the fires of purgatory as a
punishment for conduct unbecoming the ward of a priest."

"Bah! you talk like an infant, Miguel! What a sad, weary world this
would be if there were only priests and churches in it and men did
nothing all day long but say aves and burn candles on altars," and
Carlos lightly blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Ah, yes, perhaps--_quien sabe, amigo mio_?" answered the old man dryly.
"But the Church is the Church."

"Miguel, you are growing old," said Pedro, slapping him lightly on the
back. "Have another glass!"

"I'm not old. I'm no older than the rest of you, and neither will I have
another glass," retorted Miguel hotly, greatly irritated by the others'
laughter.

"Ah!" he continued, wagging his head, and in a tone of bravado and
offended dignity, "you think I can't get home alone, do you? I'll show
you that Miguel Torreno is still as young as the rest of you!" And
supporting himself with one hand on the table and the other on his
stick, he rose from his seat with great difficulty.

"Miguel Torreno old, is he? A thousand devils!" A chorus of laughter
greeted this last outburst as he turned unsteadily and swaying to and
fro, slowly made his way through the crowd toward the door.

Just then a man at the next table rose with an oath. It was Juan Ramon,
Major-domo of the Inn of the Stars. Juan Ramon, the handsome, the hawk,
the gambler--the greatest _vaquero_ in Chihuahua. The man who took
delight in riding horses that other men feared--the man in whose hand
the _riata_ became a magic wand, a hissing serpent, and who could
stretch a bull at full length upon the ground at a given spot within a
given time.

"Has the blessed _Fiesta_ brought you no luck, Juan?" inquired Carlos,
tilting himself back in his chair and smiling up in the other's face.

"Luck--blessed _Fiesta_? The devil take them both!" exclaimed Juan, the
look of disgust on his face gradually changing to one of
resignation--that serene expression of the born gambler whom experience
has taught that days of famine are certain to follow those of plenty.

"Look!" he repeated. "The cards are bewitched--not a _centavo_! My
pockets are empty as Lazarus' stomach! Only a month ago I picked out a
beautiful little _hacienda_ with the fairest acreage to which I intended
to retire and live like a _Caballero_--to-day I parted with my only
horse at a loss--to-morrow," and he shrugged his shoulders
indifferently, "if this sort of thing continues, I'll be forced to pawn
the buttons on my breeches.

"_Mercedes Dios_, blessed be the _Fiesta_!" And flinging the end of his
_zerape_ over one shoulder and across the lower half of his face, he
stalked toward the door; the laughter of his friends ringing in his
ears.




IV


Ten years previous to the events just related, Padre Antonio, his
parochial duties over for the day, was slowly retracing his steps
homeward.

It was a mild, serene summer evening, and he paused before the massive
iron gates set in the high adobe wall surrounding his garden for a last
look at the sunset before entering his house.

It had been a strenuous day for Padre Antonio. Early that morning,
Miguel Torreno while beating his mule, had been kicked half way across
his corral by that stubborn though sensible animal, breaking Miguel's
right arm and fracturing three of his ribs. But no sooner had it been
ascertained that old Miguel would not die as he obstinately insisted
that he would, calling frantically upon the Saints the while as the
vision of purgatorial fires which he knew awaited him loomed before his
distracted imagination, than the wives of Pedro Torlone and José
Alvarez, neighbors and friends, quarreled over a cheap blue and white
striped _ribosa_, embroiling their husbands who, without the Padre's
intercession, would have come to blows.

Then the last sacrament had been administered to Don Juan Otero, one of
Santa Fé's oldest and most respected citizens.

In a vain effort to banish the unpleasant recollections of the day from
his thoughts, Padre Antonio turned with a sigh from the glories of the
sunset which he had been contemplating, and was on the point of entering
the garden when his quick ear caught the sound of horse's hoofs on the
road, causing him to pause with his hand on the latch of the gate.

His house being situated in an unfrequented quarter of the town, he
decided to await the coming of the animal; the bearer perchance of some
friend or acquaintance. He had not long to wait. The sounds drew nearer
and nearer, and presently, greatly to his astonishment, a tall, gaunt,
half-starved gray horse with a _riata_ fastened to his lower jaw, and
upon whose back sat an equally gaunt and haggard Indian woman with
disheveled hair and clothes tattered and dust begrimed, came into view
around the sharp angle of the wall and stopped directly before him.

Never in all his long and varied experience had he witnessed such a
pitiable spectacle as the woman presented. The wild, hollow eyes and
wasted, emaciated form and features gave her more the appearance of some
wild beast than a human being. She did not appear to be conscious of his
presence; and before he had time to recover from his surprise or utter a
word, she stretched both arms out before her as if toward the sun, and
uttering a wild, harsh, inarticulate cry, dropped unconscious from the
horse's back into his arms.

Experience had taught Padre Antonio to act quickly in cases of
emergency, and with the assistance of his gardener and Manuela, his old
Indian housekeeper, he carried her into the house and laid her upon his
own bed. For days she lay in a delirium, the result of the terrible
privations she had evidently endured. She raved and talked incoherently
in a language which neither he nor Manuela understood.

The doctors whom he summoned at the outset, only shook their heads, and
after a lengthy consultation informed him with the stoicism
characteristic of the profession that, the patient would either die or
recover. But Padre Antonio did not despair. In his extremity he turned
to heaven, nor did his petition pass unheeded. At length, after many
days of anxious watching, the fever left her and she sank into a deep,
refreshing sleep from which she did not awaken for many hours.

It was toward the dawn of a Sabbath, and as the calm and peace of sleep
settled upon her, her wasted and emaciated features began gradually to
assume their normal outline. Nature asserted herself, and when the large
dark eyes finally opened once more, it was into the face of a beautiful
girl that Padre Antonio found himself gazing as he knelt by her bedside
in prayer.

"Be quiet, my daughter," he involuntarily murmured as her eyes rested
upon his, without considering whether she understood him. But the faint
semblance of a smile that lit up her countenance in response to his
words told him she comprehended. Then, during the long days of
convalescence that ensued, she imparted her history to him in broken
Spanish.

She was a Tewana; the daughter of their War Chief, the Whirlwind, who
had been killed recently in battle with another Indian tribe, the
Ispali. Just previous to this, her people who had long been at war with
the Government, had been defeated by the Mexican troops. After the
battle the entire tribe with the exception of the Whirlwind's band made
peace with the Government; the remnant of the latter with which she
remained, escaping into the mountains. But fate had doomed the little
fleeing band to extermination. It was surprised and annihilated by the
Ispali Chieftain, the White Wolf, and his followers whose territory they
had invaded; she being the only one spared--the White Wolf signifying
his intention of making her one of his wives. But that same night when
the Chieftain entered the lodge he had set apart for her and began to
make advances to her, she suddenly snatched a brand from the fire which
burned in the center of the lodge and struck him over the head, knocking
him senseless.

Then, stealing forth from the lodge, she mounted the Chieftain's horse
which stood tethered just outside the door and fled under cover of the
night. For days she fled across the deserts and mountains, concealing
herself during the daytime and traveling at night; subsisting as best
she could upon the wild roots and berries which she was able to find.
But the privations which she was forced to endure--the lack of food and
water, night vigils and exposure to the weather, began to tell on her.
She became delirious, and no longer able to guide her horse, was obliged
to let him choose his own course, and--Padre Antonio knew the rest.

Surely God had led this fair heathen child to his very door in order
that he, Padre Antonio, might snatch her soul from the flames of hell by
directing her in the way of the true faith. There could be no doubt of
it; God's handiwork was too apparent.

Padre Antonio was a liberal, broad-minded man. Having experienced most
things that fall to the lot of men, he did not believe in restraining
her against her will in order that her conversion might be accomplished
as many a zealous priest might have considered justifiable in her case.
But should she manifest a desire to remain with him, she would be reared
in the very lap of Mother Church. With this project in mind, it was with
the greatest solicitude that he watched her recovery, and when she was
informed that she would be permitted to return to her own people if she
so desired, he won her confidence completely.

The last vestige of that barrier of restraint and suspicion which the
strangeness of her position had reared between them was swept away.

From that moment the wild little nomad of the desert evinced the keenest
interest in her new surroundings. Her childish delight was unbounded on
beholding for the first time in her life the strange flowers and fruits
in the garden. They were all so new and wonderful to her, and she
wandered for hours among them; touching and plucking them and tasting
and inhaling their fragrance.

Whether it was the novelty of her position, or her sudden and passionate
attachment to Padre Antonio whom she regarded in the light of a
new-found father that caused her to forget for the time her former wild
life and consent to remain with him, is difficult to determine.

Padre Antonio who had lived many years among the wild tribes of the
country and knew them as few men did, their insatiable love of liberty
and intense dislike of the White man's civilization, looked upon her
conversion and decision to remain with him as another direct
intervention of Providence; for that which usually required years had
been accomplished in as many weeks in her case. It was little short of a
miracle, and he rejoiced exceedingly and began gradually to unfold his
plans to her concerning her future.

The curriculum of the Convent of Saint Claire in Santa Fé did not seem
adequate, and nothing would do, but that he should accompany her to the
City of Mexico, where he placed her in charge of the Sisters of Saint
Ursula. There she would have not only the educational, but the social
advantages which the city offered.

Before their departure he christened her, Chiquita Pia Maria Roxan
Concepcion Salvatore; a name which, out of gratitude and obedience to
her benefactor, she accepted without question concerning either its
origin or his reason for giving it to her.

Six years passed, during which she traveled for three summers in Europe
with friends of the Padre. Interminably long years they seemed to him.
Each year he had planned to visit her, but each time something
intervened to prevent his going. He was a busy man. His duties required
annual visits to the outlying _pueblos_ and distant Indian Missions,
consuming his entire time. However, he at length received word from the
Sisters of Saint Ursula that Chiquita had completed her course of
studies and had started on her return journey to Santa Fé.

It was evident from the reports which he had received at regular
intervals from the Sisters that she did not care for the Church as he
had fondly hoped she might. But after all, what did it really matter?

One so young and gay could not be expected to take life so seriously.
When one grew old, one became serious enough for this world; and he
smiled as he thought of his wild little Indian girl.

In his fond imagination, he saw her large, mischievous, dark eyes snap,
and heard the merry peals of her laughter as she flitted about the
garden in former years. Surely it was better thus--that she should
remain blithe and happy like the birds, as God had created her.

The years had begun to tell on the aged Manuela. She was beginning to
show signs of failing, and he decided that Chiquita, his ward, should
live with him and rule his household in Manuela's stead. His wants were
so few and simple that she would have little to do and old Manuela would
be able to sun herself in the garden during the remaining years of her
life; a reward for her long and faithful service. Nor was Manuela
adverse to this new arrangement which must eventually deprive her of all
authority in the household; a position she had guarded so jealously
through the years and which had raised her in the estimation of the
community. Although of a different people, the common racial blood bond
had drawn the two women together from the first; besides, she could
always assist in the lighter work of the household if she chose.

The Padre never tired of meditating upon this fond dream during his
leisure moments. What a perpetual source of joy and satisfaction the
presence and sunshine of this child of his own molding would be to him
in his old age! Besides he would always be near her to administer
spiritual council and guidance.

So, when the day of her arrival finally dawned, he and old Manuela rose
with the sun, and gathering the freshest and brightest flowers the
garden contained, they arranged them in the room she was to occupy;
transforming it into a veritable bower of fragrance and color.

The prospect of seeing his protegée so soon again, filled Padre Antonio
with the most conflicting emotions of longing and impatience.

He could think of nothing else--could neither sit nor stand, but fretted
and bustled about the house with the impatience of a child. Fearful lest
he should be too late, he hurried through his simple breakfast,
consisting of black coffee and a roll, without so much as glancing at
the local paper as was his wont; and then, quite forgetting to pull on
his black silk gloves which Manuela thrust into his hands together with
his hat and stick, he hastened to the station which he reached an hour
before the time scheduled for the arrival of the stage.

Of course she must have changed somewhat during the long interval of her
absence, he argued, more as a concession to reason than to desire or
sentiment. But in spite of this possibility, his mental picture of her
still remained that of the little Indian girl he had confided to the
care of the good Sisters of Saint Ursula six years before.

What if the stage were late, and could she make the long journey alone
and in safety, he asked himself a thousand times as he impatiently paced
up and down the platform of the station; the tap of his gold-headed cane
marking the time of his steps on the boards beneath him.

"Saints! but the stage was slow! A snail could crawl--" Suddenly he
stopped short. A flush of joy suffused his countenance--his heart began
to beat rapidly and his right hand with which he grasped his cane
trembled perceptibly as he gazed intently down the long dusty highroad.

"At last!" he cried. Another intense moment of suspense and the distant
cracking of a whip and sounds of wheels and hoof-beats on the road
announced the approach of the stage. Presently it hove in sight and a
few minutes later, as it drew up before the station and came to a full
stop, the door was hastily flung open and a tall, closely veiled woman
sprang lightly to the platform.

Her striking appearance would have commanded attention anywhere, but
without noticing her, he brushed hastily past her and gazed eagerly into
the interior of the coach. It was empty.

_Dios!_ what had happened? There must be some mistake! With a note of
keenest disappointment in his voice he turned sharply on the driver and
impatiently demanded what had become of the little Indian girl that had
been placed in his charge.

"Little Indian girl? _Caramba!_" A look of bewilderment accompanied by a
shrug of the shoulders and a "_no sabe_, Señor Padre," was the only
answer he received. Consternation seized Padre Antonio.

Merciful heaven! what had become of her--Chiquita, his little girl? His
voice choked, while tears of bitter disappointment welled to his eyes.
"Ah, yes, there had been a mistake--she would come by the next stage,"
he said, addressing the driver, and was on the point of turning away
when a silvery peal of laughter fell upon his ears. He felt a soft touch
on his shoulder and a voice close to him said:

"Padre Antonio, don't you know your little Chiquita?" The veil had
slipped from her face, displaying the features of a beautiful Spanish
woman. Confounded and speechless with amazement, Padre Antonio could
only gaze in silence upon the apparition before him.

Was it possible, or was he only dreaming? What a transformation! Was
this mature woman, this tall and supple and refined and graceful
creature his Chiquita, his wild little Indian girl of former years? He
rubbed his eyes in bewilderment and gazed again. Holy Maria! but she was
beautiful--fair as the starry jasmine blossoms which she wore at her
breast and in the dark folds of her hair.

In that hour the world suddenly became filled with exquisite harmony for
Padre Antonio, and he seemed to grow younger by many years.

The radiant beauty of her face with the poetry of sunshine and laughter
in her eyes and her grace and charm of personality affected him like
some wonderfully attuned chime of silver bells. Surely this was worth
waiting for. His prayers had been answered richly and abundantly, far
beyond anything his imagination had pictured during those long years of
waiting.




V


The _Posada de las Estrellas_ was situated on the western side of the
town within a stone's throw of Padre Antonio's house. It stood well back
from the highroad from which it was screened by a thick hedge-like
growth of cedar, manzanita, tamarisk and lilac bushes.

A short distance east of the _Posada_, the highroad entered the long
_Alameda_ which led to the plaza in the center of the town, overlooked
by the old _Precedio_ or Governor's palace.

The widespreading branches of two immense cottonwood trees, the trunk of
one of which was encircled by a rustic bench, cast an inviting shade in
front of the house and wide veranda which stretched its length along two
sides of the low, one storied adobe structure. Honeysuckle and white
clematis and pink and scarlet passion vines clambered up its slender
pillars and hung in fragrant flowering festoons from the low balustrades
above. The fresh green leaves of the nasturtium, bright with variegated
blossoms, ranging from deep scarlet to gold and pale yellow, trailed
along the ground at the foot of the veranda and skirted the narrow
pathway which led to the rear of the _Posada_ whose _patio_ looked out
upon a garden interspersed with innumerable flowers and shrubs, fruit
and cedar trees, and whose soft green lawn was intersected by narrow
gravel pathways. Just back of the garden lay the vegetable patches which
intervened between it and the stables and corrals, whence came the
cackling of hens and cooing of pigeons in the early morning.

Originally the _Posada_ had been one of the large _haciendas_ adjoining
Santa Fé, but its mistress, Señora Fernandez, had transformed it into an
Inn after the death of her husband who had been killed accidentally by
the fall of his horse. Finding herself in reduced circumstances incurred
by her husband's gambling propensities, she resolved upon the change.
His chief legacy consisting of debts, she was obliged to part with the
greater portion of the estate, but her natural executive ability stood
her in good stead.

The new enterprise prospered, and the Inn became widely known throughout
the country as a place at which to stop if only for a cup of chocolate
or a chat with the Señora who always knew the latest gossip.

In her youth she had been noted for her beauty, and even now, in spite
of middle-age and somewhat faded features, the latter the result of the
struggle she had undergone to reestablish herself in the world, she was
still considered buxom and fair to look upon by the majority of men. She
carried her head high and with a coquettish air which plainly showed she
had by no means relinquished her hold upon life.

On this particular morning she looked unusually well as she moved about
the _patio_ engaged with her women in assorting a huge basket of freshly
laundered household linen. Not a strand of silver was visible in her
jet black hair, adorned with a large tortoise-shell comb and a single
Castilian rose. Her gay, low-necked, short sleeved bodice, exposing her
shapely neck and arms, harmonized well with her short, black silken
_saya_ which rustled with every movement she made and from beneath which
protruded a small pair of high instepped feet encased in black slippers
ornamented with large quaint silver buckles.

It was the Señora's birthday. She had risen earlier than usual prepared
to receive the congratulations of her friends who, she knew, would be
sure to call during the day in honor of the occasion. A few of them
would be asked to remain and dine with her in the evening.

It was on a similar occasion that Chiquita had danced in the _patio_
before her guests.

The innate vanity of the woman might have led one to suppose that she
would let the years pass unnoticed, but not so. The old, time-honored
custom of the country must be observed lest her friends might say:
Señora Fernandez is already laying by for a ripe old age, the mere
suggestion of which on the part of the world would have been enough to
throw her into one of those uncontrollable fits of rage for which she
was noted.

Artful, shrewd and scheming though she was, her susceptibility to
flattery was her weak point, amounting almost to a mania. To be told
that she still looked as young and handsome as in the days when the
years justified the statement, was to win her immediate esteem. The lack
of this servile attitude and cringing civility on Chiquita's part,
together with the knowledge of her own superiority which she never
hesitated to show when occasion required, had drawn down the Señora's
enmity upon her. Whereas, an occasional soft word or smile of
acquiescence--she demanded so little--would have smoothed her ruffled
spirit and taken the edge off her tongue, the sharpest in Santa Fé.

It was not easy for the inveterate coquette and one time reigning belle
to resign the position she had held so long and undisputed, especially
to an alien--one whom the full blooded Spaniard inwardly despises,
regards as of an inferior race.

How she hated the dark woman, envied the glances and flatteries and
attentions which she always received wherever she went. It was said,
that on Chiquita's return from school, Señora Fernandez suddenly grew
cold and haughty toward the world, but finding that a proud exterior
availed her little, she sulked and pouted for a time like a spoiled
child, only to warm again to the world which she loved so passionately,
which she felt slipping from her and without whose adulation she could
not live.

_Dios de mi vida!_ but it was terrible to grow old! Not since the death
of her husband, Don Carlos, had she endured so bitter a pang. The fact
that she had never had any children accounted perhaps for a certain
harshness in her nature.

It was a busy day for the Señora. Besides the care of her guests, the
preparing of freshly killed fowl and baking of cakes and _tortillas_,
there was the garden which must be hung with lanterns where there would
be the usual dancing and merrymaking during the evening. All this and
much more the Señora must superintend, but she was equal to the task.

As she issued her orders to the retinue of servants that came and went,
she carried on a lively, though interrupted, conversation with her
sister, Señora Rosario Sanchez, and her niece, Dolores, who had come to
assist her in the preparations.

"It has come at last--I always said it would--I never trusted that
double nature of hers!" she exclaimed triumphantly, pausing for an
instant in her work of assorting the linen. The expression and gesture
of Señora Sanchez plainly bespoke the shock she also had experienced.

"To think of it," she gasped. "How Padre Antonio can overlook such a
breach of confidence and offense to the Church is more than I can
understand!"

"Ah! that shows the extent of her influence over him," answered Señora.
"She has bewitched him with her wild ways--he simply dotes on her!"

"It's scandalous!" broke in her sister.

"To my mind, it shows signs of the Padre's failing," rejoined the Señora
sharply.

"It does indeed--poor man!" sighed her sister. "And what's more--it
never did seem proper that so handsome a woman should live with a priest
even though she be his ward and he an old man."

"Handsome?" sneered the Señora, drawing herself together as though she
had received an electric shock; the pleased and animated expression of
her face changing suddenly to one of utmost frigidity. "I never could
understand why people considered that Indian good looking," and her
black eyes snapped as she turned to resume her work, plainly betraying
the jealousy aroused. Señora Sanchez, knowing her sister's temper only
too well, hastened to change the subject.

Strange to say, Padre Antonio did not share the public's sentiment, or
rather that of his own particular flock, concerning Chiquita's latest
escapade. Instead of being overwhelmed, broken in spirit and utterly
cast down by grief and shame as had been confidently predicted, he, much
to the disgust of his congregation, went calmly about his duties as
though nothing unusual had occurred, referring jocosely to this lark of
his madcap ward as he was pleased to term it.

Lark? Heavens! had the Padre lost his senses? Excommunication might be a
little too severe, but a year's solitary confinement in a convent as a
penance for her sin was the least penalty she could expect.

But Padre Antonio knew what the rest of the world did not. That his
charming, irrepressible protegée would have snapped her fingers lightly
at the mere suggestion of either. The days of mediæval suppression of
females had come to an end even in Mexico. Moreover, there existed a
perfect understanding between the two.

During his long years of missionary work he had learned that the heathen
often stood higher in the sight of Heaven than many a zealous devotee of
the Church. Besides, dancing was not only a national pastime of the
Spaniard, but among Indians, a part of their religion as well.

That Chiquita had some very good reason for dancing in public, he knew
well enough. They understood one another perfectly, and he did not ask
her her reason for dancing, knowing full well that some day she would
tell him of her own accord.

Although Chiquita had accommodated herself marvelously well to the new
conditions, imbibing the best civilization had to offer, she
nevertheless remained the freeborn woman--the descendant of a freeborn
race of men. The wild, free nomad whom experience and direct contact
with nature had early taught to recognize the simple underlying truths
and realities of life and their relations to one another, was not to be
measured by the conventions or limited standards of a tamer race of men
hedged about by superficial traditions and born and reared remote from
the heart of nature beneath the roofs of houses. It was the cold, hard
earth and equally cold and unrelenting stars that had nurtured Chiquita
from earliest childhood, and to apply the petty restraints and
conventions of modern society to her was like clipping the wings of an
eagle and then expecting it to fly.

Ordinarily, life is dull enough without civilized man's efforts to
reduce it to positive boredom, and although Chiquita's escapades had
acted like a slap in the face, they had nevertheless done much to arouse
the spirit of the otherwise sleepy old town. Her presence was fresh and
invigorating as the north wind. Moreover, the very ones who criticised
her most in secret, were usually the first to come to her for advice
when in trouble. For who was so wise as the strange, beautiful woman?

True, it cost something to be hated as cordially as one was admired,
nevertheless, Padre Antonio rightly conjectured that there was not a
woman in Santa Fé who would not willingly exchange places with his ward
were she able to. So, like the sensible man that he was, he only smiled
at idle gossip and continued to watch with increasing interest the
transformation of his protegée.




VI


Captain Forest had taken quarters at the _Posada_ for an indefinite
period; at least until he learned the whereabouts of his friend, Dick
Yankton, who had accompanied him on his former expeditions.

He had been aroused at an early hour by the cackling of affrighted fowl
and the voices and footsteps of _peons_ as they came and went in the
_patio_, their jests and laughter mingling with snatches of song. Not
being able to sleep, he arose, and after a hasty toilet, stepped out
upon the veranda, bright with the morning sunlight. Save for his
presence, the place was deserted; the empty chairs standing about just
as their occupants of the previous evening had left them, a proof that
he was the first of the guests to be abroad.

"I wonder where Dick is?" he soliloquized, leisurely descending the
veranda steps and turning into the pathway that led to the garden at the
rear of the house and thence to the corrals, whither he directed his
steps for a look at his horse to see whether he had been properly cared
for during the night. As he disappeared around the corner of the house,
a woman turned in from the highroad and paused before the Inn beneath
the great cottonwood encircled by the bench.

She was tall and slender and on one arm carried a basket of eggs
concealed beneath a layer of freshly cut roses; Padre Antonio's annual
birthday tribute to the Señora. Her heavy blue-black hair, loosely
caught up at the back of the neck and adorned with a bunch of pink
passion flowers nestled about her neck and shoulders, on one of which
was perched a small white dove that fluttered and cooed. From out the
midst of the passion flowers shone a faint glint of silver.

Her dull white shirt waist, low at the neck and with sleeves rolled back
to the elbows, exposed her long, slender neck and well rounded forearms
which, like her face, were a rich red bronze. A faded orange kerchief,
loosely knotted, encircled her neck; the ends thrust carelessly into her
breast. Her soft mauve _saya_, worn and patched and looped up at one
side, disclosing a faded blue petticoat underneath, fell to her ankles,
displaying a pair of small feet encased in dull blue stockings and low
black shoes.

Depositing the basket on the bench, she extended her right hand upon the
back of which the dove immediately hopped, cooing and fluttering as
before.

"_Cara mia!_" she murmured fondly, raising it to her lips, kissing it
and caressing it gently against her cheek.

"What wouldst thou--thou greedy little Jaquino? Knowest not thou hast
had one more berry than thy sweet little Jaquina?" But the dove only
continued to flutter and coo on her hand.

"Hearest thou not," she continued, "she already calls thee!" And
extending her lips, between which she had inserted a fresh berry, the
dove eagerly seized and devoured it.

"Ah, _querida mia_!" she murmured softly, kissing it again. "Now fly
away quickly like a good little Jaquino before some wicked señor comes
to catch thee for his breakfast!" And tossing the dove lightly into the
air with an "_á Dios_," it hovered over her head for an instant, then
flew straight away over the old _Posada_ back to Padre Antonio's garden
where its mate awaited it.

A sigh escaped her as she watched the flight of the bird. How free of
the cares and responsibilities of the world the winged creatures seemed.
She turned to the bench once more and was in the act of picking up her
basket, when her attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of
footsteps close at hand, and wheeling around, she came face to face with
Captain Forest.

The little cry of surprise that escaped her interrupted the Captain's
meditations who, with eyes cast on the ground, might otherwise have
walked straight into her.

"A thousand pardons, Señorita!" he exclaimed in Spanish, stopping
abruptly and raising his hat.

"I--" He paused as her full gaze met his which to his surprise was
almost on a level with his own. What a face! Could his sensations have
been analyzed, they might have coincided with those of Padre Antonio's
on beholding his protegée when she stepped from the stagecoach on her
return from the convent.

The broad sweep of her brow, her penetrating gaze, her straight nose,
high cheek bones and delicately molded lips and chin and grace of her
supple, sinuous body, together with the picturesqueness of her costume,
presented a picture of striking beauty.

"Why," he continued abruptly, "you are the woman that danced at Carlos
Moreno's! The Señorita Chiquita about whom the whole town is talking!"

"Ah! you saw me dance, Señor?" she asked, betraying a slight
embarrassment.

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world! Such a performance--I--" again
he paused, regarding her intently. "Do you know, Señorita, all the while
I watched you dance there seemed to be something familiar about you. It
seemed as though I had seen you somewhere before."

"Yes?" she queried, her dark eyes glowing and a faint flush mounting to
her cheeks.

"Yes," he answered. "Ever since then I have been trying to think where
it could have been. Ah!" he exclaimed, stepping backwards and eyeing her
critically. "Just turn your head that way again. There, that's it! I
knew I had seen you before! Do you remember the night we met a year ago
on the trail below La Jara?"

A smile parted her full rose-red lips, displaying her pearly teeth. "I
remember it well, Señor," she answered, casting down her eyes for an
instant. "I recognized you the instant I saw you."

"Strange," he muttered half to himself. Then, after a rather
embarrassing silence, he said: "That was a fine horse you rode. Do you
live here at the _Posada_, Señorita?"

"No. I live with Padre Antonio."

"Padre Antonio? Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, recalling the conversation at
Pedro Romero's gambling hall. "Tell me," he continued, "who is Padre
Antonio?"

"Ah! I see you have not been long in Santa Fé, Señor, else you must have
heard something about him. Everybody knows Padre Antonio--he is our
priest."

"Both you and he must have been absent when I was here before, otherwise
I must have met you," he answered.

At this moment the tall figure of a man, dressed in a suit of light gray
material with a soft felt hat to match, appeared in the doorway of the
Inn. His eyes, like his hair and mustache, were dark brown. His hands
were long and slender and delicate as a woman's, yet there was nothing
effeminate in his appearance. His strong, sensitive features and roving,
piercing eyes and alert carriage indicated courage and energy.

He paused as he caught sight of the two figures before him. Then, with
an exclamation of surprise, he stepped quickly out on to the veranda.
"Jack!" he exclaimed. "When did you get here?"

Turning swiftly, Captain Forest saw Dick Yankton standing before him.
"Dick!" he cried, and rushing up the veranda steps, seized him by both
hands. "I've been wondering where I would find you! You evidently didn't
get my letter?"

"No," replied his companion. "I only returned from the mountains late
last night. It's probably waiting for me here."

"The Señores know one another?" interrupted Chiquita, also ascending the
veranda.

"Know one another? Señorita, we are brothers," said Dick.

"Brothers?" she echoed, surprised and perplexed.

"Yes, Señorita, all but in name," interposed the Captain.

"Ah! I see. Brothers in fortune!"

"Exactly," replied Dick. "But what is all this I hear concerning your
doings, Señorita? I'd have given my best horse to have seen you dance,
but, as you see, I'm too late. A pretty nest of hornets you've stirred
up in the old place," he continued. "Why, last evening I met the Navaros
on the road on their way home and they wouldn't let me pass until they
had told me how wicked you were. Señora Navaro even crossed herself and
said an ave at the first mention of your name."

"Ah," she sighed, then laughed unconcernedly. "I'm afraid I've been very
naughty, Señor." Then suddenly recollecting her mission, she exclaimed:
"I almost forgot why I came here this morning. I'm the bearer of Padre
Antonio's gift and greetings to the Señora. It's her birthday, you
know."

"Her birthday? I wonder she still dares have them!" exclaimed Dick.

"She does, nevertheless," laughed Chiquita; and brushing back the roses
in her basket with a sweep of the hand, she disclosed the eggs beneath.
"Look," she continued. "Padre Antonio's gift! Are they not
beautiful--just fresh from the hens! You had better have some for your
breakfast, Señor," she added.

"By all the Saints in the calendar, they are pearls, every one of
them!" returned Dick enthusiastically, eyeing the contents of the
basket. "Thrice blessed be thy hens, Señorita! We'll have eggs with our
chocolate out here on the veranda!"

"I thought so!" came a sharp voice from the other side of the doorway
just behind them, "as usual, talking with the Señores!" and Señora
Fernandez, with flushed cheeks and a spiteful gleam in her eyes which
she took no pains to conceal, stepped from the door into the light.

"_Buenas dias_, Doña Fernandez!" said Chiquita, unabashed by the
Señora's sudden appearance and onslaught, "may the day bring you many
blessings! Look! Padre Antonio's greetings," and she held up the basket
for the Señora's benefit. Then, with a subtle sarcasm which she knew
would avenge her amply for the Señora's unprovoked attack, she said: "I
stopped to inquire what the Señores would have for their breakfast. They
say they will have eggs with their chocolate."

"Indeed! Eggs and chocolate--chocolate and eggs!" angrily retorted the
Señora, "just as though one didn't know what everybody takes for
breakfast!" But without waiting for her to finish, Chiquita vanished
through the doorway with her basket; her low laughter, followed by a
snatch of song just audible from within, serving to increase the
Señora's irritation.

"Holy God! I sometimes think the devil is inside of that girl!" she
exclaimed, vexed beyond measure.

"Ah, but what a sweet one!" laughed Dick. "I wouldn't mind being
possessed of the same myself."

"Bah, Señor! you talk like a fool!" she retorted. "I pray you, do not
think too poorly of us, Señor _Capitan_," she continued in an apologetic
tone, turning to Captain Forest. "I assure you, all the women in Santa
Fé are not so bold as the Señorita Chiquita."

"No, most of them are a tame lot!" broke in Dick, secretly enjoying the
Señora's discomfiture.

"_Caramba!_ your speech grows more foolish as you talk, Señor!" returned
the Señora in a tone of intense disgust. "I see, you too have fallen
under her spell. They say she has the evil-eye, Señor _Capitan_," she
went on, addressing the Captain again.

"Evil-eye--ha, ha! What next?" laughed Dick.

"Blood of the Saints! I'll no longer waste my time with you, Señor!" and
with an angry swish of her skirt, she turned and disappeared in the
house.




VII


"What does she mean by the evil-eye?" asked the Captain after the sounds
of the Señora's footsteps had died away in the corridor within the
house.

"Nothing--it's only jealousy. Chiquita being the acknowledged belle of
the town, most of the other women, especially those of pure Spanish
blood, are jealous as cats of her, and seldom miss an opportunity of
saying spiteful things about her. That's why her dancing has caused such
a row. And yet," he continued, seating himself on the veranda rail, his
back against one of its wooden pillars, "I can't see why. It's race
hatred of course, but there's really no reason for it because she's the
best educated woman between here and the City of Mexico. Padre Antonio
saw to it that she received the best Mexico had to give. Why, she speaks
French and English almost as well as she does Spanish. If she were a
_mestiza_ or half-caste, things would go hard with her, but being a
full-blood, she's easily a match for them all."

"She's certainly an unusual woman," said the Captain; "one you would
hardly expect to find in this out-of-the-way place."

"Oh, that's one of the many paradoxes in life," answered Dick. "I've met
many a remarkable personality in the most remote regions during my
wanderings. But," he continued, abruptly changing the topic of
conversation, "what brings you back here? I always felt you would come
back to this country again. Civilization isn't all it's cracked up to
be, is it?"

"It was a hard wrench just the same," returned the Captain, "especially
when one--"

"Did you hear that?" suddenly interrupted Dick, rising from his seat on
the veranda rail and gazing intently down the highroad. The sounds of a
vehicle and hoof-beats on the hard road, mingled with the shouts of a
driver, the crack of a whip and tinkle of bells, were distinctly heard,
and presently, a heavy lumbering stagecoach enveloped in a cloud of
white dust and drawn by four mules was seen coming down the road at full
gallop.

The sounds had also aroused the household. Señora Fernandez at the head
of a troop of _peons_ and women rushed out of the house, talking and
gesticulating excitedly as they swarmed over the veranda and down the
steps in front of the _Posada_, for all the world like a distracted
colony of ants.

"_Dios!_ what can have happened to the stage that it comes in the
morning instead of the evening?" she cried breathlessly, quite
forgetting her recent ill humor in the excitement.

"There's no stage at this hour," said Dick.

"But there it comes!" answered the Captain.

"It's not the regular stage," returned Dick; "a party of tourists, most
likely! I see a lot of women!" he added, as the occupants on the outside
of the stage came more clearly into view.

Suddenly Captain Forest started, gasped, and gripped one of the veranda
pillars with his right hand. "No--it can't be!" he muttered, passing his
free hand across his eyes as though to dispel an illusion.

"What's the matter, Jack?" asked Dick.

"God in heaven! what can have brought them here?" he cried, ignoring his
companion's question and leaning out over the veranda rail, his gaze
riveted on the stage.

"Friends of yours?" asked Dick again.

"Friends? It's the whole family!"

Dick gave a prolonged whistle.

The women and _peons_, clamoring vociferously, instantly surrounded the
stage as it drew up before the _Posada_ with a great clatter of wheels
and hoofs; assisting its occupants to alight and carrying the luggage
into the house.

On the box beside the driver sat Blanch Lennox, looking a trifle pale
the Captain thought, and Bessie Van Ashton, his cousin, a pretty blond
with large violet eyes and small hands and feet that matched her
slender, willowy figure.

"Is this the infernal place?" came a voice from the interior of the
coach that sounded more like a snarl of a wild beast than a human voice.
"If ever I pass another night in such a damned ark--" came the voice
again, as its possessor, Colonel Van Ashton, enveloped in a much
wrinkled traveling coat, stepped with difficulty from the coach to the
ground. "I'm so stiff I can hardly walk! Ough!" he cried, and his right
hand went to his back as a fresh spasm of pain seized him.

"It's just what I told you it would be like! The country's
beastly--beastly!" and Mrs. Forest, white with dust and completely
exhausted by the journey, followed the Colonel, supported on either side
by her maid and her brother's valet.

"Merciful God! they must be very grand people to talk so foolish!"
ejaculated the Señora who knew enough English to grasp the import of
Mrs. Forest's words. Although she had never devoted much time to the
study of the language, she had picked up a smattering of English from
the Americans and Englishmen who annually stopped at the _Posada_ on
their way to the mines in the interior of the country in which much
foreign capital was invested.

"Why, there's Jack!" cried Bessie, dropping lightly from the box into
the arms of two _peons_ who stood below to assist her to the ground.

"Hello, Jack!" she continued, advancing, "I'll wager you didn't expect
to see us this morning, did you?"

The Captain noted the ring of sarcasm in her voice as she concluded.

"I confess I did not, Cousin," he answered, descending the veranda to
meet them. "What in the world brought you here?" he asked, taking his
cousin's hand.

"Oh! we thought we'd like to see a little more of the world before we
became too old to enjoy traveling," she answered, with a peculiar little
laugh that was all her own and which usually conveyed a sense of
uneasiness to those toward whom it was directed.

"How much longer are you going to stand there asking idiotic questions?"
broke in Mrs. Forest with a furious glance at her son. "Can't you see,
I'm nearly dead?"

"Really, Mother, I'm very sorry," returned the Captain, "but it's all
your own fault, you know. Why did you come?"

"Our fault--why did we come? It's your fault--your fault, sir!" she
almost screamed, and ended by laughing hysterically.

Colonel Van Ashton who had been nursing his wrath all night long while
being bumped over a rough road in an old broken-down stagecoach,
required but the sight of his nephew to cause an explosion. He had not
closed his eyes during the entire night, and like his sister, Mrs.
Forest, was in a state of collapse. His usually florid complexion had
turned to a brilliant crimson, giving him the appearance of an
overheated furnace.

He regarded himself as a martyr, nay, worse--an innocent victim of fate
who, entirely against his will, had been cruelly dragged into the
present intolerable situation by the caprice of his accursed nephew.

He had suffered long and patiently all that mortal flesh and blood could
endure. But, thank God, there were compensations in this life after
all--the object of his wrath stood before him at last.

"So this, sir, is what you call returning to nature, is it?" he cried in
a hoarse roar, controlling his voice with difficulty and glaring
savagely at his nephew.

"It's evidently not to your liking, Uncle," replied the Captain quietly,
doing his best to keep from laughing in his face.

"Liking!"--roared the Colonel again, his voice raised to the breaking
pitch--"I never thought I'd get to hell so soon! Why, sir," he
continued, knocking a cloud of dust from his hat, "this isn't nature,
this is geology! I don't see how you ever discovered the damned country!
The wind-swept wastes of Dante's Inferno are verdant in comparison!
You're mad, there's no doubt of it!" he fumed, stamping up and down.

"Do you know," he went on, stopping abruptly before his nephew, "they
say that, before you left Newport, you ran your touring-car over the
cliff into the sea--a machine that must have cost you fifteen thousand
at least!"

"Well, what if I did? It served me right for deserting my horse for the
devil's toy. Thank God, I'm rid of the infernal machine!"

"Look here, Jack Forest--" but the Colonel's voice broke in a violent
fit of coughing.

It required but little discernment on the part of the Mexicans to
perceive that the meeting between Captain Forest and his family was not
what might be termed particularly felicitous. Even Señora Fernandez was
quick enough to perceive that things were going from bad to worse, and
in an effort to smooth matters, she stepped forward and in her best
English said: "Señor _Capitan_, why did you tell me not zat ze ladies
were coming? I might 'ave prepared been for zem."

"My good Señora," responded the Captain, regarding her with a look of
extreme compassion, "I never dreamt of such a misfortune."

"Just the sort of answer one might expect from you! Not a word of
welcome or sympathy! I always said you were the most selfish mortal
alive!" cried Mrs. Forest bitterly.

"Señoras, I pray for you, come into ze house at once!" spoke up the
Señora again, turning entreatingly to the ladies. "I you promess, zat
wen you an orange an' cup of coffee 'ave 'ad, you will yourselves better
feel."

"The Señora's right," broke in the Captain. "Come into the house and
when you've--" but his sentence was cut short by the sharp report of a
pistol, followed in quick succession by two other shots, and a moment
later a man, breathless and without coat or hat, and his shirt and
trousers in tatters, rushed among them.

"Hide me quick, somebody!" he cried. "For God's sake--the posse--" but
before he could finish, a troop of men, armed with six-shooters and
Winchester rifles, burst from the cover of bushes that lined the
highroad.

"There he is yonder, boys, behind that man!" cried their leader
excitedly, a small, thick-set, broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and
beard and florid complexion. The others, following the direction
indicated by him, seized the fugitive who had taken refuge behind
Captain Forest and dragged him hurriedly beneath one of the cottonwood
trees, over a lower branch of which they flung a rope. Their work was so
expeditious that, before the spectators could realize what was
happening, they had bound his hands behind his back and fastened one end
of the rope about his neck.

"Stand clear, everybody!" commanded the leader, his gaze sweeping the
throng. Then turning to his men, he said: "When I give the word, boys,
let him swing!"

"Don't, boys--don't!" cried the prisoner in a despairing, supplicating
voice, dropping on his knees. "For God's sake--give me a chance--" but a
jerk of the rope cut short his words which ended in an inarticulate
gurgle in his throat.

"They are going to hang him--it's murder!" gasped Mrs. Forest, clinging
to her trembling, terrified maid who was already on the verge of
fainting.

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, stepping forward, "I object to such an
unheard-of proceeding! You have no right to hang a man without a trial."

"Say, old punk," cried the leader, turning savagely on the Colonel,
"who's a runnin' this show?" The well-delivered blow of a sledge-hammer
could not have been more crushing in its effect on the Colonel than were
the words of the leader; he was completely silenced. Greatly to his
credit, however, he stood his ground. He was no coward, for he had faced
death and been wounded more than once in his younger days on the field
of battle, and had he possessed a weapon at the moment, he would have
snuffed out the leader's life as deliberately as he would have blown out
the light of a candle, regardless of consequences. But recognizing the
carrion with which he had to deal, and the futility of further
interference, he quietly shrugged his shoulders, smiled and pulled the
end of his mustache. The hanging might proceed so far as he was
concerned.

"Gentlemen," spoke up the Captain, "what has this man done?"

"You'll learn that when we're through with him!" replied the leader.

Even were there no doubt of the prisoner's guilt and hanging a
well-deserved punishment, Captain Forest, nevertheless, liked fair play.
The blood surged to his face. His fighting instincts and spirit of
resentment were thoroughly aroused. He had seen men hanged and shot down
before in the most summary manner, some of them afterward proving to
have been victims of gross error and brute passion. He also knew how
futile it was to argue with men whose passions were roused to the
fighting pitch. The Colonel's interference was an instance of how little
such men could be influenced. It was absurd to look for moderation under
the circumstances. There was only one way to save the prisoner--the use
of the same means employed by the lynchers, namely, force. Whence could
such interference come? How could a man single-handed cope with a
well-armed body of men of their type? Only a miracle could save the
prisoner and the intervention of a miracle is always a slender prop upon
which to lean.

"Now, boys," continued the leader, turning to his men, "get ready--" but
his voice was drowned by a chorus of cries and screams from the women.

"Silence!" he roared. "Stop that damn noise!"

"I would like to know, sir, who gave you authority to shut our mouths?"
and Blanch Lennox planted herself squarely before him. So astonished was
he by her sudden appearance and outburst, that he fell back a pace. He
seemed to have lost his voice, and only after much hemming and hawing,
managed to stammer an awkward apology while vainly endeavoring to
conceal his embarrassment.

"Ladies," he finally began, removing his hat in an attempt at
politeness, "I'm powerful sorry to be obliged to perform this painful
duty contrary to your wishes, but the law must be obeyed. We've been a
chasin' this feller, who's the most notorious scoundrel in the country,
through the mountains for the last three weeks, and now we've got him, I
reckon we ain't a goin' ter let him get away. Is we, boys?" and he
turned confidently to his men.

"You bet we ain't!" they responded.

"No, ladies," echoed their leader in turn, "not if we know it. Besides,
we've got permission from the Mexican authorities to do with him as we
like. I guess," he added, "they'll be about as glad to be rid of him as
we are. And now, ladies," he continued, "if you don't want to witness as
pretty a hanging as ever took place in these parts, you'll take my
advice and retire into the house as soon as possible."

But no one stirred. The tall handsome woman still stood before him
unmoved, and he was beginning to realize that her gaze was becoming more
difficult to meet. Somewhat disconcerted, he began again in his most
persuasive tone.

"Ladies, please don't interrupt the course of the law by staying around
here any longer than's necessary--for hang he will!" he added.

Still no one showed the slightest sign of complying with his wishes. The
situation was becoming intolerable.

"Ladies," he began again, and this time rather peremptorily, "you'll
greatly oblige us by retiring at once."

"We'll not move a step until you take the rope from that man's neck,"
said Blanch firmly and unabashed, still holding her ground. Her words
acted like a challenge. His temper was thoroughly roused, it being a
question whether he or a lot of women should have their way. He, Jim
Blake, overpowered by a mob of sentimental, hysterical women--not while
he lived!

"Then, ladies," he answered curtly, placing his hat firmly on his head,
"if you won't go into the house, you'll have to see him swing, that's
all!" and quickly detailing half his men who lined up before the
spectators with cocked rifles, he shouted to the others behind them
holding the rope: "Boys, when I count three, do your work!" There was no
mistaking his words. The prisoner uttered a half-articulate groan.

"One--" slowly counted Blake.

The Mexicans crossed themselves and began to mutter prayers. Women
screamed.

"Two--three--" but simultaneously with the word three, was heard the
report of a pistol, and the men pulling on the rope rolled on the
ground, a hopelessly entangled mass of arms and legs. The rope had been
severed just above the prisoner's head, and when the smothered oaths of
the men mingled with the screams of the women had subsided, Dick Yankton
with pistol in hand was seen leaning out over the veranda rail.

"I reckon there won't be any hanging at the old _Posada_ this morning,
Jim Blake," he said, calmly covering the latter with his weapon.

"Well, darn my skin!" gasped Blake. "Where did you come from?"

"Oh, I just dropped around," replied Dick, unconcernedly.

"Now, gentlemen," he continued, addressing the men, "I've got the drop
on Blake, and if any one of you moves hand or foot I'll send him to a
warmer place than this in pretty quick time."

"Don't mind me, boys--turn loose on him!" cried Blake pluckily, but
nobody seemed inclined to obey.

"It won't do, Jim," spoke up one of his men. "We ain't a going to see
you killed before our eyes. Besides, it's Dick Yankton."

"Jack!" called out Dick, "free the prisoner and be quick about it!"

"You're interfering with the law!" roared Blake, as the Captain
proceeded to obey Dick's command.

"I know it," replied Dick; "it isn't the first time I've interfered with
it either. Besides, I don't see why I haven't got as good a right to it
as you or any other man." Blake sputtered and squirmed helplessly as he
faced Dick's weapon, not daring to lift a hand.

"What objection have you got to our ridding the earth of this damned
scoundrel, I'd like to know?" he asked, choking with rage.

"Oh, as to that, I've got several, Jim Blake, and one of them is--I
don't like to see a man hanged before breakfast. It sort of takes away
one's appetite, you know," he added, coolly eyeing his adversary over
the barrel of his pistol.

"Well, if you ain't the most impudent cuss I ever seen!" cried Blake, by
this time almost on the point of exploding.

"Perhaps I am," answered Dick, the faintest smile playing about the
corners of his mouth. "You're putting up a pretty big bluff, Jim, but I
happen to be holding the cards in this game and I rather think you'll
stay and see it out.

"Bob Carlton," he continued, addressing the prisoner whom the Captain
had freed, "there's a black horse in the corral back of the house; jump
on him just as he is and make tracks out of here as almighty fast as you
know how!"

"Thank you, Dick, I'll not forget you!" cried Carlton, starting in the
direction of the corral but, catching sight of Miss Van Ashton, he
stopped short. "I--I beg your pardon, Madame," he stammered, "but would
you mind telling me your name?"

"I can't see what business that is of yours!" replied Bessie curtly and
with a toss of the head, turning her back upon him.

"I meant no offense, Madame--I--"

"Van Ashton's her name," said the Captain.

"Van Ashton!" he exclaimed.

"You had better be moving, Carlton--you damn fool!" came Dick's angry
voice. "The next time you're in for a funeral I may not be around to
stop it!"

Carlton needed no further urging. The sound of a horse going at full
speed was presently heard on the road beyond the _Posada_.

"Don't any one move," said Dick quietly, as all listened in silence to
the sounds which grew fainter and fainter until they ceased altogether
in the distance.

"He's got a good mile start by this time," said Dick at length, coolly
lowering his pistol and returning it to his pocket. "Gentlemen," he
continued, leisurely descending the veranda, "you're at liberty to
follow him if you like."

"After him, boys!" yelled Blake, suddenly aroused to fresh action.

"It's no use, Jim," said one of his men, "our hosses is cleaned blowed."

"Damnation!" growled Blake, tugging nervously at his beard. "And now,
Dick Yankton," he continued, confronting him squarely with both feet
spread wide apart and his hands thrust to his elbows in his trouser
pockets, "the question is, what's to be done with you? I just guess
we'll make an example of you for interfering with the law."

"And I guess you won't do anything of the kind, Jim Blake, because there
isn't a white man in the country that will help you do it."

"The devil!" ejaculated Blake, completely taken aback by Dick's
coolness.

"I guess Dick's about right there, Jim," spoke up another of his men.

Blake was about to continue the argument, but realizing that the
sentiment of his men was not with him and that his position was growing
momentarily more ridiculous, he ceased abruptly. Rough though he was
and of the swash-buckler type, he was neither insensible to the humor of
the situation nor to the nerve it had taken on Dick's part to hold
twenty armed men at bay single-handed. It is usually a difficult matter
to pocket one's pride, especially if one sees ridicule lurking just
around the corner, but few men were capable of resisting the charm of
Dick's personality for long.

"Come, Jim, be reasonable," he said, laying his hand familiarly on
Blake's shoulder; "Bob Carlton saved my life once and now we're quits."

"He did? Well, that's the only good thing the sneakin' skunk ever done!
Why didn't you tell us that before?"

"Because you didn't give me time. You would have hung him first and then
listened to what I had to say afterwards."

"Hum!" ejaculated Blake, "I guess you're about right there."

"Boys," continued Dick, turning to the others, "I'm mighty sorry to have
spoiled your fun, but I'll see that you don't regret your visit to Santa
Fé. Come into the house and I'll tell how it happened. The cigars and
the drinks are on me!"

"Well, as I said before, Dick," exclaimed Blake, "you're the cussedest,
most contrariest feller I ever seen. You got the best of us this time,
but I guess we'll about get even with you on the drinks before we're
through--won't we, boys?" and amid a chorus of laughter and good-humored
exclamations, the men, followed by Dick and Blake, crowded into the
house.

"What a country!" gasped Mrs. Forest after the last of them had
disappeared. "Have people here nothing to do but murder one another?"
she asked in a despairing voice, sniffing vigorously at the bottle of
salts her maid handed her.

"Ze Saints be praised, zey do not!" cried the Señora who by this time
had regained her composure. "Such a zing 'as happened nevair before."

"They are a little more free-handed out here than we are," remarked the
Captain. "Where we come from, people allow a man to go free after
exhausting all the resources of the law, while here, they quietly hang a
scoundrel when they catch him without making any fuss about it. It's
much simpler, you know."

"Beautiful!" echoed the Colonel.




VIII


After much persuasion and further caustic remarks on the country and a
people whose chief occupation seemed to be that of shooting and hanging
one another, Mrs. Forest was finally induced to enter the house, leaving
Blanch and Bessie seated on the bench beneath the cottonwood tree where
they had collapsed, the result of the shock their nerves had sustained.

Their presence seemed as incongruous with their surroundings as that of
some delicate hot-house flower blooming in the midst of the desert.

"Could you have believed it if you hadn't seen it?" asked Bessie, the
first to break the silence. "Is it all real, or are we still dreaming? I
wish somebody would pinch me, my wits are so scattered," and she passed
her hand across her eyes as though to dispel some dreadful nightmare.

"I never imagined," replied her companion in a vague uncertain tone of
voice, like one laboring under the influence of a narcotic, "that such
people existed anywhere outside of books, and yet the samples to which
we have just been introduced make characters of fiction look tame in
comparison. Oh, dear!" she burst forth, "who could have imagined it?"

"What a transition--I can't understand it!" said Bessie. "I feel like
one who has just dropped from the sky to earth."

"No wonder! I, too, am still seeing stars. Jack certainly must be mad,
else how could he have ever picked out such a forsaken land whose
inhabitants seem to consist chiefly of ruffians and black women?"

"It's simply incomprehensible after all he's seen of the world," replied
Bessie. "Did you notice how he enjoyed our discomfiture? How it was all
he could do to keep from laughing in our faces?"

"The brute!" cried Blanch.

"If we had only realized to what we were coming--" Bessie began.

"Oh, it's too late to say that!" interrupted Blanch. "Now that I'm here,
I'm not going to turn back; I'm going to see this thing through. And
what's more," she added with unmistakable emphasis, "I'm going to see
that woman! Have you noticed any one that looks like her?" she asked
cautiously, lowering her voice and looking about suspiciously, as she
rose from her seat.

"Pshaw!" laughed Bessie, also rising and shaking the dust from her
skirt. "You've scarcely talked of anything else since we left home. Why,
I really believe you are beginning to be jealous of this creature of
your imagination. It's too absurd to suppose that Jack--"

"Is it any more impossible than the people and things we have just
encountered?"

"Nonsense! Jack in love with some half-breed--that dusky beauty in
breeches who rides astride, and whom he happened to mention to us? It's
preposterous!"

"My dear," resumed Blanch calmly, "don't deceive yourself. My woman's
intuition tells me that I'm right. Jack's notion of beginning a new life
is all nonsense--there's a deeper reason than that for this change in
him. Take my word for it, there's a woman at the bottom of it for what
possible attraction could this horrid country and its people have for a
civilized being?"

"I can't believe it," answered Bessie; "you know how fastidious Jack is.
Besides it was only a fleeting glance that he caught of the woman he
mentioned--and that in the twilight."

"A glance is quite enough for a fool to fall in love with a phantom,"
retorted Blanch warmly, thrusting the ground vigorously with the point
of her sunshade.

"They say," she went on, "that these dark beauties of the South possess
a peculiar fascination of their own--that they have a way of captivating
men before they realize what's happening. They sort of hypnotize them,
you know."

"But not a man of Jack's type!"

"Oh, I don't mean to infer that she's beautiful," continued Blanch.
"Attractive she may be, but how could anything so common be really
beautiful? It's not that which worries me--it's the state of his mind.
He has evidently reached a crisis. As long as I can keep him in sight
he's safe, but should he be left here alone with one of these women in
his present frame of mind, there's no knowing what might happen. Any
woman if fairly attractive and a schemer, can marry almost any man she
has a mind to. You know," she added, "he's not given to talking without
a purpose and usually acts even though he lives to repent of it
afterwards. Why, if he were left here, he might marry from _ennui_, who
knows? One hears of such things."

"Heavens!" ejaculated Bessie, "it makes one shudder to think of it!
Hush!" she added, nodding in the direction of the house where the
Captain appeared in the doorway and halted, regarding them with a mixed
expression of curiosity and amusement.

"Well," he said at length, descending to where they stood, "how do first
impressions of the place strike you? It's not so dull, after all, is
it?" he added, concealing his mirth with difficulty.

"It's charming," replied Blanch in her richest vein of sarcasm,
addressing him for the first time since her arrival. "What delightful
surroundings, and what congenial people one meets here!"

The Captain burst into an uproarious fit of laughter. The sight of
Blanch had sent a sudden thrill through him that told him plainly enough
how deeply rooted had been his love and that he had not yet succeeded in
eradicating it entirely from his heart as he had supposed.

The spark of the old love still smoldered within him, and would she
succeed again in fanning it into flame? He had not forgotten, however,
that he had suffered, and her presence acted like some wonderful balm to
his wounded soul. It was his turn now and he could afford to humor her.
Though there was nothing triumphant in his manner, he, nevertheless,
enjoyed that sneaking feeling of satisfaction which most of us
experience on beholding the discomfiture of those who have treated us
lightly. Moreover, he thoroughly realized what the coming of Blanch and
his family meant. They had come to laugh at him and his surroundings--to
ridicule his ideas. The great harlot world had come to pooh-pooh--to
scoff and laugh him out of his convictions, and no one knew better than
he did what the mighty power and influence of the great civilized guffaw
meant. For had he not, during his diplomatic career, seen the primitive
man laughed out of his cool, naked blessedness into a modern, cheap pair
of sweltering pantaloons? But things were now equal, and this promised
to be the most exciting diplomatic game in which he had yet engaged. The
defeat of Spain and the annexation of the Philippines were trifles in
comparison. And he decided then and there to make the most of it--that
come what might, all who entered this game would pay the price to the
last farthing. Time and circumstances would prove who was right--they or
he.

"Do you know," he said at length, "I don't pity you a bit; it serves you
right for coming."

"Pity?" retorted Bessie. "Do we look like a pair of beggars that have
come two thousand miles to crave pity at the feet of the high and mighty
Captain Forest? Your condescension, Cousin, is insufferable," she added.

"I was just thinking," he resumed, thoroughly enjoying his cousin's
wrath, "that you had better drop your silly affectations and spoiled
ways while here."

"Really!" burst out Bessie again, her face flushing with growing
indignation.

"I do," he returned placidly, "for somehow, the people about here don't
seem to appreciate such things."

"I can readily believe it," answered Blanch with a contemptuous laugh
and hauteur of manner that were almost insulting. "I don't wonder you
feel uneasy on our account considering that we have never enjoyed the
advantages their social standards offer. We trust, however, for the sake
of old friendship, that you will overlook our shortcomings. A lesson in
manners might not be lost on us," she added with a withering glance and
tone that would have reduced any other man to a sere and yellow leaf.

She paused, her delicately gloved hand resting lightly on the handle of
her sunshade on which she leaned, throwing the graceful outline of her
tall slender figure into clear relief against the green background of
trees and shrubs. A strange light came into her beautiful blue eyes,
softening the expression of her face; a face that had been the hope and
despair of many a man; a face that was not alone beautiful but alive and
interesting; a face into which all men longed to gaze and once seen
could never be forgotten.

Only one man had ever resisted the power and fascination of that face;
the man whom she had flung from her in an ungovernable fit of passion;
the man whom she either had come to claim as her own again, or to
humiliate as he had humiliated her. Who could guess the real motive that
prompted her to humble her pride so far as to follow him? Was it love or
hatred? Who could say? Her delicate, coral lips curled with just the
suggestion of a sneer as she raised her eyes to his again and said in a
tone of contempt: "So this is the place where your wild woman lives--"
but the words died on her lips. Her head came up with a jerk and her
figure suddenly straightened and stiffened as her gaze became riveted on
the face of Chiquita who stood just opposite on the veranda lightly
poised with one foot on the steps.

It would have been interesting to have read the thoughts of these two
women as they stood silently confronting one another, each taking the
measure of the other.

The contrast between the two could not have been more striking. The
soft, delicate, well-groomed figure of Blanch, the accomplished woman of
the world, with eyes intoxicating as wine and a glowing wealth of golden
hair, tempting and alluring as the luxuriance of old Rome at the height
of her triumphs before her decadence set in--the last fair breath of her
ancient glory--the best and fairest that modern civilization had
produced. She had no need of the artificial head-gear and upholstery
with which the modern society belle is wont to bolster up herself. There
was not the slightest trace of rouge on her lips or cheeks. She had
learned that simple food, fresh air and sleep and exercise were the only
preservatives for the form and complexion. Spoiled though she was, she
was genuine to the core.

On the other hand, what the symmetrical well-rounded lines of Chiquita's
figure lost by the unfair comparison of her worn and faded dress with
that of the latest Parisian creation, was more than compensated for by
the heavy luxuriant masses of blue-black hair, straight nose, large,
dark piercing eyes that shone from beneath delicately penciled, broad
arching brows, and the mysterious hawk-like wildness of her gaze and
appearance and general air of strength and power, baffling and
inscrutable as the origin of her race; a face and figure which
exemplified the perfect type of a race that carried one back to the
forgotten days of ancient Egypt and India.

Truly, twice blessed or cursed by the gods was he to be loved by two
such women; the one fashion's, the other nature's child.

The look of embarrassment on Captain Forest's face, together with the
ludicrousness of the situation, caused Bessie to burst into a sudden fit
of laughter into which Blanch, in spite of herself, was irresistibly
drawn. Fortunately for the Captain, he did not entirely lose his
presence of mind as one is apt to do who unexpectedly finds himself
between two tigers about to spring. He did the only sensible thing a man
could do under the circumstances. He retired precipitately, leaving the
field to whomsoever wished it most.

"The Señoritas laugh," said Chiquita at length, the first to speak.
There was a strange light in her eyes as she slowly descended the
veranda and came toward them. The sound of her full, rich, musical
voice, colored with a soft accent that was pleasing to the ear,
instantly brought Blanch and Bessie to themselves.

"Perhaps," she began again calmly, "it is because I am poor?"

"Oh, no, Señorita, how could you imagine--" exclaimed Blanch, recovering
her breath.

"Then perhaps it is because I am an Indian and red, not white like
yourselves?"

"Are you an Indian, Señorita?" asked Blanch. "I thought you were a
Mexican."

"And if I were, I would not be ashamed of it!"

"What a strange creature!" thought Bessie.

"But why did the Señoritas laugh when they saw me?" persisted Chiquita,
her expression softening a bit, a faint smile illumining her face.

"Believe me, Señorita," replied Blanch, "we were not laughing at you at
all. We were laughing at Captain Forest."

"Ah, the Señor!" ejaculated Chiquita.

"Yes," continued Blanch, "we had already heard of you through Captain
Forest, and--I--" she hesitated, "I really can't explain because you
wouldn't understand, you know."

"But I do understand, Señorita," answered Chiquita quietly. "You do not
deceive me, and since you refuse to tell me why you laughed, I shall be
obliged to tell you. I think I can guess the truth."

"Really, I'm curious!" and Blanch smiled compassionately.

"Ah, you think I can't read your face," and Chiquita smiled in turn.
"Señorita," she continued with sudden emphasis, "you love the Señor!"
Blanch started, the attack was so sudden, her face coloring in spite of
her endeavor to conceal her confusion.

"Yes, Señorita, you love him."

"How do you know I love him?" laughed Blanch lightly in turn, by this
time thoroughly mistress of herself. "Why, you have only met me for the
first time!"

"How do I know? Because I am a woman. I saw you as you spoke to him.
Your whole manner betrayed you--your voice, your eyes. Yes, Señorita,"
she added with growing passion, fixing her dark piercing eyes on those
of Blanch, "you laughed because a poor girl like me of a different race
and color, a race despised by you white people, should have imagined
that Captain Forest might possibly cast his eyes upon her--"

"Señorita!" cried Blanch protestingly.

"It is the truth," continued Chiquita passionately, "and what is more, I
will tell you frankly that I--I, too, love the Señor!"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Blanch.

"Yes, I love him--love him as you do--love him as you can never love
him, Señorita!"

"What makes you think so?" asked Blanch, endeavoring to stifle the
emotion Chiquita's passionate words aroused within her.

"I know it," she answered quietly; "something tells me so. And should he
not love me as I love him, my life will go out of me swiftly and
silently like the waters of the streams in summer when the rains cease;
my soul will become barren and parched like the desert, and I shall
wither and die."

"Die?" echoed Blanch. "Nobody dies of love nowadays, Señorita," and she
laughed lightly.

"Perhaps not among your people, but with Indians it is different. When
we love it is terrible--our passion becomes our life, our whole
existence! Such a confession sounds absurd perhaps, but you assumed an
air of superiority--racial superiority, I mean--a thing which I know to
be as false as it is presumptuous. I might assume the airs and attitude
of one of your race if I chose, but you laughed, and the race-pride in
me cries out that I should be to you what I really am--an Indian, not
that which I have learned and borrowed from the white race."

"How extraordinary!" thought Blanch. Surely such passion was short lived
and a weak admission on the part of her rival. She was a true character
of melodrama--one which she had seen a hundred times on the stage. The
battle was hers already--she would win. She heaved a sigh of relief, and
drawing herself up to her full height, assumed an attitude of ease, an
air of patronage and condescension that only Blanch Lennox could adopt.
She could afford to be generous to a child, treat with lenience this
clever _ingenue_ who in this age could die, or at least imagine herself
dying of love.

"Perhaps," resumed Chiquita, with an air of naïveté that seemed
perfectly natural to her, "you women do not love as passionately as your
darker sisters?"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Señorita," answered Blanch with warmth.
"At any rate, you in all probability will have an opportunity to judge
that for yourself."

Chiquita gave a little laugh, then said: "Señorita, you love Captain
Forest and so do I. Let it, therefore, be a fair fight between us, and
in order that you may know you can trust me, I give you this," and
drawing a small silver-mounted dagger from out her hair, she handed it
to Blanch who took it wonderingly.

"It is often safer," she added, "for a man to go unarmed in this land
than for a woman. But as I said, I shall henceforth be to you what I
am--an Indian. It is what a woman of my people would do were she to
meet you in my country under similar circumstances; what I would have
done had I met you before I came here. The knife signifies that, with it
goes the sharp edge of my tongue--that I shall take no unfair advantage
of you."

Blanch toyed musingly with the pretty two-edged knife, admiring its
richly carved silver handle. Surely she was right after all. Chiquita
was a true child of the South whose passions subsided as quickly as they
burst into flame. And as for the knife, it would make an excellent
paper-cutter.

"Oh, dear, this is too absurd!" she exclaimed. And no longer able to
control herself, she burst into a peal of laughter in which was easily
detected the scorn, good humor and pity she felt for her would-be rival.

Perhaps Chiquita was as much puzzled by Blanch's behavior as the latter
was by hers, for all the while Blanch laughed, she also regarded her
with an expression of mingled curiosity and amusement.

"Señorita," said Blanch at length, heaving a sigh, "who are you?"

The latter did not reply immediately. Her face took on an earnest
expression and for some moments she stood silent, gazing straight out
before her as though oblivious to her surroundings. Then, suddenly
recollecting herself, she said:

"I am a Tewana, and am called the Chiquita. My father was the Whirlwind,
the War Chief of my people."

"The Whirlwind?" echoed Blanch. "What an appropriate name for a
savage!"

"Ah, but you should have seen him! He was the tallest man of the tribe."

"Do you know," said Blanch musingly, "I fancy you must be something like
him, Señorita."

"In spirit perhaps, but only a little," she answered. "I often wish that
I were more like him, for although he was a child in many things, he was
a man nevertheless--civilization had not spoilt him."

Again that dreamy, far-away look came into her eyes and again she seemed
to forget for the moment the presence of the two girls as her thoughts
reverted to the past.

"Señorita," she said at last, "when one like me stands on the threshold
midway between savagery and civilization and compares the crudities and
at times barbarities of the one with the luxuries and vices of the
other, he often asks himself which is preferable, civilization and its
few virtues, or the simple life of the savage. Which, I ask, is the
greater--the man who tells the time by the sun and the stars or he who
gauges it with the watch? I have listened to your music and gazed upon
your art and read your books, but what harmonies compare to
nature's--what book contains her truths and hidden mysteries? When I
came here I was taught to revere your civilization and I did for a time
until the disillusionment came, when I was introduced to the great world
of men and discovered how shallow and inadequate it was. Your mechanical
devices are wonderful, but as regards your philosophies, the least said
of them the better. Spiritually, you stand just where you began
centuries ago, and I found that I should be obliged to deny the
existence of God if I continued to revere your institutions.

"Believe me, Señorita, for I speak as one who knows both worlds
intimately, nature's and man's, that the great symphony of nature, the
throb of our Mother Earth, the song of the forest, the voices of the
winds and the waters, the mountains and plains, and the glory of the
stars and the daily life of man in the fields, are grander by far, and
more satisfying and enduring than all the foolish fancies and artificial
harmonies ever created by civilized man."

Her words struck home. For the first time Blanch became thoroughly alive
to the danger of the situation. This passionate child of the South had
changed suddenly to a mature woman, and a chill seized Blanch's heart as
she began to realize her depth and power. Again she was all at sea, and
in a vain effort to say something, she stammered:

"Señorita, you are certainly the strangest person I ever met!"

"Not strange, only different," laughed Chiquita, throwing back her head
and meeting Blanch's full gaze. "Señorita," she continued, "you are
beautiful--more beautiful than any woman I have ever beheld. My heart
stands still with fear and admiration when I look at you, for men are
often foolish enough to love the beautiful women best. I fear this is
going to be a bitter struggle, but let us bear one another no malice in
order that we may both know that she who triumphs is the better woman."
Frank though her words were, they caused Blanch to wince, while a flood
of passion which she could ill conceal dyed her cheeks a deep crimson.

"Life's usually as tragic as it is comic," laughed Chiquita lightly,
slowly moving in the direction of the highroad. "It's strange, isn't
it," she exclaimed, pausing and looking back, "that a queen and a beggar
should dispute the affections of the same man? Such things occur in the
fairy-tales one reads in the books in the old Mission, but seldom in
real life," and she was gone.




IX


Considering an all-night ride over a rough road in a lumbering old
Spanish stagecoach, and the thrilling, harrowing events that succeeded
their arrival at the _Posada_, it is little wonder that Mrs. Forest took
to her bed early in the day on the verge of a nervous collapse, or that
Colonel Van Ashton, contrary to his habit, retired early in the evening
firmly convinced that his nephew was suffering from an acute attack of
lunacy which took the form of a mania for everything that was wild and
bizarre; everything in fact that was contrary to the Colonel's views of
life.

How unfortunate that his nephew had not shown signs of madness earlier!
It would have been so easy with the assistance of the family physician
and lawyer to have confined him in a private sanitarium. And the Colonel
fondly pictured his nephew wandering distractedly through a long suite
of padded cells--but, alas! the bird had flown. Such things were always
expedited with such felicitous despatch in those parts of the earth
inhabited by civilized men, but here where everybody was equally mad,
where chaos reigned, and nobody either recognized or respected beings of
a superior order, what could be done to check the headlong career of his
nephew who with twenty millions was rushing straight to destruction?

No wonder God had long since abandoned this land to his majesty, the
devil who, as in the days of Scripture, roamed and roared at will. No
one having passed twenty-four hours in the country could possibly doubt
that his cup of joy was running over. Where his nephew had concealed his
fortune was also a source of mystery to him. He certainly had displayed
the diabolical cunning that is characteristic of the mentally deranged.
Possibly he had concealed it in Mexico, but to combat the institutions
of that land was like attempting to stem the tides.

The thought of those twenty millions tortured the Colonel's mind almost
beyond endurance, and he groaned aloud as his imagination pictured them
rolling in a bright, glittering stream of gold and silver coins into the
gutter for the swine that waited to devour them.

Such were the Colonel's reflections as he sat on the edge of his bed in
his shirt sleeves and wearily removed his tight fitting, dust-begrimed,
patent-leather shoes with the assistance of his valet.

How his feet and back ached! He wanted sympathy, but got none, the
others being too much occupied with their own woes to think of his
comfort. On the walls of the room were hung numerous cheap biblical
prints--the very things he abominated most. Among them, just over the
foot of the bed, on the very spot where first his gaze would alight on
opening his eyes in the morning, hung a small colored print of the
Madonna. No wonder the people of this land spent so much time crossing
themselves and calling upon her for protection--they certainly had cause
to. The room, in his opinion, was a veritable rat-hole; the place
little better than what one might expect to find in a suburb of hell.

The exertions of the last two days had been more than mortal could
endure. Never had he felt so completely fagged, and it was with no
little concern that he contemplated the reflection of his face in the
small oval mirror which hung on the rough gray plaster wall opposite,
just over the small, cheap, brown-stained wooden bureau. The sight of
his countenance, as is the case with most of us who have not yet entered
the limbo of senile decrepitude and still dare look ourselves in the
face, was always a source of extreme satisfaction to him. He held it in
the highest esteem as though it were the head of some beautiful antique
Apollo, and in his, the Colonel's estimation, was the handsomest face on
earth.

Indeed it was a handsome face, and like many others both in and outside
of his particular set, he devoted hours to its preservation.

What was John, his valet, for? To press his clothes and run errands? Not
at all. He was there to massage that precious face and drive away all
harassing signs of care and age by means of a liberal use of cold cream
and enamel. In the present instance, barring a sun-scorched nose, his
delicately rouged cheeks like his exquisitely manicured finger tips
blushed with rose of vermilion like those of the daughters of Judea of
old, contrasting favorably with his dark eyes, wavy white hair, and
mustache and eyebrows dyed a jet black. His regular features, long
slender white hands, and tall erect figure betokened the born aristocrat
of the spoiled, luxurious type.

In spite of his determination not to sleep a wink, this overindulged
child and arch hypocrite, fell asleep almost the instant his tired head
touched the pillow, and would have slept to a comparatively late hour
had it not been for the ceaseless crowing of a cock in the barnyard,
awakening him at daybreak.

What a land, where people were not even permitted to sleep! Vague
apprehensions for the future went flitting through his mind, and, as he
lay in bed moodily contemplating through the window the first sunrise he
had witnessed in years, he cursed fate and his nephew, and secretly
vowed that he would wring that infernal bird's neck at the first
opportunity.

Mrs. Forest's mental attitude resembled that of her brother's, but with
Blanch and Bessie it was different. The strangeness and novelty of the
situation so different from anything they had hitherto experienced,
began to interest them in spite of their previous determination to be
bored. That evening they had visited the plaza with the Captain and Dick
Yankton and had witnessed the dances beneath the great _alamos_ or
poplar trees that surrounded the square, braving the risk of
contamination which Mrs. Forest had vainly protested would be sure to
ensue should they mingle with the populace--the Mexican-Indian rabble of
which it was composed--a distinction which only she and the Colonel
seemed able to divine, for had it been a garlic-tainted Egyptian or
Neapolitan mob, little objection would have been raised to their going.
The sights amused and interested them, and after an hour's mild
dissipation, they returned to the _Posada_ in time to meet a few of the
Señora's guests in the garden, among whom was Padre Antonio. The quaint,
inborn courtesy of the well-bred Spaniard was a revelation to them;
something they imagined did not exist outside of Spain.

The charm of the Padre's simple manner and ways proved no less
irresistible to them than to the rest of the world, and they marveled
that he spoke English so well. His intimate knowledge of the people and
the customs of the country threw a new light on them, reconciling the
girls to many things that had seemed incomprehensible.

The Señora, out of consideration for the ladies, by whose presence she
was greatly honored, had relinquished her rooms to them; the best and
most comfortably furnished which the _Posada_ afforded.

It was a late hour before the girls retired for the night. There was so
much to talk over, and when they did finally lay themselves down to
rest, it was with the conviction that Captain Forest was not quite so
mad as they had supposed. He was at least a harmless lunatic and in no
danger of running amuck.

As for Bessie, the gentle hand of sleep soon closed her eyes, and she
slept the sleep of a tired child. With Blanch it was otherwise.

How could she sleep with the face of Chiquita constantly before her and
the pangs of jealousy gnawing at her heart? How stupid to have imagined
her to be one of those bovine women with large liquid eyes who,
figuratively speaking, pass the major portion of their lives standing
knee-deep in a pond, gazing stolidly out upon the world; a fat brown
wench upon whose hip a man might confidently expect to hang his hat by
the time she has attained the age of forty.

Nothing could have been farther from the mark. She might have known that
Jack could not have been caught with so thin a bait. All night long she
tossed on her pillow, or silently rose to gaze at the stars from the
window.

"Oh, if she only were not so beautiful!" she moaned as the first pale
streaks of light in the east told her that day had finally dawned, and
she crept stealthily back to bed again. Of course Jack, the wretch, was
sleeping peacefully--that was the irony of fate! What did he know of
suffering? But he would pay for this!

Their rooms overlooked the _patio_, and from behind an angle of a screen
she could look straight across it into the garden beyond as she lay in
bed. The bright shafts of the morning sun sifted down through the
branches of the trees and lay in patches of gold on the grass and
flowers beneath and flooded the _patio_ with light. Above the tops of
the trees and one corner of the low roof, the clear, pale blue skyline
was just visible. Butterflies and humming-birds darted in and out among
the fragrant white clematis and honeysuckle and passion vines that hung
from the arcades surrounding the court, or hovered over the fountain and
basin of gold fish in its center, edged with grasses and ferns. The
notes of the golden oriole and cooing of pigeons and wood-doves mingling
with the silvery jingle of an occasional _vaquero's_ spurs, came from
the garden beyond.

How peaceful it was! After all, why was the place so unusual, so
different from the rest of the world? But forget where one was, and the
scene might have been one in Algiers or Egypt, or in a town in Spain or
Northern Italy. And why, she asked herself, as her thoughts reverted to
Chiquita, was this Indian woman so very different from themselves?

Dress her as they were dressed, and place her in the proper
surroundings, and she would easily pass for a Gypsy or a Spaniard. Was
there any reason to believe that the queens of Sheba and Semiramis with
their tawny skins were any less fair than she, Blanch Lennox, with her
rosy, soft white complexion? Or Chiquita a shade darker than Cleopatra,
the witch of the Nile, whose beauty caused the downfall of Antony and
with it the waning power and splendor of ancient Egypt?

Was her lineage superior to Chiquita's, the descendant of a long line of
rulers whose ancestry stretched back into the dim, remote past as
ancient as the hills, the record of whose lives and deeds stood
inscribed on the ruined temples and palaces scattered throughout the
land where they once dwelt at a time when her European ancestors roamed
the wilderness half naked and clad in the skins of wild beasts?

White men of eminence had married Indians and their descendants were
proud of their lineage. True, Chiquita was an exception just as she
towered above most women of her race. And who were they, that they
should criticize--vaunt their superiority in the face of the universal
scheme of things? Were they really any better? The same passions,
longings and aspirations that swayed them, swayed the Red man as well.

Their daily lives were different--their aspirations were directed in
different channels, that was all. What was true civilization and
culture, any way? Who had ever succeeded in defining them? The so-called
civilized world might prattle of culture. Its ideas compared with those
of mankind as a whole were purely relative and of a local origin and
color, and could not be gauged by a uniform standard of ethics. What
pleases the one fails to attract the other. The man in power who talks
of culture may be taken seriously by those of his own race who stand by
and applaud his words, but remove him from his home surroundings and
place him on a footing of equality with those of a different race and
environment and his arguments fail to convince.

Did the harangues of Louis the Sixteenth's tormentors convince him of
the ethical standards of universal justice, or John Brown's sacrifice
the representatives of a slave-holding population?

Which is the most convincing--the example set by the early Spartans, or
that of the man who surrounds himself with every luxury and convenience
of modern life; the man who reads books and lives in a house and travels
by train and automobile, or he who dwells in a tent, who is ignorant of
letters, and prefers the slower locomotion of horse and foot? Who is the
arbiter of fashion? The sun shines alike on the just and the unjust, the
great world still continues to laugh and goes on its way in spite of
men's philosophies, but tear up the map, as the French say, and where
are our standards and codes?

Prove it if you can, that the wild flower in the meadow is less
beautiful than the one reared beneath the hand of the gardener. Argue
and theorize as we will, our sophistries count for little when we are
brought face to face with the realities of life. The law of compensation
and certainty of facts still hold the balance when the bed-rock of human
existence is reached. One might as well expect the mountains to slip
into the sea, or the stars to pause in their courses to hearken to the
voice of a modern Joshua as a man in love with a vision of beauty, to
listen to ethics.

It was quite evident that somebody had lied. In fact, all men of her
race had been lying from the beginning of time, for what, after all, did
civilization amount to if it were not convincing? Did it ever soothe a
wounded heart, stifle the pangs of jealousy, or was it ample
compensation for the loss of the great prize of life--happiness?

Civilization and blindness were fast becoming synonymous terms, and
there were even moments when one almost fancied one heard the laughter
of the gods. Let the dull brute civilized herd sweep by, all its
moralizing and sophistries could not arouse so much as a single
heart-beat where sentiment was concerned.

The truth of these convictions surged in upon her with overwhelming
force. Had Jack also noted them, she asked herself.

Possibly, but not, perhaps, with the keener intuition of the woman. She
breathed hard. Hot tears of rage, jealousy and disappointment surged to
her eyes. She could endure it no longer--she felt as though she would
stifle. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed and then sprang to the
floor, noticing for the first time the pretty little Mexican girl,
Rosita, who at Bessie's summons, had entered and deposited a tray
containing oranges, chocolate and _tortillas_ on the table in the center
of the room.

The dark circles beneath Blanch's eyes and her general appearance of a
disheveled Eve told Bessie how little she had slept.

"I knew you were thinking of her," she said, throwing herself back in
the pillows and stretching her arms. Her eyelids drooped for a moment
over her great violet eyes and she laughed lightly with the contentment
of one whose heart is free.

"Of course I am," returned Blanch, coloring and biting her lip. "What
else should I be thinking of?"

"Do you know, I rather like her," continued Bessie, raising on one elbow
and stretching herself again with the delicious satisfaction of one who
has slept soundly and well.

"And I hate her!" cried Blanch. And seizing Chiquita's dagger which lay
on the table beside the tray, she plunged it viciously into an orange.




X


Things began to assume a more favorable aspect. Even Mrs. Forest had
plucked up enough courage to venture beyond the confines of the
_Posada's_ garden.

Late one afternoon as she with Blanch and Bessie descended the veranda
steps, preparatory to a stroll through the town, a horseman, dressed in
the height of Mexican fashion, shot suddenly round the curve in the road
at full gallop and drew rein before them, tossing the dust raised by his
animal's hoofs into their faces.

Dust and a horse's nose thrust suddenly into Mrs. Forest's face could
hardly improve a temper already strained to the breaking point.

"Are people beasts--mere cattle of the fields to be trampled upon by a
horse?" she gasped, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her
surprise.

"A thousand pardons--I did not see you!" replied the horseman, his
English colored with a slight accent.

"What are people's eyes for?" returned Mrs. Forest, making no attempt to
conceal her irritation.

"Mrs. Forest, I see you do not recognize me," answered the horseman,
smiling and raising his broad-brimmed _sombrero_ which partially
concealed his features.

"Don Felipe Ramirez!" cried Blanch and Bessie in the same breath.
"How," exclaimed Blanch, "could you expect us to recognize you in that
costume? Why are you masquerading in such a disguise?" Don Felipe
laughed as he swung himself lightly from the saddle.

"It's the costume of our people," he answered, shaking them cordially by
the hand. "It's the one they prefer, without which one cannot always
command their respect. They detest modern innovations and cling to the
customs of their ancestors. It's a bit of old Mexico, that's all. But
what brings you here?" he asked, changing the topic of conversation.
"Did you drop from the clouds? I would as soon have thought of finding
oranges growing on the cactus as seeing you here."

"Only a pleasure trip combined with a little exploration on our own
account," answered Blanch indifferently. "We hope," she continued, "to
emulate the example of the old Spanish _Conquistadores_--some of your
ancestors perhaps?"

"Then may your wanderings lead you southward. My _hacienda_ lies but
twenty miles from here, and from this moment, it is placed at your
disposition. Not in the polite terms of the proverbial Spanish etiquette
which presents the visitor with everything and yet nothing at all, but
actually. Indeed, I shall expect to see you there soon. The life will
interest you, I know."

"We certainly shall avail ourselves of the rare privilege, Don Felipe,"
said Bessie. "Do you intend stopping here?" she asked.

"For a few days, yes. A room is always waiting for me here."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Blanch. "We shall expect to see a great deal
of you. In the meantime, we shall visit the town and shall see you this
evening. Until then, _á Dios_, as you Spaniards say. You observe, we are
making rapid progress in the language," she added, smiling and glancing
back at him over her shoulder as they moved away in the direction of the
highroad.

"What a strange costume for a man like Don Felipe to wear! It's as gay
and extravagant as a woman's!" said Bessie as soon as they were out of
hearing.

"It's becoming though," answered Blanch. "This is truly the land of
surprises. I wonder what will happen next?"

"What can have brought them here, to this out-of-the-way place?" mused
Don Felipe, throwing one arm lightly over the neck of his horse as he
leaned gently against the animal.

Don Felipe Ramirez was young and handsome--the handsomest and wealthiest
man in all Chihuahua. One who measured his lands not by acres, but by
hundreds of square miles, over which roamed vast herds of horses, cattle
and sheep, and of which Chiquita might have been mistress had she so
chosen. Within this vast domain were situated numerous villages of
Mexican and Indian populations, subject in a measure to his command. His
word, where it did not conflict with the central Government, was law;
but Don Felipe, selfish and unprincipled though he was by nature, was
too easy going ever to think of making unscrupulous use of such power.
So long as things went smoothly, he was the last man to exercise his
almost unlimited authority for the mere pleasure of dominating others as
many men might were they placed in his position.

His leniency in governing, his lavish manner of living, and a way he had
of fraternizing with his people on occasions--the latter prompted not
from motives of generosity, but purely from those of vanity and a love
of popularity--made him fairly popular among his subjects. It was when
Don Felipe wanted something in particular that he became dangerous,
especially if that something lay within his jurisdiction. Then indeed,
was he one to be feared.

His appearance was striking; a swarthy complexion, thick, shiny, black
curly hair and mustache, lustrous black eyes and delicate features, and
a lithe sinewy body, every movement of which was cat-like and expressive
of treachery.

His high-crowned, broad-brimmed _sombrero_ of gray felt was richly
embroidered with gold and silver. A slender, pale yellow satin tie
adorned his soft white, heavily frilled shirt front. His soft gray
jacket and leggins of goat skin, also ornamented with gold and silver
buttons and embroidery, were slashed at the sleeves below the elbow and
knee and interlaced with filmy gold cords from beneath which shone a
pale yellow satin facing embroidered with tiny red flowers. A gay
scarlet silken _banda_ from beneath which peeped the silver hilt of a
knife, encircled his slender waist, while his feet were encased in
russet tanned boots adorned with spurs inlaid with gold and silver and
which tinkled like fairy bells with every step he took. The trappings of
his horse were also heavily inlaid with silver. Theatrical though his
costume was, it became him well and harmonized perfectly with his
surroundings, completing the picture of a Spanish Don, the
representative of a past era. A costume that was only to be seen in the
remoter parts of the country--one which was becoming rarer each day.

Four years had elapsed since he had last looked upon the familiar scenes
about him. Nothing appeared to have changed during that time as his gaze
wandered from the old _Posada_ to the garden beyond. He sighed, and a
momentary expression of pain and weariness passed across his countenance
as he silently surveyed the scene which recalled memories whose
bitterness was enough to overwhelm a man of maturer character and years.

In the Indian _pueblo_, La Jara, had lived the beautiful _mestiza_ girl,
Pepita Delaguerra, with whom he had fallen in love in early youth.

The gentle, confiding nature of Pepita was ill suited to that of the
passionate, impulsive Felipe, and proved her undoing. For, when old Don
Juan, Felipe's father, heard of his son's infatuation, he immediately
packed him off to the City of Mexico with the injunction not to return
under a year. An obscure half-caste for a daughter-in-law! Holy Maria!
the thought was enough to cause his hair to stand on end. No, the old
Don had other plans for his son. Maria Dolores, Felipe's cousin, was the
woman he had picked out for his wife, and marry her he should if he
wished to inherit his father's vast estates. In case he disregarded the
latter's wish and married Pepita, the estates were to go to the Church,
so it was stipulated in Don Juan's will. But neither the Church nor old
Don Juan, as it afterwards proved, were a match for the clever Felipe.
The handsome scapegrace had already secretly married Pepita.

The strangest of all things is perhaps the irony of fate. Before the
year was up during which Felipe was charged to remain in the City of
Mexico, both his father, Don Juan, and the priest who had performed the
marriage ceremony for Felipe and Pepita, died. During his absence from
home, the observant and quick-witted Felipe had learned not only many
new things, but had made the acquaintance of other women as well. At its
best, the love of the passionate, hot-blooded Felipe and the gentle
Pepita could have endured only for a time. The attractions and
fascinations of the Capitol opened his eyes to many things which he had
hitherto overlooked, especially, that there are many beautiful women in
the world, and always one who is just a little more beautiful than the
others if one took the trouble to look for her. And so it happened that
he forgot not only his honor, but his obligations to Pepita, and
destroying the record of their marriage which he managed to secure with
the assistance of a confederate, he turned a deaf ear to her pleadings
and went his way.

What had he, Don Felipe Ramirez, who lived and ruled like a prince on
his vast estates, to fear from a pretty little half-caste Indian girl?

But Don Felipe was young and still had much to learn in the world. The
avenging angel that inevitably awaits us all at some turn or other in
the lane, stood nearer to him than he realized, and the vengeance which
followed was swift and complete.

Pepita took poison and died, but she died not alone--she died in the
arms of Chiquita who had but recently returned from the convent.

The latter frequently accompanied Padre Antonio on his charitable
missions and thus it chanced that she made Pepita's acquaintance and
learned her story. Time passed and all went well with Felipe until the
day he chanced to meet Chiquita.

We may deaden our souls to the voice of conscience, disavow a belief in
destiny and shut our eyes to those forces of the Invisible which, in
spite of ourselves, we know to exist, but how is it, that no man ever
succeeds in escaping his fate?

When Don Felipe Ramirez looked for the first time into the two dark
lustrous worlds of Chiquita's eyes, he beheld the height and depth of
his existence. From that moment he fell at her feet and worshiped her
with a passion that consumed and mastered him. Waking and dreaming she
was ever in his thoughts--he could not live without her. But not until
he was mad, ravished with desire, did she consent to become his wife. A
smile, or a gentle pressure of the hand were the only caresses she
deigned to bestow upon him; not until they were married would he be
permitted to embrace and kiss her, give rein to his passion. A strange
attitude for one of her nature to assume, and, as he looked back upon
it, he wondered how he had endured it--that he had not suspected
something.

At length the day set for the wedding arrived, and Chiquita with Señora
Fernandez drove in state to the old Mission church where Padre Antonio
awaited them to perform the marriage ceremony.

Don Felipe, in a state of exultation that lifted his soul to the clouds,
stood waiting for her on the steps of the church as had been agreed
between them; but as the two advanced, Chiquita suddenly paused before
the door, and turning, tore the bridal-veil and wreath of orange
blossoms from her brow and flung them into his face, crying: "Pepita
Delaguerra is avenged!" Then turning, she deliberately descended the
church steps and reëntering her carriage, drove home, leaving Don Felipe
dazed and speechless before the crowd of spectators that had gathered to
witness the passing of the bride and groom.

Later she confessed the reason for her motives to Padre Antonio, but one
circumstance she withheld even from him, the nature of which Don Felipe
did not suspect, but which he would have given worlds to know.

Chiquita's conduct became the scandal of the country for miles around,
and as is invariably the case, the majority of the women sided with
Felipe. In more refined circles of society, her act would have been
considered highly reprehensible and Felipe overwhelmed with sympathy.
His base ingratitude would have been lightly censured in the familiar,
sugared terms of the most approved fashion. He would have been forgiven,
and petted, and even lauded as a martyr--and then, the world would have
forgotten. With the Indian woman, however, it was different.

On the altars of her people was still written, "blood for blood," the
same as in the ancient days.

Crushed, humiliated, his pride humbled to the dust, Don Felipe left the
country and for four years sought to forget his shame and the taunts of
his enemies in the distractions of the world. He traveled everywhere,
was presented at the different Courts of Europe, and it was in
Washington where his uncle was the Mexican Minister to the United
States, that he met Blanch and Mrs. Forest and her niece. In vain did he
try to forget. In vain did he search for another woman to supplant his
love for Chiquita. He plunged into the wildest dissipation, but to no
effect. The beautiful face of the dark woman followed him everywhere,
stood between him and the world, lured him, fascinated him still as
nothing else could, tortured him day and night and he knew no rest.

A thousand times he resolved to return and kill her, and a thousand
times he relented, for he loved her as madly as ever and could not carry
out his resolve. A prey to alternate fits of remorse and hatred, and
tortured constantly by the knowledge of an unrequited love, the soul of
Don Felipe Ramirez suffered the torments of the damned. His
unconquerable love for Chiquita devoured him, gnawed constantly at his
heart, and he cursed her--cursed her as only one of his temperament who
had suffered as he suffered, could curse.

What could he do? Anguish succeeded anguish until he was at length
drawn back again as irresistibly as the magnet is drawn to the north, to
the woman he both loved and hated. He would throw himself at her feet.
He, the proud, arrogant Don Felipe of former years, and bowed in the
dust, implore forgiveness. Nothing was too hard. Any sacrifice she might
demand of him, he would make. Surely, when she saw his remorse, his
contrite humbled spirit, understood his suffering and realized that he
could not forget her, could not live without her, that he loved her
still through all the years of suffering, that his life was irrevocably
linked to hers, she would relent, forgive him--become his wife.

His wife! The thought electrified, elated his being to an extent that it
was lifted for the moment from out the black depths of his despondency.
If not, well then, there would be time for the fulfillment of that which
must inevitably follow--either his death or hers.




XI


"Holy Mother! but I am glad to see you again, Don Felipe Ramirez! What
blessed chance has brought you back to us again?" Don Felipe started
like one in a dream, and turning in the direction whence came the sound
of the voice, he beheld Señora Fernandez standing on the veranda
regarding him intently.

"Doña Fernandez!" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure, advancing to meet
her, and extending his hand which she eagerly seized and held between
both her own.

"_Muchacho--muchacho!_" she cried, clapping her hands as she released
her hold on Don Felipe's. "Carlos, the _Caballero's_ horse!" she
continued, addressing the _vaquero_ that appeared in the doorway of the
Inn at her summons and who advancing, took possession of Don Felipe's
horse and led him away to the stables.

"Let me look at you, Don Felipe," she continued, regarding him closely.
"Why, you have not changed a hair! It might have been but yesterday that
you left us."

"And you, Doña Fernandez are still the charming, handsome mistress of
the _Posada de las Estrellas_ to whom all men are irresistibly drawn."

"Flatterer!" retorted Señora, laughing gayly and blushing like a girl
of sixteen. How sweet it was to hear such words from a handsome
_Caballero_ like Don Felipe! It reminded her of the old days when all
men thought her beautiful and went out of their way to tell her so.

"It was unkind of you to remain away so long, Don Felipe. Your friends
have missed you sadly and have prayed for the day of your return."

"Friends?" echoed Felipe with a sneer.

"Aye, friends. You will find that you have more friends now than when
you left us."

"I can scarcely believe it. And yet," he added, "I wish it might be so."

"You shall learn shortly for yourself," returned Señora.

"How long," interrupted Felipe, eager to change the drift of the
conversation, "have the American ladies been here?"

"Ah, you have seen them?"

"Yes, they were just going out for a walk when I arrived. It was a
pleasant surprise to see them here. They are friends of mine."

"You know them?"

"Yes. I met them a year ago in Washington."

"_Dios!_ to think of it!" she exclaimed.

"But what are they doing here?" he asked.

"Ah! that is just what I would like to know myself," replied Señora.
"_Caramba!_ but they are grand ladies! They say," she went on, "that
they are traveling for pleasure, but what pleasure can such delicate,
refined ladies possibly find in the desert, I should like to know?
Judging from their talk and actions they can not have seen very much of
the world. _Dios!_ you should have witnessed the scene they created the
day they arrived. And yet," she continued, "I like them and am glad they
are here. They have brought new life into the place. God knows it is no
longer what it used to be in the old days when Don Carlos, my husband,
was alive," she added with a sigh.

Don Felipe smiled at the Señora's provincialism. What a great world lay
outside that of her own, of which she was entirely ignorant.

A trip to the City of Mexico during her honeymoon was the only journey
she had ever taken beyond the confines of Chihuahua.

"And then there is Mrs. Forest's brother, Col-on-el Van Ash-ton," she
continued, pronouncing the latter's name slowly and with difficulty.

"Holy Maria! but he has caused us trouble! Nothing seems to suit him."

"Colonel Van Ashton?" repeated Felipe. "Ah, yes, I remember him."

"But that is not all," interrupted Señora. "There is also Captain
Forest, Mrs. Forest's son. He came here before the others and seemed
very much surprised and put out by their unexpected appearance."

"Captain Forest?" repeated Don Felipe slowly, as if trying to recall a
chance meeting. "I have never met him. What is he like?"

"Ah, he's a grand Señor," answered Señora with enthusiasm. "A
_Caballero_ every inch, and rides a horse that's the devil himself. Why,
only yesterday the brute kicked out the side of the corral, and after
chasing the men off the place who had been teasing him, calmly walked
into the garden and rolled in my choicest flower-bed."

"He must be a thoroughbred at any rate," laughed Felipe.

"Thoroughbred? He's the devil, I say! Captain Forest and his man, José,
are the only ones that dare go near him." Don Felipe drew a gold
cigarette-case thickly studded with diamonds and rubies from the inner
pocket of his jacket, and lighted a cigarette.

"As I was saying," Señora went on, "Captain Forest is a fine gentleman.
He's a great friend of Señor Yankton, and--" she stopped abruptly.

"And what?" asked Felipe suspiciously, closely scanning her face as he
tossed away the burnt end of the match.

"Oh, nothing," answered Señora evasively. "Only much has transpired
during your absence, Don Felipe." She hesitated as though uncertain how
to proceed, then said: "I might speak of certain things, but perhaps I
had better not. They would not interest you, anyway."

"Ah!" he said at length, endeavoring to conceal the emotion her words
aroused. "I--I think I understand. You--you refer to her, I suppose?"
There was a slight tremor in his voice and his hand trembled as he
raised his cigarette to his lips for a fresh puff.

"Yes," she answered quietly. "I--I was about to say that she appears to
be interested in this Captain Forest. But of course, that's nothing to
you," she added hastily, watching him narrowly the while. Her words
acted like fire to tinder.

"Interested in him?" he cried, starting violently and letting his
cigarette fall to the ground. His face grew ashen pale and his right
hand involuntarily went to the knife in his sash. "No, no, it cannot
be!" he muttered excitedly. "Are you sure of what you say, Doña
Fernandez? Tell me that it is not true--that it is a lie!" he almost
hissed, his eyes glowing with the fires of passion and jealousy.

"Why, what has come over you, Don Felipe Ramirez?" cried Señora in
alarm. "Surely you cannot--she can be nothing to you any more?"

"Nothing to me? Why do you suppose I am here?" he answered.

"_Madre de Dios!_" muttered Señora.

"Doña Fernandez," he began after a pause, his voice trembling in spite
of himself, "God knows I have tried to forget her, but I--I cannot!" and
his voice broke.

"What?" cried Señora excitedly. "You don't really mean to say that you
still--love her?"

"I do," answered Felipe fiercely, driving his heel furiously into the
ground. For some moments neither spoke. Then a flush of anger mounted to
Señora's brow and she cried:

"Fie! Don Felipe! Have you forgotten your self-respect? The handsomest,
richest man in all Chihuahua running after an Indian--the woman who
treated you so shamefully--an ingrate who is unworthy of a love like
yours? If I could have had my way, she would have been whipped
publicly! What would Don Juan, your father, peace be to his soul, say if
he were alive? Love her!" she cried in a frenzy of hatred and jealousy.
"How can you possibly love her, Don Felipe Ramirez?"

"How can I love her?" retorted Felipe fiercely. "Why does the grass
grow? Why do the birds sing? Why do the streams run to the ocean? Why do
the flowers turn to the sun? Tell me that, Doña Fernandez," he cried in
agony and bitterness, "and I will tell you why I love her in spite of
myself, in spite of what she did, in spite of every effort I have made
to resist her fascination! God!" and he struck his breast with his
clenched hand, "I wonder I did not kill her then and there, but I could
not, I could not; I loved her so!"

"_Dios_, but this is strange!" gasped Señora, raising both hands for an
instant and then crossing herself devoutly as if to avert the power of
some evil--the spell which seemed to cling to Don Felipe and bind him as
with hoops of steel. She did not realize that Chiquita belonged to that
rare type of beings who seem immortal; that it was impossible to imagine
her other than young, that the years could work no change within her,
and although Felipe had not yet seen her, his soul must flame up at the
sight of her as of yore.

Felipe was silent, his eyes cast on the ground. His face wore a
malignant expression of pain and hatred, and he trembled in every limb.

The revelation of his anguish startled her. She stepped close up to him
and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, said in a voice full of
compassion, almost of pity: "I understand, Don Felipe! You still see her
as she was when you last knew her--it is but natural. Of course you
could not know, but she has changed since then. In the opinion of every
one, she has fallen, degraded herself."

"Degraded herself? What do you mean?" asked Felipe, turning his
searching gaze upon her.

"Only a fortnight ago," answered Señora, "on the great day of the
_Fiesta_, she danced publicly in Carlos Moreno's theater."

"Chiquita danced in Carlos Moreno's hall? Impossible!"

"Don Felipe," replied Señora with just the suggestion of a smile, "all
things are possible with a woman."

"But why did she dance?" he asked.

"I don't know; neither does any one else. They say she received three
thousand _pesos_ in gold."

"Three thousand _pesos_?" echoed Felipe. "What did she do with them?"

"Ah! that's the mystery! What did she do with them?" answered Señora.

"It was not so much her dancing that scandalized the community, for we
all know what a wonderful dancer she is. Nobody ever danced as she does,
and we are willing to give her credit for it, but what did she do with
the money? That's the scandal of it! I have noticed no change in her
dress," she continued, "nor is it known that she has spent a single
_peso_ as yet."

"Strange," he murmured. "I cannot understand it."

"No more can I nor any one else," answered Señora. "But I have been
forgetting my duty; I must prepare a room for you, Don Felipe. In the
meantime," she added, ascending the veranda and pausing for an instant,
"be assured of the hearty welcome of your friends when they learn of
your return."

"Chiquita danced in public? I can't understand it!" he said aloud after
Señora Fernandez had disappeared in the house. "And she interested in
this Captain Forest?" His face grew livid and then black with hatred as
a fresh wave of rage and jealousy swept over him.

"No, no; it cannot be!" he gasped, his left hand resting over his heart
as though in pain. For some time he remained motionless as a statue,
lost in thought with his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly he raised
his head with a quick jerk. His face no longer wore an expression of
pain and anguish, but one of settled, calm determination.

"I have come just in time," he said quietly. He smiled, and drawing
forth his cigarette-case once more, he opened it and lit a fresh
cigarette.




XII


Doña Fernandez could not sleep. All night long she tossed on her bed,
repeating her conversation with Don Felipe and revolving what course to
pursue. She instinctively felt that a great tragedy of some kind was
imminent. Unless some plan of concerted action were immediately adopted,
nothing could prevent it.

She knew her people too well. A reckless, hot-blooded man like Don
Felipe in his present mood could not be trusted for long, but must
sooner or later provoke a quarrel with Captain Forest, who she knew,
would be equally dangerous if aroused. Since her conversation with
Felipe she had noted the attitude of Blanch toward the Captain and her
woman's instinct had half guessed the truth. But beautiful and
irresistible though Blanch appeared, there was Chiquita, more beautiful
and attractive than when Felipe had last seen her, and also quite as
dangerous.

She knew that Felipe's passion was hopeless--that Chiquita would not
hesitate to show her dislike and contempt for him anew--that should
Captain Forest be attracted to her also, she would act like a fire-brand
between the two men. If only one of them might be persuaded to leave the
place, the clash which must inevitably occur, might be averted for a
time at least, but this was clearly impossible. There was only one
thing to be done for the present--advise Chiquita of Felipe's return and
warn her of the danger that threatened them all if she provoked him
unnecessarily.

Hopeless though this plan seemed, Chiquita might for the Captain's sake,
if she really cared for him, act more discreetly than was her wont. But
what could be expected from a woman in love? Who could tell how she
would act? Besides, she argued, all men are fools. They seem to be born
only to become the playthings of women, the majority of whom are
invariably deceived by them in the end.

How she hated her! To think of Don Felipe running after her, eating out
his heart, throwing away his young life for one like her! A love like
his going begging! Merciful God! was there no justice in this world? And
for the moment, she was quite carried away by a paroxysm of fury.

Ah, if only she, Doña Fernandez, were but ten years younger! But the
chosen birds of Venus, the white doves of matrimony, were not destined
to hover over her head a second time. Tears of longing and vexation
dimmed her eyes as she thought of the golden, halcyon days of youth that
would never return. At any rate, Felipe and Chiquita must not meet until
after she had warned the latter. Blanch must be used as a foil as long
as possible.

And so it happened that, when breakfast was over, Señora adroitly
arranged that Felipe should conduct the two girls for a morning's ramble
to the pretty little cañon of the river which lay but a mile distant
from the town where the foothills began; a plan that suited Blanch
perfectly. She, too, had been doing some thinking over night and had
recognized the possibility of using Don Felipe as a foil against Jack;
he was certainly handsome and clever enough to serve the purpose
admirably.

Captain Forest had gone for a ride an hour before for the purpose of
giving his horse a short run to the foothills and back. So, when Señora
had seen the others safely off, she slipped quietly away in the
direction of Padre Antonio's house.

It lacked a quarter of eleven when she left the house. She knew that
Chiquita would have long since returned from the market and would be at
home. So occupied was she with her thoughts as she hurried forward
intent upon her mission, she did not look up until she turned into the
road leading directly past Padre Antonio's gate, when she suddenly
stopped short. Before her she beheld Captain Forest standing in front of
the gate holding his horse, and Chiquita handing him a red rose. Another
instant, and Chiquita vanished through the gate into the garden and
Captain Forest, remounting his horse, came riding leisurely down the
road at a walk, inhaling the rose with evident pleasure. She drew back
into the shadow of the old wall and pressed close into the thick bushy
mass of white clematis vine which hung over it from above and waited
until he passed.

It is the unexpected that always happens. The meeting between Chiquita
and the Captain was purely accidental. While returning from his ride, he
had been attracted by the beauty and luxuriance of Padre Antonio's
garden as he rode by. He wheeled his horse about and drew rein before
the open iron grating of the gate in order to obtain a better view of
it. Its flowers consisted chiefly of roses of different varieties and
colors. The air was spicy with their perfume and, as he inhaled their
fragrance in deep breaths, his attention was presently attracted by the
figure of Chiquita who appeared in the pathway before him, pausing
beside a luxuriant bush of blood-red blossoms and apparently quite
unconscious of his presence. The picture which she presented was one he
carried with him for many a day afterward.

[Illustration: "The picture which she presented was one he carried with
him for many a day."]

A small white dove strutted and cooed on the ground before her, while
another flew down from the house-top and after circling above her head,
also settled down beside its mate in the pathway.

She was dressed in a short pale green skirt and bodice, the latter cut
low at the neck before and behind. The sleeves were short, reaching to
the elbow and terminating in a narrow frill of deep saffron, their sides
open and interlaced with silvery cords. Two richly embroidered silken
shawls of a pale red color with long fringe and worn in Spanish style,
adorned her dress. The one, pinned at the waist at the back and
following the outline of the bodice, passed up over her left shoulder
and down in front to her breast where it was fastened with a golden
brooch, the end falling in a graceful length of fringe. The other, also
fastened at the back of her waist, passed around her right hip and
diagonally down across the front of her skirt. Golden poppies adorned
the heavy masses of her lustrous black hair, worn high and held in place
by a silver comb. A saffron lace mantilla of the same deep shade as that
of the frill on her sleeves, fell in graceful folds from the comb to her
shoulders, while her feet were clothed in silk stockings of the same
shade and soft brown beaded slippers of undressed leather.

To complete this costume which only a Gypsy or one of Chiquita's tawny
complexion would have dared essay to wear, a small pale red silken fan
ornamented with gold and silver spangles, hung suspended from her wrist
by a satin ribbon of deep orange which flashed in the sunlight like a
splash of gold on a humming-bird's throat.

It was not by some happy chance that the Captain found her arrayed in
such finery, as is so often the case with heroines of romance, but the
result of much premeditation and studied effect. Ever since her meeting
with Blanch she had dressed herself daily with terrible deliberation and
nicety of precision, the same as every woman of flesh and blood would
have done under the circumstances, on the chance of Captain Forest
finding her at home when he came to pay his respects to the Padre as he
had intimated he would do.

The thought of the innumerable dresses possessed by her rival, and the
scantiness of her own wardrobe, composed though it was of the richest
laces, silks and satins in the style of a past era, was something
appalling; enough to turn a stouter heart than hers. And had she been
anything else than an Indian, she would have sat down on the floor of
her room in the midst of her finery and wept copious and bitter tears
like the daughters of Babylon of old. The thought of the old dress which
she had worn on the day of their meeting was not alone mortifying--it
was excruciating. One of those things which we hasten to forget.

_Dios!_ how she must have looked to him in the regal presence of Blanch,
gowned in her stylish traveling costume!

Don Felipe Ramirez would have kissed the dust from off the hem of such
an old garment, but would Captain Forest do the same? She could not
afford to take any more risks with a rival like Blanch in the field.

There is no knowing how long Captain Forest would have remained a silent
spectator of the charming picture she presented, had not her attention
been attracted by the sound of Starlight's hoofs as he began to paw the
ground impatiently. She raised her head from the bush over which she was
bending and turned her gaze in the direction of the gate.

"Oh!" she cried with a little start, silently regarding the Captain for
some moments. Then a smile slowly wreathed her lips and she broke into a
light laugh. Her right hand involuntarily sought her fan which slowly
opened across the lower half of her face and she shot a glance at him
over its rim with an ease and grace which only Spanish women have ever
succeeded in mastering. The effect of this deft bit of coquetry, simple
and natural as were all her actions, was not lost upon the Captain.

"I don't know whether I love you or not," it said plainly as words,
"but henceforth you shall be my slave."

"How long have you been there?" she asked at length, slowly lowering her
fan.

"Only an instant, Señorita," he replied, raising his hat. "I was
wondering," he continued, "whether it would be too much to ask you for
one of those roses? One would not be missed among so many."

"Ah, but they are precious, Señor _Capitan_--these especially; they are
my favorites," and she swept her hand caressingly over the bush beside
which she was standing.

"For that reason I shall prize it all the more, Señorita."

"Ah! you men have a way of using flattery to women whenever you want
anything of them. And yet," she continued with just the suggestion of a
frown, "a woman would be hard hearted to refuse--" Her eyes dropped for
an instant, then looking up again, she said hesitatingly: "I wonder if I
can trust you?"

"Try me," he pleaded.

"I know it's foolish, but rather than have you think me less generous
than the women you have known, I shall give you one little one, Captain
Forest, that is, on condition you never ask me for another," and
breaking off one of the largest half-blown blossoms, she held it in her
hand as though loath to part with it.

"I promise," said the Captain solemnly, dismounting and holding his
horse by the rein. "I dare not leave my horse, Señorita," he added in a
tone of embarrassment, "he is unaccustomed to a town and feels strange,
and should he take it into his head to bolt, he might do the first
person he met an injury."

"Indeed? I have often thought of your horse and wondered where you got
him. But," she continued reluctantly, "since you cannot come to me, I
suppose I must come to you," and passing through the gate, she stood
before him, rose in hand.

"A truly magnificent animal," she said, running her hand gently along
Starlight's neck. "I've been accustomed to horses from childhood and
can't help admiring a good one when I see it."

Much to the Captain's surprise, the Chestnut did not resent her touch,
but whinnied softly instead and laid his nose on her shoulder. Any one
else but José and himself he would have seized with his teeth. Perhaps
it was her way of approaching and handling him, or was it the subtle
influence of that mysterious kinship which exists between the wild
things--strange and inexplicable to all but themselves?

"I thought I possessed the only pure Arab in Mexico," she continued.
"He's a small black horse with a white star in his forehead, and has
never been beaten. You should look at the Raven some time--he would
interest you," she added.

"I should like to. Arabs are rare on this side of the Atlantic. Where
did you get him?"

"He was a present from Count Don Louis de Ortega, of the City of
Mexico."

"Count Louis de Ortega?"

"Yes. He is the most charming old gentleman I know. He is Padre
Antonio's great friend."

"Ah!" ejaculated the Captain as though relieved.

"I once spent a summer traveling in Europe with the Ortega family. But
here is your rose, Captain Forest. I almost believe you forgot it.
Horses are so much more interesting than flowers," and handing him the
rose, she was back again in the garden before he could thank her.

"_Á Dios, Capitan_ Forest," she continued with the softest accent
imaginable, lingering unconsciously on his name as she paused on the
other side of the gate. Again the little fan opened, and looking back
over it with a bewitching smile and arched eyebrows and her head held
coquettishly on one side, she said as if to herself: "I wonder how long
he will keep it?"

His heart gave a great throb as he gazed upon that subtle, bewitching
vision before him, "Forever, Señorita!" he was about to reply, but she
was gone.

It might be argued that a woman of Chiquita's metal would not have shown
her hand thus lightly. Let his infernal beast bolt and trample the whole
town in the dust and himself in the bargain. If he wanted the rose, let
him come and get it; not a step would she move! Possibly, but let it not
be forgotten that she was in love--desperately in love; that the time
for quibbling had passed, that another woman equally fair would have
unhesitatingly waded through a river to deliver that rose to the Captain
had he asked for it. Destiny had placed Captain Forest in the saddle,
just as it had decreed that Don Felipe Ramirez should pass the remainder
of his days pursuing an illusive vision. If nature and convention now
swarmed at the Captain's saddle-bow, surely it was no fault of his. Had
he not burnt his last bridge, snapped his fingers in the face of the
world, and turned his back upon it and ridden forth in search of the
lost kingdom of Earth?




XIII


"The jade--coquetting openly on the highroad!" cried the Señora
furiously, stepping out from the shadow of the wall after the Captain
had disappeared down the road.

"Will she stop at nothing? It's true, she loves him! What would Don
Felipe do had he witnessed what she had just seen?" and she shuddered as
she paused breathlessly before the high iron gate, her cheeks aglow and
her eyes flashing with indignation. Cautiously pushing open the gate
which stood ajar, she paused for an instant on the inside, casting her
eyes nervously about her in search of Chiquita, but seeing no one, she
advanced slowly along the walk leading in the direction of the house.
She had not far to go before she came upon the object of her quest,
seated on a rough stone bench in the shade of a thick cluster of
tamarisk bushes which grew close to the wall.

The surprise Chiquita felt on seeing the Señora standing before her so
unexpectedly, caused her to let fall the book which she was vainly
endeavoring to read--an action which the Señora regarded as an admission
of her guilt; and she exulted in her evident embarrassment.

The episode of the rose had caused her to quite forget her mission for
the moment. From her general air of excitement, flushed face and
flashing eyes, Chiquita rightly conjectured that something unusual had
happened and that an outburst of some sort or other was imminent. It
came like an explosion.

"Holy Virgin!" she cried, eyeing Chiquita critically. "What is the
meaning of this; dressed in your very best? Is this the Sabbath, or one
of the blessed Saints' days, or perhaps a Palm-Sunday that you should
array yourself thus? Mother of God! when has it become the fashion for
young ladies to disport themselves in their best clothes on common,
ordinary week days? Why, 'tis not even a Fish-Friday! Merciful Heaven!
to what are we coming?" she gasped between breaths, clasping her hands
and glancing heavenward. "Do such dresses grow upon bushes that they are
so easily obtained? Doubtless," she concluded with withering sarcasm,
"when they are worn threadbare as they soon will be owing to such
constant usage, you will purchase others with those golden _pesos_ which
you earned so recently."

Chiquita, accustomed to the Señora's outbursts, did not deign an
immediate reply, but sat quietly fanning herself, a faint smile
wreathing her lips; she was thoroughly enjoying the Señora's discomfort.
What would not the latter give to know something concerning those
_pesos_? Chiquita's composure under the fire of her words only tended to
increase her irritation.

"Oh, I know why you have thus suddenly turned the peacock! You do not
deceive me! You have arrayed yourself thus for the grand
Señor--_Capitan_ Forest."

"Bah!" ejaculated Chiquita composedly, as though nothing unusual were
taking place. "Is that all you have to say Doña Fernandez?"

"All! Is that not enough? Holy God!" she cried with increasing vexation.
"You are in love--in love, I say!" A ripple of laughter bubbled over the
two rosy petals of Chiquita's lips, revealing the pearly whiteness of
her teeth. Now that she realized the real cause of the Señora's anger,
it was impossible to become angry herself. The Señora, however, was by
no means abashed by Chiquita's indifference, and vigorously renewed the
attack.

"So our little ring-dove is in love, is she?" she continued mockingly,
strutting back and forth before her. "You think _Capitan_ Forest will
notice you in that finery--that he will fall in love with you and will
marry you, and that you will become a grand lady like the Señorita
Lennox and ride in a fine carriage for the rest of your days. _Mercedes
Dios!_ and all because you have succeeded in turning the heads of a few
country bumpkins that hang about the place casting sheep's-eyes at you.
Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed derisively. "Believe me, when _Capitan_ Forest
makes up his mind to marry, he will not stoop so low to pick up so
little."

"Doña Fernandez!" said Chiquita sharply rising from the bench with an
ominous look in her eyes.

"Foolish child," Señora went on without heeding her, "to imagine that
some day your hands will be white like a lady's! I suppose you have
nothing further to do to-day but to pick flowers?" she added, pausing
for breath.

"I have never worried about my color, Doña Fernandez," replied Chiquita
indignantly. "Indeed, I sometimes think it holds its own better than
that of some persons I might mention."

"Holy Mother! how your tongue runs on! Am I not to be allowed to say
anything? Oh, you do not deceive me! I saw you give him the rose as I
came here. If he's sensible, he'll throw it away."

Chiquita laughed derisively. "Perhaps it is well for the world that all
people are not so sensible as you are, Doña Fernandez," and her fan
closed with a sudden snap. "So this is the advice you came to give me,
Doña Fernandez? How very considerate of you!"

Her words recalled the Señora to the purpose of her coming. For some
time she paced up and down before Chiquita without replying. Then
stopping and facing her, and watching closely for the effect her words
would have upon her, she said: "I came to tell you--that Don Felipe
Ramirez has returned."

Chiquita started. "Don Felipe here?"

"Aye. He's stopping at my house, and I came to warn you that perhaps it
would be well to be cautious and exercise a little more self-control
than is your wont when in his and _Capitan_ Forest's presence."

The Señora was satisfied with her morning's work; her words had had
their effect. Besides, had she not had her say--unburdened her soul of
many things which she had long been dying to give utterance to? All
things considered she had scored.

"_Á Dios_, Señorita," she added sarcastically, her black eyes gleaming
with malicious satisfaction as with mock courtesy she bowed and turned,
leaving Chiquita silent and motionless, her eyes cast on the ground and
lost in thought.




XIV


"Don Felipe here? The coward, the cur! How dare he return?" she cried
with a sudden outburst, her words ringing with indignation and
resentment. She impatiently tapped the palm of her hand with her fan as
she began to realize what his return might mean to her.

She knew that Señora had come to warn her not on her own account, but
solely on Don Felipe's. Knowing as she did the reckless character of the
man, she thoroughly realized the danger, and knew that she must be on
her guard, not only for her own sake, but for Captain Forest's as well.
Like the bird of ill omen that he was, his presence boded no good to
her. Already she felt his baleful shadow fall across her path.

The unusual attention which Chiquita had begun to pay to her personal
appearance did not escape the observant eye of Padre Antonio. Knowing
the nature of woman as few men did, he was wise enough not to question
her, experience having taught him that the majority of women can only
keep a secret for a certain length of time. He smiled and admired, or
twitted her with the simple remark: "For whom are we dressing this
morning, Chiquita _mia_?" But she only laughed in reply, or shaking her
finger at him with a mysterious air, would say: "What woman would not
dress for Padre Antonio?" But Padre Antonio was not so innocent as he
tried to appear. Instinct, reënforced by long experience, told him that
these were the first real symptoms of love which his wild little Indian
girl, as he chose to call her, had shown.

He had always suspected that she never really cared for Don Felipe, and
had done his best to break off the engagement before the catastrophe had
overtaken the latter; but this was different. That of which he was loath
to think, yet which he knew must inevitably happen, had come to pass.

His knowledge of human nature told him that she had at last met the man
worthy of her love, but, he asked himself, would Captain Forest, of a
different race and reared under totally different conditions,
reciprocate that love? He could not endure the thought that his little
girl might be made unhappy should the Captain fail to respond to her
love.

He, too, had seen Chiquita give him the rose from his study window which
overlooked the garden. So, when the sermon upon which he was engaged was
completed, he quietly descended to the garden with the intention of
administering to her a gentle admonition as well as giving her a little
wholesome advice. Chiquita, hearing the sound of his measured tread on
the gravel as he approached along the pathway, reseated herself on the
bench and began to fan herself unconcernedly.

What a picture she made against the pale plumy branches of the tamarisk,
thought Padre Antonio.

"I thought I heard voices," he said, seating himself beside her. "Has
any one been here?"

"Doña Fernandez has just gone," replied Chiquita absently. "She has been
giving me some of her advice."

"Advice?" echoed Padre Antonio, realizing the moment of his arrival to
be most opportune. "That's just what I have come to give you, my
child--advice!"

"What! You, too, Padre?" she exclaimed petulantly, looking at him
inquiringly. "_Dios!_ what have I done that everybody comes to give me
advice when I have so many other things to think of?"

"Chiquita," slowly began Padre Antonio, laying his hand gently on her
own, "I have always known you to be wiser than most women, the result no
doubt, of your early life and training in the wilds where people must
live by their wits for self-preservation if for nothing else." He paused
that he might the better collect his thoughts. She guessed what was
coming and began toying with her fan, an arch smile playing about her
delicate, sensitive mouth as she regarded him out of the corners of her
large dark eyes.

"Chiquita," he continued, "I do not like your extravagance. Have a care,
child, lest you become addicted to vanity."

"Again, just what the Señora said! Am I so vain as all that, Padre
_mio_, that you should be obliged to remind me of it?"

"Then why this continual display?" he asked pointedly. "You never used
to show such consideration for your admirers." She felt that it would
be not only foolish, but worse than useless to attempt to fence about
the truth with him.

"Ah, Padre _mio_," she sighed softly, blushing and laying her hand
lightly on his shoulder and looking up into his face with deep lustrous
eyes that softened with her words, "you--you forget--that I have never
been in love before."

"In love!" echoed Padre Antonio in turn. "Ah! I knew it was that," and
into his eyes there came an expression of tenderness and a far-away look
as though the word recalled memories of other days. Memories which music
or the glories of the sunset, or the cooing of the wood-dove at eventide
might awaken within the soul. The sunlight played along the path at
their feet. The breeze wafted the fragrance of the roses about them and
a linnet, perched on the swaying branch of a tree overhead, gave voice
to his song, singing of the joy of life. Again he sighed, and Chiquita
looking up quickly, saw in his eyes that which she had never suspected.

"Padre _mio_," she said at length, lowering her eyes and slowly opening
and shutting her fan, "have--have you ever been in love?"

"My child!" he cried with a start, suddenly recollecting where he was.
"You forget what I am! What are you thinking of?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" she returned quietly. "Only it's so--so sweet to
be in love, Padre _mio_. And yet so--"

"So what, my child?" he interrupted hurriedly, as if to get through
with the subject as quickly as pos

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