XXXI
A SPANISH WILL
With a singing heart Alaire rode through the night at her husband'sside. The strain of the last few hours had been so intense, the reliefat her deliverance so keen, that now she felt curiously weak, and shekept close to Dave, comforted by his nearness and secure in theknowledge of his strength.
Although he was unusually taciturn and rode with his chin upon hisbreast, she attributed his silence to fatigue. Now and then, therefore,she spurred to his side and spoke softly, caressingly. At such times hereached for her hand and clung to it.
Dave was indeed weary; he was, in fact, in a sort of stupor, and notinfrequently he dozed for a moment or two in his saddle. Yet it was notthis which stilled his tongue, but a growing sense of guilt and dismayat what he had brought upon himself. In a moment of weakness he haddone the very thing against which he had fought so bitterly, and now hefaced the consequences. How, when, where could he find strength to undohis action? he asked himself. The weight of this question bent hisshoulders, paralyzed his wits.
Some two hours out from La Feria the riders halted at a point where theroad dipped into a rocky stream-bed; then, as the horses drank, Doloresvoiced a thought that had troubled all of them.
"If that bandit really means to spare us, why did he send us away inthe night, like this?" she asked. "I shall be surprised if we are notassassinated before morning."
"He must have meant it." Alaire spoke with a conviction she did notentirely feel. "Father O'Malley aroused the finer side of his nature."
"Perhaps," agreed the priest. "Somewhere in him there is a fear of God."
But Dave was skeptical. "More likely a fear of the gringo Government,"said he. "Longorio is a four-flusher. When he realized he was licked hetried to save his face by a grandstand play. He didn't want to let usgo."
"Then what is to prevent him from--well, from having us followed?"Alaire inquired.
"Nothing," Dave told her.
As they climbed the bank and rode onward into the night she said: "Nomatter what happens, dear, I shall be happy, for at last one of mydreams has come true." He reached out and patted her. "You've no ideawhat a coward I was until you came. But the moment I saw you all myfears vanished. I was like a lost child who suddenly sees her father;in your arms I felt perfectly safe, for the first time in all my life,I think. I--I couldn't bear to go on without you, after this."
Dave found nothing to say; they rode along side by side for a time in agreat contentment that required no speech. Then Alaire asked:
"Dear, have you considered how we--are going to explain our marriage?"
"Won't the circumstances explain it?"
"Perhaps. And yet--It seems ages since I learned--what happened to Ed,but in reality it's only a few hours. Won't people talk?"
Dave caught at the suggestion. "I see. Then let's keep it secret forthe present. I promise not to--act like a husband."
With a little reckless laugh she confessed, "I--I'm afraid I'll find itdifficult to be conventional."
"My wife!" he cried in sharp agony. Leaning far out, he encircled herwith his arm; then, half lifting her from her saddle, he crushed hislips to hers. It was his first display of emotion since Father O'Malleyhad united them.
There were few villages along the road they followed, and because ofthe lateness of the hour all were dark, hence the party passed throughwithout exciting attention except from an occasional wakeful dog. Butas morning came and the east began to glow Dave told the priest:
"We've got to hide out during the day or we'll get into trouble.Besides, these women must be getting hungry."
"I fear there is something feminine about me," confessed the littleman. "I'm famished, too."
At the next rancho they came to they applied for shelter, but weredenied; in fact, the owner cursed them so roundly for being Americansthat they were glad to ride onward. A mile or two farther along theymet a cart the driver of which refused to answer their greetings. Asthey passed out of his sight they saw that he had halted his lean oxenand was staring after them curiously. Later, when the sun was well upand the world had fully awakened, they descried a mounted man,evidently a cowboy, riding through the chaparral. He saw them, too, andcame toward the road, but after a brief scrutiny he whirled his horseand galloped off through the cactus, shouting something over hisshoulder.
"This won't do," O'Malley declared, uneasily. "I don't like the actionsof these people. Let me appeal to the next person we meet. I can'tbelieve they all hate us."
Soon they came to a rise in the road, and from the crest of thiselevation beheld ahead of them a small village of white houses shiningfrom the shelter of a grove. The rancheria was perhaps two miles away,and galloping toward it was the vaquero who had challenged them.
"That's the Rio Negro crossing," Dave announced. Then spying a littlehouse squatting a short distance back from the road, he said: "We'dbetter try yonder. If they turn us down we'll have to take to thebrush."
O'Malley agreed. "Yes, and we have no time to lose. That horseman isgoing to rouse the town. I'm afraid we're--in for it."
Dave nodded silently.
Leaving the beaten path, the refugees threaded their way through cactusand sage to a gate, entering which they approached the straw-thatchedjacal they had seen. A naked boy baby watched them draw near, thenscuttled for shelter, piping an alarm. A man appeared from somewhere,at sight of whom the priest rode forward with a pleasant greeting. Butthe fellow was unfriendly. His wife, too, emerged from the dwelling andjoined her husband in warning Father O'Malley away.
"Let me try," Alaire begged, and spurred her horse up to the group. Shesmiled down at the country people, saying: "We have traveled a longway, and we're tired and hungry. Won't you give us something to eat?We'll pay you well for your trouble."
The man demurred sullenly, and began a refusal; but his wife, after awondering scrutiny, interrupted him with a cry. Rushing forward, shetook the edge of Alaire's skirt in her hands and kissed it.
"God be praised! A miracle!" she exclaimed. "Juan, don't you see? It isthe beautiful senora for whom we pray every night of our lives. On yourknees, shameless one! It is she who delivered you from the prison."
Juan stared unbelievingly, then his face changed; his teeth flashed ina smile, and, sweeping his hat from his head, he, too, approachedAlaire.
"It is! senora, I am Juan Garcia, whom you saved, and this is Inez," hedeclared. "Heaven bless you and forgive me."
"Now I know you," Alaire laughed, and slipped down from her saddle."This is a happy meeting. So! You live here, and that was little Juanwho ran away as if we were going to eat him. Well, we are hungry, butnot hungry enough to devour Juanito."
Turning to her companions, she explained the circumstances of her firstmeeting with these good people, and as she talked the Garcias broke injoyfully, adding their own account of her goodness.
"We've fallen among friends," Alaire told Dave and Father O'Malley."They will let us rest here, I am sure."
Husband and wife agreed in one voice. In fact, they were overjoyed atan opportunity of serving her; and little Juan, his suspicionspartially allayed, issued from hiding and waddled forward to take partin the welcome.
Shamefacedly the elder Garcia explained his inhospitable reception ofthe travelers. "We hear the gringos are coming to kill us and take ourfarms. Everybody is badly frightened. We are driving our herds away andhiding what we can. Yesterday at the big Obispo ranch our people shottwo Americans and burned some of their houses. They intend to kill allthe Americans they find, so you'd better be careful. Just now a fellowrode up shouting that you were coming, but of course I didn't know--"
"Yes, of course. We're trying to reach the border," Father O'Malleytold him. "Will you hide us here until we can go on?"
Juan courtesied respectfully to the priest. "My house is yours, Father."
"Can you take care of our horses, too, and--give us a place to sleep?"Dave asked. His eyes were heavy; he had been almost constantly in thesaddle since l
eaving Jonesville, and now could barely keep himselfawake.
"Trust me," the Mexican assured them, confidently. "If somebody comesI'll send them away. Oh, I can lie with the best of them."
The Garcias were not ordinary people, and they lived in rather goodcircumstances for country folk. There were three rooms to their littlehouse, all of which were reasonably clean. The food that Inez setbefore her guests, too, was excellent if scanty.
Juanito, taking the cue from his parents, flung himself whole-heartedlyinto the task of entertainment, and since Alaire met his advanceshalfway he began, before long, to look upon her with particular favor.Once they had thoroughly made friends, he showered her with the mostflattering attentions. His shyness, it seemed, was but a pretense--atheart he was a bold and enterprising fellow--and so, as a mark of hisadmiration, he presented her with all his personal treasures. First hefetched and laid in her lap a cigar-box wagon with woodenwheels--evidently the handiwork of his father. Then he gave her, one byone, a highly prized blue bottle, a rusty Mexican spur, and the ruinsof what had been a splendid clasp knife. There were no blades in theknife, but he showed her how to peep through a tiny hole in the handle,where was concealed the picture of a dashing Spanish bullfighter. Theappreciation which these gifts evoked intoxicated the little man androused him to a very madness of generosity. He pattered away andreturned shortly, staggering and grunting under the weight of anotherand a still greater offering. It was a dog--a patient, hungry dog withvery little hair. The animal was alive with fleas--it scratchedabsent-mindedly with one hind paw, even while Juanito strangled itagainst his naked breast--but it was the apple of its owner's eye, andwhen Inez unfeelingly banished it from the house Juanito began tosquall lustily. Nor could he be conciliated until Alaire took him uponher knee and told him about another boy, of precisely his own age andsize, who planted a magic bean in his mother's dooryard, which grew upand up until it reached clear to the sky, where a giant lived. JuanitoGarcia had never heard the like. He was spellbound with delight; heheld his breath in ecstasy; only his toes moved, and they wriggled liketen fat, brown tadpoles.
In the midst of this recital Garcia senior appeared in the door with awarning.
"Conceal yourselves," he said, quickly. "Some of our neighbors arecoming this way." Inez led her guests into the bedchamber, a bare roomwith a dirt floor, from the window of which they watched Juan go tomeet a group of horsemen. Inez went out, too, and joined in the parley.Then, after a time, the riders galloped away.
When Alaire, having watched the party out of sight, turned from thewindow she found that Dave had collapsed upon a chair and was sleeping,his limbs relaxed, his body sagging.
"Poor fellow, he's done up," Father O'Malley exclaimed.
"Yes; he hasn't slept for days," she whispered. "Help me." With theassistance of Dolores they succeeded in lifting Dave to the bed, but hehalf roused himself. "Lie down, dear," Alaire told him. "Close youreyes for a few minutes. We're safe now."
"Somebody has to keep watch," he muttered, thickly, and tried to fightoff his fatigue. But he was like a drunken man.
"I'm not sleepy; I'll stand guard," the priest volunteered, and,disregarding further protest, he helped Alaire remove Dave's coat.
Seeing that the bed was nothing more than a board platform covered withstraw matting, Alaire folded the garment for a pillow; as she did so ahandful of soiled, frayed letters spilled out upon the floor.
"Rest now, while you have a chance," she begged of her husband. "Justfor a little while."
"All right," he agreed. "Call me in--an hour. Couldn't sleep--wasn'ttime." He shook off his weariness and smiled at his wife, while hiseyes filmed with some emotion. "There is something I ought to tell you,but--I can't now--not now. Too sleepy." His head drooped again; sheforced him back; he stretched himself out with a sigh, and was asleepalmost instantly.
Alaire motioned the others out of the room, then stood looking down atthe man into whose keeping she had given her life. As she looked herface became radiant. Dave was unkempt, unshaven, dirty, but to her hewas of a godlike beauty, and the knowledge that he was hers to comfortand guard was strangely thrilling. Her love for Ed, even that firstlove of her girlhood, had been nothing like this. How could it havebeen like this? she asked herself. How could she have loved deeplywhen, at the time, her own nature lacked depth? Experience hadbroadened her, and suffering had uncovered depths in her being whichnothing else had had the power to uncover. Stooping, she kissed Davesoftly, then let her cheek rest against his. Her man! Her man! Shefound herself whispering the words.
Her eyes were wet, but there was a smile upon her lips when shegathered up the letters which had dropped from her husband's pocket.She wondered, with a little jealous twinge, who could be writing tohim. It seemed to her that she owned him now, and that she could notbear to share him with any other. She studied the inscriptions with afrown, noticing as she did so that several of the envelopes wereunopened--either Dave was careless about such things or else he had hadno leisure in which to read his mail. One letter was longer and heavierthan the rest, and its covering, sweat-stained and worn at the edges,came apart in her hands, exposing several pages of type-writing in theSpanish language. The opening words challenged her attention.
In the name of God, Amen,
Alaire read. Involuntarily her eye followed the next line:
Know all men by this public instrument that I, Maria Josefa Law, ofthis vicinity--
Alaire started, Who, she asked herself, was Maria Josefa Law? Dave hadno sisters; no female relatives whatever, so far as she knew. Sheglanced at the sleeping man and then back at the writing.
--finding myself seriously ill in bed, but with sound judgment, fullmemory and understanding, believing in the ineffable mysteries of theHoly Trinity, three distinct persons in one God, in essence, and in theother mysteries acknowledged by our Mother, the Church--
So! This was a will--one of those queer Spanish documents of whichAlaire had heard--but who was Maria Josefa Law? Alaire scanned thesheets curiously, and on the reverse side of the last one discovered afew lines, also in Spanish, but scrawled in pencil. They read:
MY DEAR NEPHEW,--Here is the copy of your mother's will that I told youabout. At the time of her death she was not possessed of the propertymentioned herein, and so the original document was never filed forrecord, but came to me along with certain family possessions of smallvalue. It seems to contain the information you desire.
Y'rs aff'ly,
FRANCISCO RAMIREZ.
The will of Dave's mother! Then Maria Josefa Law was that poor womanregarding whose tragic end Judge Ellsworth had spoken so peculiarly.Alaire felt not a little curiosity to know more about the mother of theman whose name she had taken. Accordingly, after a moment of debatewith herself, she sat down to translate the instrument. Surely Davewould not object if she occupied herself thus while he slept.
The document had evidently been drawn in the strictest form, doubtlessby some local priest, for it ran:
First: I commend my soul to the Supreme Being who from nothing formedit, and my body I order returned to earth, and which, as soon as itshall become a corpse, it is my wish shall be shrouded with a bluehabit in resemblance to those used by the monks of our Seraphic Father,St. Francis; to be interred with high mass, without pomp--
Alaire mused with a certain reverent pleasure that Dave's mother hadbeen a devout woman.
Second: I declare to have, in the possession of my husband, FranklinLaw, three horses, with splendid equipment of saddles and bridles,which are to be sold and the proceeds applied to masses for the benefitof my soul. I so declare, that it may appear.
Third: I declare to owe to Mrs. Guillelmo Perez about twenty dollars,to be ascertained by what she may have noted in her book of accounts.So I declare, that this debt may be paid as I have ordered.
Fourth: In just remuneration for the services of my cousin, MargaritaRamirez, I bequeath and donate a silver tray which weighs one hundredounces, seven breeding cows, and four fine l
inen and lace tablecloths.So I declare, that it may appear.
Fifth: I bequeath to my adopted son, David, offspring of theunfortunate American woman who died in my house at Escovedo, the shareof land--
Alaire re-read this paragraph wonderingly, then let the document fallinto her lap. So Dave was an adopted son, and not actually the child ofthis woman, Maria Josefa Law. She wondered if he knew it, and, if so,why he hadn't told her? But, after all, what difference did it make whoor what he was? He was hers to love and to comfort, hers to cherish andto serve.
For a long time she sat gazing at him tenderly; then she tiptoed outand delighted the naked Garcia baby by taking him in her arms andhugging him. Inez thought the beautiful senora's voice was like themusic of birds.
It was growing dark when Dave was awakened by cool hands upon his faceand by soft lips upon his. He opened his eyes to find Alaire bendingover him.
"You must get up," she smiled. "It is nearly time to go, and Inez iscooking our supper."
He reached up and took her in his arms. She lay upon his breast,thrilling happily with her nearness to him, and they remained so for awhile, whispering now and then, trying ineffectually to voice thethoughts that needed no expression.
"Why did you let me sleep so long?" he asked her, reproachfully.
"Oh, I've been napping there in that chair, where I could keep one eyeon you. I'm terribly selfish; I can't bear to lose one minute." After awhile she said: "I've made a discovery. Father O'Malley snoresdreadfully! Juanito never heard anything like it, and it frightened himnearly to death. He says the Father must be a very fierce man to growlso loudly. He says, too, that he likes me much better than his mother."
It seemed to Dave that the bliss of this awakening and the sweetintimacy of this one moment more than rewarded him for all he had gonethrough, and paid him for any unhappiness the future might hold instore.
He felt called upon to tell Alaire the truth about himself; but withher in his arms he had no strength of purpose; her every endearmentmade him the more aware of his weakness. Again he asked himself whenand how he could bear to tell her? Not now. Certainly not now when shewas trembling under his caresses.
"I've been busy, too," she was saying. "I sent Juan to the village tolearn the news, and it's not very nice. It's good we stopped here. Hesays Nuevo Pueblo has been destroyed, and the Federal forces are allmoving south, away from the border. So our troubles aren't over yet. Wemust reach the river tonight."
"Yes, by all means."
"Juan is going with us as guide."
"You arranged everything while I snoozed, eh? I'm ashamed of myself."
Alaire nodded, then pretended to frown darkly. "You ought to be," shetold him. "While you were asleep I read your mail and--"
"My mail?" Dave was puzzled.
"Exactly. Have you forgotten that your pockets were full of unopenedletters?"
"Oh, those! They came just as I was leaving Jonesville, and I haven'tthought of them since. You know, I haven't had my clothes off."
"I'm going to read all your love letters," she told him, threateningly.
"Yes, and you're going to write all of them, too," he laughed.
But she shook a warning finger in his face. "I told you I'm a jealousperson. I'm going to know all about you, past, present, and future. I--"
"Alaire! My darling!" he cried, and his face stiffened as if with pain.
Still in a joyous mood, she teased him. "You had better tremble, I'vefound you out, deceiver. I know who you really are."
"Who am I?"
"Don't you know?"
Dave shook his head.
"Really? Have you never read your mother's will?"
Law rose to his elbow, then swung his legs to the floor. "What are youtalking about?" he asked.
For answer Alaire handed him the frayed envelope and its contents.
He examined it, and then said, heavily: "I see! I was expecting this.It seems I've been carrying it around all this time--"
"Why don't you read it?" she insisted. "There's light enough there bythe window. I supposed you knew all about it or I wouldn't have jokedwith you."
He opened his lips to speak, but, seeing something in her eyes, hestepped to the window and read swiftly. A moment, and then he uttered acry.
"Alaire!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "Read this--My eyes--O God!"
Wonderingly she took the sheets from his shaking hands and read aloudthe paragraph he indicated: Fifth: I bequeath to my adopted son, David,offspring of the unfortunate American woman who died in my house atEscovedo--
Again Dave cried out and knelt at Alaire's feet, his arms about herknees, his face buried in her dress. His shoulders were heaving and hiswhole body was racked with sobs.
Shocked, frightened, Alaire tried to raise him, but he encircled her ina tighter embrace.
"Dave! What is it? What have I done?" she implored. "Have I hurt youso?"
It was a long time before he could make known the significance of thatparagraph, and when he finally managed to tell her about the terriblefear that had lain so heavily upon his soul it was in broken, chokingwords which showed his deep emotion. The story was out at last,however, and he stood over her transfigured.
Alaire lifted her arms and placed them upon his shoulders. "Were yougoing to give me up for that?--for a shadow?"
"Yes. I had made up my mind. I wouldn't have dared marry you lastnight, but--I never expected to see today's sun. I didn't think itwould make much difference. It was more than a shadow, Alaire. It wasreal. I WAS mad--stark, staring mad--or in a fair way of becoming so. Isuppose I brooded too much. Those violent spells, those wild moments Isometimes have, made me think it must be true. I dare say they are nomore than temper, but they seemed to prove all that Ellsworthsuspected."
"You must have thought me a very cowardly woman," she told him. "Itwouldn't have made the slightest difference to me, Dave. We would havemet it together when it came, just as we'll meet everything now--youand I, together."
"My wife!" He laid his lips against her hair.
They were standing beside the window, speechless, oblivious to allexcept their great love, when Dolores entered to tell them that supperwas ready and that the horses were saddled.
XXXII
THE DAWN
Juan Garcia proved to be a good guide, and he saved the refugees manymiles on their road to the Rio Grande. But every farm and every villagewas a menace, and at first they were forced to make numerous detours.As the night grew older, however, they rode a straighter course, urgingtheir horses to the limit, hoping against hope to reach the borderbefore daylight overtook them. This they might have done had it notbeen for Father O'Malley and Dolores, who were unused to the saddle andunable to maintain the pace Juan set for them.
About midnight the party stopped on the crest of a flinty ridge to givetheir horses breath and to estimate their progress. The night was fineand clear; outlined against the sky were the stalks of countlesssotol-plants standing slim and bare, like the upright lances of an armyat rest; ahead the road meandered across a mesa, covered with gramagrass and black, formless blots of shrubbery.
Father O'Malley groaned and shifted his weight. "Juan tells me we'llnever reach Romero by morning, at this rate," he said; and Dave wasforced to agree. "I think you and he and Alaire had better go on andleave Dolores and me to follow as best we can."
Dolores plaintively seconded this suggestion. "I would rather be burnedat the stake than suffer these agonies," she confessed. "My bones arebroken. The devil is in this horse." She began to weep softly. "Go,senora. Save yourself! It is my accursed fat stomach that hinders me.Tell Benito that I perished breathing his name, and see to it, when heremarries, that he retains none of my treasures."
Alaire reassured her by saying: "We won't leave you. Be brave and makethe best of it."
"Yes, grit your teeth and hold on," Dave echoed. "We'll manage to makeit somehow."
But progress was far slower than it should have been, and the elderwoman continued to lag
behind, voicing her distress in groans andlamentations. The priest, who was made of sterner stuff, did his bestto bear his tortures cheerfully.
In spite of their efforts the first rosy heralds of dawn discoveredthem still a long way from the river and just entering a more thicklysettled country. Daylight came swiftly, and Juan finally gave themwarning.
"We can't go on; the danger is too great," he told them. "If thesoldiers are still in Romero, what then?"
"Have you no friends hereabouts who would take us in?" Dave inquired.
The Mexican shook his head.
Dave considered for a moment. "You must hide here," he told hiscompanions, "while I ride on to Romero and see what can be done. Isuspect Blanco's troops have left, and in that case everything will beall right."
"Suppose they haven't?" Alaire inquired. All night she had been in thelightest of moods, and had steadily refused to take their perilsseriously. Now her smile chased the frown from her husband's face.
"Well, perhaps I'll have breakfast with them," he laughed.
"Silly. I won't let you go," she told him, firmly; and, reading theexpression in her face, he felt a dizzy wonder. "We'll find a nicesecluded spot; then we'll sit down and wait for night to come. We'llpretend we're having a picnic."
Dolores sighed at the suggestion. "That would be heaven, but there canbe no sitting down for me."
Garcia, who had been standing in his stirrups scanning the long, flatroad ahead, spoke sharply: "CARAMBA! Here come those very soldiers now!See!"
Far away, but evidently approaching at a smart gait, was a body ofmounted men. After one look at them Dave cried:
"Into the brush, quick!" He hurried his companions ahead of him, andwhen they had gone perhaps a hundred yards from the road he took Juan'sWinchester, saying: "Ride in a little way farther and wait. I'm goingback. If you hear me shoot, break for the river. Ride hard and keepunder cover as much as possible." Before they could remonstrate he hadwheeled Montrosa and was gone.
This was luck, he told himself. Ten miles more and they would have beensafe, for the Rio Grande is not a difficult river either to ford or toswim. He dismounted and made his way on foot to a point where he couldcommand a view, but he had barely established himself when he foundAlaire at his side.
"Go back," he told her. But she would not, and so they waited together.
There were perhaps a dozen men in the approaching squad, and Dave sawthat they were heavily accoutred. They rode fast, too, and at theirhead galloped a large man under a wide-brimmed felt hat. It soon becameevident that the soldiers were not uniformed. Therefore, Dave reasoned,they were not Federals, but more probably some Rebel scouting band fromthe south, and yet--He rubbed his eyes and stared again.
Dave pressed forward eagerly, incredulously; the next instant he hadbroken cover with a shout. Alaire was at his side, clapping her handsand laughing with excitement.
The cavalcade halted; the big man tumbled from his saddle and camestraddling through the high grass, waving his hat and yelling.
"Blaze! You old scoundrel!" Dave cried, and seized one of theranchman's palms while Alaire shook the other.
"Say! We're right glad to see you-all," Jones exclaimed. "We reckonedyou might be havin' a sort of unpleasantness with Longorio, so weorganized up and came to get you."
The other horsemen were crowding close now, and their greetings werenoisy. There were the two Guzman boys, Benito Gonzales, Phil Strange,and a number of Jonesville's younger and more adventurous citizens.
In the midst of the tumult Benito inquired for his wife, and Daverelieved his anxiety by calling Dolores and Father O'Malley. Then, inanswer to the questions showered upon him, he swiftly sketched thestory of Alaire's rescue and their flight from La Feria.
When he had finished Blaze Jones drew a deep breath. "We're mighty gladyou got out safe, but you've kicked the legs from under one of my petambitions. I sure had planned to nail Longorio's hide on my barn door.Yes, and you've taken the bread out of the mouths of the space writersand sob sisters from here to Hudson's Bay. Miz Austin, your picture'sin every newspaper in the country, and, believe me, it's the worstatrocity of the war."
"War!" Father O'Malley had joined the group now, and he asked, "Has warbeen declared?"
"Not yet, but we've got hopes." To Alaire Blaze explained: "Ellsworth'sin Washington, wavin' the Stars and Stripes and singin' battle hymns,but I reckon the government figures that the original of thosenewspaper pictures would be safe anywhere. Well, we've got our ownideas in Jonesville, so some of us assembled ourselves and declared waron our own hook. These gentlemen"--Blaze waved his hand proudly at hisneighbors--"constitute the Jonesville Guards, the finest body ofAmerican men that has invaded Mexican soil since me and Dave went afterRicardo Guzman's remains. Blamed if I ain't sorry you sidetracked ourexpedition."
It was evident, from the words of the others, that the JonesvilleGuards were indeed quite as heedless of international complications aswas their commander. One and all were highly incensed at Longorio'sperfidy, and, had Alaire suggested such a thing, it was patent thatthey would have ridden on to La Feria and exacted a reckoning from him.
Such proof of friendship affected her deeply, and it was not until theywere all under way back toward Romero that she felt she had made herappreciation fully known. When she reflected that these men were someof the very neighbors whom she had shunned and slighted, and whosehonest interest she had so habitually misconstrued all these years, itseemed very strange that they should feel the least concern over her.It gave her a new appreciation of their chivalry and their worth; itfilled her with a humble desire to know them better and to strengthenherself in their regard. Then, too, the esteem in which they heldDave--her husband--gratified her intensely. It made no more differenceto them than to her that he was a poor man, a man without authority orposition; they evidently saw and loved in him the qualities which shesaw and loved. And that was as it should be.
They were gentle and considerate men, too, as she discovered when theytold her, bit by bit, what had happened during her absence. Shelearned, much to her relief, that Ed's funeral had been held, and thatall the distressing details of the inquiry had been attended to. JoseSanchez, it appeared, had confessed freely. Although her new friendsmade plain their indignation at the manner of Ed's taking off, theylikewise let her know that they considered his death only a slightloss, either to her or to the community. Not one of them pretended itwas anything except a blessing.
The journey drew to an end very quickly. Romero, deserted now by itsgarrison, stirred and stared sleepily at the invaders, but concerneditself with their presence no more than to wonder why they laughed andtalked so spiritedly. Plainly, these gringos were a barbarous race ofpeople, what with their rushing here and there, and with their loud,senseless laughter. God had wisely placed them beyond the Rio Grande,said the citizens of Romero.
The crossing was made; Alaire found herself in Texas once again, and itseemed to her that the sun had never been so bright, the air so clear,the sky so high, the world so smiling, as here and now. The men who hadridden forth to seek her were smiling, too, and they were shaking herhands and congratulating her. Even the Guzman boys, who were shy in thepresence of American ladies, were wishing her the best of fortune andthe greatest of happiness.
Blaze Jones was the last to leave. With especial emphasis upon hername, he said: "Miz Austin, Paloma and me would like to have you cometo our house and stay until you feel like goin' back to Las Palmas."
When Alaire declined with moistened eyes, explaining that she could notwell accept his invitation, he signified his understanding.
"We're goin' to see a lot of you, just the same," he promised her,"'cause we feel as if you sort of belonged to us. There's a lot of goodpeople in this part of Texas, and them that ain't so good God and theRangers is slowly weedin' out. We don't always know the ones we likebest until something happens to 'em, but if you'd heard the prayers thefolks of Jonesville have been sayin' lately you'd know you was ourfavorite." Then
, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, he told her,gravely: "It seems a pity that I ain't younger and better-lookin'. Iwould sure cut short your grief." Then he raised his hat and rode away,chuckling.
Alaire turned to Dave in dismay. "He knows!" she cried.
"I'm afraid they all know. But don't worry; they'll respect our wishes."
Father O'Malley had ridden on ahead with Benito and Dolores; Dave andAlaire followed leisurely. Now that the moment of their parting was athand, they lingered by the way, delaying it as long as possible,feeling a natural constraint at what was in their minds.
"How long--will it be?" he asked her, finally. "How long before I canreally have you for my own?"
Alaire smiled into his eyes. "Not long. But you'll be patient, won'tyou, dear?"
He took her hand in his, and they rode on silently, a song in the heartof each of them.
THE END
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