CHAPTER IX
A SQUAW FOR A FEE
All day Felipe remained in the wheat patch. At noon he ate his lunch ofbread and dried flesh down by the river instead of going back to thepueblo. At intervals during the day he came to the edge of the bank inorder to see that the mare and the remaining mule were all right, andnot trying to get up the bank into the crops. He might have gone off totalk, for a change to other Indians, who were working in their fields,but he did not care to. His heart was too sore; he wanted to be alone.He thought and he thought, but all to no purpose. He ended by saying tohimself, "Well, there's one day more. I'll see Josefa to-night, andwe'll talk it over."
A wild idea floated through his brain of taking one of Don Estevan'sanimals without his leave, but he knew it was wild. He believed DonEstevan would shoot anyone that did so, and he did not mean to incurthat penalty. The only rational scheme he could think of was to run offin the night to the sierra, find the horse herd next day, get hisfather's horse and start back with it, but instead of coming straight tothe pueblo, to lie hid in the foothills of the sierra till night time,and then slip down and get Josefa to come. But he knew that on themorrow, when his father missed him, there would be a noise made and hemight be followed, in which case his plan might miscarry, the more sothat his disappearance would cause a doubly sharp watch to be kept onJosefa. With melancholy eyes he watched the sun sink lower and lower inthe west. Precious time was passing, and he was doing nothing and coulddo nothing to bring his will to pass. He burned with desire to act, andhe was helpless.
Before sunset he caught the mare and mule, and took them up to thepueblo in order to put them in the corral for the night. This was thetime of day when Josefa was likely to be fetching water from the ditch,which had been empty all the morning on account of the blasting, and inthe hope of meeting her Felipe led them through the street on which herfather's house faced.
And where had Josefa been all this time? She had been hard at work athome, under the vigilant eye of her step-mother. Grinding corn meal wasthe labour which she was set to do, a good steady task to give to ayoung person of rebellious disposition. The Indian hand-mill is a large,smooth stone, something like a flagstone, set sloping in a box on thefloor. The grinding is always done by a woman, who kneels on the ground,and bending over the mill rubs the corn up and down with a smaller stoneheld in both her hands. Hard work it is indeed for back and arms, butthe Pueblo women keep it up for hours. Their good health and finephysique are largely due to this vigorous exercise.
Josefa worked away over the mill till her back ached, while herstep-mother, at the other end of the room sat at a hand-loom, on whichshe was slowly weaving a gorgeous blanket of many colours for thecacique's next official appearance. Josefa thought as she toiled at herwork; and her mind reviewed over and over again different alternatives.From the bottom of her heart she hoped that Felipe would be successfulin getting a horse from the American. If he didn't, she did not knowwhat she should do. One thing only was certain in her mind. Have Ignacioshe would not. They might starve her, and they might beat her, but theyshould not force her to be his wife. What was the use of being a womanof Santiago if she mightn't have some say in the matter? Why should shebe treated as a slave, as the savage Utes treated their women? "I don'tcare," she said to herself, and as she said it she stiffened her back,and rubbed away at the refractory corn harder than ever. "I won't. He'sold, and he's ugly, and I hate him. I know he beat his first wife--hedid. I won't have him."
She glowed with the heat of her scorn and indignation; but all the timea little unbelieving spirit in the recesses of her mind kept asking in asort of undertone, "How will you like being beaten if you disobey? Howwill you like it; how will you like it?" And as she cooled off from herglow, and thought of another side to the picture,--an interceptedflight, rough seizure, angry words, and furious blows,--she quaked. Shehad not been beaten since she was a child, and not much then, for thePueblo Indians are good to their little ones; but she knew that herfather was within his rights in giving her to whom he chose, and thatthose who broke the laws of the community were liable to the lash. Shehad never seen it done severely. All she had seen was two or three cutswith a whip, administered publicly in the street after a severe scoldingby the marshal of the village, to some misdemeanant who had let his asstrespass among the standing corn, or who had otherwise broken some oftheir simple rules; but she knew with what severity, in private, seriousoffences were treated, and in the depths of her brave little heart shequaked.
But the quaking fit passed off, too, as the indignant glow had done;perhaps the hard work helped her through. "They can't do more than killme," said she to herself. "I can stand it. But have old Ignacio Iwon't."
Then she thought of Felipe. She had not much fear for him. His ownfather certainly wouldn't beat him. For one thing he couldn't, for theson was the stronger; and as for Ignacio, she fairly laughed to herselfat the idea of the ugly old fellow attacking Felipe. "Why, Felipe wouldput him on the ground in a moment, and keep him there, too, as long ashe wanted," she thought, and felt a grim satisfaction at the idea. Theonly danger she feared for him was lest he should get furious and usehis knife, and kill Ignacio, and be hanged for it. But Felipe hadpromised her never, never to do such a thing, and he would keep hisword. Such a thing had not happened in the pueblo for forty years--notsince old Fernando was a youth, when he had quarrelled in a fit ofjealousy with another Indian and stabbed him, and had been arrested, andafterwards pardoned.
Towards evening it was reported that the ditch was running again, andJosefa and her step-sisters went out to draw water. With the greatearthen jars on their heads, they filled out one after another, andmarched off to the waterside. Here they lowered their burdens to theground, and slowly filled them by dipping up cupfuls of water with theirgourds. There were several other women at the waterside doing the samething, and there was much animated talk about the blasting of theacequia--for they had heard the explosions quite distinctly at thevillage--and about the improvement of the ditch, which was fuller nowthan it had ever been before.
Then some of the younger girls took to playing and splashing each other,and one said something sly to Josefa about Ignacio. She flushed up andwas on the point of flying into a rage, but calmed herself in a moment,returned a laughing retort, and joined in the fun and the splashing. Herstep-sisters were surprised, for they well knew her feelings on thesubject of the intended marriage; but they supposed that perhaps she wasgrowing more reconciled to the idea of it.
At last the welcome interval of fun and gossip came to an end. One byone the jars, now full and very heavy, were carefully elevated on theheads of their owners, the party broke up, and the women returned totheir respective homes. Josefa was hoping for the appearance of thefigure she desired to see, and lingered as long as possible; but whenthe rest of the party had assumed their burdens she could delay nolonger, and, taking up hers, moved after them, the last of the file.
As they re-entered the village she saw with joy that her manoeuvre hadsucceeded. Felipe was strolling very slowly, and apparently quiteunconcerned, up the street, leading the mare and mule towards thecorrals.
They dared not speak, but they had devised a little code of signals oftheir own. A shake of the head conveyed to her, "I have failed"; a crookof the forefinger, "I am coming to-night." An answering crook from hersaid to him, "I will meet you"; and they passed on their ways, no onebut themselves the wiser for the little exchange of messages that hadtaken place. But Josefa's heart sank lower still as she crossed thethreshold and thought that one of the precious three days was alreadygone, and no means of escape was yet provided.
At sunset her father returned. The acequia round the point had beenproperly embanked on its lower side, and the stone dislodged by theblasts cleaned out of its channel. He was in high good humour at thesuccess of the work, which would render memorable his term of office. Hebrought his saddle indoors, and, taking down a key from a sort of shelfof wickerwork, which was slung by cords from the roof bea
ms, he took hishorse to the stable. He did not keep him at the corrals, where theprospector kept his mare and mules, but was the proud possessor of amud-built stable, with a lock on the door.
His coming set Josefa thinking again. "Our great difficulty," said sheto herself, "is a horse. Why not take my father's? If I could only getthe key we could manage it. I could not indeed get down the saddle andtake it out of the house without making a noise, but Felipe must find asaddle. And if I can get the key and we take my father's horse, he willhave nothing to pursue us on, which is double reason for taking it."
Filled with this idea, she got some more corn and began to grind again,so that when her step-mother went into the kitchen to prepare theevening meal she was left alone in the outer room. Her father came backfrom the stable and replaced the key on the shelf, and then went outagain without speaking to her. Now was her chance. She darted silentlyacross the room, seized the key, and flew back to her work so quicklythat no one in the next room could have suspected what she had done.
She was so bright and cheerful that evening that her family thought shemust have ceased her opposition and become reconciled to the match."Ah," said her step-mother, "if Ignacio only gives you work enough, anddoesn't spoil you, he'll have a docile wife as any in the pueblo."
Josefa laughed aloud. "He will have a docile one when he gets me!" shesaid. But she laughed to think how blank they would look at daybreaknext morning when they found her flown.
After supper the cacique and the chiefs went in a body to call uponStephens. They entered the room and seated themselves against the wallon the ground, sitting on sheepskins or on mats which they had broughtwith them. Stephens passed round the tobacco-bag and some corn husks cutsquare for cigarette papers. Presently old Tostado began to speak.
"We are very grateful, and we give you thanks, Sooshiuamo," said he,"for the work that you have done for us to-day. Ever since the year ofthe great eclipse of the sun, which is the most ancient thing the oldestman of us can remember, the point of rocks has been that which has giventrouble to us all, and our fathers told us it was so when they werelittle boys. We have had to be always mending it, and then just when wehad most need of water it always broke. Then you came among us to stay.You know that we like to live apart from the rest of the world. We donot like to have strangers come here to live. Our fathers never allowedit, and they have handed down to us as sacred the command that weshould never allow it either. We have obeyed their command until now,and never till this day have we proposed to make an exception to ourrule in favour of anybody. The Mexicans, and others who wish, may liveat San Remo, and they may live at Rio Feliz, and at other places in theworld, where they belong, but here, No. It is not our custom. We do notwant it, and we have the right to prevent it. When our fathers madepeace with the old kings of Spain, many generations ago, they had theright given them for ever to keep all strangers away. It is written inour grant, and it is a very good law to have. See how in Abiquiu theIndians let the Mexicans come in, and now they are a sort of mixedpeople, and not proper Indians at all. But we are the Indians ofSantiago, and we wish to remain the same. But you came among us, and wegave you a name, and you lived quietly and did not interfere withanyone, and we saw that you were good. Then we gave you leave to stop onand to go and hunt in the mountain the wild cattle, which are thechildren of the cattle of the Indians. And you stayed with us all thiswinter past, and you have been happy here among us; but now you say thatyou must go far away again, following your business. Now we say this:you have done a thing to-day that we are glad of, and our children willbe glad of, and their children, too, for ever. Now we say this: you livealone, and life alone is very lonesome. It is good that you should giveup the life of wandering so far and being so lonesome. It is good thatyou should live here with us, and we will build you a house, and we willgive you a wife, a young one and a good one, whichever one you pleaseamong the girls, and we will assign you pieces of land of the village,and you shall have it to cultivate the same as we do. If you do not wantto work with the plough and the hoe yourself, you have money and you canhire others to work. And you shall live here safe and at ease, and if wewant to do more to the ditch, or to keep the smallpox away, you shall doit, because you are wise and know the arts of the Americans. We havetalked it over, and that is what we think." And he closed his orationand folded his blanket about him, not without dignity.
Stephens was sitting on the side of his bed, leaning forward and lookingdown, with his pipe in his mouth, when Tostado began his speech. As itproceeded, he stopped smoking, and still sat looking thoughtfully on theground, holding his pipe in his hand, and a curious smile came over hisfeatures.
"People seem determined to make a squawman out of me somehow," hemeditated. "First a lying stage-driver goes and swears to Sam Arglesthat I'm one already, and now here comes this worthy Tostado with anextremely public offer of the pick of the bunch. Well, how am I going todecline? Shall I say, 'Thanks very much, my good friend, but I'm nottaking any, this time'? Pretend to blush and be embarrassed, and playthe funny man generally? Not much, I guess. My jokes with these peopledon't seem to come off. They're not their style. No, I'll just refusecivilly; but, seeing that they're making themselves so particularlysweet to me at this moment, I believe I'll trot out my best card and askfor the mine."
He waited till the applause that followed Tostado's peroration had quitedied away, but instead of rising to make a formal speech in reply, heremained sitting on the side of the bed.
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Tostado," he beganconversationally, looking at the friendly face of the Turquoise headman,"and to all of you chiefs here present,"--he cast a comprehensive glanceround the circle,--"for the good opinion you say you have of me, and foryour proposal that I should settle down among you. I take it very kindof you that you offer me a wife and a home here. But I'm not quiteprepared to settle at present. You said, Tostado, that I had money; so Ihave, but only a little, not enough, not as much as I want. Now, I'vegot this to say to you. There's just one thing that would induce me toremain here, and not go away. Don't be startled, it's a very simplematter; you know that I'm a miner, and live by finding and workingmines. Well, I want you to give me leave to open and work your silvermine, the silver mine that you have up in the mountains, and that youkeep so carefully hidden. If you'll make a contract with me to do that,I'll stay on here and work the mine for you. What do you say?"
Never was the admirable facial self-control of the red man betterexemplified than in the reception of this speech. To the Indians thevery name of mines in connection with themselves was a horror. They hadawful traditions of ancient Spanish cruelties, of whole villagesstripped of their young men, who were forcibly carried off to work in aslavery which was degradation and death. Spanish enterprise in that linehad ceased with the exhaustion of the labour supply, and theaccumulation of water in the shafts which they had no steam-pumps toremove. But the terror of those evil days lay upon the souls of the redmen. They had hidden those ancient shafts where their forefatherslaboured in the damp, unwholesome darkness, till sickness and miseryfound their only respite in death. They guarded the secret of themjealously, and never with their goodwill should they be reopened.
At the words of the American, the chiefs turned one to another withlooks of astonishment, and acted their little play admirably.
Tostado remained silent, and the cacique was the first to speak.
"Silver mine?" he innocently asked. "What silver mine?" thus ignoringthe fact that the prospector had broached the idea to him already. "_We_have no silver mine. _We_ know nothing of such things. The Mexicans havesome, far away in the south. The Americans have some, far away there,"he pointed to the north. "But there never have been any here, never. Isit not true, my brothers?" He appealed to the circle of chiefs. Therewas a chorus of replies: "It is true." "There never have been any.""None of us ever heard of such things here."
"Nonsense, Salvador," retorted Stephens, laughing as good-humouredly ashe could by way of reassuring
the suspicious redskins. "Everybody roundhere knows that you fellows have a mine that you keep well covered up sothat nobody shall find it. Very sensible plan that of yours, too. Quiteright not to let other people get hold of it. I allow that. But you'reall wrong about one thing. You're afraid the Spaniards may come back andforce you to work in the mine again. No fear. The Spaniards have gonefor keeps, and the American Government has come, and it's going to stop.There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of. I've heard of your mine;now, you let me work it for you; I'll make money out of it for myselfand money for you. The money will buy you lots of cows and sheep andhorses, and improved ploughs and good guns, and all sorts of things. Yousay you have got confidence in me, here's your chance to show it."
He might as well have expended his eloquence upon the dead adobe walls.The chiefs stared at him vacantly. When Stephens ceased there was apause, and then Tostado took up the subject.
"It is quite true what you say, Sooshiuamo. You are our friend. TheAmerican Government is our friend; it has protected us from the Mexicanswhen they tried to ride roughshod over us, and we are grateful to theAmerican Government. But the stories about a silver mine arefoolishness. These Mexicans must have been yarning to you; they are idletalkers. We have no mine. We never had a mine. We don't know anythingabout mines, and never did." And again all the chiefs chorused:
"We know nothing of a mine; nothing whatever."
For a whole hour Stephens argued with them. Vain effort. No solid rockwas ever more impenetrable than an Indian who has made up his mind, andthe baffled and wearied prospector gave it up in despair.
His thoughts drifted away to earlier days when he first found himself inthe midst of that wonderful rush to the El Dorado of this century, theFar Western goldfields. He thought of his hopes, his failures, and hisstruggles; how he had always intended "when he had made his pile," to goback East and marry a nice girl of his own race, and settle downcomfortably. When he had made his pile!--the will-o'-the-wisp that hasled many a man such a weary dance through the sloughs of life. He had toadmit to himself that he had lowered his figure. He had set it at firstat a million, a brownstone front, and a seat in the United StatesSenate. It had come down step by step in the last ten years, till itstood now at ten thousand dollars,--enough to buy a nice little placeback East, and stock it, and have something left on hand; but, alas! hewas not half-way yet even to that goal--and now there was offered him amud home, an Indian squaw, and a corn patch. "Not yet, I reckon," saidhe to himself, with a grimmer smile than ever. "I've not come to thatquite yet. Not but what these Indians are the honestest and mostvirtuous folks to live among that ever I knew. But I can't quite goturning squawman yet."
"Much obliged to you, Tostado," said he in response to a renewed offer,"but I don't want to settle down just now. No, thank you. I havebusiness to see after far away, beyond the country of the Navajos. Notthat I don't like you here. I consider you as my friends. You know that.Perhaps some other day I may think about settling down, but now I haveother business. But I am much obliged to you, all the same."
"No," said the Indian; "it is we who are obliged to you for what youhave done for us. It is a great thing, and we are grateful to you forit. There is nothing we would not do for you." And then he went on topraise and compliment Stephens, and the Americans generally; for he wasno mean proficient in the art of oratory, and enjoyed doing what he knewhe could do well, and what his people admired him for.
Poor Stephens could not escape from the flow of language by quietlywalking off, as he had done in the morning; and though he wanted badlyto get free to finish reading his San Francisco weekly paper, he couldnot be so discourteous as to cut the speech short abruptly. But allthings come to an end at last, and finally the chiefs, having madespeeches to their heart's content, took their leave, folded theirblankets around them, and filed off into the moonlight.