CHAPTER XV
THE ROD DESCENDS
The cacique made straight for the pueblo, driving his wretched prisonerbefore him. The poor girl, sick at heart and stupefied with grief andfatigue, picturing to herself Felipe dead of his wounds or drowninghimself in his despair, submitted unresistingly to the blows and thereproaches of her father. He was the stronger; how could she resist? Shelet herself be driven back like a strayed beast of burden over the sameleagues of burning mesa and sandy ravine that she had traversed in thecoolness of the night under the silence of the stars. Then she had herlover's arms round her and his voice whispering words of love in herear; now she shrank before bitter curses and the stinging lash. Yetnever did she open her lips to utter a word in self-defence or a pleafor pardon. Only she kept saying over and over to herself in time to thehoof-beats of the horse, "He may beat me, he may kill me, but Ignacio Iwon't have." Even sunk in misery as she was, she found a surprisingcomfort in steeling herself to endure, and swearing to be true toherself and to Felipe.
There is a limit to the staying powers of even the toughest of Indianponies, and by the time the cacique and his captive had covered half thedistance back to Santiago, the horse of the storekeeper which he wasmounted upon, and his own which carried his daughter, were both showingpainful signs of exhaustion. The cacique, unwilling to run the risk ofinjuring his own animal, left the trail and made for a spring that heknew of a few miles off to one side, near the foot of the mountains,where they found both water and grass. Here, in a sullen silence, theyremained, till long after the sun had set and the weary day ended. Thecacique was nursing his wrath till he should have got her safely homeagain, when he would make an example of her. Not till the Great Bear hadsunk well below the pole did they remount their now rested steeds andset out once more for the pueblo; it was grey dawn when they came insight of it at last, and presently the well-known step-like outline ofthe terraced roofs of Santiago showed sharp and clear among the peachorchards ahead of them. As they entered its precincts they passedthrough quite a crowd of onlookers; they had been observed descendingfrom the mesas, and natural curiosity had brought numbers to see theexcitement. Poor Josefa dropped her head in shame to escape the hard,inquisitive looks.
They stopped at her father's door. He pulled her roughly from thesaddle, pushed her inside, and giving the horses to two of the boys, heentered after her, shut the door, and bolted it. He advanced towards herwith glowing eyes. The blows he had given her on the road had onlywhetted his passion. "Now, you she-devil," said he, "I'll teach you torun away from me."
He flung her to the ground and stood over her. The cruel rawhidedescended again and again. The eager crowd outside was squeezing upagainst the door and the little close-barred lattice window, anxious tosee as much as possible of the exciting scene inside. They had nonotion of interfering. On the contrary, it seemed to them entirelynatural that a father should chastise his disobedient daughter. "If hedidn't, who was to?"--that was the way they would have put it.
Among the crowd was Tito. Tito was a friend of Felipe's, and what was asource of curiosity to others was maddening to him. There came into hismind the thought of the American, and he resolved to call him to therescue.
Stephens, after despatching his letters, as he believed, on the previousday, had returned to the house of Don Nepomuceno. He had done all hecould to set the proper authorities in motion, and now, finding that theNavajos had taken themselves off and not returned, so that it wasimpossible to go on with the negotiations, he took his leave of theSanchez family and hastened back to the pueblo. The more he thought ofthe fury the cacique had displayed in the morning, the more uneasy hefelt as to what might happen when he should overtake Felipe and Josefa.But when he learnt, on his arrival, that nothing further was known sincethe cacique had galloped away on their tracks, he settled in his mindthat no news was good news, and waited quietly for matters to developthemselves. He rose before dawn the following morning, only to be toldonce more that nothing had been heard of the fugitives or of thecacique, and he was now busy wiping out his rifle, when there came ahasty knock at the door, and, forgetful of the bulldog, Tito burstheadlong into the room. "Oh, Don Estevan!" he exclaimed breathlessly,"Salvador is back, and he is beating his daughter like fury. Perhaps hewill kill her."
"The dickens you say!" said the American, dropping his work abruptlyand making for the door. "Where's Felipe?"
"I don't know," answered Tito. "He's not there. Perhaps the cacique haskilled him."
Tito knew nothing of the sort, but the temptation to deepen the shadowsof a harrowing tale is quite irresistible.
"Where are they?" said Stephens, as soon as they were in the open air.
"Here, in his house," cried Tito eagerly, leading the way.
Stephens paused and stood irresolute. "After all, it's none of myfuneral," growled he to himself. "I haven't any call to interfere. And Ihaven't got any weapon on me neither." He turned back to get his pistol,but paused again. "No," he said, "I don't want it. Maybe I sha'n't doanything, and if I do, I'd better go through on my nerve." He knew thatan appeal to physical force was idle where the odds were one against ahundred, and that his only chance lay in moral influence.
He followed Tito. It was plain enough where the scene was taking placeby the crowd at the door. Stephens went up. The sound of blows wasaudible from inside, but no cry was heard from the victim. "Where arethe chiefs? Where are Tostado and Benito and the rest?" he asked. Hewould gladly have had the support of the seniors of the village, butthey were much too dignified to appear at this performance. The mobconsisted of boys, young men, and some of the poorer and lesswell-thought-of people.
No one answered Stephens's question. He listened; the blows continued."He can't be allowed to murder her," he cried. "The whole pueblo willget into a row with Government if that happens." He collared two orthree boys out of the press. "Here you, Jose, Tomas, Juan Antonio, runand fetch Tostado here and the other chiefs. Say I want them to come."
The boys obeyed him; and the American, squeezing into the gap he hadmade in the crowd, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer tothe knock, but the blows stopped. He knocked again, calling, "Hullo,Salvador! Hullo there!"
"Look out, Don Estevan," called out some of the boys. "He's furious.Maybe he'll go for you."
He listened for an answer, but none was given. Then came the sound ofthe whip again. Stephens shouted again, but in vain. He looked round forthe chiefs. There was no sign of any of them yet.
"I can't stand this any longer," said he. "Give me room, you fellows."He stood back four or five feet from the door, and raising his rightfoot dashed it against the lock.
The fastenings were old and the door flew open. He stepped over thethreshold and entered. The crowd behind him hung back. In the middle ofthe floor, full length on her face, lay the form of Josefa. Her armswere bare; she had thrown them up to protect her head, and the marks ofthe whip were only too visible. She lay perfectly silent and still, aslight quivering of her limbs alone showing that she was alive. TheIndian stood across her with his uplifted whip in his hand. He glaredfiercely at the American who advanced towards him.
Stephens did not meet the cacique's eye. He was looking down at theprostrate figure on the ground. "So you've brought her back, Salvador,"he remarked in an unruffled, every-day voice.
"Yes, I have," he replied brutally; "and I've given her something tokeep her from ever running away again."
"It looks like it," said Stephens.
He took one hand out of his pocket, stooped down, and felt her head. "Itlooks like she'd never run anywhere again," he said.
He did not really believe that she was killed, but he thought it politicto assume so. His position placed him absolutely at the mercy of theIndian; but his voice, his manner, and his action conveyed theassumption that it was absolutely impossible that the Indian shoulddream of attacking him.
His coolness succeeded. The cacique lowered his whip and stepped back,while Stephens moved the girl's arms gent
ly from her head. They felllimp on the earthen floor.
Stephens had seen some wild doings in Californian mining towns, but henever had seen a woman beaten in his life. Those limp arms sent a queerthrill through him. A sudden fury rose within him, but he mastered it.He felt her head all over slowly and carefully to see if the skull wasfractured--as indeed it might well have been had she been struck withthe loaded whip-handle. This gave him time to think of his next move.
"If you've killed her, you'll be hanged for it, Salvador," he said atlast, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. "You and she are not citizens,but you'll be hanged all the same. The law of the Americans reacheshere; understand that."
The Indian, whose passion was really more under control than seemed tobe the case, was somewhat cowed at Stephens's deliberate statement, buthe rejoined sullenly, "She's not dead. Lashes don't kill."
"You will have to answer for it if she dies," said Stephens getting up.He had satisfied himself that the girl was not seriously injured.
"Not to you then," said the Indian, his courage reviving, when herealised that the threat was, after all, blank cartridge, seeing thatthe girl was alive. He tried to work himself into a rage again. "What doyou break into my house for and interfere with me? I'll do what I likewith my own." He stepped forward close to Stephens, between him andJosefa. "Go out, or I'll kill you!" he said, raising his voice to a toneof fury.
For a moment the American paused, uncertain. The Indian was a powerfulman, full as big and strong as himself, well armed with knife, pistol,and loaded whip, to say nothing of his fifty friends outside the door.
The hesitation was momentary. "I can't leave this girl to that brute'smercy," he said to himself. "Perhaps I can back him down."
He looked Salvador square in the eyes. "Where's Felipe?" said he calmly."You must answer for him, too. Have you killed him?"
"None of your business," said the Indian roughly. "Be off!" and heraised his hand.
At this moment Josefa, hitherto as still as a corpse, turned her facefrom the floor, but without rising. She looked up at Stephens. "He gavehim two shots," she said, in a voice wonderfully steady considering thepain she was enduring. "I saw him fall."
"Then I arrest you for the murder of Felipe. You are my prisoner. Giveup your arms."
The only answer the cacique made to this demand was to take out hisrevolver, but instead of surrendering it he thrust the muzzle inStephens's face, cocking it as he did so.
The steady gaze of the American met, without quailing, the black,flashing eyes of the Indian. Grey eyes against black, white man againstred, the strife is as old as the history of the continent they stoodupon; perhaps it will last as long.
"You can kill me, I know, of course," said the American, speaking veryslowly and distinctly; "but you can't kill all the soldiers of theGovernment. You may kill me to-day, but to-morrow the soldiers will comefrom Santa Fe and take you prisoner; and if you make your people resistthey will destroy you. The Navajos were twenty thousand, but thesoldiers conquered them. You are only three hundred. They will conqueryou and take you away as they did the Navajos, as they did theJicarillas, as they have done the Modocs." He raised his left hand verygently and took hold of the pistol barrel. "Don't destroy your people,Salvador," he continued. "You know I wish them well. Loose it."
The Indian's grasp relaxed; he drew a deep breath and stepped back.Stephens lowered the pistol to his own right hand, muzzle upwards,uncocked it, and placed it in his waist-belt.
"Now come with me to my room," said he, taking him gently but firmly bythe arm. The struggle for the mastery was over; the Indian had yielded;he obeyed unresistingly. As they stepped out of the house, Stephens saidto Tito, "Tell the women to see to the girl."
Outside they found Tostado and the other chiefs approaching--not toofast. It was very plain that they did not want to interfere in thematter. Stephens took his man towards them.
"Look here, Tostado," said he as soon as they met, "I have arrestedSalvador for shooting Felipe. I am going to take him to Santa Fe, to theagent and to the governor. Now I want some of you to go along and seethat it is all right and square."
Stephens had been reflecting during the course of the night on theevents of the previous day, and it had occurred to him that accidentsdid sometimes happen, and that his letters to the governor and thegeneral might possibly go astray. He had no special reason to suspectwhat Mr. Backus had actually done, but he had a general feeling ofuneasiness with regard to the San Remo post-office. The idea had beenalready in his mind to go to Santa Fe and lay the affair of the Navajosbefore the authorities in person, and now this difficult matter of thearrest of the cacique was a double reason for doing it.
The Indians began to converse among themselves.
"Come along to my room, then, and talk it over," said Stephens, and hewent ahead with his prisoner, reluctantly followed by the chiefs.