XXVI
Though men may make a jest of it in books, it is a solemn thing to kill a man, even to be near when one is killed. If Gracia had slain Del Rey herself in a passion her hot blood might have buoyed her up, but now her whole nature was convulsed with the horror of it and she wilted like a flower.
An hour before she had burned with hatred of him, she had wished him dead and sought the man who would kill him. Now that his life had been snipped off between two heart-beats she remembered him with pity and muttered a prayer for his soul. For Hooker, for De Lancey, she had no thought, but only for the dashing young captain who had followed her to his death.
Of this Bud had no knowledge. He realized only that she was growing weaker, and that he must call a halt, and at last, when the walls of their pass had widened and they rode out into the open plain, he turned aside from the trail and drew rein by a clump of mesquit.
"Here, let me take you," he said, as she swayed uncertainly in the saddle. She slid down into his arms and he laid her gently in the shade.
"Poor girl," he muttered, "it's been too much for you. I'll get some water and pretty soon you can eat."
He unslung the canteen from his saddle-flap, gave her a drink, and left her to herself, glancing swiftly along the horizon as he tied out their mounts to graze. But for her faintness he would have pushed on farther, for he had seen men off to the east; but hunger and excitement had told upon her even more than the day-and-night ride.
For a woman, and sitting a side-saddle, she had done better than he had hoped; and yet – well, it was a long way to the border and he doubted if she could make it. She lay still in the shade of the mesquit, just as he had placed her, and when he brought the sack of food she did not raise her head.
"Better eat something," he suggested, spreading out some bread and dried beef. "Here's some oranges I got from Don Juan – I'll jest put them over here for you."
Gracia shuddered, sighing wearily. Then, as if his words had hurt her, she covered her face and wept.
"What did you tell that man?" she asked at last.
"W'y – what man?" inquired Hooker, astonished. "Ain't you going to eat?"
"No!" she cried, gazing out at him through her tears, "not until I know what you said. Did you tell that Indian to – to kill him?"
She broke down suddenly in a fit of sobbing, and Hooper wiped his brow.
"W'y, no!" he protested. "Sure not! What made you think that?"
"Why – you rode over and spoke to him – and he looked at me – and then – he – killed him!"
She gave way to a paroxysm of grief at this, and Bud looked around him, wondering. That she was weak and hungry he knew, but what was this she was saying?
"I reckon I don't understand what you're driving at," he said at last. "Wish you'd eat something – you'll feel better."
"No, I won't eat!" she declared, sitting up and frowning. "Mr. Hooker," she went on very miserably, "what did you mean this morning when you – laughed? I said I hated poor Manuel – and you said – well, what you did – and then you laughed! Did you think – oh, you couldn't have – that I really wanted him killed?"
"W'y, sure not!" cried Hooker heartily. "I knowed you was fooling! Didn't I laugh at you? Say, what kind of a feller do you think I am, anyway? D'ye think I'd get an Indian to do my killing?"
"Oh, then didn't you?" she cried, suddenly brightening up. "You know, you talk so rough sometimes – and I never do know what you mean! You said you guessed you'd have to kill him for me, you know, and – oh, it was too awful! I must be getting foolish, I'm so tired, but – what did you tell that Indian?"
Bud glanced at her sharply for a moment and then decided to humor her. Perhaps, if he could get her quieted, she would stop talking and begin to eat.
"He asked me who was after us," he said, "and I told him it was Del Rey."
"Yes, and what did he say then?"
"He didn't say nothing – jest lined out for the pass."
"And didn't you say you wanted – him – killed?"
"No!" burst out Bud, half angrily. "Haven't I told you once? I did not! That Indian had reasons of his own, believe me – he's got a scar along his ribs where Del Rey shot him with a six-shooter! And, furthermore," he added, as her face cleared at this explanation of the mystery, "you'd better try to take me at my word for the rest of this trip! Looks to me like you've been associating with these Mexicans too much!"
"Why, what do you mean?" she demanded curtly.
"I mean this," answered Hooker, "being as we're on the subject again. Ever since I've knowed you you've been talking about brave men and all that; and more'n once you've hinted that I wasn't brave because I wouldn't fight."
"I'd jest like to tell you, to put your mind at rest, that my father was a sergeant in the Texas Rangers and no hundred Mexicans was ever able to make him crawl. He served for ten years on the Texas border and never turned his back to no man – let alone a Mex. I was brought up by him to be peaceable and quiet, but don't you never think, because I run away from Manuel del Rey, that I was afraid to face him."
He paused and regarded her intently, and her eyes fell before his.
"You must excuse me," she said, looking wistfully away, "I did not – I did not understand. And so the poor Yaqui was only avenging an injury?" she went on, reaching out one slender hand toward the food. "Ah, I can understand it now – he looked so savage and fierce. But" – she paused again, set back by a sudden thought – "didn't you know he would kill him?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Hooker quietly, "I did!"
"Then – then why didn't you – "
"That was between them two," he replied doggedly. "Del Rey shot him once when he was wounded and left him for dead. He must have killed some of his people, too; his wife mebbe, for all I know. He never would talk about it, but he come back to get his revenge. I don't shoot no man from cover myself, but that ain't it – it was between them two."
"And you?" she suggested. "If you had fought Del Rey?"
"I would have met him in the open," said Hooker.
"And yet – "
"I didn't want to," he ended bluntly. "Didn't want to fight him and didn't want to kill him. Had no call to. And then – well, there was you."
"Ah!" she breathed, and a flush mounted her pale cheeks. She smiled as she reached out once more for the food and Hooker resolved to do his best at gallantry, it seemed to make her so happy.
"So you were thinking of me," she challenged sweetly, "all the while? I thought perhaps I was a nuisance and in the way. I thought perhaps you did not like me because – well, because I'm a Mex, as you say."
"No, ma'am," denied Hooker, gazing upon her admiringly. "Nothing like that! When I say Mex I mean these low, pelado Mexicans – Don Juan tells me you're pure Spanish."
"With perhaps a little Yaqui," she suggested slyly.
"Well, mebbe he did say that, too," confessed Bud. "But it's jest as good as Spanish – they say all the big men in Sonora have got some Yaqui blood – Morral, that was vice-president; the Tornes brothers, governors – "
"And Aragon!" she added playfully, but at a look in his eyes she stopped. Bud could not look pleasant and think of Aragon.
"Ah, yes," she rattled on. "I know! You like the Yaquis better than the Spanish – I saw you shaking hands with that Indian. And what was it you called him – Amigo?"
"That's right," smiled Hooker; "him and me have been friends for months now out at the mine. I'd do anything for that feller."
"Oh, now you make me jealous," she pouted. "If I were only a Yaqui – and big and black – "
"Never mind," defended Bud. "He was a true friend, all right, and true friends, believe me, are scarce."
There was a shade of bitterness in his voice that did not escape her, and she was careful not to allude to Phil. His name, like the name of her father, always drove this shy man to silence, and she wanted to make him talk.
"Then you ought to be friends with me," she chided, after a silence. "I have always wanted to be your friend – why will you never allow it? No, but really! Haven't I always shown it? I remember now the first time that I saw you – I was looking through my hole among the passion-flowers and you saw me with your keen eyes. Phil did not – but he was there. And you just looked at me once – and looked away. Why did you never respond when I came there to look for you? You would just ride by and look at me once, and even Phil never knew."
"No," agreed Bud, smiling quietly. "He was crazy to see you, but he rode right by, looking at the windows and such."
"The first time I met him," mused Gracia, "I asked about you. Did he ever tell you?"
Bud hung his head and grinned sheepishly. It was not difficult to make out a case against him.
"Is it something I have done?" she asked at last. "Is that why you never liked me? Now, Mr. Hooker, please speak to me! And why do you always sit so far away – are you afraid of me? But look" – she moved closer to him – "here we are alone, and I am not afraid of you!"
"Of course not," answered Bud, looking across at her boldly. "Why should you be – you ain't afraid of nothing!"
"Is that a compliment?" she demanded eagerly. "Oh, then I'm so happy – it's the first you ever paid me! But have I been brave," she beamed, "so far? Have I been brave, like a man?"
"Sure have!" remarked Hooker impersonally, "but we ain't there yet. Only thing I don't like about you is you don't eat enough. Say, don't pick up them crumbs – let me pare off some more of this jerked beef for you. Can't nobody be brave when they're hungry, you know, and I want to bring you in safe."
"Why?" she inquired, as she accepted the handful of meat. "Is it on Phil's account?" she ventured, as he sat gazing stoically at the horses. "You were such friends, weren't you?" she went on innocently. "Oh, that is why I admire the Americans so much – they are so true to each other!"
"Yes," observed Hooker, rolling his eyes on her, "we're fine that way!"
"Well, I mean it!" she insisted, as she read the irony in his glance.
"Sure! So do I!" answered Hooker, and Gracia continued her meal in silence.
"My!" she said at last; "this meat is good! Tell me, how did you happen to have it on your saddle? We left so suddenly, you know!"
She gazed up at him demurely, curious to see how he would evade this evidence that he had prepared in advance for their ride. But once more, as he had always done, Hooker eluded the cunningly laid snare.
"I was figuring on pulling out myself," he replied ingenuously.
"What? And not take me?" she cried. "Oh, I thought – but dear me, what is the use?"
She sighed and drooped her head wearily.
"I am so tired!" she murmured despondently. "Shall we be going on soon?"
"Not unless somebody jumps us," returned Bud. "Here, let me make you a bed in the shade. There now" – as he spread out the saddle-blankets temptingly – "you lay down and get some sleep and I'll kinder keep a watch."
"Ah, you are so kind!" she breathed, as she sank down on the bed. "Don't you know," she added, looking up at him with sleepy eyes that half concealed a smile, "I believe you like me, after all."
"Sure," confessed Bud, returning her smile as honestly; "don't you worry none about me – I like you fine."
He slipped away at this, grinning to himself, and sat down to watch the plain. All about him lay the waving grass land, tracked up by the hoofs of cattle that had vanished in the track of war. In the distance he could see the line of a fence and the ruins of a house. The trail which he had followed led on and on to the north. But all the landscape was vacant, except for his grazing horses. Above the mountains the midday thunder-caps were beginning to form; the air was very soft and warm, and – He woke up suddenly to find his head on his knees.
"Ump-um-m," he muttered, rising up and shaking himself resolutely, "this won't do – that sun is making me sleepy."
He paced back and forth, smoking fiercely at brown-paper cigarettes, and still the sleep came back. The thunder-clouds over the mountains rose higher and turned to black; they let down skirts and fringes and sudden stabs of lightning, while the wind sucked in from the south. And then, with a slash of rain, the shower was upon them.
At the first big drops Gracia stirred uneasily in her sleep. She started up as the storm burst over them; then, as Bud picked up the saddle-blankets and spread them over her, she drew him down beside her and they sat out the storm together. But it was more to them than a sharing of cover, a patient enduring of the elements, and the sweep of wind and rain. When they rose up there was a bond between them and they thrust and parried no more.
They were friends, there in the rush of falling water and the crash of lightning overhead. When the storm was over and the sun came out they smiled at each other contentedly without fear of what such smiles may mean.
XXVII
As the sun, after a passing storm, comes forth all the more gloriously, so the joy of their new-found friendship changed the world for Bud and Gracia. The rainbow that glowed against the retreating clouds held forth more than a promise of sunshine for them, and they conversed only of pleasant things as they rode on up the trail.
Twenty miles ahead lay the northern pass, and from there it was ten more to Gadsden, but they spoke neither of the pass nor of Gadsden nor of who would be awaiting them there. Their talk was like that of children, inconsequential and happy. They told of the times when they had seen each other, and what they had thought; of the days of their childhood, before they had met at Fortuna; of hopes and fears and thwarted ambitions and all the young dreams of life.
Bud told of his battle-scarred father and their ranch in Arizona; of his mother and horse-breaking brothers, and his wanderings through the West; Gracia of her mother, with nothing of her father, and how she had flirted in order to be sent to school where she could gaze upon the upstanding Americans. Only Bud thought of the trail and scanned the horizon for rebels, but he seemed more to seek her eyes than to watch for enemies and death.
They rode on until the sun sank low and strange tracks struck their trail from the east. Bud observed that the horses were shod, and more tracks of mounted men came in beyond. He turned sharply toward the west and followed a rocky ledge to the hills, without leaving a hoof-print to mark the way of their retreat.
By the signs the land ahead was full of bandits and ladrones, men to whom human life was nothing and a woman no more sacred than a brute. At the pass all trails converged, from the north and from the south. Not by any chance could a man pass over it in the daytime without meeting some one on the way, and if the base revoltosos once set eyes upon Gracia it would take more than a nod to restrain them.
So, in a sheltered ravine, they sought cover until it was dark, and while Gracia slept, the heavy-headed Bud watched the plain from the heights above.
When she awoke and found him nodding Gracia insisted upon taking his place. Now that she had been refreshed her dark eyes were bright and sparkling, but Bud could hardly see. The long watching by night and by day had left his eyes bloodshot and swollen, with lids that drooped in spite of him. If he did not sleep now he might doze in the saddle later, or ride blindly into some rebel camp; so he made her promise to call him and lay down to rest until dark.
The stars were all out when he awoke, startled by her hand on his hair, but she reassured him with a word and led him up the hill to their lookout. It was then that he understood her silence. In the brief hours during which he had slept the deserted country seemed suddenly to have come to life.
By daylight there had been nothing – nothing but dim figures in the distance and the tracks of horses and mules – to suggest the presence of men. But now as the velvet night settled down upon the land it brought out the glimmering specks of a hundred camp-fires to the east and to the north. But the fires to which Gracia pointed were set fairly in their trail, and they barred the way to Gadsden.
"Look!" she said. "I did not want to wake you, but the fires have sprung up everywhere. These last ones are right in the pass."
"When did you see them?" asked Hooker, his head still heavy with sleep. "Have they been there long?"
"No; only a few minutes," she answered. "At sundown I saw those over to the east – they are along the base of that big black mountain – but these flashed up just now; and see, there are more, and more!
"Some outfit coming in from the north," said Bud. "They've crossed over the pass and camped at the first water this side."
"Who do you think they are?" asked Gracia in an awed voice. "Insurrectos?"
"Like as not," muttered Bud, gazing from encampment to encampment. "But whoever they are," he added, "they're no friends of ours. We've got to go around them."
"And if we can't?" suggested Gracia.
"I reckon we'll have to go through, then," answered Hooker grimly. "We don't want to get caught here in the morning."
"Ride right through their camp?" gasped Gracia.
"Let the sentries get to sleep," he went on, half to himself. "Then, just before the moon comes up, we'll try to edge around them, and if it comes to a show-down, we'll ride for it! Are you game?"
He turned to read the answer, and she drew herself up proudly.
"Try me!" she challenged, drawing nearer to him in the darkness. And so they stood, side by side, while their hands clasped in promise. Then, as the night grew darker and no new fires appeared, Hooker saddled up the well-fed horses and they picked their way down to the trail.
The first fires were far ahead, but they proceeded at a walk, their horses' feet falling silently upon the sodden ground. Not a word was spoken and they halted often to listen, for others, too, might be abroad. The distant fires were dying now, except a few, where men rose up to feed them.
The braying of burros came in from the flats to the right and as the fugitives drew near the first encampment they could hear the voices of the night guards as they rode about the horse herd. Then, as they waited impatiently, the watch-fires died down, the guards no longer sang their high falsetto, and even the burros were still.
It was approaching the hour of midnight, and as their horses twitched restively at the bits they gave them the rein and rode ahead at a venture.
At their left the last embers of the fires revealed the sleeping forms of men; to their right, somewhere in the darkness, were the night herd and the herders. They lay low on their horses' necks, not to cast a silhouette against the sky, and let Copper Bottom pick the trail.
With ears that pricked and swiveled, and delicate nostrils snuffing the Mexican taint, he plodded along through the greasewood, divining by some instinct his master's need of care. The camp was almost behind them, and Bud had straightened up in the saddle, when suddenly the watchful Copper Bottom jumped and a man rose up from the ground.
"Who goes there?" he mumbled, swaying sleepily above his gun, and Hooker reined his horse away before he gave him an answer.
"None of your business," he growled impatiently. "I am going to the pass." And as the sentry stared stupidly after him he rode on through the bushes, neither hurrying nor halting until he gained the trail.
"Good luck!" he observed to Gracia, when the camp was far behind. "He took me for an officer and never saw you at all."
"No, I flattened myself on my pony," answered Gracia with a laugh. "He thought you were leading a packhorse."
"Good," chuckled Hooker; "you did fine! Now don't say another word – because they'll notice a woman's voice – and if we don't run into some more of them we'll soon be climbing the pass."
The waning moon came out as they left the wide valley behind them, and then it disappeared again as they rode into the gloomy shadows of the cañon. For an hour or two they plodded slowly upward, passing through narrow defiles and into moonlit spaces, and still they did not mount the summit.
In the east the dawn began to break and they spurred on in almost a panic. The Mexican paisanos count themselves late if they do not take the trail at sun-up – what if they should meet some straggling party before they reached the pass?
Bud jumped Copper Bottom up a series of cat steps; Gracia's roan came scrambling behind; and then, just as the boxed walls ended and they gained a level spot, they suddenly found themselves in the midst of a camp of Mexicans – men, saddles, packs, and rifles, all scattered at their feet.
"Buenos días!" saluted Bud, as the blinking men rose up from their blankets. "Excuse me, amigos, I am in a hurry!"
"A donde va? A donde va?" challenged a bearded man as he sprang up from his brush shelter.
"To the pass, señor," answered Hooker, still politely, but motioning for Gracia to ride on ahead. "Adios!"
"Who is that man?" bellowed the bearded leader, turning furiously upon his followers. "Where is my sentinel? Stop him!"
But it was too late to stop him. Bud laid his quirt across the rump of the roan and spurred forward in a dash for cover. They whisked around the point of a hill as the first scattered shots rang out; and as a frightened sentinel jumped up in their path Bud rode him down. The man dropped his gun to escape the fury of the charge and in a mad clatter they flung themselves at a rock-slide and scrambled to the bench above. The path was rocky, but they pressed forward at a gallop until, as the sun came up, they beheld the summit of the pass.
"We win!" cried Bud, as he spurred up the last incline.
As he looked over the top he exploded in an oath and jerked Copper Bottom back on his haunches. The leader of a long line of horsemen was just coming up the other side, not fifty feet below him. Bud looked to each side – there was no escape – and then back at the frightened girl.
"Keep behind me," he commanded, "and don't shoot. I'm going to hold 'em up!"
He jumped his horse out to one side and landed squarely on the rim of the ridge. Gracia drew her horse in behind him and reached for the pistol in her holster; then both together they drew their guns and Bud threw down on the first man.
"Go on!" he ordered, motioning him forward with his head. "Pr-r-ronto!" He jerked out his rifle with his left hand and laid it across his lap.
"Hurry up now!" he raged, as the startled Mexican halted. "Go on and keep a-going, and the first man that makes a break I'll shoot him full of holes!"
He sat like a statue on his shining horse, his six-shooter balanced to shoot, and something in his very presence – the bulk of his body, the forward thrust of his head, and the burning hate of his eyes – quelled the spirits of the rebels. They were a rag-tag army, mounted on horses and donkeys and mules and with arms of every known make.
The fiery glances of the American made them cringe as they had always cringed before their masters, and his curses turned their blood to water. He towered above them like a giant, pouring forth a torrent of oaths and beckoning them on their way, and the leader was the first to yield.
With hands half-raised and jaw on his breast he struck spurs to his frightened mule and went dashing over the ridge.
The others followed by twos and threes, some shrinking, some protesting, some gazing forth villainously from beneath their broad hats. As they looked back he whirled upon them and swore he would kill the first man that dared to turn his head.
After all, they were a generation of slaves, those low-browed, unthinking peons, and war had not made them brave. They passed on, the whole long line of bewildered soldiery, looking in vain for the men that were behind the American, staring blankly at the beautiful woman who sat so courageously by his side.
When the last had gone by Bud picked up his rifle and watched him around the point. Then he smiled grimly at Gracia, whose eyes were still round with wonder, and led the way down the trail.