Chapter 7
The Lord of the Valley
Scattered, grazing herds of wild, long-horned cattle that ran from their approach gave place to feeding mustangs with the mark of the saddle upon them. Later, an adobe wall confronted them; and this they followed through a grove of great live oaks and up a grassy slope beyond, to where the long, low adobe house sat solidly upon a natural terrace, with the valley lying before and the hills at its back; a wide-armed, wide-porched, red-roofed adobe such as the Spanish aristocracy loved to build for themselves. The sun shone warmly upon the great, latticed porch, screened by the passion vines that hid one end completely from view. To the left, a wing stretched out generously, with windows curtained primly with some white stuff that flapped desultorily in the fitful breeze from the south. At the right, so close that they came near being a part of the main structure and helped to give the general effect of a hollow, open-sided square, stood a row of small adobe huts; two of them were tiled like the house, and the last, at the outer end, was thatched with tules.
Into the immaculate patio thus formed before the porch, Dade led the way boldly, as one sure of his welcome. Behind the vines a girl’s voice, speaking rapidly and softly with a laugh running all through the tones, hushed as suddenly as does a wild bird’s twitter when strange steps approach. And just as suddenly did Dade’s nostrils flare with the quick breath he drew; for tones, if one listens understandingly, may tell a great deal. Even Jack knew instinctively that a young man sat with the girl behind the vines.
After the hush they heard the faint swish of feminine movement. She came and stood demurely at the top of the wide steps, a little hoop overflowing soft, white embroidered stuff in her hands.
“Welcome home, Señor Hunter,” she said, and made him a courtesy that was one-third politeness and the rest pure mockery. “My father will be relieved in his mind when he sees you. I think he slept badly last night on your account.”
Wistfulness was in Dade’s eyes when he looked at her; as though he wanted to ask if she also were relieved at seeing him. But there was the man behind the lattice where the vines were thickest; the man who was young and whom she had found a pleasant companion. Also there was Jack, who was staring with perfect frankness, his eyes a full shade darker as he looked at her. And there was the peon scampering barefooted across from one of the huts to take their horses. Dade therefore confined himself to conventional phrases.
“Señorita, let me present to you my friend, Jack Allen,” he said. “Jack, this is the Señorita Teresa Picardo.”
His nostrils widened again when he looked casually at Jack; for Jack’s sombrero was swept down to his knees in salute—though it was not that; it was the look in his face that sent Dade’s glance seeking Teresita’s eyes for answer.
But Teresita only showed him how effectively black lashes contrast with the faint flush of cheeks just hinting at dimples, and he got no answer there.
She made another little courtesy, lifting her lashes unexpectedly for a swift glance at Jack, as he dismounted hastily and went up two steps, his hand outstretched to her.
“We Americanos like to shake hands upon a new friendship,” he said boldly.
The señorita laughed a little, changed her embroidery hoop from her right hand to her left, laid her fingers in his palm, blushed when his hand closed upon them eagerly, and laughed again when her gold thimble slipped and rolled tinkling down the steps.
Dade picked the thimble out of a matted corner of a violet bed, and returned it to her unsmilingly; got a flash of her eyes and a little nod for his reward, and stood back, waiting her further pleasure.
“You have had adventures, Señor, since yesterday morning,” she said to him lightly. “Truly, you Americanos do very wonderful things! José, here is Señor Hunter and his friend whom he stole away from the Vigilantes yesterday! Did you have the invisible cap, Señor? It was truly a miracle such as the padres tell of, that the blessed saints performed in the books. José told us what he heard—but when I have called my mother, you yourself must tell us every little bit of it.”
While she was talking she was also pulling forward two of the easiest chairs, playing the hostess prettily and stealing a lash-hidden glance now and then at the tall señor with such blue eyes and hair the like of which she had never seen, and the mouth curved like the lips of a woman.
The young man whom she addressed as José rose negligently and greeted them punctiliously; seated himself again, picked up a guitar and strummed a minor chord lazily.
“Don Andres is busy at the corrals,” José volunteered, when the girl had gone. “He will return soon. You had a disagreeable experience, Señor? One of my vaqueros heard the story in town. There was a rumor that the Vigilantes were sending out parties to search for you when Carlos started home. Señor Allen is lucky to get off so easily.”
Jack held a match unlighted in his fingers while he studied the face of José. The tone of him had jarred, but his features were wiped clean of any expression save faint boredom; and his fingers, plucking a plaintive fragment of a fandango from the strings, belied the sarcasm Jack had suspected. Don Andres himself, at that moment coming eagerly across from the hut at the end of the row, saved the necessity of replying.
“Welcome home, amigo mio!” cried the don, hurrying up the steps, sombrero in hand. “Never has sight of a horse pleased me as when Diego led yours to the stable. Thrice welcome—since you bring your friend to honor my poor household with his presence.”
No need to measure guardedly those tones, or that manner. Don Andres Picardo was as clean, as honest, and as kindly as the sunshine that mellowed the dim distances behind him. The two came to their feet unconsciously and received his handclasp with inner humility. Don Andres held Dade’s hand a shade longer than the most gracious hospitality demanded, while his eyes dwelt solicitously upon his face, browned near to the shade of a native son of those western slopes.
“I heard of your brave deed, Señor—of how you rode into the midst of the Vigilantes and snatched your friend from under the very shadow of the oak. I did not hear that you escaped their vengeance afterwards, and I feared greatly lest harm had befallen you. Dios! It was gallantly done, like a knight of olden times—”
“Oh, no. I didn’t rescue any lady, Don Andres. Just Jack—and he was in a fair way to rescue himself, by the way. It wasn’t anything much, but I suppose the story did grow pretty big by the time it got to you.”
“And does your friend also call it a little thing?” The don turned quizzically to Jack.
“He does not,” Jack returned promptly, although his ears were listening attentively for a nearer approach of the girl-voice he heard within the house. “He calls it one of the big things Dade is always doing for his friends.” He dropped a hand on Dade’s shoulder and shook him with an affectionate make-believe of disfavor. “He’s always risking his valuable neck to save my worthless one, Don Andres. He means well, but he doesn’t know any better. He packed me out of a nest of Indians once, just as foolishly; we were coming out from Texas at the time. You’d be amazed at some of the things I could tell you about him—”
“And about himself, if he would,” drawled Dade. “If he ever tells you about the Indian scrape, Don Andres, ask him how he happened to get into the nest. As to yesterday, perhaps you heard how it came that Jack got so close to the oak!”
“No—I heard merely of the danger you were in. José’s head vaquero was in town when the Vigilantes returned with their Captain and those others, and there were many rumors. This morning I sent Valencia to learn the truth, and if you were in danger—Perhaps I could have done little, but I should have tried to save you,” he added simply. “I should not like a clash with the gringos—pardon, Señors; I speak of the class whom you also despise.”
José laughed and swept the strings harshly with his thumb. “The clash will come, Don Andres, whether you like it or not,” he said. “This morning I saw one more unasked tenant on your meadow, near the grove of alders. What they call a ‘prairie schooner.’ A big, red-topped hombre, and his woman—gringos of the class I despise; which includes”—again he flung his thumb across the guitar string—”all gringos!”
Jack’s lips opened for hot answer, but Don Andres forestalled him quietly.
“One more tenant does not harm me, José. When the American government puts its seal upon the seal of Spain and restores my land to me, these unasked tenants will go the way they came. There will be no clash.” But he sighed even while he made the statement, as if the subject were neither new nor pleasant to dwell upon.
“Why,” demanded José bitterly, “should the Americanos presume to question our right to our land? You and my father made the valley what it is; your shiploads of hides and tallow that you sent from Yerba Buena made the town prosper, and called adventurers this way; and now they steal your cattle and lands, and their government is the biggest thief of all, for it tells them to steal more. They will make you poor, Don Andres, while you wait for them to be just. No, I permit no ‘prairie schooner’ to stop, even that their oxen may drink. My vaqueros ride beside them till they have crossed the boundary. You, Don Andres, if you would permit your vaqueros to do likewise, instead of shaking hands with the gringos and bidding them welcome—”
“But I do not permit it; nor do I seek counsel from the children I have tossed on my foot to the tune of a nursery rhyme.” He shook his white-crowned head reprovingly. “He was always screaming at his duenna, one child that I recollect,” he smiled.
“Art thou scolding José again, my Andres? He loves to play that thou and Teresita are children still, José; it serves to beguile him into forgetting the years upon his head! Welcome, Señors. Teresita but told me this moment that you had come. She is bringing the wine—”
On their feet they greeted the Señora Picardo. Like the don, her husband, honest friendliness was in her voice, her smile, the warm clasp of her plump hand. The sort of woman who will mother you at sight, was the señora. Purple silk—hastily put on for the guests, one might suspect—clothed her royally. Golden hoops hung from her ears, a diamond brooch held together the lace beneath her cushiony chin; a comfortable woman who smiled much, talked much and worried more lest she leave some little thing undone for those about her.
“And this is the poor señor who was in such dreadful danger!” she went on commiseratingly. “Ah, the wicked times that have come upon us! Presently we shall fear to sleep in our beds—Señor Hunter, you have been hurt! The mark of blood is on your sleeve, the stain is on your side! A-ah, my poor friend! Come instantly and I will—”
“Gracias, Señora; it is nothing. Besides, Manuel put on a poultice of herbs. It’s only a scratch, but it bled a little while I rode to the hut of Manuel.” If blushes could have shown through the tan, Dade might have looked as uncomfortable as he felt at that moment.
The señorita was already in the doorway, convoying a sloe-eyed maid who bore wine and glasses upon a tray of beaten silver; and the smile of the señorita was disturbing to a degree, brief though it was.
Behind the wine came cakes, and the señorita pointed tragically to the silver dish that held them. “Madre mia, those terrible children of Margarita have stolen half the cakes! I ran after them in the orchard—but they swallow fast, those niños! Now the señors must starve!”
Up went the hand of the señora in dismay, and down went the head of the señorita to hide how she was biting the laughter from her lips. “I ran,” she murmured pathetically, “and I caught Angelo—but at that moment he popped the cake into his mouth and it was gone! Then I ran after Maria—and she swallowed—”
“Teresita mia! The señors will think—” What they would think she did not stipulate, but her eyes implored them to judge leniently the irrepressibility of her beautiful one. There were cakes sufficient—a hasty glance reassured her upon that point—and Teresita was in one of her mischievous moods. The mother who had reared her sighed resignedly and poured the wine into the small glasses with a quaint design cut into their sides, perfectly unconscious of the good the little diversion had done.
For a half-hour there was peaceful converse; of the adventure which had brought the two gringos to the ranch as to a sanctuary, of the land which lay before them, and of the unsettled conditions that filled the days with violence.
José still strummed softly upon the guitar, a pleasant undertone to the voices. And because he said very little, he saw and thought the more; seeing glances and smiles between a strange man and the maid whom he loved desirefully, bred the thought which culminated in a sudden burst of speech against the gringos who had come into the peaceful land and brought with them strife. Who stole the cattle of the natives, calmly appropriated the choicest bits of valley land without so much as a by-your-leave, and who treated the rightful owners with contempt and as though they had no right to live in the valley where they were born.
“Last week,” he went on hotly, “an evil gringo with the clay of his burrowings still upon his garments cursed me and called me greaser because I did not give him all the road for his burro. I, José Pacheco! They had better have a care, or the ‘greasers’ will drive them back whence they came, like the cattle they are. When I, a don, must give the road to a gringo lower than the peons whom I flog for less impertinence, it is time we ceased taking them by the hand as though they were our equals!” His eyes went accusingly to the face of the girl.
She flung up her head and met the challenge in her own way, which was with the knife-thrust of her light laughter. “Ah, the poor Americanos! Not the prayers of all the padres can save them from the blackness of their fate, since Don José Pacheco frowns and will not take their hand in friendship! How they will gnash the teeth when they hear the terrible tidings—José Pacheco, don and son of a don, will have none of them, nor will he give way to their poor burros on the highway!” She shook her head as she had done over the tragedy of the little cakes. “Pobre gringos! Pobre gringos!” she murmured mockingly.
“Children, have done!” The hand of the señora went chidingly to the shoulder of her incorrigible daughter. “This is foolish and unseemly—though all thy quarreling is that, the saints know well. Our guests are Americanos; our guests, who are our friends,” she stated gently, looking at José. “Not all Spaniards are good, José; not all gringos are bad. They are as we are, good and bad together. Speak not like a child, amigo mio.”
The guitar which José flung down upon a broad stool beside him hummed resonant accompaniment to his footsteps as he left the veranda. “Thy house, Señora, has been as my mother’s house since I can remember. Until thy gringo guests have made room for me, I leave it!”
“Señor Allen, would you like to see my birds?” invited Teresita wickedly, her glance flicking scornfully the reproachful face of José, as he turned it towards her, and dwelling with a smile upon Jack.
“Wicked one!” murmured the señora, in her heart more than half approving the discipline.
José had humiliation as well as much bitterness to carry away with him; for he saw the señor with the bright blue eyes follow gladly the laughing Teresita to her rose garden, and as he went jingling across the patio without waiting to summon a peon to bring him his horse, he heard the voice of Don Andres making apology to Dade for the rudeness of him, José.