Читать книгу The Heritage of the Sioux - Bertha Muzzy Sinclair-Cowan - Страница 9

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IN Tijeras Arroyo the moon made black shadows where stood the tiny knolls here and there, marking frequently the windings of dry washes where bushes grew in ragged patches and where tall weeds of mid-May tangled in the wind. The roundup tents of the Flying U Feature Film Company stood white as new snow in the moonlight, though daylight showed them an odd, light-blue tint for photographic purposes. On a farther slope cunningly placed by the scenic artist to catch the full sunlight of midday, the camp of the Chavez brothers gleamed softly in the magic light.

So far had spring roundup progressed that Luck was holding the camp in Tijeras Arroyo for picture-making only. Applehead's calves were branded, to the youngest pair of knock-kneed twins which Happy Jack found curled up together ​cunningly hidden in a thicket. They had been honored with a "close-up" scene, those two spotted calves, and were destined to further honors which they did not suspect and could not appreciate.

They slept now, as slept the two camps upon the two slopes that lay moon-bathed at midnight. Back where the moon was making the barren mountains a wonderland of deep purple and black and silvery gray and brown, a coyote yapped a falsetto message and was answered by one nearer at hand—his mate, it might be. In a bush under the bank that made of it a black blot in the unearthly whiteness of the sand, a little bird fluttered uneasily and sent a small, inquiring chirp into the stillness. From somewhere farther up the arroyo drifted a faint, aromatic odor of cigarette smoke.

Had you been there by the bush you could not have told when Annie-Many-Ponies passed by; you would not have seen her—certainly you could not have heard the soft tread of her slim, moccasined feet. Yet she passed the bush and the bank and went away up the arroyo, silent as the shadows themselves, swift as the coyote that trotted over a nearby ridge to meet her mate nearer the ​mountains. So, following much the same instinct in much the same way, Annie-Many-Ponies stole out to meet the man her heart timidly yearned for as a possible mate.

She reached the rock-ledge where the smoke odor was strongest, and she stopped. She saw Ramon Chavez, younger of the Chavez brothers who were ten-mile-off neighbors of Applehead, and who owned many cattle and much land by right of an old Spanish grant. He was standing in the shadow of the ledge, leaning against it as they of sun-saturated New Mexico always lean against anything perpendicular and solid near which they happen to stand. He was watching the white-lighted arroyo while he smoked, waiting for her, unconscious of her near presence.

Annie-Many-Ponies stood almost within reach of him, but she did not make her presence known. With the infinite wariness of her race she waited to see what he would do; to read, if she might, what were his thoughts—his attitude toward her in his unguarded moments. That little, inscrutable smile which so exasperated Applehead was on her lips while she watched him.

​Ramon finished that cigarette, threw away the stub and rolled and lighted another. Still Annie-Many-Ponies gave no little sign of her presence. He watched the arroyo, and once he leaned to one side and stared back at his own quiet camp on the slope that had the biggest and the wildest mountain of that locality for its background. He settled himself anew with his other shoulder against the rock, and muttered something in Spanish—that strange, musical talk which Annie-Many-Ponies could not understand. And still she watched him, and exulted in his impatience for her coming, and wondered if it would always be love-light which she would see in his eyes.

He was not of her race, though in her pride she thought him favored when she named him akin to the Sioux. He was not of her race, but he was tall and he was straight, he was dark as she, he was strong and brave and he had many cattle and much broad acreage. Annie-Many-Ponies smiled upon him in the dark and was glad that she, the daughter of a chief of the Sioux, had been found good in his sight.

Five minutes, ten minutes. The coyote, ​yap-yap-yapping in the broken land beyond them, found his mate and was silent. Ramon Chavez, waiting in the shadow of the ledge, muttered a Mexican oath and stepped out into the moonlight and stood there, tempted to return to his camp—for he, also, had pride that would not bear much bruising.

Annie-Many-Ponies waited. When he muttered again and threw his cigarette from him as though it had been something venomous; when he turned his face toward his own tents and took a step forward, she laughed softly, a mere whisper of amusement that might have been a sleepy breeze stirring the bushes somewhere near. Ramon started and turned his face her way; in the moonlight his eyes shone with a certain love-hunger which Annie-Many-Ponies exulted to see—because she did not understand.

"You not let moon look on you," she chided in an undertone, her sentences clipped of superfluous words as is the Indian way, her voice that pure, throaty melody that is a gift which nature gives lavishly to the women of savage people. "Moon see, men see."

Ramon swung back into the shadow, reached out ​his two arms to fold her close and got nothing more substantial than another whispery laugh.

"Where are yoh, sweetheart?" He peered into the shadow where she had been, and saw the place empty. He laughed, chagrined by her elusiveness, yet hungering for her the more.

"You not touch," she warned. "Till priest say marriage prayers, no man touch."

He called her a devil in Spanish, and she thought it a love-word and laughed and came nearer. He did not attempt to touch her, and so, reassured, she stood close so that he could see the pure, Indian profile of her face when she raised it to the sky in a mute invocation, it might be, of her gods.

"When yoh come?" he asked swiftly, his race betrayed in tone and accent. "I look and look—I no see yoh."

"I come," she stated with a quiet meaning. "I not like cow, for make plenty noise. I stand here, you smoke two times, I look."

"You mus' be moonbeam," he told her, reaching out again, only to lay hold upon nothing. "Come back, sweetheart. I be good."

"I not like you touch," she repeated. "I good ​girl. I mind priest, I read prayers, I mind Wagalexa Conka—" There she faltered, for the last boast was no longer the truth.

Ramon was quick to seize upon the one weak point of her armor. "So? He send yoh then to talk with Ramon at midnight? Yoh come to please yoh boss?"

Annie-Many-Ponies turned her troubled face his way. "Wagalexa Conka sleep plenty. I not ask," she confessed. "You tell me come here—you tell me must talk when no one hear. I come. I no ask Wagalexa Conka—him say good girl stay by camp. Him say not walk in night-time, say me not talk you. I no ask; I just come."

"Yoh lov' him, perhaps? More as yoh lov' me? Always I see yoh look at him—always watch, watch. Always I see yoh jomp when he snap the finger; always yoh run like train dog. Yoh lov' him, perhaps? Bah! Yoh dirt onder his feet." Ramon did not seriously consider that any woman whom he favored could sanely love another man more than himself, but to his nature jealousy was a necessary adjunct of lovemaking; not to have displayed jealousy would have been to ​betray indifference, as he interpreted the tender passion.

Annie-Many-Ponies, woman-wily though she was by nature, had little learning in the devious ways of lovemaking. Eyes might speak, smiles might half reveal, half hide her thoughts; but the tongue, as her tribe had taught her sternly, must speak the truth or keep silent. Now she bent her head, puzzling how best to put her feelings toward Luck Lindsay into honest words which Ramon would understand.

"Yoh lov' him, perhaps—since yoh all time afraid he be mad." Ramon persisted, beating against the wall of her Indian taciturnity which always acted as a spur upon his impetuosity. Besides, it was important to him that he should know just what was the tie between these two. He had heard Luck Lindsay speak to the girl in the Sioux tongue. He had seen her eyes lighten as she made swift answer. He had seen her always eager to do Luck's bidding—had seen her anticipate his wants and minister to them as though it was her duty and her pleasure to do so. It was vital that he should know, and it was certain that he could ​not question Luck upon the subject—for Ramon Chavez was no fool.

"Long time ago—when I was papoose with no shoes," she began with seeming irrelevance, her eyes turning instinctively toward the white tents of the Flying U camp gleaming in the distance, "my people go for work in Buffalo Bill show. My father go, my mother go, I go. All time we dance for show, make Indian fight with cowboys—all them act for Buffalo Bill-Pawnee Bill show. That time Wagalexa Conka boss of Indians. He Indian Agent. He take care whole bunch. He make peace when fights, he give med'cine when somebody sick. He awful good to them Indians. He give me candy, always stop to talk me. I like him. My father like him. All them Indians like him plenty much. My father awful sick one time, he no let doctor come. Leg broke all in pieces. He say die plenty if Wagalexa Conka no make well. I go ticket wagon, tell Wagalexa Conka, he come quick, fix up leg all right.

"All them Indians like to make him—" She stopped, searching her mind for the elusive, little-used word which she had learned in the mission ​school. "Make him adop'," she finished triumphantly. "Indians make much dance, plenty music, lots speeches—make him Indian man. My father big chief, he make Wagalexa Conka him son. Make him my brother. Give him Indian name Wagalexa Conka. All Indians call that name for him.

"Pretty soon show stop, all them Indians go home by reservation. Long time we don't see Wagalexa Conka no more. I get big girl, go school little bit. Pretty soon Wagalexa Conka come back, for wants them Indians for work in pictures. My father go, my mother go, all us go. We work long time. I," she added with naïve pride in her comeliness, "awful good looking. I do lots of foreground stuff. Pretty soon hard times come. Indians go home by reservation. I go—I don't like them reservations no more. Too lonesome. I like for work all time in pictures. I come, tell Wagalexa Conka I be Indian girl for pictures. He write letter for agent, write letter for my father. They writes letter for say yes, I stay. I stay and do plenty more foreground stuff."

​"I don't see you do moch foreground work since that white girl come," Ramon observed, hitting what he instinctively knew was a tender point.

Had he seen her face, he must have been satisfied that the chance shot struck home. But in the shadow hate blazed unseen from her eyes. She did not speak, and so he went back to his first charge.

"All this don't tell me moch," he complained. "Yoh lov' him, maybe? That's what I ask."

"Wagalexa Conka my brother, my father, my friend," she replied calmly, and let him interpret it as he would.

"He treats yoh like a dog. He crazee 'bout that Jean. He gives her all smiles, all what yoh call foreground stuff. I know—I got eyes. Me, it makes me mad for see how he treat yoh—and yoh so trying hard always to please. He got no heart for yoh—me, I see that." He moved a step closer, hesitating, wanting yet not quite daring to touch her. "Me, I lov' yoh, little Annie," he murmured. "Yoh lov' me little bit, eh? Jus' little bit! Jus' for say, 'Ramon, I go weeth yoh, I be yoh woman—'"

​Annie-Many-Poniefl widened the distance between them. "Why you not say wife?" she queried suspiciously.

"Woman, wife, sweetheart—all same," he assured her with his voice like a caress. "All words mean I lov' yoh jus' same, Now yoh say yoh lov' me, say yoh go weeth me, I be one happy man. I go back on camp and my heart she's singing lov'-song. My girl weeth eyes that shine so bright, she lov' me moch as I lov' her. That what my heart she sing. Yoh not be so cruel like stone—yoh say, 'Ramon, I lov' yoh.' Jus' like that! So easy to say!"

"Not easy," she denied, moved to save her freedom yet a while longer. "I say them words, then I—then I not be same girl like now. Maybe much troubles come. Maybe much happy—I dunno. Lots time I see plenty trouble come for girl that say them words for man. Some time plenty happy—I think trouble comes most many times. I think Wagalexa Conka he be awful mad. I not like for hims be mad."

"Now you make me mad—Ramon what loves yoh! Yoh like for Ramon be mad, perhaps? ​Always yoh 'fraid Luck Lindsay this, 'fraid Luck that other. Me, I gets damn' sick hear that talk all time. Bimeby he marree som' girl, then what for you? He don' maree yoh, eh? He don' lov' yoh; he think too good for maree Indian girl. Me, I not think like that. I, Ramon Chavez, I think proud to lov' yoh. Ramon—"

"I not think Wagalexa Conka marry me." The girl was turning stubborn under his importunities. "Wagalexa Conka my brother—my friend. I tell you plenty time. Now I tell no more."

"Ramon loves yoh so moch," he pleaded, and smiled to himself when he saw her turn toward him again. The love-talk—that was what a woman likes best to hear! "Yoh say yoh lov' Ramon jus' little bit!"

"I not say now. When I say I be sure I say truth."

"All right, then I be sad till yoh say yoh lov' me. Yoh maybe be happy, yoh know Ramon's got heavy heart for yoh."

"I plenty sorry, you be sad for me," she confessed demurely.

"I lov' yoh so moch! I think nothing but how ​beautiful my sweetheart is. I not tease yoh no more. Tell me, how long Luck says he stay out here? Maybe yoh bear sometimes he's going for taking pictures in town?"

"I not hear."

"Going home, maybe? You mus' hear little bit. Yoh tell me, sweetheart; what's he gone do when roundup's all finish? Me, I know she's finish las' week. Looks like he's taking pictures out here all summer! You hear him say something, maybe?"

"I not hear."

"Them vaqueros—bah! They don't hear nothings either. What's matter over there, nobody hear nothing? Luck, he got no tongue when camera's shut up, perhaps?"

"Nah—I dunno."

Ramon looked at her for a minute in mute rage. It was not the first time he had found himself hard against the immutable reticence of the Indian in her nature.

"Why you snapping teeth like a wolf?" she asked him slyly.

"Me? I don' snap my teeth, sweetheart." It ​cost Ramon some effort to keep his voice softened to the love key.

"Why you not ask Wagalexa Conka what he do?"

"I don' care, that's why I don' ask. Me, it's no matter."

He hesitated a moment, evidently weighing a matter of more importance to him than he would have Annie-Many-Ponies suspect. "Sweetheart, yoh do one thing for Ramon?" His voice might almost be called wheedling. "Me, I'm awful busy tomorrow. I got long ride away off—to my rancho. I got to see my brother Tomas. I be back here not before night Yoh tell Bill Holmes he come here by this rock—yoh say midnight—that's good time—I sure be here that time. Yoh say I got something I wan' tell him. Yoh do that for Ramon, sweetheart? "

He waited, trying to hide the fact that he was anxious.

"I not like Bill Holmes." Annie-Many-Ponies spoke with an air of finality. "Bill Holmes comes close, I feel snakes. Him not friend to Wagalexa Conka—say nothing—always go around still, ​like fox watching for rabbit. You not friend to Bill Holmes?"

"Me? No—I not friend, querida mia. I got business. I sell Bill Holmes one silver bridle, perhaps. I don' know—mus' talk about it. Yoh tell him come here by big rock, sweetheart?"

Annie-Many-Ponies took a minute for deliberation—which is the Indian way. Ramon, having learned patience, said no more but watched her slant-eyed.

"I tell," she promised at last, and added, "I go now." Then she slipped away. And Ramon, though he stood for several minutes by the rock smiling queerly and staring down the arroyo, caught not the slightest glimpse of her after she left him. He knew that she would deliver faithfully his message to Bill Holmes, she had given her word. That was one great advantage, considered Ramon, in dealing with those direct, uncompromising natures. She might torment him with her aloofness and her reticence, but once he had won her to a full confidence and submission he need not trouble himself further about her loyalty. She would tell Bill Holmes—and, what ​was vastly more important, she would do it secretly; he had not dared to speak of that, but he thought he might safely trust to her natural wariness. So Ramon, after a little, stole away to his own camp quite satisfied.

The next night, when he stood in the shadow of the rock ledge and waited, he was not startled by the unexpected presence of the person he wanted to see. For although Bill Holmes came as cautiously as he knew how, and avoided the wide, bright-lighted stretches of arroyo where he would have been plainly visible, Ramon both saw and heard him before he reached the ledge. What Ramon, did not see or hear was Annie-Many-Ponies, who did not quite believe that those two wished merely to talk about a silver bridle, and who meant to listen and find out why it was that they could not talk openly before all the boys.

Annie-Many-Ponies had ways of her own. She did not tell Ramon that she doubted his word, nor did she refuse to deliver the message. She waited calmly until Bill Holmes left camp stealthily that night, and she followed him. It was perfectly simple and sensible and the right thing to do; ​if you wanted to know for sure whether a person lied to you, you had but to watch and listen and let your own eyes and ears prove guilt or innocence.

So Annie-Many-Ponies stood by the rock and listened and watched. She did not see any silver bridle. She heard many words, but the two were speaking in that strange Spanish talk which she did not know at all, save "Querida mia," which Ramon had told her meant sweetheart.

The two talked, low-voiced and earnest. Bill was telling all that he knew of Luck Lindsay's plans—and that was not much.

"He don't talk," Bill complained. "He just tells the bunch a day ahead—just far enough to get their makeup and costumes on, generally. But he won't stay around here much longer; he's taken enough spring roundup stuff now for half a dozen pictures. He'll be moving in to the ranch again pretty quick. And I know this picture calls for a lot of town business that he'll have to take. I saw the script the other day." This, of course, being a free translation of the meaningless jumble of strange words which Annie heard.

​"What town business is that? Where will he work?" Ramon was plainly impatient of so much vagueness.

"Well, there's a bank robbery—I paid particular attention, Ramon, so I know for certain. But when he'll do it, or what bank he'll use, I don't know any more than you do. And there's a running fight down the street and through the Mexican quarter. The rest is just street stuff—that and a fiesta that I think he'll probably use the old plaza for location. He'll need a lot of Mexicans for that stuff. He'll want you, of course."

"That bank—who will do that?" Ramon's fingers trembled so that he could scarcely roll a cigarette. "Andy, perhaps?"

"No—that's the Mexican bunch. I—why, I guess that will maybe be you, Ramon. I wasn't paying much attention to the parts—I was after locations, and I only had about two minutes at the script. But he's been giving you some good bits right along where he needed a Mexican type; and those scenes in the rocks the other day was bandit stuff with you for lead. It'll be you or ​Miguel—the Native Son, as they call him—and so far he's cast for another part. That's the worst of Luck. He won't talk about what he's going to do till he's all ready to do it."

There was a little further discussion. Ramon muttered a few sentences—rapid instructions, Annie-Many-Ponies believed from the tone he used.

"All right, I'll keep you posted," Bill Holmes replied in English. And he added as he started off, "You can send word by the squaw."

He went carefully back down the arroyo, keeping as much as possible in the shade. Behind him stole Annie-Many-Ponies, noiseless as the shadow of a cloud. Bill Holmes, she reflected angrily, had seen the day, not so far in the past, when he was happy if the "squaw" but smiled upon him. It was because she had repelled his sly lovemaking that he had come to speak of her slightingly like that; she knew it. She could have named the very day when his manner toward her had changed. Mingled with her hate and dread of him was a new contempt and a new little anxiety over this clandestine intimacy between Ramon and him. Why ​should Bill Holmes keep Ramon posted? Surely not about a silver bridle!

Shunka Chistala was whining in her little tent when she came into the camp. She heard Bill Holmes stumble over the end of the chuck-wagon tongue and mutter the customary profanity with which the average man meets an incident of that kind. She whispered a fierce command to the little black dog and stood very still for a minute, listening. She did not hear anything further, either from Bill Holmes or the dog, and finally reassured by the silence, she crept into her tent and tied the flaps together on the inside, and lay down in her blankets with the little black dog contentedly curled at her feet with his nose between his front paws.