Читать книгу The Mesa - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 9

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More brilliant than the eyes of the girl of the peppers who had looked at Valdez when he had sat on the bench in the red sandstone courtyard were the eyes of Señorita Juana Bazan as she rode southward through the afternoon haze.

And yet there was a softness in the brilliance of Señorita Juana’s eyes which the eyes of the girl of the peppers lacked. A softness with fire in it, and depth in which a beholder was lost. Veiled by long black lashes, her eyes had a way of calmly appraising one, of laughing at one without a movement of the lips, or of sending a message of quiet derision, or of conveying interest. Don Pedro maintained that the Señorita had “talking” eyes, though, of course, Juana did not gaze as expressively at her father as she did at the good-looking young men who crossed her path.

And yet Juana was not frivolous. To be sure, there were times when a glance turned the heads of certain young men—and even of older men whom she considered worthy of admiration, but on the whole Juana was steady and sedate and circumspect, and the inhabitants of the country in which Don Pedro ruled knew well enough that Juana’s conquests were mere incidents which were forgotten with the next breath.

She was riding homeward after having paid a visit to her padrino, Don Bernardo Francisco, who owned a large rancho near Hermosillo; and she was riding through a vast green basin which would bring her eventually to the south fork of the Altar when, halting her horse for an instant to breathe him after a climb out of a gorge, she observed a dot moving through the green of a far slope.

One of her father’s vaqueros. She had reached the Bazan domain, she knew, and before nightfall she would be sitting opposite Don Pedro at the big clumsy table in the courtyard. Afterward there would be the stars and the moon and the soft melody of a guitar on the breeze that always swept up the valley and into the courtyard. And perhaps there would be that young Vittorio Cerros, from Peza, who occasionally found some excuse to visit Don Pedro on business.

Juana did not blush at thought of Cerros. For since, a year ago perhaps, she had seen a young gringo named Nolan, whose black hair curled tightly against his head and whose eyes were as blue as the velvet of a night sky, she had blushed only when her thoughts were of him.

Señor Nolan had not stayed long in the valley. He had been segundo of a gringo cattle outfit which had ridden down to Paloma ranch in search of yearling cattle; and Señor Nolan had stood only for a little while in the colonnaded courtyard talking with Don Pedro while Juana had watched him from a distance which was not so great, after all. For Señor Nolan had seen her, and it had been when he had doffed his broad-brimmed hat that she had observed the raven-black curls that snuggled his head so tightly that they seemed to have been stuck there. Only over his brow were the curls in disorder, and there, with a negligence which was most attractive, drooped a curl which almost swept Señor Nolan’s eyebrow.

Señorita Juana observed that Señor Nolan made no effort to brush back the refractory curl; he appeared to be entirely unconscious of it, just as, at the instant he caught sight of her, he appeared to become unaware of the fact that he was supposed to be talking—and looking—at Don Pedro. The drooping curl, Señorita Juana thought, gave to Señor Nolan a singularly reckless and saturnine appearance. At any rate, there had been in Señor Nolan’s eyes when he gazed at her an intentness that had sent the blood racing through her veins. And what was remarkable about the thing was that her heart beat faster every time she thought of Señor Nolan.

She was thinking of him now, and that was why she kept the horse under her standing so long. She had forgotten that she was riding homeward, had forgotten the moving dot she had seen on the far slope of the basin; she was standing again in the courtyard of the Paloma ranch-house, looking at Señor Nolan as he stood talking to her father.

Where had Señor Nolan gone? Whereabouts in the gringo country did he live? How many girls did he know? Would he ever return to Paloma Rancho?

These mental interrogations flashed one after another through her consciousness, and because she could find no answers to them her brows drew together in a frown and she impatiently tapped the high pommel of the saddle with her gloved fingers.

Her gaze rested on her small booted foot, the right one, which she had withdrawn from the tapadero, and travelled slowly up the embroidered skirt, laced at the hips, to the tight-fitting green waistcoat she wore, with its wide, befrilled sleeves.

Gringo women dressed differently. They preferred the quieter colours. They were fair haired, with milk-white skins. There was no fire in them—visible fire, that is—and yet, somehow, they managed to ensnare men. And they loved devotedly and with fidelity. That was proof that they had fire in them.

Señor Nolan was handsome. Not long could he resist the gringo women. One day she would hear that one of them had won him, and then——

“Adios querido,” whispered Juana regretfully. “May she be worthy.”

She had delayed long, and when she sent the horse on again she observed that the sun was low. She would have to ride hard to reach Paloma Rancho before dark, for she was still about twenty miles distant, and after she crossed the basin in which she was riding she would strike the upland country with its difficult gorges and its impenetrable sections of wilderness.

She rode down into the bottom of the basin and followed a small stream that flowed down the slope near where she had observed the moving dot which she had decided was one of her father’s vaqueros. At the head of a shallow gorge which she reached a few minutes later she saw several horsemen cutting down the sides of the gorge ahead of her.

She was startled, for she perceived that the horsemen were not vaqueros. They wore jackets of cheap calico, wide trousers supported by sashes of various colours, and red Barcelona liberty caps of knitted silk. In a scabbard on the skirt of each saddle was a rifle, and in a holster at each hip every horseman wore a heavy revolver.

Once before, from a distance, she had seen men so arrayed. And now she pulled her horse up quickly, rapidly calculating, though chilled by a fear that seized her.

“Zorilla’s men!”

With the exclamation, she wheeled her horse, sent it scampering over the back trail a few paces, intending to get out of the gorge and make a try over a level northward, which she knew would bring her to a narrow trail between two mountains.

But now she saw other horsemen at the lower end of the gorge! They had concealed themselves until she had passed and had then fallen in behind her!

Again she brought the horse to a halt. She was surrounded! She saw the red liberty caps on the crests of the two slopes of the gorge!

Desperately she headed the animal under her up the north slope. But the slope was precipitous, and the horse had not climbed a dozen feet when he slid back, toppled, and almost threw her out of the saddle.

Still, she tried it again and again at various points, with equally futile results. And all the time the red caps were coming closer. The final try at the slope winded the horse, and so she sat defiantly in the saddle as the horsemen closed in on her, grinning their amusement over her repeated failures to escape.

She was silent, though her eyes were flashing contempt at them, and she was attempting to unbuckle the flap of the holster in which she carried her revolver. The weapon had a trick of working up out of the holster while she rode, and so she kept the flap fastened. Now the fastening stuck and resisted her efforts long enough to permit her hand to be seized by one of the horsemen who spurred against her.

By the time the horseman had wrenched the weapon from her, the others were crowded around her. They were swarthy, evil-looking, dirty, and unshaven, and they seemed delighted over their feat in capturing her.

Juana’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing until a rather handsome rider spurred forward and brought his horse to a halt directly in front of her.

The horseman was picturesque. He was cleanly shaved, so that the skin of his face had a blue-black sheen; he wore a heavy black moustache under which his white teeth gleamed as he smiled at her.

He was arrayed in a black velvet jacket with bell-like cuffs heavy with embroidery and lace; his velvet trousers were laced with white cord which was almost like that at her own hips; and the trousers were studded down the seams with lumps of turquoise stones set in silver. He wore long-rowelled silver spurs, soft-top boots with extraordinarily high heels, and his bell-crowned hat was a-glitter with bits of metal. There was a green sash about his middle, out of which stuck the butts of two heavy revolvers. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but Juana observed a dancing gleam in them which seemed to indicate a Satanic humour.

This, she suspected, was the outlaw Zorilla.

Zorilla removed his bell-crowned hat and pressed it against his chest as he bowed.

“Buenos tardes, señorita!” he greeted.

“Que desa Usted?” she asked coldly.

“But little, caro mi,” he answered, silkily smiling. “Just a little talk, maybe. Who can tell?”

“You will talk quickly, if you please!” declared Juana. “And you will order your men away!”

“Vamos!” snapped Zorilla.

The riders scurried out of sight. But Juana observed that they merely dispersed to the points from which they had appeared, and so she knew that she would be given no opportunity to escape until Zorilla willed it.

She was now very little disturbed over her predicament, for she doubted that Zorilla meant to harm her. He must know that if he molested her in any way Don Pedro’s vaqueros would search him out and exact vengeance. His action in halting her would arouse Don Pedro’s anger should she finally decide to inform him of what had happened, and if he so much as touched her Don Pedro’s wrath would be terrible.

After the riders vanished, Zorilla urged his horse close until the animal and Juana’s touched. Juana did not try to draw away, but sat very rigid, looking straight at the outlaw.

“You observe how quickly I am obeyed, Señorita Juana?” he asked, smiling.

“By jackals,” she replied, her lips curving. “How flattering must be such power!”

“Yet it is power, señorita. In my humble way I am as powerful as any. I bend the knee to no man. My men obey me. When I say ‘come,’ they come; and when I order them to ‘go,’ they go. I live on milk and honey. The fattest goats are in my mountain fastnesses. I have my choice of the best horses in the country——”

“Through stealing them!” she said scornfully.

“—And my herds grow larger every day,” he went on. “Men pay me tribute——”

“When you do not take it by force!” she charged.

“What matters the method, señorita?” he asked, smiling. “We have only to do with results. I am powerful. I am feared.”

“Not by me, Señor Zorilla!”

“Forbid!” he said softly. “It is for the beautiful Señorita Juana Bazan that I every day increase my power and my possessions. Señorita, until now I have said nothing. But for years I have watched you. I have seen you grow from a child into the wonderful creature you now are. And every steer that has been added to my herds, every peso that I have added to my store, every improvement I have made to my mountain home has been with the thought of you. I have told myself that some day, when you stand on the threshold of my hacienda, you will understand how great has been my effort to please you!”

She gave him a slow smile of derision.

“I perceive that Señor Zorilla has dreamed impossible dreams,” she said.

Zorilla’s face paled.

“You mean that you have never thought of becoming my wife, señorita?” he said, as though amazed.

“Ai!” she exclaimed softly. “Señor Zorilla becomes intelligent!”

“You reject me!” he cried. “Peste! Am I not as handsome as any? Handsomer than that young Vittorio Cerros who makes up absurd excuses of business in order to visit Paloma Rancho? Or that other springgald at Hermosillo, who draws you on the pretext of visiting your padrino?”

Juana was not angry. She was greatly amused at Zorilla’s earnestness because she did not seriously consider either Vittorio Cerros or the young man at Hermosillo to whom Zorilla had referred. The only face that Juana could see at this instant was Señor Nolan’s, with its intent eyes and the negligent curl upon his brow.

She sighed and blushed.

“Ah!” exclaimed Zorilla, observing the blush with the quick eye of jealousy; “there is another!”

Juana smiled. It was the sad smile of martyrdom; for she felt that she would never see Señor Nolan again; and it did not matter that Zorilla should be jealous. And yet, because Zorilla had discovered her secret, she longed to torment him.

“Ai,” she said, “Señor Zorilla has sharp eyes. And yet he cannot see as far as my memory.”

“Diablos!” snarled Zorilla. “It is someone who lives at a distance!”

“In a land whose people are fair, Señor Zorilla,” she said softly.

“A gringo!”

“With blue eyes,” she went on, looking straight at the outlaw. “And hair which is blacker than yours, amigo, and curly. It caresses his head like—like—ai! it is impossible to describe it!”

“Peste!” growled Zorilla. “Tell me his name that I may go and kill him!”

Juana laughed long and lowly, and Zorilla writhed at the mockery in her voice.

“You kill him, Zorilla? You? Puf! I doubt if he would look at you a second time. But if he did, I assure you muchacho, that he would notice you merely to tweak your nose! He is a man, Zorilla!”

The outlaw choked over unintelligible words.

“My nose is not tweaked every day, Señorita Juana!” declared Zorilla when he could make himself understood. “And your gringo dog would not dare attempt it! Nor your father! That gross beast who gorges himself until he resembles a fat pig!”

“Don Pedro eats sufficient because he possesses sufficient,” said Juana, her voice further irritating the outlaw. “He is not forced to subsist upon goat’s meat and pulque. Nor does he have to seek a raven among the rocks when he dines. And also, he is served by honest men. But I have already abased myself in holding speech with you, señor; and now I ask you to withdraw yourself to your mountain fastness and permit me to go. Instantly, Señor Zorilla, lest when I reach Paloma Rancho I tell my father of what has occurred and he have his vaqueros whip you!”

Zorilla’s dark face became purple with rage. Yet he forced himself to calmness, realizing that the girl was deliberately provoking him.

“You grow impatient, Señorita Juana?” he mocked. “Yet you are not to see the Rancho Paloma this night, perhaps not for many nights. It is my intention to hold you to insure the safe return of Señor Valdez, a most estimable man who at present is occupying the cuartel at Paloma Rancho.”

“One of your men?”

Zorilla bowed.

“Then I vow he has committed some depredation.”

“Señor Valdez desired to look over your father’s horses, señorita. Of late the poor mounts he has been forced to ride have vexed him, and he sought better. But unfortunately your father’s vaqueros took him. Word was brought me that he was to be shot this morning. I am awaiting confirmation, and if Señor Valdez has been shot the Rancho Paloma will never again be beautified by your presence!”

The outlaw’s eyes grew avid.

“Perhaps I shall keep you anyway,” he went on. “It is Zorilla’s way to keep what he values. In time you might become convinced that I would make a good substitute for the blue-eyed gringo you love. And now, señorita, if you will be so good as to dismount we shall try to make you comfortable.”

“Then you really mean to hold me?” asked Juana.

“As one holds a flower,” he answered.

“Then, señor——” began Juana.

Her body had stiffened. She meant to make a last desperate effort to escape. But at the instant her muscles were on the verge of action she heard a shout from a distance; observed that the liberty caps were coming into view again and that a chorus of voices rose around her.

“Ai!” exclaimed Zorilla.

He stared northward, where upon a distant level a rider came.

Some of Zorilla’s men were in motion, leaping their horses out of the gorge to a little level beyond, where they could get a better view of the rider.

Zorilla did not move except to grasp the bridle of the horse Juana rode. He stood there, facing the coming rider, listening to the cries of his men, who proclaimed the rider to be Señor Valdez.

Juana smiled.

“You will permit me to go now, Señor Zorilla?” she asked.

He turned to her, and his eyes were soft with a glow she had not seen in them before.

“Zorilla keeps what he values,” he laughed.

He mocked her attempts to break his grip on the bridle rein. And then she desisted and sat very still in the saddle, for the rider was now close and the other men were welcoming him with vociferous shouts of joy.

Valdez came on rapidly. He grinned at those who rode close to him to welcome him, but he kept straight on until he reached a point near Zorilla and Juana. There he halted his horse and smiled at the girl and the outlaw.

“Buenos tardes,” he greeted. “I bring you news.”

He then related what had happened to him, adding the news of Don Pedro’s pronunciamento.

The other men laughed, shouted, and felicitated with one another. But Zorilla stood frowning.

“Señor Valdez,” he said, “you tell us that the pronunciamento becomes effective at six o’clock to-morrow morning. There is nothing in the pronunciamento which changes our status toward one another. It does not take away a man’s possessions? What he holds now he holds after the pronunciamento takes effect?”

“There is nothing said about that, so I presume that to all men belong the things they held before the time named in the pronunciamento,” said Valdez.

Zorilla smiled whimsically and turned to Juana.

“Then, Señorita Juana,” he said, “together we shall attend the Fiesta del Sanctuaire!”