Читать книгу Montana Rides Again - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 10

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They came to the verge of the Rio Grande, where the yellow currents flattened out to a shallow width that a rider could ford easily. There they dismounted as Montana said:

“I turn north here, Mateo. I can travel in peace, now, thanks to Brother Pascual.”

“Adios, amigo,” answered Rubriz. “Now I look on you for the last time; and while I live I shall remember you.”

“The last time?” asked Montana.

“I go now on a trail from which I can never return,” said Rubriz, cheerfully.

“What trail is that?” asked Montana.

He noted that Brother Pascual, with a troubled face, was retreating from them.

“Our Lady calls to me,” said Rubriz, waving towards the horizon. “The task she asks is more than one man can do; but I must go.”

Montana sat down on a rock and lighted a cigarette.

“I’m ready to listen. There’s no hurry,” he said, looking around him at the broken steps of the canyon, at the yellow workings of the current.

Rubriz made a great sound, clearing his throat and scowling, to cover his satisfaction. And he told, striding up and down, how in the town of Duraya the governor’s fort on the hill stares across at the big church of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He told of the little Bishop Emiliano, with a head as bald as a polished stone, fringed around with silver. He told of General Estrada, the governor—of his huge brush of a moustache and his rapacious eyes, which could only find devastation and poverty in his new province until he heard of the restoration of the emerald crown of Our Lady to the church from which it had been stolen. He told of the fight in the church, the felling of the bishop, the savage stand of the great friar, and that despairing call for help which Brother Pascual had brought into the mountains.

“So I knew that I must make the try,” he finished. “One man to enter the fort? I could never come back. Before I died, I wanted to see you once more, amigo. I could not tell what I would do when I saw you. I might want to draw a knife and try for your throat, or I might see a brother in you. Well, I saw you—and I did not want to draw a knife.”

He stood over the Montana Kid and smiled down at him with an unaffected admiration and fondness. He held out his hand, saying:

“Then, adios, Montana!”

The Kid failed to see the hand. He made a gesture with his cigarette.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I get things mixed up, down there in Mexico. Duraya—let’s see—it’s in the loop of a river, eh?”

“The river runs almost all the way around it,” agreed Rubriz.

“The fort has big stone walls, like those of a castle in the old days?”

“Just so!”

“And down the hill from the fort there’s a cantina run by Miguel Santos—a man who looks like a caballero. But he has a wooden leg that’s pulled him down in the world.”

“I know the man,” agreed Rubriz. “What about him?”

“Nothing about him. But there’s a flash of a girl in that cantina. She keeps a red rose in the back of her hair. The charros look at her and forget how their tequila tastes. They drink it like water while she’s around. Her name—her name is Rosita.”

“There is such a girl,” agreed Rubriz.

Montana stood up, threw away his cigarette.

“Thank God for an eye which can remember! Mateo, I am riding to Duraya with you.”

“No, my friend!” protested the Mexican. “There is danger for you, south of the River. The Rurales remember you. They would smell out your trail as if they were bloodhounds. They would be at your throat in a day.”

“Mateo, I must go to Duraya. I must see that girl Rosita again. There was something about her that seemed to say, ‘Come once more. I shall remember.’ Besides, I want to see the moustache of General Estrada.”

“You don’t know what you say!” protested Rubriz. “This Estrada is a man who knows his business. He keeps his soldiers as lean as wolves. Their teeth are in you before you know it.”

“Mateo, tell me in a word. Do you want me to help you get the emeralds? Do you want me to steal ’em with you, or not? Could you trust the treasure of the church in the hands of a gringo?”

“Ah, brother!” said Rubriz. “You and I together we could walk even through the walls of the fort at Duraya! But how can I repay you, Montana? What can I do for El Keed?”

“You can teach me, while we are on the road, a song that I may sing for Rosita. I tell you, Mateo, I’ve always known in my blood that I would see her again. And she knows that I’ll come. Here, give me your hand! This is the meaning—that we shall never part till we’ve won the emeralds for the little bishop with the bald head. Come, Rubriz! Is the friar in this, too? Come here, Brother Pascual. Now, all three of us, with our hands crossed—so! And the man who falls away from this promise, why, he’s a dog, and he’ll rot with the mange! To horse, now, and over the river!”

But, as their hands parted, the big friar held the other two men motionless in a strange way; for he lifted his hands above their heads and seemed to grow with that gesture into a veritable giant. With upraised face he prayed, silently.

Mateo and the Kid, like shamefaced children, pulled off their hats and let the blessing fall.

The friar walked or ran most of the way south; and he seemed to spend more energy pulling the mule after him than in getting his own bulk over the ground. Only when the way was level and there was a chance for a lope or a brisk trot would he step into the saddle and ride the mule through the dust which the horses raised.

“Why does he do it?” asked Montana.

“Once a mule that was carrying him through the mountains slipped on a frozen rock and broke its leg,” answered Rubriz. “Since then he takes pity on four-legged beasts. I had to stamp and rage to make him ride, on the way north with me. Even then he would not take a horse. A mule was too good for him, he said. You see, he is but a child.”

“A child that moves mountains, eh?” said Montana. “But why did he come north with you?”

“He had heard the thousand stories about you, brother. He was hungry to see your face. That will make him a great man with the shepherds and the villagers.”

“Ah! So that was the reason!” murmured Montana.

But though he smiled, the first doubt had entered his soul, coldly. He saw that he would have to be on his guard from now on.

As they came through the hills into view of Duraya, the sunset flared and died quickly. It made the white walls of the town bloom for a moment. It made the looping river run red. Then the soft twilight rose out of the valleys, overflowed the hills, invaded the sky, and brought down the stars.

They descended into the plain.

“You tell me, Brother Pascual,” said Montana. “Shall I pass as a true Mexican cowboy?”

“Why not, dear friend?” asked the friar. “Your hair is black. And now that you have rubbed a little of that stain into your skin, you are as dark as most. Your hair is already black, and as for the blue eyes, those are found in Mexico often enough. Besides, the red mare is the sort of horse that a famous charro would ride. And you have a suit of yellow leather with silver spangles all over it. The good Mexican speech comes so easily off your tongue that even I, who know, at times forget the truth about you.”

“Tell me, also,” said Montana, laughing, “if you think that you could ever really open your heart to a gringo.”

After a long pause the friar said:

“I can at least try, my friend. All men are the children of one God. So I can at least try!”