Читать книгу The Dark Road - Harold Bindloss - Страница 10

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Dinner was over some time since and the evening was hot. The Malagueña courtyard smelt of mules, and when the moon rose Carthew and Welland smoked their pipes on the little balcony fronting the street. But for the arch below them, the wall, as high as the first floor, went up unbroken; and then the windows, closed only by persiana shutters, were narrow. The house, in fact, was rather like a fort. It had perhaps been built when Spanish caravels loaded silver at the port, and Welland remarked that the balcony rails were brass. Now the mole was broken and the harbor blocked by sand.

The dreary spot, however, provided entertainment of a sort, and although, for the most part, the housefronts were dark, a yellow glow along the street marked a café, and not far off a small casino occupied a sandy square. On one side of the street, the moonlight touched the colored walls, and Welland languidly watched the strolling groups go by.

He saw young bloods who wore American clothes and straw hats, and some of dark skin whose clothes were white, although their hats and silk belts were large and expensive. Sometimes a sober citizen and his fat señora guarded one or two young women, who went demurely a few yards in front. As a rule, the don's and the lady's clothes were black, and they, no doubt, boasted themselves Peninsulares. Welland did not know if the girls were beautiful, but they walked with a queer seductive grace.

By and by the café and the casino absorbed the groups and the street was quiet. On its shadowed side indistinct figures now and then stole along, and one heard a whispered call to somebody at a window overhead. Sometimes a guitar clanged in minor chords and a voice was raised in wailing song.

"The Cataliñeros guard their women," Carthew observed. "Since they are governed by a dictator, I suppose they have gone in one direction as far as up-to-date democracy can go; but they rule their families as families were ruled when Haroun-al-Raschid was caliph at Bagdad. Well, the Moors left their stamp on Spain; but now that the bucks and bloods begin to use the North American model, one might predict some jars."

"Youth rebels," said Welland, smiling. "Youth, however, goes, and, as far as I know the United States, the men who keep control are a sober lot. When a rebel gets a wife and goods, he's a reactionary."

"As a rule, perhaps. Our companions are young, and one is pretty fresh. Do you know where they are?"

"Huysler started for the casino. Nilson thought he'd see the town, and vanished, rather mysteriously, the other way."

"Oh, well," said Carthew, "the boys have loafed about the dreary spot for some days. I hope we may soon get off, but I don't know what to think about Father Sebastian's joining us. Only that he's Don Pancho's friend, I might have refused. Since Gringos are not popular, he might be useful, but the man is a fanatic and hates the President."

"A democratic government is apt to get up against the Church. Well, you are leader."

"In a long run, I'd bet on the Church—the martyrs win," said Carthew thoughtfully. "Our run, however, may not be long—Anyhow, since we must get canoes and porters, our line is to indulge Don Pancho—"

He stopped and went to the railing. A disorderly procession escorted a young man along the street. Some in front clapped his shoulders, some shouted, and others sang. Their voices were good, but the music was vaguely like music Welland had known in Africa. By and by the leader stopped. His clothes were white, but his sun hat was the sort New York stores supply. His gestures implied that he would sooner be left alone, and Carthew laughed.

"Jack is modest. It looks as if he does not like his triumphal march."

So far as Welland could distinguish, Huysler's followers were resolved to see him home, but Jack was firm, and when two or three had thrown their hats at his feet the crowd began to melt. Going as fast as possible, he plunged into the fonda arch, and after a few moments stopped at the window behind the balcony. Welland saw that he was sober.

"For a minute or two I won't join you," he said. "If the gang see me, they may come back."

"Perhaps you ought to be flattered," Carthew observed. "How did you earn the citizens' respect?"

"I plunged at the casino. Although I didn't know much about the game, a tenderfoot's luck is good. A kind of joint-stock speculation—you all put down your chips, and the winner took the lot. In about twenty minutes, I broke the bank."

"It does not account for your admirers' gratitude."

"So far as I could reckon, the pot was about ten dollars, American. You see, the Cataliñeros are not rich."

"I believe a peon gets two bits a day, although foreigners pay a dollar."

"There's my apology," Huysler resumed. "To pull out with the boys' wad was mean, and I invited the crowd to take a drink. I reckon I bought up the café, but I'm not yet broke. If my pals at home knew, you'd get some recruits. But do you know where Nilson is?"

Carthew said he did not, and they talked about something else. After a time, somebody in the street began to play a guitar. The notes were uncertain and the chords jarred.

"Sounds like Olaf experimenting," Huysler remarked. "I believe he plays the banjo, but he perhaps forgets the stopping's different. Maybe it would go better if he used her like a mandolin. But, cuidao, señores, he's going to sing!"

Nilson's voice was powerful, and Night of Stars and Night of Love rolled up the street. Welland saw his tall, white figure against a pink wall, and thought the window two or three yards above was occupied. After a few bars, however, the music stopped.

"A string's gone," said Huysler. "Olaf treats 'em rough. Anyhow, the boy's a tryer, and I don't expect he's beat."

"Do you know whose house it is?" Carthew inquired.

"I imagine it's Señor Viñoles y Ybarra's. At all events, Olaf inquired discreetly where Miss Viñoles lived. I believed a serenade's allowed, so long as you are satisfied to remain in the street. Olaf may not be satisfied, but the window's high. In the meantime, he's trying another song."

The guitar clanged discordantly and Nilson began a queer barbaric chant. Welland did not hear the words, but he thought they were not classical English.

"A coon song?" he inquired.

"One on young America!" said Huysler with a laugh. "Since the barcarole beats Olaf, he's trying something he really knows. I expect it's his college's battle march; the sort of tune you sing to scare the other side at a football game—But she's not pulling strong. The boy's run out of gas."

The music stopped, and Huysler, crossing the balcony, resumed: "The d—— fool's trying to climb up! I guess I'll go along. Let me pass, sir; I got to get there soon."

He pushed Carthew back, seized the railing, and swung his legs across. For a moment he hung by his straight arms, and then let go. The balcony was but three or four yards from the pavement and the others heard his light shoes on the stones. He was obviously running fast, and Welland leaned out over the balustrade.

A hundred yards off, a white object, distinct against the colored wall, balanced on the top of a pillar supporting an arch, and seemed to reach for a window-ledge. A few foot passengers had stopped, and Huysler sped along the street. The moon was bright and the white and yellow walls reflected the illumination. Welland, looking out from the dark balcony, thought the picture like a scene on a film. But for the beat of Huysler's feet all was quiet, and the comedy went fast. Then Welland doubted if it were a comedy.

Nilson perhaps found he could not reach the window, for he turned awkwardly, as if he meant to jump for the pavement. A man crossed the street. His white clothes shone; his advance was swift but crouching, and his bent arm was stiff. Nilson dropped from the pillar, and he and the other circled, a yard or two apart.

"Watch out!" Huysler shouted.

The stranger jumped for Nilson, who side-stepped and swung his body over from his hips. When he recovered, very swiftly, the other's arm was extended, and Nilson's hand was on his wrist. Pulling his antagonist to him, he lifted him from his feet. The Latin reeled across the stones and fell against the wall. Nilson gave Huysler something and took his handkerchief. Then they started for the fonda. Welland thought all had happened in two or three minutes.

The landlord met them at the arch and fastened the door.

"I do not think we shall be bothered, but sometimes a thick door is useful," he remarked. "The señor is hurt?"

"A small cut. I reckon the other fellow's hurt much worse. Jack has got his knife," said Nilson in a breathless voice.

They went to the big salon and the landlord bandaged Nilson's hand. Don Manuel was muscular but fat. His white clothes were spotted by grease, and rawhide shoes protected his large bare feet, but an expensive sash, five or six yards in length, was rolled about his waist. He looked rather like an operatic brigand, and his efficiency implied that he had dressed a knife-wound before. When the bandage was fixed he brought a small bottle of Vermouth and touched Nilson's glass.

"Salud, señor! Your nerve and speed would win you fortune in the bull ring."

"Then you saw the fight?" said Nilson. "Perhaps my luck was good. But do you think the rural guards will get after me?"

Don Manuel thought not. So long as nobody was killed the justicia would be satisfied to take a few American dollars and let it go. A flower was dropped from the window, and Don Felipe knew where to be discreet. Nilson said nothing, but Welland noted a crushed sprig of heliotrope in his coat.

"Then you imagine my young friend's exploit accounts for the other's trying to stab him?" Carthew inquired.

Don Manuel knitted his brows. The Viñoles family was important and would hate an escandalo, but they were not assassins, he said. Then although jealousy was a strong passion, so far as Don Manuel knew, the señorita had no lover. Anyhow, she had no acknowledged lover. On the whole, the thing was strange.

"Then, if family pride and jealousy had nothing to do with it, what was the fellow's object?"

"Quién sabe?" said Don Manuel, and shrugged meaningly. "At all events, I think the justicia will not try to find out. But if your friend is attracted, the proper line is for you and him to make apologies and ask Señora Viñoles' permission to visit at the house."

Carthew nodded and turned to Nilson. "Since we start in two or three days, you perhaps had better wait until we are back."

"I don't know if you are ironical, sir; but when we do get back I hope to satisfy Señora Viñoles. Now I think we'll talk about something else," said Nilson quietly, and turned to the landlord. "Can you throw a knife? Give him the one I captured, Jack."

Huysler looked at him rather hard, but Don Manuel took the knife, holding the point between his finger and thumb.

"Many boast, but the trick is difficult," he said, and faced a stain where liquor had splashed the wall.

The narrow blade was about six inches long; the handle was ornamented, and Welland thought the tool expensive and beautifully made.

"Veremos," said the landlord, and flicked out his bent arm.

The knife shone and struck the plaster a foot above the stain. The point had not gone deep, and Don Manuel, with a light touch, freed the blade.

"It is a trick of the theater, and not very dangerous. If one must fight, there is a better plan."

Pushing back the table, he circled round an imaginary antagonist. For all his fatness, he moved like a boxer, sometimes crouching and swinging his body to avoid a supposititious thrust. The pantomime was good: one pictured his maneuvering his antagonist where he wanted him to go. Then his arm went out and his fingers clenched, as if they fastened on the other's hand. Bracing himself, as if he held the fellow, he swung his right shoulder and, in realistic pantomime, drove his knife home.

"Like dat!" he gasped. "Nosotros, we know the knife. Mr. Nilson he do not, but he use my trick. Carrai, he some fighter!"

Nilson laughed. "You know some English."

"For six month I sell the banana in Chicago, and I think I get rich. Then one day comes an Irlanda man. The d—— bum, he has not the shame, and when he cannot have more banana for twenty-five cent, he call me a wop. Carrai. Yo que soy caballero; Don Manuel Blas! There is escandolo, sir. The Irlanda he is stuck, the patrol arrives, and I depart."

"You might perhaps have held your pitch," said Huysler, smiling. "In Chicago they are not much disturbed by a fight, and I believe five dollars in the right man's hand is a useful argument."

He turned to Carthew. "The evening's been rather strenuous, sir, and I'm going to bed. Buenos noches, Don Manuel."