Читать книгу Sun in Their Eyes - Monte Barrett - Страница 5

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The escape of the prisoner caused much speculation the next morning. Luiz seemed more concerned than the others by the incident. His eyes rolled in his round face as he confessed his dismay. “If the outlaws can steal into our camp to free their friend, we are lucky not to have our throats slit in our sleep,” he complained to Pedro.

That was the accepted version of what had happened and with this apparent evidence that the outlaws were still in their vicinity, the same precautions were followed as on the previous day.

Jonathan was astir early, his eyes alert for some sign of movement within the coach. The direction of his restless gaze had not escaped the eyes of the observant Maria.

“El Rubio has an eye for beauty, Teté,” she remarked with a cunning leer. “He sits with his eyes on our bedroom door.”

The knowledge brought a sparkle to the girl’s eyes, but she said, “Perhaps it is you, Maria. You are the only one who has shown herself this morning.”

“Por Dios!” the serving woman lamented. “There is too much of me. He wouldn’t have to look twice. No,” she added, “I’m afraid he likes them more delicate.”

“We all have our points,” her mistress observed. “Yours are just blunted by too much padding, Greaseball. La, you’d be an oven on a cold night.”

Maria’s bosom quivered when she chuckled. In spite of her bulk, she was deft in her service, smoothing a blanket on a low hummock for her mistress’s comfort before bustling off to fetch her breakfast from the fire. It was the opportunity Jonathan had been anticipating, and Teresa watched his approach with a smile.

“Buenos dias, señor,” she responded to his good morning, adding, “You speak Spanish, no?”

“I know only one phrase in Spanish,” Jonathan replied. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Oh?” Her head was tilted back and Jonathan found the curve of her throat provocative. “Perhaps you learned it from a woman, señor, if it’s so beautiful.”

“It took a woman to make it beautiful.” His voice was not quite steady; his eyes were on that arched throat still.

Red lips were drawn into a pout. “I’m not sure I like that, Señor Jontee. What is this so beautiful phrase?”

“La del Pelo de Oro.” His voice was a caress.

The lips turned warm and inviting as she moved to make room for him on the blanket.

“Señor Rubio is both brave and gallant.” She let her hand fall to the blanket beside her. It seemed a careless gesture. His fingers tingled to the fleeting caress. “I like the Spanish you have learned, Jontee. I hope you will learn to say more.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Miguel Salazar, and Luiz trailing him with a steaming breakfast tray. His bow to Jonathan was stiff.

“I’m so sorry, señor. Had I but known you were here, Luiz could have brought breakfast for three.”

There was nothing for the young Virginian to do but yield his place. He had breakfasted an hour before and now that the Spanish party was stirring it was time for him to take his assigned place with the advance guard.

“I’m going to learn more Spanish,” he managed to promise Teresa before he left and was rewarded with a smile.

Magee greeted him with lifted eyebrows when he took his place in the vanguard tardily. “You must have had an extra appetite this morning,” he observed, “or was it the filly with the yellow mane who detained you?” He clucked admiringly and shook his head. “I’ve traveled this Trace a lot, but I’ve never run into anything like that before. She’s a fetchin’ little witch, isn’t she?”

Jonathan nodded, silently wishing his friend would change the subject. The lieutenant noticed his quiet.

“See here, Jonty, this girl is Don Miguel’s ward,” he said abruptly. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but I’d be careful if I were you.”

“What does it matter whose ward she is?” the young Virginian rejoined stiffly. “I’ve seen beautiful girls before; I’m quite capable of handling my own affairs.”

Magee’s eyes kindled momentarily, then cooled just as swiftly, and he smiled. “I never doubted it, my friend,” he replied. “I merely wanted to make sure you understood.”

He spurred ahead to join one of the Spaniards, leaving Jonathan to puzzle over the meaning of his remark, but glad to be alone. He wanted nothing to interrupt his memory of the girl with amber eyes.

Teresa had a conversation with Maria while the servants were breaking camp.

“What do they say of El Rubio, Maria?”

The servant shrugged her fat shoulders expressively. “The best horses are his, Teté. He rides two a day, and the big black man is his mozo. He travels from a far place and—” her smile was a knowing one—“he is brave and handsome, but I have heard nothing else of him.”

Teresa bit her lip, a trick she had when thinking. “Send José to me,” she ordered presently.

The mistress was familiar with the affliction of her weazened little servant. The little brown man had once been punished for staring off into space beyond her left shoulder as she gave him instructions. That was before she realized that the better of the poor man’s crossed eyes was fixed upon her intently. His devotion to her interest was of greater importance than his appearance, however, and she had forgotten her prejudice.

José did not ride in his customary place on the coach that day. Instead he traveled with the two Negroes, ostensibly to help them with the horses. He rode most of the time beside Gabe and he was full of questions. “You have come a long way?” José began as he jogged along the trail beside the Negro.

“Long way? We’s come such a far piece I’s s’prised if even de good Lawd hisself got his eye on us now.” Gabe shook his head solemnly. “I reckon mos’ folks jes’ nat’rally don’t know how much land they is.”

José shrugged politely. “But why? What is there here to bring the young señor so far? A girl perhaps?”

The Negro snorted contemptuously. “Shucks, I reckon dey’s plenty o’ gals in Virginny. Mist’ Jonty can pick and choose if’n dat’s what he wants.”

The conversation was interrupted while Gabe herded a recalcitrant horse back on the trail. Presently the Mexican began a new tack. “Señor Jonty is a ver’ brave man, eh?”

“Brave?” Once more the Negro revealed his contempt for such a question. “I reckon de Kirks is jes’ ’bout de bravest folks dey is. Mist’ Jonty, he jes’ come by it nat’ral. Why, his pappy fit in de Rev’lution. Huh, I reckon you’ve heerd o’ Cap’n Kirk—mos’ ev’r’body knows him.”

The Mexican rolled his swivel eyes, properly registering astonishment.

“Por Dios! He must be ver’ rich then?”

“Rich?” Gabe registered openmouthed amazement. “Didn’t you know? Why, that ain’t nobody richer’n de Kirks. We’s from Redfields. Dat’s whar Mist’ Jonty’s pappy an’ mammy live. Law, I reckon a body could stand on de gall’ry dar an’ far as he could see wouldn’t be nuthin’ but Redfields land. An’ a body could ride an’ ride widout meetin’ no folks but Redfields niggahs.”

Gabe rode on in frowning silence, searching for some standard of comparison by which he might impress his companion. “I reckon Redfields mus’ be ’bout de bigges’ house in all Virginny, too,” he added with a note of finality. “Huh! I reckon Mist’ Jonty hisself don’ rightly know how many windows dey got.”

The glint of the sun upon the coach some distance ahead caught his eye. This inspired him anew. “Dat coach yondah. Huh! You ought to sot eyes on dis boy’s mammy when she rides out in her coach. Six white horses an’—an’—” he remembered the silver mountings which had so recently impressed him—“an’ no silber on it. No suh, no silber, nuthin’ but pure gold, dat’s what de Kirks uses.” Gabe glanced suspiciously at his companion for some sign of skepticism but José’s face was expressionless.

Don Bernardo Gutierrez and Lieutenant Magee were riding together. The subject, as was so often the case with Magee, was Texas.

“You are right, Lieutenant,” declared the Spaniard. “Someday it will be a prosperous and happy place. Only one thing can prevent it.”

“Nothing can prevent it.” The lieutenant was positive.

Don Bernardo shrugged. “Can serfs build this empire of your dreams? Ah no, my friend, such a land as that is the creation of a free and intelligent people.” He glanced shrewdly at his companion, watching for his reaction. “Mine is an unhappy land. The Spanish crown milks it of its riches and sends despots to govern it. Our natural leaders are either dead or fugitives in foreign lands.” He shrugged and tapped himself upon the breast. “Even as I am.”

Magee smiled. “This was Spanish country not many years ago. Today it’s peopled by free men who are developing it. What happened here can happen there.”

Don Bernardo shook his head. “Spain has learned its lesson. It doesn’t like republican ideas. The border of the New Philippines is closed to immigration now. That is our tragedy,” he continued. “The Hidalgo Revolution believed in the same republican ideals that inspired your great country but our leaders are either dead or hunted. Where can we turn for support if the door is closed to Americans?”

“But the people,” the young officer interjected, “surely they want to better their lot.”

Gutierrez once more studied his companion before replying. “For the most part their spirit has been crushed, but there is hope, señor, in the outlying provinces, the frontiers where the spirit of adventure is not dead. There they only await the right leader and the proper weapons.... Texas is such a place,” he added, as if it were an afterthought.

“The right leader, the proper weapons,” echoed Magee.

When the two men parted each was more than ordinarily thoughtful.

When the noonday halt was called Jonathan had hoped to renew his conversation with Teresa, but when he rode in Miguel Salazar, as if anticipating this, was seated on the blanket beside her. There was an amused glint in Salazar’s sharp eyes as he read the disappointment on the Virginian’s face. Teresa had talked with José when the halt was called, and the information he carried had brought a pleased smile to her lips. Now she was petulant. Nothing Miguel said seemed to please her. Her eyes followed Jonathan, guardedly.

Her teeth gleamed in a smile as Jonathan came toward them, and even before he stopped she began searching her lap and the blanket around her as if in dismay at some sudden loss. “My handkerchief, Miguel. Have you seen it?”

Her companion shrugged impatiently. “If you’ve lost it, send for another.”

“Thank you, Miguel. Will you get it for me?”

Salazar glanced at her sharply.

“Maria,” he called, clapping his hands imperiously for the servant.

“No, she is busy, Miguel,” Teresa protested with a solicitude new to her.

“If I can be of service, ma’am,” Jonathan bowed hopefully.

Teresa smiled up at him as if she were just discovering his presence.

“Of course—” Salazar’s voice was mocking—“you would know exactly where to find her handkerchief.”

“But I will show him,” Teresa exclaimed, extending her hands to Jonathan for assistance in arising. “You are very kind, señor.”

As Salazar watched them walk away together his eyes were clouded with anger.

In the pleasant midday sun Teresa had discarded her cloak. Her Empire dress had a low-cut bodice; its clinging green material molded her body softly. Previously Jonathan had seen her only in the stiff braided cloak. She had seemed beautiful but remote. Now that was ended. As they reached the coach, she leaned against him almost imperceptibly. It was a fleeting contact, but Jonathan was warmly aware of it. With quick discernment, the girl watched the color burn his temples and was pleased.

The open door hid them from Salazar’s’ View and his lips tightened in a bloodless line.

“The little chest, Jontee.” Teresa pointed out a brass-bound box in the coach’s interior.

Jonathan’s fingers suddenly were clumsy. He didn’t notice that the clasp of the box was open. As he lifted it by the lid, the chest fell open, cascading lacy garments upon the turf at their feet.

He glanced down with dismay, vaguely recognizing the intimate nature of the filmy apparel. The blood was hot in his face at the thought of his awkwardness. Teresa’s first impatience fled at the sight of him. With one impulse they both bent swiftly to retrieve the garments, bumped heads and sat down abruptly upon the grass. Then with one accord they burst into peals of laughter which rang in the ears of the man who watched from a distance.

“How long will you be in Natchez?” Jonathan asked. It was as if they had bridged the period of casual acquaintance to arrive at surer friendship. “I want to see you there.”

“And I—” the pressure of her hand was soft—“will look forward to seeing you too, Jontee.” The smile on her lips was a promise. “After all, if it had not been for you we never would have reached Natchez.” She sighed. “Those terrible banditos!”

His courage grew. “Eat with me,” he invited. “Gabe will spread a blanket under the trees for us.”

Teresa hesitated, aware of Miguel’s irritation, but this ingenuous redhead diverted her.

“There is so much to learn about you,” he continued. “Where you are going, why you are here, and—” he noticed how her eyes wavered toward her recent companion—“who is Don Miguel? Why should he object to our friendship?”

Her amber eyes widened. He read innocent surprise into her glance. It made him feel his questions had been impertinent. “Was it wrong to ask? It’s only that I’m eager to know more about you.”

“Why not? Don Miguel is my guardian. You see I have no family. He is fine and generous. He could not be kinder if I were his own daughter.”

“I thought he seemed unfriendly,” he admitted, “and objected to our being alone together.”

This amused her. Her laugh was merry. “But of course, señor. In my country, a girl is never alone with a young man, even when they are betrothed. It is the proper way. And when one has no mother, there is more need of prudence. Perhaps that is why Don Miguel is so careful of me.”

He had not understood Magee’s warning that morning but it had left an uneasy echo in his mind which this ready explanation dispelled. “What harm can there be in picnicking together?” he urged. “Your guardian can keep his vigilant eye on us—from a distance.”

Teresa decided to assert her independence. “Perhaps it will improve Miguel’s manners,” she thought, as she followed Jonathan across the glade.

The gaiety of their laughter mocked Miguel Salazar. He wandered over to watch Clampit. His manner appeared casual. The gambler sat apart, cross-legged on his blanket, cards fluttering through deft fingers. The Spaniard did not sit down.

“You’ve been away from New Orleans a long time,” was his greeting.

“Your purse should be the better for it, Don Miguel.” The gambler did not raise his eyes. He seemed still intent upon his cards.

There had been no previous hint of recognition between them. Until this moment each might have been unaware of the other’s existence. Now they might have been resuming a conversation only recently interrupted.

Salazar shrugged. “I never complain about money losses.” His deliberate gaze strayed toward the spot where Teresa and Jonathan sat. Clampit glanced up for the first time and read the expression on the Spaniard’s face. Then he silently resumed his interminable shuffling of the cards.

“And now you are going back?” Salazar began again. “Is it safe?”

There was no humor in the gambler’s twisted smile. “Memories are short. Particularly,” he added, “if the man who has most cause to remember has been buried.”

“It wasn’t what you did but how you did it.” Don Miguel shrugged. “You should have called the fellow out. There’s no such stir when a man is killed in a duel.”

“I have my own way in these matters,” retorted the gambler briefly.

“And a very efficient one in proper circumstances.”

For the first time the cards were forgotten. Clampit balanced a knife in his palm, staring at its keen blade speculatively. With a nod of his head he indicated a near-by tree. “See that lichen on the bark?” He indicated a gray patch on the trunk no larger than a man’s head.

His arm moved swiftly. The knife flashed through the air, the sun quivering on its blade, and thumped into the tree in the precise center of the spot he had marked.

“Excellent. Your hand has not lost its cunning,” Salazar exclaimed. But his eyes were no longer upon the knife.

“I never miss,” Clampit declared quietly. “I can’t afford to.” His alert gaze followed the direction of the Spaniards eyes.

Miguel shrugged, staring at the knife again. “There are times I wish I could do that.”

The gambler nodded. “That’s why I learned it. But it takes time and a certain—willingness.”

The two men stared at each other in silence. This time it was Clampit who turned to glance at Jonathan.

“You know whom I have in mind?” Miguel inquired.

Clampit retrieved his knife before replying. Then he nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“It’s a thing I might do easily if I had your skill,” Salazar remarked.

“And willingness,” the other added.

Finally the Spaniard sat down, smiling for the first time and looking at the cards strewn across the blanket. He assembled them with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. “I’ll bet you five hundred dollars on the turn of a card,” he offered finally.

Clampit shook his head. “I thought we were playing for higher stakes,” he said.

Miguel started shuffling the dog-eared deck.

“If we’re going to play for real stakes, let’s make it two thousand dollars.” The gambler’s voice was smooth. “That isn’t too high for you, not in this game.”

Salazar was thoughtful only for a moment. “I haven’t that sum with me. I’ll have to give you an order on my New Orleans banker—” he paused—“if you win.”

“I know I’ll be paid,” was the laconic rejoinder.

Miguel tossed the deck across the blanket. “Do you want to shuffle them again?” he asked. “I’m cutting for the queen of hearts.”

The cards whispered softly as the gambler fluttered them between his lean fingers only once before handing them back. Miguel never even looked at them; instead his eyes were upon Clampit as he cut the deck. “The queen of hearts,” he declared before exposing the card he had picked. It was the five of clubs.

He laughed as he arose. “I was just thinking,” he explained, “how amusing it would have been if it had turned out to be the queen of hearts.”

“Don’t forget to leave the order at your banker’s,” Clampit reminded him as he turned away.

Don Bernardo Gutierrez’ position as emissary of a lost cause, together with the state in which he was traveling, had made an impression upon his new acquaintances. Natchez was only a few hours distant and as they were concluding their meal Kitchens invited the Spaniard and his party to be his guests while there.

“You are very kind.” Don Bernardo bowed deeply. “We are greatly honored but we already have accepted the invitation of Don Stephen Minor at Concord. I trust, however,” he concluded, “that we may give ourselves the honor of calling upon you during our stay.”

The question of where they were to stay became general. Kitchens was coming home but for most of the others it was only a temporary halt. Kitchens also invited Jonathan to make Pleasant Hill his home during his visit.

“I would rather not impose on you, sir,” the youth replied. “If I’m to look at land I’ll be in and out a great deal. Besides,” he added smilingly, “I have a letter to Colonel Sargent. He might take offense if I made any arrangement without first consulting him. For the time being I plan to put up at Connelly’s Tavern.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that impossible,” Johnny Durst interposed. “That’s the residence of Judge Brooks now. You’d better plan to stay at the Kentucky Tavern with Magee and me.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard the story about Connelly’s old place,” Kitchens observed. “After Connelly’s death Judge Samuel Brooks, our first American mayor, bought the place for a residence. The trouble all started because of conditions down Under the Hill. It was getting to be a resort for a pretty rough element, even for a frontier, and Natchez isn’t that any longer. The judge had a good deal to say about it publicly.

“There was considerable resentment down Under the Hill and one night a mob marched uptown and stoned Brooks’s house. He wasn’t at home himself but his wife was, and she was killed by one of the bricks that came through the windows.”

The entire circle had grown quiet.

“Well,” Kitchens continued, “the judge didn’t say anything publicly but when his friends received notices of the funeral they found a deuce of spades printed on the back as a reminder of what had happened.”

He glanced at Jonathan. “The deuce of spades, in case you don’t know, is the death card.

“Mrs. Brooks was buried and the judge’s friends came from miles around to attend the funeral. They say there wasn’t a word spoken about that deuce of spades but everyone knew its meaning right enough, and from the funeral those men marched in a body down into Natchez Under the Hill. They were wearing pistols under their long coats and when the smoke had cleared away, it was a different sort of place.

“It had taken a woman’s death to do it, but things Under the Hill had been cleaned up. There were a lot of dead gamblers down there and a great many more were run out of the country.”

“Good,” said Jonathan impulsively as the planter concluded his story. “That was the way to handle it. The gamblers had it coming to them.”

“You think so?” Dan Clampit’s voice was challenging.

He had lived so much within himself, apart from the easy fellowship of the others, that the young Virginian had forgotten his presence. There was no avoiding the issue now. He met the gambler’s bleak stare.

“Yes,” said Jonathan. “I think so.”

“Fifteen men died Under the Hill that day. Men who had no part in the stoning of Brooks’s house.” Clampit seemed to force the words out slowly through lips stiff with anger. “Gamblers!” He spit the word out. “Not men, just gamblers! Have you ever seen a gambler’s blood? It’s red the same as yours.”

Jonathan’s words had merely been impulsive. Had Clampit’s manner been less heated he might have offered an explanation, but not now.

“I said only what I thought, Mr. Clampit,” he retorted hotly.

He was in a strange world and unfamiliar with its many codes, almost as various as the men who peopled it. He did not see the knife until he caught the gleam of its blade balanced in the gambler’s palm.