Читать книгу When Dreams Come True - Ritter Brown - Страница 3

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The beauty of midsummer lay upon the land—the mountains and plains of Chihuahua. It was August, the month of melons and ripening corn. High aloft in the pale blue vault of heaven, a solitary eagle soared in ever widening circles in its flight toward the sun. Far out upon the plains the lone wolf skulked among the sage and cactus in search of the rabbit and antelope, or lay panting in the scanty shade of the yucca.

By most persons this little known land of the great Southwest is regarded as the one which God forgot. But to those who are familiar with its vast expanse of plain and horizon, its rugged sierras, its wild desolate mesas and solitary peaks of half-decayed mountains—its tawny stretches of desert marked with the occasional skeletons of animal and human remains—its golden wealth of sunshine and opalescent skies, and have felt the brooding death-like silence which seems to hold as in a spell all things living as well as dead, this land becomes one of mystery and enchantment—a mute witness of some unknown or forgotten past when the children of men were young, whose secrets it still withholds, and with whose dust is mingled not only that of unnumbered and unknown generations of men, but that of Montezuma and the hardy daring Conquistadores of old Spain.

But whatever may be the general consensus of opinion concerning this land, such at least was the light in which it was viewed by Captain Forest, as he and his Indian attendant, José, drew rein on the rim of a broken, wind-swept mesa in the heart of the Chihuahuan desert, a full day's ride from Santa Fé whither they were bound, to witness the Fiesta, the Feast of the Corn, which was celebrated annually at this season.

The point where they halted commanded a sweeping view of the surrounding country. Just opposite, some five leagues distant, on the farther side of the valley which lay below them, towered the sharp ragged crest of the Mexican Sierras; their sides and foothills clothed in a thin growth of chaparral, pine and juniper and other low-growing bushes. Deep, rugged arroyos, the work of the rain and mountain torrents, cut and scarred the foothills which descended in precipitous slopes to the valley and plains below. Solitary giant cactus dotted the landscape, adding to the general desolation of the scene, relieved only by the glitter of the silvery sage, white poppy and yucca, and yellow and scarlet cactus bloom which glistened in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun and the intense radiation of heat in which was mirrored the distant mirage; transforming the desert into wonderful lakes of limpid waters that faded in turn on the ever receding horizon.

Below them numerous Indian encampments of some half-wild hill tribe straggled along the banks of the almost dry stream which wound through the valley until lost in the thirsty sands of the desert beyond.

"'Tis the very spot, Capitan—the place of the skull!" ejaculated José, the first to break the silence. "See—yonder it lies just as we left it!" and he pointed toward the foot of the mesa where a spring trickled from the rock, a short distance from which lay a human skull bleached white by long exposure to the sun.

Instinctively the Captain's thoughts reverted to the incidents of the previous year when he lay in the desert sick unto death with fever and his horse, Starlight, had stood over his prostrate body and fought the wolves and vultures for a whole day and night until José returned with help from the Indian pueblo, La Guna. Involuntarily his hand slipped caressingly to the animal's neck, a chestnut with four white feet and a white mane and tail that swept the ground and a forelock that hung to his nostrils, concealing the star on his forehead; a magnificent animal, lithe and graceful as a lady's silken scarf, untiring and enduring as a Damascus blade. A horse that comes but once during twenty generations of Spanish-Arabian stock, and then is rare, and which, through some trick of nature or reversion, blossoms forth in all the beauty of an original type, taking upon himself the color and markings of some shy, wild-eyed dam, the pride of the Bedouin tribe and is known as the "Pearl of the Desert." The type of horse that bore Alexander and Jenghis Khan and the Prophet's War Chieftains to victory. As a colt he had escaped the rodeo. No mark of the branding-irons scarred his shoulder or thin transparent flanks. Again the Captain's thoughts traveled backward and he beheld a band of wild horses driven past him in review by a troup of Mexican vaqueros, and the beautiful chestnut stallion emerge from the cloud of dust on their rim and tossing his great white mane in the breeze, neigh loudly and defiantly as he swept by lithe and supple of limb.

"Bring me that horse!" he had cried.

"That horse? José y Maria, Capitan! He cannot be broken. Besides, it will take ten men to tie him."

"Then let ten men tie him!" he had replied, flinging a handful of golden eagles among them.

Many attempts had been made to steal the Arab since he had come into the Captain's possession. It was a dangerous undertaking, for the horse had the naïve habit of relegating man to his proper place, either by ignoring his presence, or by quietly kicking him into eternity with the same indifference that he would switch a fly with his tail. José might feed and groom and saddle him, but not mount him. To one only would he submit; to him to whom a common destiny had linked him—his master.

"Sangre de Dios, Capitan!" began José again, breaking in upon the latter's musings. "Is it not better that we rest yonder by the spring than sit here in this infernal sun, gazing at nothing? 'Tis hot as the breath of hell where the Padres tell us all heretics will go after death!" The grim expression of the Captain's face relaxed for a moment and he turned toward him with a laugh.

"Aye, who knows," he replied, "we too, may go there some day," and dismounting, he began to loosen his saddle girths.

"The gods forbid!" answered José, making the sign of the cross, as if to ward off the influence of some evil spell. "I do not understand you Americanos," he continued, also dismounting and untying a small pack at the back of his saddle. "You are strange—you are ever gay when you should be sober. You laugh at the gods and the saints and frown at the corridos, and yet toss alms to the most worthless beggar."

The foregoing conversation was carried on in Spanish. Although José had acquired a liberal smattering of English during his service with the Captain, he nevertheless detested it; obstinately adhering to Spanish which, though only his mother-tongue by adoption, was in his estimation at least a language for Caballeros.

The two men were superb specimens of their respective races. Their rugged appearance, height and breadth of shoulder would have attracted attention anywhere. The Captain wore a gray felt hat and a rough gray suit of tweed—his trousers tucked in his long riding boots. José was clad in the typical vaquero's costume—buff leggins and jacket of goat-skin, slashed and ornamented with silver threads and buttons, and a red worsted sash about his middle in which he carried a knife and pistol. From beneath the broad brim of his sombrero peeped the knot of the yellow silken kerchief which he wore bound about his head and under which lay coiled his long black hair.

Captain Forest was unusually tall and stalwart, deep chested and robust in appearance, with not a superfluous ounce of flesh on his body, hardened by the rigors of long months of camp-life. His head was large and shapely, well poised and carried high on a full neck that sprang from the great breadth of his shoulders. His face, smooth and sensitive, and large and regular in feature with high cheek-bones and slightly hollowed cheeks, was bronzed by long exposure to the sun and weather, adding to the ruggedness of his appearance. The high arching forehead, acquiline nose and firm set mouth and chin denoted alertness, action and decision, while from his eyes, large and dark and piercing, shone that strange light so characteristic of the dreamer and genius. And yet, in spite of this alertness of mind and body and general appearance of strength and power which his presence inspired, there lurked about him an air of repose indicative of confidence in self and the full knowledge of his powers. Sensitive to a degree, keen and alive at all times, the strength of his personality, suggestive of his mastery over men, impressed the most unobservant. Yet owing to his poise and self-control those about him did not realize wholly his power until such moments when justice was violated. Then the latent force within him asserted itself and he became as inexorable as a law of nature in his demands. An intense spirit of democracy oddly combined with fastidiousness made an unusual and attractive personality in which the mundane and the spiritual were strangely blended. Outwardly he was a man of the world, yet inwardly he had advanced so far into the domain of sheer spirituality he scarcely realized that others groped their way among the most obvious material modes of expression.

Having removed their saddles and turned their horses loose to find what scant cropping the desert afforded, the two sought the shelter of the narrow strip of shade beside the spring at the foot of the mesa. Here they would rest until the heat of the day had passed, resuming their journey that evening. José unwound his zerape from his shoulders and spreading it on the ground between them, deposited two tin cups and a package of sandwiches upon it which, with the addition of a flask of aguardiente which the Captain drew from his pocket, formed their meal.

Two years previous the Captain had rescued his companion from a street mob in Hermosillo, the result of a feud that had broken out between her citizens and the Yaqui Indians; José having been mistaken for one of the latter. With his back against a wall and the blood streaming from his wounds, he was making a desperate stand. Three citizens who had run upon his knife, lay squirming at his feet; but the odds were too great. In another moment all would have been over with him had it not been for the Captain who chanced upon him in the nick of time. Snatching a club from one of his assailants and accompanying each blow with a volley of Spanish oaths, he rushed through the mob, scattering it in all directions. Whether it was the oaths or the Captain's exhibition of his fighting qualities that impressed José most it is difficult to say. Be that as it may, from that hour he belonged to Captain Forest body and soul. He was the grand señor, the Hidalgo, in comparison to whom other men were as nothing.

The meal over, José with head and shoulders on one end of the zerape, stretched himself at full length upon the ground and, as was his wont, fell asleep almost immediately. Captain Forest swallowed a last draught of liquor. Then leisurely rolling a cigarette he lit it, and with back against the cliff and gaze fixed abstractedly on the mountains opposite, smoked in silence.