With whistling and shouts of alarm, the neighbours summoned each other from a great distance. Shots at night might be signals of fire, of thieves, of who knows what? certainly nothing good. And the men sallied forth from their homes ready for anything, with the forgetfulness of self and solidarity of those who live in solitude.
Batiste, terrified by this movement, ran toward his farm, bending over, in order to pa.s.s unnoticed along the shelter of the banks or the high mounds of straw.
He already saw his home, with the open door illumined, and in the centre of the red square, the black forms of his family.
The dog sniffed him and was the first to salute him. Teresa and Roseta gave shouts of joy.
"Batiste, is it you?"
"Father! Father!"
And all rushed toward him, toward the entrance of the farm-house, under the old vine-arbour, through whose vines the stars shone like glow-worms.
The mother, with the woman"s keen ear, restless and alarmed by the tardiness of her husband, had heard from far, far off, the four shots, and her heart "had given a leap," as she expressed it. All the family had rushed toward the door, anxiously scanning the dark horizon, convinced that the reports which alarmed the plain had some connection with the father"s absence.
Mad with joy upon seeing him and hearing his voice, they did not notice his mud-stained face, his unshod feet, or his clothing, dirty and dripping mire.
They drew him within. Roseta hung herself upon his neck, breathing lovingly, with her eyes still moist.
"Father!... Father!"
But he was not able to restrain a grimace of pain, an ay! suppressed but full of suffering. Roseta had flung her arm about his left shoulder, in the same place where he had felt the tearing of steel, and which he now felt more and more crushingly heavy.
When he entered the house, and came into the full candlelight, the woman and the children gave a cry of astonishment. They saw the blood-stained shirt....
Roseta and her mother burst out crying. "Most holy queen! Sovereign mother! They have killed him!"
But Batiste, who felt the pain in his shoulder growing more and more insufferable, hushed their lamentations and ordered them with a dark gesture to see at once what had happened to him.
Roseta, who was the bravest, tore open the coa.r.s.e rough shirt, leaving the shoulder uncovered. How much blood! The girl grew pale, trying not to faint; Batistet and the little ones began to weep, and Teresa continued her howlings as though her husband were in his death agony.
But the wounded man would not tolerate their lamentations and protested rudely. Less weeping: it was nothing: not serious, and the proof of this was that he could move his arm, although he felt, all the time, a greater weight in his shoulder. It was just a scratch, an abrasion, nothing more. He felt too strong for the wound to be deep. Look ...
water, cloth, lint, the bottle of arnica which Teresa was guarding as a miraculous remedy in her room ... move about quickly! This was no time to stand gaping with open mouths.
Teresa, returning to her room, searched the depths of her chests, tearing up linen cloths, untying bandages, while the girl washed and washed again the lips of the bleeding wound, which was cut like a sabre-slash across the fleshy shoulder.
The two women checked the hemorrhage as best they could, bandaged the wound, and Batiste breathed with satisfaction, as though he were already cured. Worse blows than this had descended upon him in this life.
And he began to admonish the little ones to be prudent. Of what they had seen, not a word to anybody. There are subjects which it is best to forget. And he repeated the same to his wife, who talked of sending word to the doctor; it would amount to the same thing as attracting the attention of the court. It would cure itself. His const.i.tution was wonderful. What was important was that no one should get mixed up in what occurred down below. Who knows in what condition the other man was by this time?
While his wife was helping him to change his clothes and prepared his bed, Batiste told her all that had occurred. The good woman opened her eyes with a frightened expression, sighed, thinking of the danger encountered by her husband, and cast anxious glances at the closed door of the farm-house, as if the rural police were about to enter through it.
Batistet, meanwhile, with precocious prudence, picked up the gun, and dried it in the candlelight, striving to wipe away from it all signs of recent usage, of that which had occurred.
The night was a bad one for all the family; Batiste was delirious; he had a fever, and tossed about furiously as if he still were running along the bed of the ca.n.a.l, pursuing the man. He terrified the little ones with his cries, so they were not able to sleep, as well as the women who, seated close to his bed, and offering him every moment some sugared water, the only domestic remedy which they could invent, pa.s.sed a white night.
On the following day, the door of the farm-house was closed all morning.
The wounded man seemed to be better: the children, their eyes reddened from lack of sleep, remained motionless in the corral, seated on the manure-heap, following dully the motions of the animals which were being raised there.
Teresa watched the plain through the closed door, and entered afterward into her husband"s room.... How many people! All the neighbourhood was pa.s.sing over the road in the direction of Pimento"s house; a swarm of men could be seen thronging around it. And all of them with sad and frowning faces shouting with energetic motions, from a distance, and casting glances of hatred toward old Barret"s farm-house.
Batiste received this news with grunts. Something itched in his breast, hurting him. The movement of the plain toward the house of his enemy meant that Pimento was in a serious condition; perhaps he was dead! He was sure that the two shots from his gun were in his body.
And now, what was going to happen? Would he die in prison like poor Barret? No; the customs of the _huerta_ would be respected; faith in justice obtained by one"s own hand. The dying man would be silent, leaving it to his friends, the Terrerolas and the others, to avenge him.
And Batiste did not know which to fear more, the justice of the city, or that of the _huerta_.
It was drawing toward evening, when the wounded man, despite the protests and cries of the two women, sprang out of bed.
He was stifling; his athletic body, accustomed to fatigue, was not able to stand so many hours of inactivity. The weight in his shoulder forced him to change his position, as if this would free him from pain.
With a hesitating step, benumbed by lying in bed so long, he went forth from his house and seated himself on the brick-bench beneath the vine-arbour.
The afternoon was disagreeable; the wind blew too freshly for the season; heavy dark clouds covered the sun, and the light was sinking under them, closing up the horizon like a curtain of pale gold.
Batiste looked uncertainly in the direction of the city, turning his back toward the farm-house of Pimento, which could be seen clearly now that the fields were stripped of the golden grain which hid it before the harvest.
There might be noted in the wounded man both the impulse of curiosity and the fear of seeing too much; but at last his will was conquered, and he slowly turned his gaze toward the house of his enemy.
Yes; many people swarmed before the door; men, women, children; all the people of the plain who were anxiously running to visit their fallen liberator.
How they must hate him!... They were distant, but nevertheless he guessed that his name must be on the lips of all; in the buzzing of his ears, in the throbbing of his feverish temples he thought he perceived the threatening murmur of that wasp"s nest.
And yet, G.o.d knew that he had done nothing more than defend himself; that he wished only to keep his own without harming any one. Why should _he_ take the blame of being in conflict with these people, who, as Don Joaquin, the master, said, were very good but very stupid?
The afternoon closed in; the twilight, grey and sad, sifted over the plain. The wind, growing continually stronger, carried toward the farm-house the distant echo of lamentations and furious voices.
Batiste saw the people eddying in the door of the distant farm-house, saw arms extended with a sorrowful expression, clenched hands which s.n.a.t.c.hed handkerchief from head and cast it in fury to the ground.
The wounded man felt all his blood mounting toward his heart, which stopped beating for some instants, as if paralysed, and afterward began to thump with more fury, shooting a hot, red wave to his face.
He guessed what was happening yonder: his heart told him. Pimento had just died.
Batiste felt cold and afraid, with a sensation of weakness as if suddenly all his strength had left him; and he went into his farm-house, not breathing easily until he saw the door closed and the candle lit.
The evening was dismal. Sleep overwhelmed the family, dead tired from the vigil of the preceding night. Almost immediately after supper, they retired: before nine, all were in bed.
Batiste felt that his wound was better. The weight in the shoulder diminished: the fever was not so fierce; but now a strange pain in his heart was tormenting him.
In the darkness of the bedroom, still awake, he saw a pale figure rising up, at first indefinite, then little by little taking form and colour, till it became Pimento as he had seen him the last few days, with his head bandaged and the threatening gesture of one stubbornly bent upon revenge.
The vision bothered him and he closed his eyes in order to sleep.
Absolute darkness; sleep was overpowering him, but his closed eyes were beginning to fill the dense gloom with red points which kept growing larger, forming spots of various colours; and the spots, after floating about capriciously, joined themselves together, amalgamated, and again there stood Pimento, who approached him slowly, with the cautious ferocity of an evil beast which fascinates its victim.
Batiste tried to free himself from the nightmare.
He did not sleep; he heard his wife snoring close to him, and his sons overcome with weariness, but all the while he was hearing them lower and lower, as if some mysterious force were carrying the farm-house away, far away, to a distance: and he there inert, unable to move, no matter how hard he tried, saw the face of Pimento close to his own, and felt in his nostrils his enemy"s hot breath.
But was he not dead?... His dulled brain kept asking this question, and after many efforts, he answered himself that Pimento had died. Now he did not have a broken head as before: his body was exposed, torn by two wounds, though Batiste was not able to determine where they were; but two wounds he had, two inexhaustible fountains of blood, which opened livid lips. The two gunshots, he already knew it: he was not one to miss his aim.