It"s a great game." The tall New-Englander would not take life seriously anywhere, and, with our trust in his guardianship, we could want no better chaperon.
That night Beverly Clarenden and I were in fairyland.
"It"s the princess, Bev, the princess we were looking for," I joyously a.s.serted. "And, oh, Bev, she is beautiful, but snappy-like, too. She called me a "big brown bob-cat", and then she apologized, just as nice as could be."
"And this little Marcos cuss, he"ll be the ogre," Beverly declared. "But who"ll we have for the giant? That priest, footing it out by that dry creek-thing they call a "royo?"
"Oh no, no! He and Jondo made up together, and Jondo"s n.o.body"s bad man even in a story. It will be that Ferdinand Ramero," I insisted. "But, say, Bev, Jondo wrote a new name on the register this evening, or somebody wrote it for him, maybe. It wasn"t his own writing. "Jean Deau." I saw it in big, round, back-slanting letters. Why did he do that?"
"Well, I reckon that"s his real name in big, round, back-slanting letters down here," Beverly replied. "It"s French, and we have just been spelling it like it sounds, that"s all."
"Well, maybe so," I commented, and when I fell asleep it was to dream of a princess and Jondo by a strange name, but the same Jondo.
The air of New Mexico puts iron into the blood. The trail life had hardened us all, but the finishing touch for Rex Krane came in the invigorating breath of that mountain-cooled, sun-cleansed atmosphere of Santa Fe. Shrewd, philosophic, brave-hearted like his historic ancestry, he laid his plans carefully now, sure of doing what he was set to do.
And the wholesome sense of really serving the man who had measured his worth at a glance gave him a pleasure he had not known before. Of course, he moved slowly and indifferently. One could never imagine Rex Krane hurrying about anything.
"We"ll just "prospect," as Daniel Boone says," he declared, as he marshaled us for the day. "We are strangers, sight-seein", got no other business on earth, least of all any to take us up to this old San Miguel Church for unholy purposes. "Course if we see a pretty little dark-eyed, golden-haired la.s.sie anywhere, we"ll just make a diagram of the spot she"s stand"n" on, for future reference. We"re in this game to win, but we don"t do no foolish hurryin" about it."
So we wandered away, a happy quartet, and the city offered us strange sights on every hand. It was all so old, so different, so silent, so baffling--the narrow, crooked street; the solid house-walls that hemmed them in; the strange tongue, strange dress, strange customs; the absence of smiling faces or friendly greetings; the sudden mystery of seeking for one whom we must not seem to seek, and the consciousness of an enemy, Ferdinand Ramero, whom we must avoid--that it is small wonder that we lived in fairyland.
We saw the boy, Marcos, here and there, sometimes staring defiantly at us from some projected angle; sometimes slipping out of sight as we approached; sometimes quarreling with other children at their play. But nowhere, since the moment when I had seen the door close on her up that crooked street beside the old church, could we find any trace of the little girl.
In the dim morning light of our fifth day in Santa Fe, a man on horseback, carrying a big, bulky bundle in his arms, slipped out of the crooked, shadow-filled street beside the old church of San Miguel. He halted a moment before the structure and looked up at the ancient crude spire outlined against the sky, then sped down the narrow way by the hotel at the end of the trail. He crossed the Plaza swiftly and dashed out beyond the Palace of the Governors and turned toward the west.
Aunty Boone, who slept in the family wagon--or under it--in the inclosure at the rear of the hotel, had risen in time to peer out of the wooden gate just as the rider was pa.s.sing. It was still too dark to see the man"s face distinctly, but his form, and the burden he carried, and the trappings of the horse she noted carefully, as was her habit.
"Up to cussedness, that man is. Mighty long an" slim. Lemme see! Humph!
I know _him_. I"ll go wake up somebody."
As the woman leaned far out of the gate she caught sight of a little Indian girl crouching outside of the wall.
"You got no business here, you, Little Blue Flower! Where do you live when you _do_ live?"
Little Blue Flower pointed toward the west.
"Why you come hangin" "round here?" the African woman demanded.
"Father Josef send me to help the people who help me," she said, in her soft, low voice.
"Go back to your own folks, then, and tell your Daddy Joseph a man just stole a big bunch of something and rode south with it. He can look after that man. We can get along somehow. Now go."
The voice was like a growl, and the little Indian maiden shrank back in the shadow of the wall. The next minute Aunty Boone was rapping softly on the door of the room whose guest had registered as Jean Deau. Ten minutes later another horseman left the street beside the hotel and crossed the Plaza, riding erect and open-faced as only Jondo could ride.
Then the African woman sought out Rex Krane, and in a few brief sentences told him what had been taking place. All of which Rex was far too wise to repeat to Beverly and me.
That afternoon it happened that we left Mat Nivers at the hotel, while Rex Krane and Beverly and I strolled out of town on a well-beaten trail leading toward the west.
"It looks interestin". Let"s go on a ways," Rex commented, lazily.
n.o.body would have guessed from his manner but that he was indulgently helping us to have a good time with certain restriction as to where we should go, and what we might say, nor that, of the three, he was the most alert and full of definite purpose.
We sat down beside the way as a line of burros loaded with firewood from the mountains trailed slowly by, with their stolid-looking drivers staring at us in silent unfriendliness.
The last driver was the tall young Indian boy whom I had seen standing in front of Little Blue Flower in the crowd of the Plaza. He paid no heed to our presence, and his face was expressionless as he pa.s.sed us.
"Stupid as his own burro, and not nearly so handsome," Beverly commented.
The boy turned quietly and stared at my cousin, who had not meant to be overheard. n.o.body could read the meaning of that look, for his face was as impenetrable as the adobe walls of the Palace of the Governors.
"Bev, you are laying up trouble. An Indian never forgets, and you"ll be finding that fellow under your pillow every night till he gets your scalp," Rex Krane declared, as we went on our way.
Beverly laughed and stiffened his st.u.r.dy young arms.
"He"s welcome to it if he can get it," he said, carelessly. "How many million miles do we go to-day, Mr. Krane?"
"Yonder is your terminal," Rex replied, pointing to a little settlement of mud huts huddling together along the trail. "They call that little metropolis Agua Fria--"pure water"--because there ain"t no water there.
It"s the last place to look for anybody. That"s why we look there. You will go in like gentlemen, though--and don"t be surprised nor make any great noise over anything you see there. If a riot starts I"ll do the startin"."
Carelessly as this was said, we understood the command behind it.
Near the village, I happened to glance back over the way we had come, and there, striding in, soft-footed as a cat behind us, was that young Indian. I turned again just as we reached the first straggling houses at the outskirts of the settlement, but he had disappeared.
It was a strange little village, this Agua Fria. Its squat dwellings, with impenetrable adobe walls, had sat out there on the sandy edge of the dry Santa Fe River through many and many a lagging decade; a single trail hardly more than a cart-width across ran through it. A church, mud-walled and ancient, rose above the low houses, but of order or uniformity of outline there was none. Hands long gone to dust had shaped those crude dwellings on this sunny plain where only man decays, though what he builds endures.
n.o.body was in sight and there was something awesome in the very silence everywhere. Rex lounged carelessly along, as one who had no particular aim in view and was likely to turn back at any moment. But Beverly and I stared hard in every direction.
At the end of the village two tiny mud huts, separated from each other by a mere crack of s.p.a.ce, encroached on this narrow way even a trifle more than the neighboring huts. As we were pa.s.sing these a soft Hopi voice called:
"Beverly! Beverly!" And Little Blue Flower, peeping shyly out from the narrow opening, lifted a warning hand.
"The church! The church!" she repeated, softly, then darted out of sight, as if the brown wall were but thick brown vapor into which she melted.
"Why, it"s our own little girl!" Beverly exclaimed, with a smile, just as Little Blue Flower turned away, but I am sure she caught his words and saw his smile.
We would have called to her, but Rex Krane evidently did not hear her, for he neither halted nor turned his head. So, remembering our command to be quiet, we pa.s.sed on.
"I guess we are about to the end of this "pure water" resort. It"s gettin" late. Let"s go back home now," our leader said, dispiritedly. So we turned back toward Santa Fe.
At the narrow opening where we had seen Little Blue Flower the young Indian boy stood upright and motionless, and again he gave no sign of seeing us.
"Let"s just run over to that church a minute while we are here. Looks interestin" over there," Rex suggested.
I wondered if he could have heard Little Blue Flower, and thought her suggestion was a good one, or if this was a mere whim of his.
The church, a crude mission structure, stood some distance from the trail. As we entered a priest came forward to meet us.
"Can I serve you?" he asked.
The voice was clear and sweet--the same voice that we had heard out beyond the arroyo southeast of town, the same face, too, that we had seen, with the big dark eyes full of fire. Involuntarily I recalled how his hand had pointed to the west when he had p.r.o.nounced a blessing that day.