University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

When Coronado regained a portion of the senses which had been throttled
out of him, he discovered Texas Smith standing by his side, and two dead men
lying near, all rather vaguely seen at first through his dizziness and the moonlight.

“What does this mean?” he gasped, getting on his hands and knees, and
then on his feet. “Who has been assassinating?”

The borderer, who, instead of helping his employer to rise, was coolly reloading

his rifle, did not immediately reply. As the shaken and somewhat unmanned
Coronado looked at him, he was afraid of him. The moonlight made
Smith's sallow, disfigured face so much more ghastly than usual, that he had
the air of a ghoul or vampyre. And when, after carefully capping his piece, he
drawled forth the word “Patchies,” his harsh, croaking voice had an unwholesome,
unhuman sound, as if it were indeed the utterance of a feeder upon
corpses.

“Apaches!” said Coronado. “What! after I had made a treaty with them?”

“This un is a 'Patchie,” remarked Texas, giving the nearest body a shove
with his boot. “Thar was two of 'em. They knifed one of your men. T'other
cleared, he did. I was comin' in afoot. I had a notion of suthin' goin' on, 'n'
left the critters out thar, with the rancheros, 'n' stole in. Got in just in time to
pop the cuss that had you. T'other un vamosed.”

“Oh, the villains!” shrieked Coronado, excited at the thought of his narrow
escape. “This is the way they keep their treaties.”

“Mought be these a'n't the same,” observed Texas. “Some 'Patchies is
wild, 'n' live separate, like bachelor beavers.”

Coronado stooped and examined the dead Indian. He was a miserable object,
naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his legs
absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts. He might
well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their savage brethren, lead
a precarious existence outside of the tribal organization, and are to the Apaches
what the Texas Smiths are to decent Americans.

“One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet,” continued Texas. “Don't run
with the rest of the crowd.”

“And there's that infernal coward of a ranchero,” cried Coronado, as the
runaway sentry sneaked back to the group. “You cursed poltroon, why didn't
you give the alarm? Why didn't you fight?”

He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and
spat on him. Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested,
“Better shute the dam cuss.”

But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the fellow
go. “You saved my life,” he said to Texas. “When we get back you
shall be paid for it.”

At the moment he intended to present him with the two hundred dollars
which were cumbering his boots. But by the time they had reached Garcia's
hacienda on the way back to Sante Fé, his gratitude had fallen off seventy-five
per cent., and he thought fifty enough. Even that diminished his profits on the
expedition to four hundred and fifty dollars. And Coronado, although extravagant,
was not generous; he liked to spend money, but he hated to give it or pay it.

During the four days which immediately followed his safe return to Santa Fé,
he and Garcia were in a worry of anxiety. Would Manga Colorada fulfil his
contract and cast a shadow of peril over the Bernalillo route? Would letters or
messengers arrive from California, informing Clara of the death and will of Mu
ñoz? Everything happened as they wished; reports came that the Apaches
were raiding in Bernalillo; the girl received no news concerning her grandfather.
Coronado, smiling with success and hope, met Thurstane at the Van Diemen
house, in the presence of Clara and Aunt Maria, and blandly triumphed over him.

“How now about your safe road through the southern counties?” he said,
“Apaches!”

“So I hear,” replied the young officer soberlv. “It is horribly unlucky.”

“We start to-morrow,” added Coronado.

“To-morrow!” replied Thurstane, with a look of dismay.

“I hope you will be with us,” said Coronado.

“Everything goes wrong,” exclaimed the annoyed lieutenant. “Here are
some of my stores damaged, and I have had to ask for a board of survey. I
couldn't possibly leave for two days yet, even if my recruits should arrive.”

“How very unfortunate!” groaned Coronado. “My dear fellow, we had
counted on you.”

“Lieutenant Thurstane, can't you overtake us?” inquired Clara.

Thurstane wanted to kneel down and thank her, while Coronado wanted to
throw something at her.

“I will try,” promised the officer, his fine, frank, manly face brightening with
pleasure. “If the thing can be done, it will be done.”

Coronado, while hoping that he would be ordered by the southern route, or
that he would somehow break his neck, had the superfine brass to say, “Don't
fail us, Lieutenant.”

In spite of the managements of the Mexican to keep Clara and Thurstane
apart, the latter succeeded in getting an aside with the young lady.

“So you take the northern trail?” he said, with a seriousness which gave his
blue-black eyes an expression of almost painful pathos. Those eyes were traitors;
however discreet the rest of his face might be, they revealed his feelings;
they were altogether too pathetic to be in the head of a man and an officer.

“But you will overtake us,” Clara replied, out of a charming faith that with
men all things are possible.

“Yes,” he said, almost fiercely.

“Besides, Coronado knows,” she added, still trusting in the male being.
“He says this is the surest road.”

Thurstane did not believe it, but he did not want to alarm her when alarm
was useless, and he made no comment.

“I have a great mind to resign,” he presently broke out.

Clara colored; she did not fully understand him, but she guessed that all
this emotion was somehow on her account; and a surprised, warm Spanish
heart beat at once its alarm.

“It would be of no use,” he immediately added. “I couldn't get away until
my resignation had been accepted. I must bear this as well as I can.”

The young lady began to like him better than ever before, and yet she began
to draw gently away from him, frightened by a consciousness of her liking.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Van Diemen,” said Thurstane, in an inexplicable
confusion.

“There is no need,” replied Clara, equally confused.

“Well,” he resumed, after a struggle to regain his self-control, “I will do my
utmost to overtake you.”

“We shall be very glad,” returned Clara, with a singular mixture of consciousness
and artlessness.

There was an exquisite innocence and almost childish simplicity in this girl
of eighteen. It was, so to speak, not quite civilized; it was not in the style of
American young ladies; our officer had never, at home, observed anything like
it; and, of course—O yes, of course, it fascinated him. The truth is, he was so
far gone in loving her that he would have been charmed by her ways no matter
what they might have been.

On the very morning after the above dialogue Garcia's train started for Rio

Arriba, taking with it a girl who had been singled out for a marriage which she
did not guess, or for a death whose horrors were beyond her wildest fears.

The train consisted of six long and heavy covered vehicles, not dissimilar in
size, strength, and build to army wagons. Garcia had thought that two would
suffice; six wagons, with their mules, etc., were a small fortune: what if the
Apaches should take them? But Coronado had replied: “Nobody sends a train
of two wagons; do you want to rouse suspicion?”

So there were six; and each had a driver and a muleteer, making twelve
hired men thus far. On horseback, there were six Mexicans, nominally cattle-drivers
going to California, but really guards for the expedition—the most courageous
bullies that could be picked up in Santa Fé, each armed with pistols and
a rifle. Finally, there were Coronado and his terrible henchman, Texas Smith,
with their rifles and revolvers. Old Garcia perspired with anguish as he looked
over his caravan, and figured up the cost in his head.

Thurstane, wretched at heart, but with a cheering smile on his lips, came to
bid the ladies farewell.

“What do you think of this?” Aunt Maria called to him from her seat in one
of the covered wagons. “We are going a thousand miles through deserts and
savages. You men suppose that women have no courage. I call this heroism.”

“Certainly,” nodded the young fellow, not thinking of her at all, unless it
was that she was next door to an idiot.

Although his mind was so full of Clara that it did not seem as if he could receive
an impression from any other human being, his attention was for a moment
arrested by a countenance which struck him as being more ferocious than
he had ever seen before except on the shoulders of an Apache. A tall man in
Mexican costume, with a scar on his chin and another on his cheek, was glaring
at him with two intensely black and savage eyes. It was Texas Smith, taking
the measure of Thurstane's fighting power and disposition. A hint from Coronado
had warned the borderer that here was a person whom it might be necessary
some day to get rid of. The officer responded to this ferocious gaze with a
grim, imperious stare, such as one is apt to acquire amid the responsibilities and
dangers of army life. It was like a wolf and a mastiff surveying each other.

Thurstane advanced to Clara, helped her into her saddle, and held her hand
while he urged her to be careful of herself, never to wander from the train, never
to be alone, etc. The girl turned a little pale; it was not exactly because of his
anxious manner; it was because of the eloquence that there is in a word of
parting. At the moment she felt so alone in the world, in such womanish need
of sympathy, that had he whispered to her, “Be my wife,” she might have
reached out her hands to him. But Thurstane was far from guessing that an angel
could have such weak impulses; and he no more thought of proposing to her
thus abruptly than of ascending off-hand into heaven.

Coronado observed the scene, and guessing how perilous the moment was,
pushed forward his uncle to say good-by to Clara. The old scoundrel kissed her
hand; he did not dare to lift his one eye to her face; he kissed her hand and
bowed himself out of reach.

“Farewell, Mr. Garcia,” called Aunt Maria. “Poor, excellent old creature!
What a pity he can't understand English! I should so like to say something
nice to him. Farewell, Mr. Garcia.”

Garcia kissed his fat fingers to her, took off his sombrero, waved it, bowed a
dozen times, and smiled like a scared devil. Then, with other good-bys, delivered
right and left, from everybody to everybody, the train rumbled away.

Thurstane was about to accompany it out of the town when his clerk came to
tell him that the board of survey required his immediate presence. Cursing his
hard fate, and wishing himself anything but an officer in the army, he waved a
last farewell to Clara, and turned his back on her, perhaps forever.

Santa Fé is situated on the great central plateau of North America, seven
thousand feet above the level of the sea. Around it spreads an arid plain, sloping
slightly where it approaches the Rio Grande, and bordered by mountains
which toward the south are of moderate height, while toward the north they rise
into fine peaks, glorious with eternal snow. Although the city is in the latitude
of Albemarle Sound, North Carolina, its elevation and its neighborhood to Alpine
ranges give it a climate which is in the main cool, equable, and healthy.

The expedition moved across the plain in a southwesterly direction. Coronado's
intention was to cross the Rio Grande at Peña Blanca, skirt the southern
edge of the Jemez Mountains, reach San Isidoro, and then march northward
toward the San Juan region. The wagons were well fitted out with mules, and
as Garcia had not chosen to send much merchandise by this risky route, they
were light, so that the rate of progress was unusually rapid. We cannot trouble
ourselves with the minor incidents of the journey. Taking it for granted that
the Rio Grande was passed, that halts were made, meals cooked and eaten,
nights passed in sleep, days in pleasant and picturesque travelling, we will leap
into the desert land beyond San Isidoro.

The train was now seventy-five miles from Santa Fé. Coronado had so
pushed the pace that he had made this distance in the rather remarkable time of
three days. Of course his object in thus hurrying was to get so far ahead of
Thurstane that the latter would not try to overtake him, or would get lost in attempting
it.

Meanwhile he had not forgotten Garcia's little plan, and he had even better
remembered his own. The time might come when he would be driven to lose
Clara; it was very shocking to think of, however, and so for the present he did
not think of it; on the contrary, he worked hard (much as he hated work) at
courting her.

It is strange that so many men who are morally in a state of decomposition
should be, or at least can be, sweet and charming in manner. During these
three days Coronado was delightful; and not merely in this, that he watched
over Clara's comfort, rode a great deal by her side, gathered wild flowers for
her, talked much and agreeably; but also in that he poured oil over his whole
conduct, and was good to everybody. Although his natural disposition was to
be domineering to inferiors and irascible under the small provocations of life,
he now gave his orders in a gentle tone, never stormed at the drivers for their
blunders, made light of the bad cooking, and was in short a model for travellers,
lovers, and husbands. Few human beings have so much self-control as Coronado,
and so little. So long as it was policy to be sweet, he could generally be a
very honeycomb; but once a certain limit of patience passed, he was like a
swarm of angry bees; he became blind, mad, and poisonous with passion.

“Mr. Coronado, you are a wonder,” proclaimed the admiring Aunt Maria.
“You are the only man I ever knew that was patient.”

“I catch a grace from those who have it abundantly and to spare,” said Coronado,
taking off his hat and waving it at the two ladies.

“Ah, yes, we women know how to be patient,” smiled Aunt Maria. “I
think we are born so. But, more than that, we learn it. Moreover, our physical
nature teaches us. We have lessons of pain and weakness that men know

nothing of. The great, healthy savages! If they had our troubles, they might
have some of our virtues.”

“I refuse to believe it,” cried Coronado. “Man acquire woman's worth?
Never! The nature of the beast is inferior. He is not fashioned to become an
angel.”

“How charmingly candid and humble!” thought Aunt Maria. “How different
from that sulky, proud Thurstane, who never says anything of the sort,
and never thinks it either, I'll be bound.”

All this sort of talk passed over Clara as a desert wind passes over an oasis,
bringing no pleasant songs of birds, and sowing no fruitful seed. She had her
born ideas as to men and women, and she was seemingly incapable of receiving
any others. In her mind men were strong and brave, and women weak and
timorous; she believed that the first were good to hold on to, and that the last
were good to hold on; all this she held by birthright, without ever reasoning
upon it or caring to prove it.

Coronado, on his part, hooted in his soul at Mrs. Stanley's whimsies, and
half supposed her to be of unsound mind. Nor would he have said what he did
about the vast superiority of the female sex, had he supposed that Clara would
attach the least weight to it. He knew that the girl looked upon his extravagant
declarations as merely so many compliments paid to her eccentric relative,
equivalent to bowings and scrapings and flourishes of the sombrero. Both
Spaniards, they instinctively comprehended each other, at least in the surface
matters of intercourse. Meanwhile the American strong-minded female understood
herself, it is to be charitably hoped, but understood herself alone.

Coronado did not hurry his courtship, for he believed that he had a clear
field before him, and he was too sagacious to startle Clara by overmuch energy.
Meantime he began to be conscious that an influence from her was reaching his
spirit. He had hitherto considered her a child; one day he suddenly recognized
her as a woman. Now a woman, a beautiful woman especially, alone with one
in the desert, is very mighty. Matches are made in trains overland as easily
and quickly as on sea voyages or at quiet summer resorts. Coronado began—
only moderately as yet—to fall in love.

But an ugly incident came to disturb his opening dream of affection, happiness,
wealth, and success. Toward the close of his fourth day's march, after
he had got well into the unsettled region beyond San Isidoro, he discovered,
several miles behind the train, a party of five horsemen. He was on one summit
and they on another, with a deep, stony valley intervening. Without a moment's
hesitation, he galloped down a long slope, rejoined the creeping wagons,
hurried them forward a mile or so, and turned into a ravine for the night's halt.

Whether the cavaliers were Indians or Thurstane and his four recruits he
had been unable to make out. They had not seen the train; the nature of the
ground had prevented that. It was now past sundown, and darkness coming on
rapidly. Whispering something about Apaches, he gave orders to lie close and
light no fires for a while, trusting that the pursuers would pass his hiding place.

For a moment he thought of sending Texas Smith to ambush the party, and
shoot Thurstane if he should be in it, pleading afterwards that the men looked, in
the darkness, like Apaches. But no; this was an extreme measure; he revolted
against it a little. Moreover, there was danger of retribution: settlements
not so far off; soldiers still nearer.

So he lay quiet, chewing a bit of grass to allay his nervousness, and talking
stronger love to Clara than he had yet thought needful or wise.