University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

That very day Coronado made a second call on Clara and her Aunt Maria,
to retract, contradict, and disprove all that he had said in favor of the isthmus
and against the overland route.

Although his visit was timed early in the evening, he found Lieutenant
Thurstane already with the ladies. Instead of scowling at him, or crouching in
conscious guilt before him, he made a cordial rush for his hand, smiled sweetly
in his face, and offered him incense of gratitude.

“My dear Lieutenant, you are perfectly right,” he said, in his fluent English.
“The journey by the isthmus is not to be thought of. I have just seen a friend
who has made it. Poisonous serpents in myriads. The most deadly climate in
the world. Nearly everybody had the vomito; one-fifth died of it. You eat a
little fruit; down you go on your back—dead in four hours. Then there are
constant fights between the emigrants and the sullen, ferocious Indians of the
isthmus. My poor friend never slept with his revolver out of his hand. I said
to him, “My dear fellow, it is cruel to rejoice in your misfortunes, but I am
heartily glad that I have heard of them. You have saved the life of the most
remarkable woman that I ever knew, and of a cousin of mine who is the star of
her sex.”

Here Coronado made one bow to Mrs. Stanley and another to Clara, at the
same time kissing his sallow hand enthusiastically to all creation. Aunt Maria
tried to look stern at the compliment, but eventually thawed into a smile over it.
Clara acknowledged it with a little wave of the hand, as if, coming from Coronado,
it meant nothing more than good-morning, which indeed was just about his
measure of it.

“Moreover,” continued the Mexican, “overland route? Why, it is overland
route both ways. If you go by the isthmus, you must traverse all Texas and Louisiana,
at the very least. You might as well go at once to San Diego. In short,
the route by the isthmus is not to be thought of.”

“And what of the overland route?” asked Mrs. Stanley.

“The overland route is the other,” laughed Coronado.

“Yes, I know. We must take it, I suppose. But what is the last news about
it? You spoke this morning of Indians, I believe. Not that I suppose they are
very formidable.”

“The overland route does not lead directly through paradise, my dear Mrs.
Stanley,” admitted Coronado with insinuating candor. “But it is not as bad as
has been represented. I have never tried it. I must rely upon the report of
others. Well, on learning that the isthmus would not do for you, I rushed off
immediately to inquire about the overland. I questioned Garcia's teamsters. I
catechized some newly-arrived travellers. I pumped dry every source of information.
The result is that the overland route will do. No suffering; absolutely
none; not a bit. And no danger worth mentioning. The Apaches
are under a cloud. Our American conquerors and fellow-citizens” (here he
gently patted Thurstane on the shoulder-strap), “our Romans of the nineteenth
century, they tranquillize the Apaches. A child might walk from here to Fort
Yuma without risking its little scalp.”

All this was said in the most light-hearted and airy manner conceivable.
Coronado waved and floated on zephyrs of fancy and fluency. A butterfly or a
humming-bird could not have talked more cheerily about flying over a parterre
of flowers than he about traversing the North American desert. And, with all

this frivolous, imponderable grace, what an accent of verity he had! He spoke
of the teamsters as if he had actually conversed with them, and of the overland
route as if he had been studiously gathering information concerning it.

“I believe that what you say about the Apaches is true,” observed Thurstane,
a bit awkwardly.

Coronado smiled, tossed him a little bow, and murmured in the most cordial,
genial way, “And the rest?”

“I beg pardon,” said the Lieutenant, reddening. “I didn't mean to cast
doubt upon any of your statements, sir.”

Thurstane had the army tone; he meant to be punctiliously polite; perhaps
he was a little stiff in his politeness. But he was young, had had small practice
in society, was somewhat hampered by modesty, and so sometimes made a blunder.
Such things annoyed him excessively; a breach of etiquette seemed something
like a breach of orders; hadn't meant to charge Coronado with drawing
the long bow; couldn't help coloring about it. Didn't think much of Coronado,
but stood somewhat in awe of him, as being four years older in time and a dozen
years older in the ways of the world.

“I only meant to say,” he continued, “that I have information concerning
the Apaches which coincides with yours, sir. They are quiet, at least for the
present. Indeed, I understand that Red Sleeve, or Manga Colorada, as you call
him, is coming in with his band to make a treaty.”

“Admirable!” cried Coronado. “Why not hire him to guarantee our safety?
Set a thief to catch a thief. Why does not your Government do that sort of
thing? Let the Apaches protect the emigrants, and the United States pay the
Apaches. They would be the cheapest military force possible. That is the way
the Turks manage the desert Arabs.”

“Mr. Coronado, you ought to be Governor of New Mexico,” said Aunt Maria,
stricken with admiration at this project.

Thurstane looked at the two as if he considered them a couple of fools, each
bigger than the other. Coronado advanced to Mrs. Stanley, took her hand,
bowed over it, and murmured, “Let me have your influence at Washington, my
dear Madame.” The remarkable woman squirmed a little, fearing lest he should
kiss her fingers, but nevertheless gave him a gracious smile.

“It strikes me, however,” she said, “that the isthmus route is better. We
know by experience that the journey from here to Bent's Fort is safe and easy.
From there down the Arkansas and Missouri to St. Louis it is mostly water carriage;
and from St. Louis you can sail anywhere.”

Coronado was alarmed. He must put a stopper on this project. He called
up all his resources.

“My dear Mrs. Stanley, allow me. Remember that emigrants move westward,
and not eastward. Coming from Bent's Fort you had protection and company;
but going towards it would be different. And then think what you would
lose. The great American desert, as it is absurdly styled, is one of the most interesting
regions on earth. Mrs. Stanley, did you ever hear of the Casas Grandes,
the Casas de Montezuma, the ruined cities of New Mexico? In this so-called
desert there was once an immense population. There was a civilization which
rose, flourished, decayed, and disappeared without a historian. Nothing remains
of it but the walls of its fortresses and palaces. Those you will see. They are
wonderful. They are worth ten times the labor and danger which we shall encounter.
Buildings eight hundred feet long by two hundred and fifty feet deep,
Mrs. Stanley. The resting-places and wayside strongholds of the Aztecs on

their route from the frozen North to found the Empire of the Montezumas! This
whole region is strewn, and cumbered, and glorified with ruins. If we should
go by the way of the San Juan—”

“The San Juan!” protested Thurstane. “Nobody goes by the way of the
San Juan.”

Coronado stopped, bowed, smiled, waited to see if Thurstane had finished,
and then proceeded.

“Along the San Juan every hilltop is crowned with these monuments of antiquity.
It is like the castled Rhine. Ruins looking in the faces of ruins. It is
a tragedy in stone. It is like Niobe and her daughters. Moreover, if we take
this route we shall pass the Moquis. The independent Moquis are a fragment
of the ancient ruling race of New Mexico. They live in stone-built cities on
lofty eminences. They weave blankets of exquisite patterns and colors, and
produce a species of pottery which almost deserves the name of porcelain.”

“Really, you ought to write all this,” exclaimed Aunt Maria, her imagination
fired to a white heat.

“I ought,” said Coronado, impressively. “I owe it to these people to celebrate
them in history. I owe them that much because of the name I bear. Did
you ever hear of Coronado, the conqueror of New Mexico, the stormer of the
seven cities of Cibola? It was he who gave the final shock to this antique civilization.
He was the Cortes of this portion of the continent. I bear his name,
and his blood runs in my veins.”

He held down his head as if he were painfully oppressed by the sense of his
crimes and responsibilities as a descendant of the waster of aboriginal New
Mexico. Mrs. Stanley, delighted with his emotion, slily grasped and pressed
his hand.

“Oh, man! man!” she groaned. “What evils has that creature man
wrought in this beautiful world! Ah, Mr. Coronado, it would have been a very
different planet had woman had her rightful share in the management of its
affairs.”

“Undoubtedly,” sighed Coronado. He had already obtained an insight into
this remarkable person's views on the woman question, the superiority of her
own sex, the stolidity and infamy of the other. It was worth his while to humor
her on this point, for the sake of gaining an influence over her, and so over
Clara. Cheered by the success of his history, he now launched into pure poetry.

“Woman has done something,” he said. “There is every reason to believe
that the cities of the San Juan were ruled by queens, and that some of them
were inhabited by a race of Amazons.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Aunt Maria, flushing and rustling with interest.

“It is the opinion of the best antiquarians. It is my opinion. Nothing else
can account for the exquisite earthenware which is found there. Women, you
are aware, far surpass men in the arts of beauty. Moreover, the inscriptions on
hieroglyphic rocks in these abandoned cities evidently refer to Amazons. There
you see them doing the work of men—carrying on war, ruling conquered regions,
founding cities. It is a picture of a golden age, Mrs. Stanley.”

Aunt Maria meant to go by way of the San Juan, if she had to scalp Apaches
herself in doing it.

“Lieutenant Thurstane, what do you say?” she asked, turning her sparkling
eyes upon the officer.

“I must confess that I never heard of all these things,” replied Thurstane,
with an air which added, “And I don't believe in most of them.”

“As for the San Juan route,” he continued, “it is two hundred miles at least
out of our way. The country is a desert and almost unexplored. I don't fancy
the plan—I beg your pardon, Mr. Coronado—but I don't fancy it at all.”

Aunt Maria despised him and almost hated him for his stupid, practical, unpoetic
common sense.

“I must say that I quite fancy the San Juan route,” she responded, with
proper firmness.

“I venture to agree with you,” said Coronado, as meekly as if her fancy were
not of his own making. “Only a hundred miles off the straight line (begging
your pardon, my dear Lieutenant), and through a country which is naturally fertile—witness
the immense population which it once supported. As for its being
unexplored, I have explored it myself; and I shall go with you.”

“Shall you!” cried Aunt Maria, as if that made all safe and delightful.

“Yes. My excellent Uncle Garcia (good, kind-hearted old man) takes the
strongest interest in this affair. He is resolved that his charming little relative
here, La Señorita Clara, shall cross the continent in safety and comfort. He offers
a special wagon train for the purpose, and insists that I shall accompany it. Of
course I am only too delighted to obey him.”

“Garcia is very good, and so are you, Coronado,” said Clara, very thankful
and profoundly astonished. “How can I ever repay you both? I shall always
be your debtor.”

“My dear cousin!” protested Coronado, bowing and smiling. “Well, it is
settled. We will start as soon as may be. The train will be ready in a day or
two.”

“I have no money,” stammered Clara. “The estate is not settled.”

“Our good old Garcia has thought of everything. He will advance you what
you want, and take your draft on the executors.”

“Your uncle is one of nature's noblemen,” affirmed Aunt Maria. “I must
call on him and thank him for his goodness and generosity.”

“Oh, never!” said Coronado. “He only waits your permission to visit you
and pay you his humble respects. Absence has prevented him from attending
to that delightful duty heretofore. He has but just returned from Albuquerque.”

“Tell him I shall be glad to see him,” smiled Aunt Maria. “But what does
he say of the San Juan route?”

“He advises it. He has been in the overland trade for thirty years. He
is tenderly interested in his relative Clara; and he advises her to go by way
of the San Juan.”

“Then so it shall be,” declared Aunt Maria.

“And how do you go, Lieutenant?” asked Coronado, turning to Thurstane.

“I had thought of travelling with you,” was the answer, delivered with a
grave and troubled air, as if now he must give up his project.

Coronado was delighted. He had urged the northern and circuitous route
mainly to get rid of the officer, taking it for granted that the latter must join his
new command as soon as possible. He did not want him courting Clara all
across the continent; and he did not want him saving her from being lost, if it
should become necessary to lose her.

“I earnestly hope that we shall not be deprived of your company,” he said.

Thurstane, in profound thought, simply bowed his acknowledgments. A few
minutes later, as he rose to return to his quarters, he said, with an air of solemn
resolution, “If I can possibly go with you, I will.”

All the next day and evening Coronado was in and out of the Van Diemen

house. Had there been a mail for the ladies, he would have brought it to them;
had it contained a letter from California, he would have abstracted and burnt it.
He helped them pack for the journey; he made an inventory of the furniture
and found storeroom for it; he was a valet and a spy in one. Meantime Garcia
hurried up his train, and hired suitable muleteers for the animals and suitable
assassins for the travellers. Thurstane was also busy, working all day and half
of the night over his government accounts, so that he might if possible get off
with Clara.

Coronado thought of making interest with the post-commandant to have
Thurstane kept a few days in Santa Fé. But the post-commandant was a grim
and taciturn old major, who looked him through and through with a pair of icy
gray eyes, and returned brief answers to his musical commonplaces. Coronado
did not see how he could humbug him, and concluded not to try it. The attempt
might excite suspicion; the major might say, “How is this your business?”
So, after a little unimportant tattle, Coronado made his best bow to the old fellow,
and hurried off to oversee his so-called cousin.

In the evening he brought Garcia to call on the ladies. Aunt Maria was
rather surprised and shocked to see such an excellent man look so much like an
infamous scoundrel. “But good people are always plain,” she reasoned; and so
she was as cordial to him as one can be in English to a saint who understands
nothing but Spanish. Garcia, instructed by Coronado, could not bow low enough
nor smile greasily enough at Aunt Maria. His dull commonplaces, moreover,
were translated by his nephew into flowering compliments for the lady herself,
and enthusiastic professions of faith in the superior intelligence and moral worth
of all women. So the two got along famously, although neither ever knew what
the other had really said.

When Clara appeared, Garcia bowed humbly without lifting his eyes to her
face, and received her kiss without returning it, as one might receive the kiss of
a corpse.

“Contemptible coward!” thought Coronado. Then, turning to Mrs. Stanley,
he whispered, “My uncle is almost broken down with this parting.”

“Excellent creature!” murmured Aunt Maria, surveying the old toad with
warm sympathy. “What a pity he has lost one eye! It quite injures the benevolent
expression of his face.”

Although Garcia was very distantly connected with Clara, she gave him the
title of uncle.

“How is this, my uncle?” she said, gaily. “You send your merchandise
trains through Bernalillo, and you send me through Santa Anna and Rio Arriba.”

Garcia, cowed and confounded, made no reply that was comprehensible.

“It is a newly discovered route,” put in Coronado, “lately found to be
easier and safer than the old one. Two hundred and fifty years in learning the
fact, Mrs. Stanley! Just as we were two hundred and fifty years without discovering
the gold of California.”

“Ah!” said Clara. Absent since her childhood from New Mexico, she
knew little about its geography, and could be easily deceived.

After a while Thurstane entered, out of breath and red with haste. He had
stolen ten minutes from his accounts and stores to bring Miss Van Diemen a
piece of information which was to him important and distressing.

“I fear that I shall not be able to go with you,” he said. “I have received
orders to wait for a sergeant and three recruits who have been assigned to my
company. The messenger reports that they are on the march from Fort Bent

with an emigrant train, and will not be here for a week. It annoys me horribly,
Miss Van Diemen. I thought I saw my way clear to be of your party. I assure
you I earnestly desired it. This route—I am afraid of it—I wanted to be
with you.”

“To protect me?” queried Clara, her face lighting up with a grateful smile,
so innocent and frank was she. Then she turned grave again, and added, “I
am sorry.”

Thankful for these last words, but nevertheless quite miserable, the youngster
worshipped her and trembled for her.

This conversation had been carried on in a quiet tone, so that the others of
the party had not overheard it, not even the watchful Coronado.

“It is too unfortunate,” said Clara, turning to them. “Lieutenant Thurstane
cannot go with us.”

Garcia and Coronado exchanged a look which said, “Thank—the devil!”