Jubilee Trail (23 page)

Garnet got dressed as fast as she could. She was eager to see the men she would be with for the rest of her journey.

The plaza was full of people, waving and shouting to the men, and dodging the vast throng of mules. Garnet had never seen so many mules in her life. There were thousands of them, pouring down through the pass. Some of the mules were laden with packs and others were unloaded. Drivers were herding the unloaded mules into open spaces on the slopes above the town, while those with packs were plodding about the plaza. There were a lot of men keeping them in line, though Garnet could not count them in the confusion.

Some of the traders were native Californios and some were Yankees, but she could not tell which was which, for they all looked like savages. Copper-colored with sunburn, they had tousled hair and ferocious beards; they wore torn dirty shirts and trousers, flapping as they rode, and great boots fuzzy with the mountain dust. They had murderous-looking guns in their belts. Garnet saw one or two men with light hair and rust-colored beards, and these she judged must be Yankees, but she could make no distinctions among the others. They were all shouting—at the mules, at each other, at the people in the street—and they were laughing, and flexing their great muscles, and leaning from their mules to grab the hands of pretty girls. Some of them were singing, and though they were so dirty and so bearded and so fierce-looking, they were radiant with triumph, and whatever they were shouting or singing, it all sounded like one great splendid hurrah. “Here we are! We’ve done it again!”

Pressing against the wall to keep out of their way, Garnet felt the little tingles that rippled through her whenever something really thrilling took place. The California traders gave her a feeling deep down inside her that she could not have expressed. It was a feeling that these men were strong and right and splendid, the sort who rode proudly over the earth and built empires in the waste places. She was proud to be going with them to California.

She caught sight of Florinda, not far away in the crowd. Florinda was holding her shawl over her hair, but for once she did not need it, for the people were too much interested in the traders to notice anybody else. Garnet edged her way along the wall and spoke to her.

“Morning!” said Florinda, “Isn’t this a circus?”

They heard a string of angry Spanish as one of the traders shouted to a muleteer. Garnet smiled. “They’re grand, aren’t they?”

“Grand? Hell for breakfast, I never saw such a bunch of horrors in my life. Maybe they’ll look human when they’ve washed and combed, if they ever do anything like that.” But Florinda smiled too as she added, “Still, they might be fun to know.”

“Why don’t you come and have breakfast with me?” Garnet invited. “Señora Silva went out to see the traders come in, but she’ll be back soon.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t dare. Mr. Bartlett’s not up yet. I’ve got to get back to take care of him. He was gorgeously drunk last night, he’s going to have a head like a watermelon. But will you be at home later?”

“Oh yes. Oliver’s in Taos, you know. I don’t often go out without him.”

“I’ll drop around.” Florinda twisted the fringe of her shawl around her finger. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

“You can’t say it here?”

“No, I haven’t got time.” Florinda looked serious, but she did not explain. “I’ve got to get back now, before he wakes up. See you later.”

They said goodby, and Garnet went home. After breakfast she got out her sewing—she was embroidering a collar for Florinda—and it kept her busy for the rest of the morning. The town was very noisy. She guessed that the California traders were celebrating their arrival.

Early in the afternoon, Señora Silva came in with a pile of laundry. Garnet put the clothes away, and changed her dress for a printed muslin with a pink bow at the throat. After those weeks of rough-dried clothes, she loved the feel of crisp dresses fresh from the iron. As Florinda might be here any minute, when she was dressed Garnet began arranging some fruit on a platter. She wondered what Florinda wanted to talk to her about.

There was a knock on the door. Garnet set down the bunch of grapes she was holding and went to open it. But instead of Florinda, the caller was a man she had never seen before.

The stranger was dressed in the brilliant clothes of a Mexican aristocrat. He stood on the ground below the step, splendid in the sun: he wore a scarlet jacket trimmed with black silk braid, and blue trousers laced up the sides with silver cords, and boots of embossed leather with silver spurs. His hat was black felt, broad-brimmed, with a silver cord around the crown. As Garnet opened the door he took off his hat and bowed to her. The sun glittered on his dark hair.

“Buenos días, señorita,” he said to her. “Perdone usted esta intrusión.”

He spoke with formal courtesy. He was standing with his back to the light, but now that he had taken off his hat she could see that his hair grew into a point on his forehead, and he had a long face, scooped at the temples. His mouth was straight, almost grim, and he did not smile as he spoke. He did not look as if he ever smiled very much.

Garnet answered him politely. “Buenos días, señor,” and her mind hurriedly went looking for words that would tell him Oliver was not at home. The stranger said,

“Tengo una carta para Don Olivero.”

Garnet hesitated a moment, silently translating. Tengo, I have; una carta, a letter—oh yes, the man had a letter for Oliver. “Gracias, señor,” she said, and tried to apologize for her slowness. “Perdoneme, señor. No hablo español bien. Soy americana.”

A frown of astonishment appeared between his black eyebrows. “You are an American?” he asked.

“Why yes!” she exclaimed, glad to find that he spoke English. “I speak very little Spanish—I got here only two weeks ago.”

“You will forgive me,” he said, still with grave courtesy. “I mistook you for one of Señora Silva’s daughters. I had not been told that there were any American ladies visiting in Santa Fe at present.”

Garnet wondered where he could have been. With all the attention she and Florinda had received, she had thought nobody in town could have been unaware of them. But probably he did not live in Santa Fe; he must be a rich ranchero who had come to town to buy goods for his household. He was so grave he was rather forbidding, very different from other Mexicans she had seen. Rich or poor, they were the cheerfullest people on earth. But she tried to be cordial.

“I’ll be glad to give Mr. Hale a message,” she offered.

“Then I was correct in assuming,” said the visitor, “that Mr. Hale has his lodgings here, as usual?”

“Oh yes. Won’t you come in, sir?”

“Thank you.” He came up the low step, and a ray of sunlight streamed through the doorway after him.

Garnet indicated the wall-bench. “Please sit down. Mr. Hale isn’t at home, but I’ll tell him anything you want me to. How fortunate that you speak English!”

She had taken a step to one side, to give him room to pass her. He turned toward her, so that now the sun fell full on his face as he said,

“I am not a Mexican. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is John Ives. I am Oliver Hale’s trading partner.”

“Why—” Garnet looked up at him, and began to laugh at herself. “How foolish of me, Mr. Ives! Of course you are not a Mexican. I was deceived by your clothes.”

She felt a bit ashamed, and surprised that she could have been mistaken. While he stood outside, below the step, she had not realized how tall he was. He was a good deal taller than most natives of Santa Fe, and very lean and hard. Now that the sun shone on his face she saw that it had the same half-and-half look of tan and whiteness that the other traders had had when they first shaved off their beards, and his features were no more Mexican than her own. She saw too that though his hair was dark, his eyes were a light blue-green, the color of ice on a winter lake, and just as cold. His face had a granite grimness. Garnet was reminded of those stern fathers of their country who had been cut in stone for the museums. But she tried not to let her thoughts get into her voice as she went on,

“And of course I recognize your name, Mr. Ives. Oliver has spoken to me often of his partner from Los Angeles. I’m glad to see you. I am Mrs. Hale.”

His green eyes narrowed involuntarily. His thin lips parted in astonishment. “You are Mrs. Hale?” he repeated. He said again, as though to make sure he had really heard her, “Mrs. Oliver Hale?”

“Why yes,” said Garnet. She wet her lips. She had expected that Oliver’s California friends would be mildly surprised to hear that he was married, but she had not expected them to be shocked. Most men got married in the course of their lives. As he said nothing, but seemed to be trying to get used to the news, she continued, “Oliver and I were married in New York last March.”

By this time John Ives was himself again, formal and sternly controlled. “Permit me, Mrs. Hale, to wish you every happiness. When I see Oliver, I shall congratulate him on his good fortune. But I believe you said he was not at home? Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find him?”

Garnet felt a twinge of puzzled irritation. She had thought she was going to like the California traders, but she did not like this one. Talking to him was about as cheerful as talking to a snowball. But she tried to be polite.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ives, but my husband has taken some goods up to Taos. I’m expecting him back in a day or two.”

“I see,” said John Ives. “In that case, I shall not trouble you further. Please tell Oliver that I am lodging with Señor Ramos. It’s where I usually stay. He’ll know how to find me.”

He made a movement toward the door. Garnet held out her hand. “Don’t you want to leave the letter you brought for him?”

“Letter?” He took a step backward, and frowned. “What letter?”

“Didn’t you say you had a letter for Oliver?”

John shook his head gravely. “I don’t recall mentioning a letter, Mrs. Hale.”

“But you did!” Garnet protested. This was getting stranger and stranger. “I don’t understand much Spanish, but I understood that. You said ‘Tengo una carta para Don Olivero.’ You said it quite clearly.”

His lips parted in what she supposed she would have to consider a smile. It was not a friendly smile, nor even an unfriendly one; it was simply the courteous movement of the lips that a man might make if he picked up a strange woman’s handkerchief in the street and returned it to her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hale,” he said, “but I am afraid you must blame your imperfect knowledge of the language. I said nothing about a letter.”

Garnet felt her irritation rising. He did have a letter; he had said so when he thought she was Señorita Silva and he was about to ask her to bring Oliver out to receive it. But now that he had discovered she was Oliver’s wife and Oliver was out of town, he was not going to trust her with it. She tried to hold on to her temper, but she could not help showing her annoyance as she said,

“You needn’t be afraid to leave it, Mr. Ives. I don’t read letters that aren’t addressed to me.”

“I have no letter for Oliver, Mrs. Hale,” he answered curtly. “Good evening.”

He turned again toward the door. Garnet bit her lip. She thought he was the most insolent man she had ever seen. John was about to go out when another shadow fell across the threshold and Florinda’s voice called,

“Garnet! Shall I come on in?” She stopped as she saw a stranger. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know you had company.”

Florinda looked very lovely in a blue dress with yellow gloves and ribbons, and a blue scarf over her hair. For an instant neither John nor Garnet said anything. Garnet was struggling to swallow her wrath. John was not moved by Florinda’s beauty; he only looked mildly surprised to see another woman who was obviously not a native. Florinda glanced from one of them to the other.

“I guess you’re busy,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll come back later.”

“Oh no, please!” Garnet exclaimed. She was glad to see Florinda. Maybe Florinda’s easy humor would loosen up this tight knot of humanity before them. “Mrs. Grove,” she said courteously, “may I present Mr. Ives?”

John bowed. “How do you do, Mrs. Grove,” he said, and Florinda smiled brightly, saying,

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

“Mr. Ives is Oliver’s partner from California,” Garnet explained. “He arrived with the Los Angeles traders this morning.”

“Not really!” Florinda said. She came inside. Setting her sewing-basket on the table, she looked him over. “Gee, mister, you sure made a quick change! I can’t believe it—the shave, the haircut, the fine raiment! Did you bring all those clothes with you?”

John gave her his chilly smile. “No. Some of the women in Santa Fe spend the winter sewing for us. If you saw us as we rode in this morning, you will understand that we are glad to have new clothes when we get here.”

He was no more cordial with her than he had been with Garnet, but Florinda was never abashed when there was a man around. She stroked the black braid on his scarlet sleeve.

“They do a mighty fine job of it. Do you live in California?”

“Yes, I live there.”

“But you’re an American, aren’t you? Where’d you come from, back in the States?”

“I was born in Virginia, Mrs. Grove.”

“Virginia. Pretty place, I’ve heard. Never been there myself.” But even she could not help feeling his chill. She looked up at him inquiringly. “Say, really, are you sure I’m not in the way? I can come back to see Garnet any time. I live just around the—”

From outside they heard footsteps, and men’s voices raised in song.

Oh, the dust it blows and it tickles your nose

And it lasts a long, long way,

But the girls and the wine are mighty fine

When you get to Santa Fe!

With the last word came a noisy pounding on the wall beside the door.

“Hey, Oliver! Anybody home?”

John shrugged slightly, evidently not surprised, as three men burst in through the open doorway. They were all talking at once.

“Hi there, John! Well, and two beautiful ladies already! How’d you get so lucky? Introduce us. Where’s Oliver?”