Suzanna (6 page)

Suzanna stood where she was for a spell, contemplating the fact that life along the San Carmelo River was vastly more interesting than it was at the
Rancho de Gutierrez
. The man had taken her breath away, a sensation hard work had never produced.

As the minutes passed, and she realized that the stranger was not coming back, she fell to her knees, and picking up the mogador, brushed away the sand which clung to it. And then, with a purely feminine gesture, she held it up to her waist to get the effect of it.

“Bless the saints,” she whispered to herself, “there cannot be anything more beautiful. And yet, he talks of even finer things. Truly, the man who selected this was no fool. He must have looked at many before he made his choice.”

CHAPTER VI

S
UZANNA
'
S
thoughts were far from fishing as she stretched her length upon the moss-covered bank. beside the sluggish San Carmelo. As she lay there, day-dreaming, a crackling of brush behind her caused her to sit up in some agitation. Her first thought was that Pérez was returning. Quickly hiding the silk, she sat stiffly and waited. Imagine her surprise, then, when a six months' old cinnamon cub broke from cover almost at her feet.

The bear was not less frightened than she. Turning tail, he dashed back into the manzanita which bordered the river.

Suzanna's fear soon left her, and she became possessed of a mad desire to own that little cub. A large field of wheat lay beyond the narrow strip of underbrush, and she knew if she could drive the cub into it, that he would have little chance of getting away. Seizing Pico's lead rope, and fashioning it into a crude lariat, she dashed after the fleeing bear.

The cub made slower progress through the chaparral than did the girl. The noise of her coming, and her cries of pain as briars and thorns tore her skin, cost the bear his wits, and abandoning his native caution he bounded into the wheat field. The grain had been harvested some weeks ago, and the new shoots were only up some foot and a half.

Suzanna caught sight of the bear as soon as she was out of the brush, and with a wild halloo she set after him.

Thanks to her masculine attire, she soon managed to draw up on the cub. Judging herself close enough to slip the noose over his head, she sailed it through the air. The treacherous ground upset her, and she sprawled her length. The force with which she landed rung a grunt from her lips.

The sound was a new one to the cub's ears, and his curiosity not to be denied, he turned, impudently, and surveyed her. When Suzanna sat up the bear was still there, resting on his haunches.

The girl grinned at him as she rubbed her tortured body. “So, my fine fellow,” she cried, “you sit and laugh at me, eh? You wait!”

Cautiously regaining her rope and coiling it, she sprang toward him, but the bear was not caught unaware. With a bound, he was off for the other end of the field. The King's Highway passed there, and the cub, hesitating to cross where there was no cover at all, circled back toward a huge straw stack fairly in line with the girl.

A game of tag began as they dashed round and round the stack. Suzanna's dog had joined the pair and the chase. Hearing a noise behind her, the girl felt that the bear had started to chase her, and without stopping to reason, ran for an old cypress tree, which stood beside the road, and took refuge in it.

The cub, however, had tired of the game some minutes before and had taken refuge in the same tree. At the moment that Suzanna was scrambling up, the cub was perched on a limb above her calmly surveying the scene.

Suzanna, having reached the first limb, backed out on it a few feet and then came to a sudden halt. Something was pressing against her back! Exactly what it was, she couldn't have told, but she knew it was alive! Casting a backward glance across her shoulder, she saw the bear. With a scream, she began moving out upon the limb. For now, that she was within a hair's breadth of it,
she
became the quarry, and not the cub. Roping a bear was one thing; capturing it with bare hands while astride the limb of a tree, fifteen feet above the ground, was something else again. Suzanna decided to continue retreating—and did—onto another limb on the other side of the tree. The cub, sensing Suzanna's waning interest, became playfully inclined, and started in pursuit. Suzanna slid backward toward the lower end of the limb. The cub crept toward her. Not realizing its intentions, the girl began shouting for help. She was in no particular danger, a moment's thought would have assured her of that, but she had become panic-stricken, and her cries carried conviction.

Ramon, riding at the head of his wagon-train, stood in his stirrups as he caught the faint sound of someone calling for help. The boy cast an anxious look ahead of him, and then turned to his peons to see if they betrayed any sign of having heard that strange call. The poor devils had crawled back to the wagon soon after Pérez and his band had disappeared, asking for the punishment they so richly deserved. Ramon had left their punishment to Ruiz, knowing that he would exact many extra hours in the fields from them for their cowardice.

The boy saw that they were on edge now, and with a call to his
sobrestante
, he dashed away toward the low ridge that topped the wide draw in which the wagon moved. On the crest, he stopped for an instant to better locate the source of those cries. He was near enough the tree to which Suzanna and the bear had retreated to be able to see a form dangling from a lower limb. Giving his horse the spurs, he sped toward the old cypress.

“Hold there!” he called to what he believed to be a full-grown boy: “Let go when I give the word. Now!”

Suzanna's face had been turned upward as she clung to the limb, and due to her excitement she had not recognized Ramon's voice. He was equally ignorant of whom he rescued. And so, when he caught her and they looked into each other's eyes, astonishment gripped both of them.

“Holy Mother,” Suzanna gasped. “You?”

“None other,
marimacho
,” Ramon answered vexedly. “What is it you do here?”

“Hast eyes, petulant one?” Suzanna scolded.

The boy's teeth flashed in a wide grin as he caught sight of the cub. “Oh, hoi” he chuckled the while he nodded his head mockingly. “You best be careful whose trees you climb. Were you trying to capture him?”

“Humph! I was trying to get
away
from him.”

Ramon's laughter grew as she told him of the incident.

“Your father and his men can take care of the cub. I'll carry you back to Pico, and see you safely to the hacienda. The country is too unsettled these days for you to be wandering off in this manner. And how, by the way, do you make of this a holiday?”

“Are you cross with me, my Ramon?” Suzanna asked naïvely.

“Have I ever been,
camarada?
”

Suzanna pinched his cheek playfully and ended by giving it an affectionate pat. “My father will scold when he hears that I have been away since noon.” She stopped speaking until her eyes held the boy's. “He does not scold—much—when you tell him that your father is not displeased.”

“
Si
, I understand,” Ramon nodded. “I shall intercede for you,
once more!
”

He reached for her playfully, and Suzanna in trying to dodge away from his arms dropped the piece of silk which had been hidden in her blouse. Ramon's hand shot out and captured it before it reached the ground. The boy instantly recognized the mogador. “How do you come by this?” he demanded sharply.

“Art jealous?” Suzanna asked saucily. “And surprised, my Ramon? Am I so plain that you marvel to find others making presents to me?”

The boy had gripped her wrists savagely. The pressure of his fingers, as well as the grim set of his jaw, sobered the girl. Open-mouthed she stared at him.

“Present?” Ramon whipped out angrily. “I selected that piece of silk for you myself,—this very day aboard a smuggling ship from Boston, now anchored in Monterey Bay!”

“
You
selected it?” Suzanna gasped, unable to understand the boy's words. “You say that you selected it for me,” she exclaimed, “and yet I have it here,—the gift of one who is a stranger to you. If you selected it how came it out of your possession?”

“It was taken from me not an hour since,” cried Ramon, his anger unabated. “We were attacked by the bandit, Benito Pérez, as we came to
El Paso del Viento
.”

“Benito Pérez!” Suzanna let the man's name tremble upon her tongue.

“Holy Mother of God!” she muttered chokingly as she crossed herself. “I've been kissed by the most famous robber in California!”

CHAPTER VII

A
LTHOUGH
Don Fernando had not communicated his misgivings to his friend, Diego de Sola, that gentleman was most miserable on his own account; life in Mexico City having proved anything but what he had anticipated. His interests were largely centered in his hacienda in California, and however blue the day, he drew solace from the fact that he would soon be returning to that land of sunshine, where, God be praised, his daughter would soon be safely wed.

Disquieting news at this time would have been too much, for Don Diego's cup of misery was already overflowing, his daughter's education proving a greater task than his gray hairs could manage. He paced his tastefully appointed study on this particular night, agitation and worry plainly written upon his handsome face.

He paused as someone knocked for admission. In reply to his command to enter, the door opened to admit a middle-aged woman. Quietly closing the door behind her, she hesitated, in evident embarrassment, before speaking.

Don Diego sensed her confusion. “No need to ask,” he exclaimed. “You bring bad news.”

The woman bowed her head unhappily. “I regret that it is so,” she answered. “Señora Carrera positively refuses to permit Chiquita to return to her studies.”

Señor de Sola flung himself into a chair at this news, holding his tongue by a supreme effort. At sight of his anger, the woman hastened to add:

“I have pleaded—threatened almost—but she will not relent. She says the girl has too often violated the rules of the school to deserve another chance. She even refers to her as a girl without—the—er—sense of right or wrong. “I——”

“Precisely what is my daughter accused of doing?” Don Diego demanded with asperity.

Instead of answering, the woman resorted to tears. “I—I—do not want to say,” she managed to stammer at last.

“But you shall!” Chiquita's father exclaimed. “I command you to tell me! Yon are her
duenna;
you have been closer to her than I have; I employed you to keep her reputation consistent with the position she and I occupy. If the girl has done wrong, then you are partly to blame. You should have restrained her,—kept me informed. Now she is sent home in disgrace; and yet you hesitate to tell me what the girl has done?”

De Sola's angry words but increased the misery of the poor woman before him. “I have tried to protect her,” she said between sobs. “I have aided her in every way; but she has taken advantage of me.”

“But what has she done?” the irate father thundered as he got to his feet.

“She has been escaping from school and meeting young men clandestinely.”

“What?” Don Diego's usually calm brown eyes grew almost black as this startling news greeted his ears. White-lipped, he approached the
duenna
. “Is this true?” he cried excitedly. “Do you mean to tell me that my daughter has so far forgotten herself and her breeding as to be guilty of such baseness?”

“Señora Carrera insists that it is. She went so far as to say that her school would be ruined if fathers and mothers learned that one of her pupils had committed such misdeeds. That is why she even refuses to think of taking her back.”

“Where have your eyes been?” Don Diego demanded. “Have you been blind that you did not see or suspect as much? I trusted you with the honor of my family,—and now I am forced to bow my head in shame. Poor witless wretch, I owe you a debt, indeed. Pack your things and be gone!”

“It were easy to blame me,” the
duenna
answered with a show of spirit. “Had your own child as much consideration for your good name as I have had there would be no talk of shame. My back has never been turned before she was up to mischief. I am glad to go. Never has a woman been tried as I have been.”

Don Diego made no attempt to answer her, and starting for the door, the woman stopped as she passed a window overlooking the moon-lit garden.

“See!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the patio. “There is added proof if you want it! The girl has not been in the house ten minutes, but already she finds time for further misconduct.”

De Sola pointed to the door. “Go!” he ordered sternly, but no sooner had the woman quitted the room than he leaped to the window and raked the garden with his eyes.

It was a beautiful evening,—a night made for love and lovers. From above shone the moon in all its full resplendence; scintillating stars wreath-like around it. Iridescent moon-beams cast shimmering shadows on the rose-strewn, trellised garden. As the don's eyes became accustomed to the light, he made out two figures in the shadow of the patio wall; one a man—a stranger; the other a girl—his daughter.

Uttering an angry exclamation, he turned from the window and, pausing only to buckle on his sword, he rushed downstairs and into the garden.

Chiquita lay in the man's arms, unaware of approaching disaster. She was a radiantly beautiful girl, or rather woman, for there was little of the shy, unsophisticated girl, which she had been when she first came to Mexico City, left in her.

Her sultry beauty seemed to intoxicate the stranger. Her lips, rich, full, had tasted his kisses and she lay back now, daring him on with her smoky eyes. The stranger accepted her challenge, and pressed her to him again and again.