The Fugitive (10 page)

“Are you finished?” said Guadalvo.

“Yes. I shall never open my lips to speak to you again.”

Christy carried him swiftly up the line of the marching column, and she heard the shrill cadence of his whistle come back to her. Another shadow crossed her. She looked up to the giant, Gualterio, with his quirt hanging from his wrist.

“Insolent devil,” said Gualterio. “My brother Valentin may let you speak as if he were your slave, but I shall not permit it. Do we not all know that you stole a horse and drove him into outlawry to take back what was his own? Do we not know that you would have sent a bullet through his heart, if a kind God had not turned it aside, last night? What wrong had he done you, then? And if it were not for the daughter of de los Pazos for whom you must be a ransom, I would tie you to the tail of that horse, and whip it through the cactus. Do you remember this thing . . . and watch your tongue.”

He glared at her for an instant, and then fell back, but Constancia rode on in a weary trance. Surely, in her life, she had done a thousand worse things to other men, and they had thanked her for it. They had come a thousand miles when she beckoned. And when she was tired of them, she had dismissed them with a wave of her hand. Yet they had willingly forgiven her. And she could call them back a second and a third time. But it seemed that there were differences between them. Some were lead, and some were steel that had passed through fire and cold water. Valentin Guadalvo was steel, indeed.

They made a late noon halt. Once more she and Teresa moiled and toiled to carry wood for the fire. Once more the crisp voice of a man called—“This is for you!”—and threw a few tortillas at her.

She snatched them out of the air. Nothing had tasted half so divine as this food. She saw yonder man grinning and nodding.

“Hunger teaches us better things than Latin,” he said.

She stared at him. What did he know of Latin? What was he beneath his shaggy whiskers? But what were all these others? Perhaps not altogether the scum of the earth, but free men, valuing themselves and their freedom.

All the eastern faces of the hills were painted crimson with the low-hanging sun. Long purple shadows crept from the western mountains, and every ravine was pooled with blue water.

“There will be something more than talk in a day or so. See those two heads together.”

So said some one in the procession of riders near to her. Constancia looked ahead, seeing de los Pazos and Guadalvo sitting their horses, side by side, in close conference. She looked back in her mind to other things—to the dreamy brown eyes that had seemed to look through her and have no knowledge of her as she walked past on the deck of the
Santa Lucia
—to the flashing arc of a man's body diving over the rail and then cleaving through the deep waters of the ocean—to the wild man who had leaped from behind the rocks and charged down upon them for the sake of Christy, like a tiger upon a dog pack—to the form that had thrust open her door and strode toward her, making her eyes dim as she pulled the trigger of her revolver.

She stared at him again as he sat beside de los Pazos. He was not far away, and yet he was as distant and unknown as the farthest star in the heavens. A thing to be guessed at rather than known.

 

Twice they shifted the angling course of their march. Once, looking down from the lofty shoulder of a mountain, they saw a long cloudy streak of white across the face of the sandy plain below them. The soldiers of the president, marching in pursuit of the bandits. And those hardy rascals looked and laughed. How sublime was their faith in their leaders.

Then, in a gray morning, they came out of a mountain defile and swept down toward a little valley, round as a basin, and green as an emerald, with a dozen watercourses streaking it with silver. The line of riders opened out, ten yards between each man. They looked, as they rode, like a long, supple, curving whip. Like a whip, they curled around that little valley and drove all that lived into a central pool. Horses, cattle, sheep, goats, and vaqueros, goatherds, villagers all were assembled on the bank of the river beneath the great sabina trees.

“You may be the judge, Valentin, my son,” said de los Pazos. “You should have training in these affairs. Suppose that a bullet should snuff me out, one of these days? My men must not be left without light.”

Guadalvo sat on a rock on the edge of the river. The captives went before him, one by one. Besides Guadalvo he had selected three poor men, two goatherds, and a ragged beggar.

“What is this man?” he would say.

“That is Domingo, the moneylender.”

“But a kind moneylender, is he not? He lets the day go by and waits for his money?”

“Alas, señor, business is business with Domingo.”

“Gualterio, take our friend Domingo. Talk to him and learn where he keeps his money. Perhaps you will have to persuade him. When you find what he has, take what you think is a fair share. Now who is this man?” He would point to another.

“That is Agustin Almadares, the rich owner of sheep. It was he who loaned me enough to make a beginning of my flock.”

“That is enough. For that kind act to a poor man, Almadares, you are free. Let the next man step out.”

So ran the judgments. Constancia listened and wondered. It was all very swift. When it was ended, they left the little valley with fat spoil in cattle and fleet-footed goats, to say nothing of hard cash. Yet she felt that there was little bitterness left behind the plunderers. There had been a certain justice in all that was done. She herself wondered at it. However, perhaps Don Valentin was a little more lenient than the chief would have had him.

“Justice, my son,” said de los Pazos, “is sometimes a luxury. You must remember that.”

Now they wound away through the steep mountains, driving their spoil before them. They had taken enough. All hearts were happy. Their valley homes were not far away. They came down into the long gorge, and Constancia, staring at the twisting line of adobe houses, wondered why it was that the government troops had failed to destroy the nest of these wasps, once they had mastered the place.

“I'll tell you about that,” said one of the brigands of whom she asked that question. “Too many of those fellows did not know when they would be wanting to find a home in one of those same cottages.”

That, perhaps, was the answer.

A rider came spurring to meet them. Other riders came in his wake, shouting and waving their hats. People began to gather in front of the houses, like little spots of moving color in the distance.

That first messenger carried news that had a meaning for Constancia. Word had come into the mountains that the president of the republic had considered the matters proposed to him by Señor Alvarez. He would gladly liberate Lila de los Pazos in exchange for Constancia. But as for Guadalvo—he was something too much beside the mark.

Constancia, fixing her eyes on the face of Guadalvo, saw that his expression had not changed. He bore this news with the faintest of smiles. A sort of helpless rage swelled the heart of the girl. If she could once startle him from his self-control—if she could see him again, as he had been on the never-forgotten day when he fought for Christy against such great odds.

She was given a place in a hovel halfway down the scattering street of the village. In a cracked half of a mirror she saw herself for the first time in long, long days. She was a new creature. Her clothes were tatters. Her black hair was sun-faded a trifle here and there. Her face was a deep, deep walnut brown, with a big gray streak across the cheek where a chaparral thorn had scraped a day before. The palms of her hands were bruised with work. She looked, indeed, like one who has really faced a long and mighty storm.

From this same storm and stress, Guadalvo emerged cheerful. But it was a false smoothness, she felt. Once she could strike beneath the surface, she was certain that the tiger would show its head as she had seen it before.

At least, physical hardships had ended. The old woman who kept the house cooked and cleaned. There was nothing for the girl to do except to fill up the long, idle hours as best she might.

Evening came. A great bonfire was lighted in the rude little plaza that composed the center of the village, where the goats cropped the grass short in the day and the gossips gathered in the evening. In honor of the return of Don Guido, there was rejoicing on this day of days.

Guitars were thrumming, castanets clattered musically, and around the light of the fire the girls whirled through their dances. They danced alone, until, at a given signal, which was a shrill screech uttered by one of the men, the cavaliers also sprang into the circle. Each chose the lady of his pleasure, and they whirled through a breathless measure or two.

Constancia watched. She watched with a smile, and then with her head nodding to the rhythm.

Don Valentin himself stood among the onlookers. The signal came, and he stepped forward leisurely, while the other men sprang like panthers. He stepped forward at ease, sure of himself. Constancia saw that same pretty vixen, Teresa, dodge past the outstretched fingers of two other admirers and come laughingly home to the arms of this Guadalvo. How enchanted was Teresa to dance with so great a man. How her eyes shone, and her face flushed, until she outshone the other girls as the moon outshines the brightest stars.

The dance ended, and there stood Guadalvo, his arms folded, mildly amused, smiling on the merriment. It angered Constancia, and it something more than angered her. She felt that she hated this Teresa, and yet she had no reason for hatred. It was simply a burning thing in her breast, without a reason.

Now see Constancia hastily at work. She thrusts from the garden of the little house a great red rose in her hair, and she pins a cluster of slender buds at her breast. Her ancient hostess looks on with a toothless grin of understanding and of excitement. And she brings suddenly a net of opalescent spangles that she throws over the shoulders of the girl.

Before the cracked fragment of a mirror, Constancia turns herself about and about. There are plenty of tatters still to be seen, but the spangles are a brilliant veil. The rose in her hair is a blur of color—and she hurries out into the night.

Through the outer circle of the watchers she passes, unnoticed. But as the dance began again, and as the girls whirled through their steps with the yellow tides of firelight washing about them, Constancia danced in turn. She knew those steps of her native country. She knew, also, certain refinements of grace that dancing masters in older and politer lands had schooled her in. When she began her dancing, she did not need the rattle of a castanet to call attention to her steps.

She saw the face of Teresa, with the dancer's smile frozen on her lips and her eyes big with anger and envy. But the others were not even close enough to rival her. They could wonder and applaud with smiles and nods, like so many men.

And the men? She saw them sit up and then come to their feet. She saw their eyes glistening, and the white flash of their teeth as they smiled in appreciation. But that was not all. Yonder, Guadalvo, the proud and the complacent—what of him? She saw that his smile had gone out, and that was her first triumph. She saw that his face had grown stern, and that was the second step.

But here was the tall, grim figure of Gualterio. Before him she danced—for him she danced—for him she smiled, but, ever from the corner of her eyes, she watched closely the face of Guadalvo. It was not a hard look to read and the print was not exceedingly small. In another man, she would have called this jealousy, plain and simple. Why not in Guadalvo himself, for he was mortal?

The screeching signal sounded. Gualterio, his face aflame, started toward her, but she spun away. She whirled toward Guadalvo through the crowd and saw him suddenly leap forward to meet her. There was no calm complacency in him, now. He came with a set face and a stern eye. Almost in his touch, she floated back like a feather before the wind—Gualterio and Guadalvo met at the same instant.

The tremendous bass of Gualterio was crying: “She is mine, Valentin! I touched her first!”

“Gualterio,” said the other, “you are wrong.”

“Do you tell me that I lie, Valentin?” The music had fallen into an uncertain melody. The dancers were ceasing on every side. She heard the voice of de los Pazos shouting in the distance and coming rapidly closer, sternly commanding them not to touch one another.

But they had gone much too far to stop. She herself stood between them. The great hard-fingered hand of Gualterio gripped one of her arms. That of Guadalvo held the other. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly. Their eyes flashed at each other. These were the men who had been in the habit of calling one another brother. She remembered that, and laughed softly in her heart of hearts.

“This is not a place to be taking advantage of your place as lieutenant, Valentin.”

“You use me, Gualterio, because I have been kind to you.”

“Do you accuse me of that?”

“I do.”

“Then you lie.”

“Have a care.”

“Bah. Guadalvo, I despise you. This is for your heart.”

High words and even a blow, perhaps, she had expected. But this was something more. She saw the knife leave its sheath at the belt of Gualterio. It flashed in the firelight like a streak of crimson, straight at the throat of Stephen Macdona. But the latter was a shade faster. He had not waited to draw either gun or knife. A set of hard knuckles thudded against the jawbone of Gualterio and turned his eyes to glass. He fell on his face, with the knife rattling on a stone, far away.

Over him Macdona leaned for an instant, his whole body tense, until it seemed to the girl that he would throw himself on the stunned form of Castellar.

He recalled himself instantly, however, threw a wild glance at her, and walked hastily through the circle and away into the black of the night.