FKLICITA.
 
 A MAID 
 OF SONOBA, 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES E. HAAS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BROADWAY 
 PUBLISHING 
 COMPANY
 
 Copyrighted, 1905, 
 
 IT 
 
 CHARLES E. HAAS. 
 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 "En Mejico" , I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Felicita 8 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 El Desdichado 12 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Un Viaje 27 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 La Ninita 38 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 La Madre 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 El Discipulo 59 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 El Adelantada 67 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Una Culpa 81 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 El Corazon 84 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 1 Redentor 90
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 La Querida *. 95 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 La Fortaleza 108 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 La Amiga 123 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 El Mcnsaje 128 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 La Tristeza 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 El Rendir 140 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 La Novia 145 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 La Hacienda 151
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Felicita, Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hermocillo, 5 
 
 The old Quadrangle, Stanford, 70
 
 A MAID OF SONORA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 "EN MEJICO."* 
 
 "It is the season when the light of dreams 
 Around the year in golden glory lies." 
 
 THERE are still a few men in the far-off state 
 of Sonora who, on festal days, stand in small 
 groups about the playing-houses of Hermosillo, 
 lounge listlessly about the plaza, smoke cigar 
 ettes, exchange experiences and wager on their 
 favorite horses. Many of these men are old; 
 their once green cloaks, the universal badge of 
 the regular Mexican war veteran, have long 
 since faded into gray; their trousers or shoes, 
 which in no manner, either in cut or style, pre 
 tend to the vanished glory of their cloaks, are 
 much the worse for wear, but their various col 
 ored bandannas, wound about their necks in 
 jealous pride, and their sombreros, or hats, 
 
 * In Mexico.
 
 2 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 resplendent with trimmings of silver beads, 
 show no mark of age. There are some few 
 among them, very few, who were the proud 
 followers of Santa Ana; men who fought 
 against the Northern invaders like so many 
 demons, but they are old now, old and feeble, 
 and the fire has died out of their hearts, though 
 it still glistens in their dark, black eyes, and 
 often lurks in a dagger's blade, to be handed 
 down to rising generations until the end of 
 time. Among them, too, are men, some old, 
 some still middle-aged, who unaided by gov 
 ernment troops, time and time again have 
 beaten back marauding Apaches and Yaquis. 
 
 Her fortunate neighbor of the north has 
 long since settled for herself the momentous 
 Indian question. There the red man as a hero 
 has passed away. King Philip and Pontiac, 
 Tansey, Big Crow and Natchez have left no 
 braves behind them. The spirit of their brav 
 ery has passed to the great beyond, save as it 
 lingers through mystical legends and vague 
 histories. But Mexico must have patience. 
 The inhabitants of Sonora and Sinaloa have yet 
 to battle with the red man. 
 
 To-day the air is hushed and still. Scarcely 
 a breath quivers in the fervid heat, as Hermo- 
 cillo, resting in the heart of Sonora, is taking 
 her usual siesta. The sun, who for ages has 
 glanced relentlessly down upon the long adobes
 
 "En Mejico." ; 3 
 
 of tHe Mexican pueblo, seems to renew fiis war 
 face and seek out every nook and corner of the 
 quaint old town. The long, white buildings 
 glare back in hopeless defiance, but their in 
 mates take no part in this vain resistance. 
 The streets are motionless, saving where an oc 
 casional pepper tree drowsily waves its feathery 
 leaves or drops a brilliant red berry upon the 
 smooth, brown carpet beneath. 
 
 Slowly the sun sinks in the west. The de 
 serted plaza awakens after a long nap. Here 
 and there palms begin to nod and fountains 
 to play. Little birds come out of their sleeping 
 places to twitter and dance in the cooling air. 
 Here and there, too, a bee buzzes about the 
 flower beds as if in final pursuit of a sweet 
 morsel. 
 
 The shadows are stealing further towards 
 the north, and the cool breeze coming 
 in from the ocean glides more play 
 fully among the trees. The old town actually 
 yawns, sleepily rubs her eyes and lazily awak 
 ens ere the day is done. The streets arouse 
 from their inactivity, mantilla-draped forms be 
 gin to pass and repass one another, and gallant 
 sombreros are silently touched in token of 
 homage. 
 
 Hermocillo is once more awake. Men are 
 flocking to the plaza. Outside the city, cattle 
 and flocks of sheep are being driven onto the 
 patreros and placed into their various corrals
 
 4 f A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 of chapparal and thorn bush. The fondas and 
 playing-houses are filling with loungers gath 
 ered together partly to pass a few social hours, 
 partly to boast of their feats and powers, all 
 anxious to share in the merrymaking of the 
 night. 
 
 It is early evening, and to-day is the fifteenth 
 of August. Vega, the famous old warrior of 
 true Mexican type, has just thrown upon his 
 bronco a saddle of many trappings, put on 
 his great silver spurs, twice the size of 
 a Mexican peseto, and is directing his course 
 towards the town. It is remarked that his dress 
 is a little out of the usual this evening. Clothed 
 in all the splendor of his time and rank, he 
 wears a new pair of buckskin trousers, laced at 
 the shoe in Spanish fashion, and held in place by 
 a wide, beautifully stitched, silver ornamented 
 leather belt an heirloom, as he boasts, of the 
 original Garcia, the boon companion of Cortez. 
 His green and yellow silk shirt, made for him 
 by his faithful Dona in the days of their court 
 ship, declares the taste of a Sinaloan. The 
 pride of his heart is his sombrero, ornamented 
 in gold and silver, which he wears with native 
 grace. His vest is green, of a coarse broad 
 cloth, with a double row of darker braid run 
 ning down the front. Slightly thrown over 
 his shoulders he wears this insignia of his 
 former vocation the short green cloak of a 
 Mexican soldier.
 
 y "En Mejico." 5 
 
 Dusty and perspiring, the brave old general 
 of many a combat, draws up his steed before 
 the adobe mansion of the alcalde, the mayor 
 of Hermocillo. He has ridden eight miles 
 for this festal occasion, and he thanks his 
 patron saint that the journey is ended. 
 
 Many of the guests have already arrived. 
 The air is filled with the merry laughter of the 
 sefioritas, and the muffled tuning of guitars. 
 There is to be a ball and a great barbecue, for 
 is not the wedding of Don Feliz and Palladita, 
 the most dearly beloved of all the country 
 round, an occasion for the greatest festivity? 
 
 "Excepting your mercies," are the words of 
 the general, as a few moments later he sits 
 talking with an animated little group of ad 
 mirers on the broad veranda, "there is no braver 
 man in Mexico than our Don here. The Opates 
 say the glance of his eye is deadly, Gondara 
 has promised fabulous prices for his capture 
 dead or alive. Tonari, the old rogue, lurks 
 in his mountain stronghold advising his Yaquis 
 to sign no treaty or truce with him, declaring 
 that this youth of twenty-five is their angel of 
 destruction; that all the Yaquis must die who 
 come within his presence." 
 
 "Caramba! It is well for you," replied an 
 Hidalgo, who had been attentively listening to 
 the old man "to boast of our host on his wed 
 ding day. To-morrow may dim his colors and 
 leave him less a hero," and a stealthy, revenge-
 
 6 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 ful smile crept over his dark, melancholy fea 
 tures. "Caramba!" and he turned from his 
 audience. 
 
 "Sefior," replied Vega, "the man who depre 
 ciates the honor and the valor of Sefior Feliz 
 Mendez, draws his sword on the Republic, and 
 injures every loyal-hearted patriot, and I, 
 Senor, for one, consider it a personal affront. 
 Your words are those of a jealous lover, not of 
 a fellow-in-arms. It speaks not well of either 
 your loyalty to Mexico, or to the generous- 
 heartedness of your forefathers. Be careful, 
 Sefior, lest you should have to answer for your 
 rashness. The shadow that crosses the faces of 
 your hearers broods no good will towards you," 
 and the old man turned with impatient disdain 
 from the chagrined Mexican as the bridal 
 couple entered. 
 
 After the good priest's benediction, the mer 
 riment proceeded, and the conversation resumed 
 its musical hum, as the soft cadence of the 
 Southern tongue mingled with the sweet har 
 mony of the music. Amid the joyous laughter 
 and the festive merriment was heard the saucy 
 breaking of the cascaron, and the jetty black 
 hair of the Mexican damsel soon sparkled with 
 bright bits of colored tinsel and ornaments 
 which the quaint globes or shells contained ; 
 and amid compliments and laughter the dance 
 began. ^ 
 
 When, weary with the dance, all were called
 
 "En Mejico." 7 
 
 to a barbecue without, the alcalde was seen sud 
 denly to turn to his daughter with the question, 
 "Palladita, and why so pale?" but this inquiry 
 brought forth only a smile from the lips of the 
 maiden. 
 
 Someone's eyes had watched the groom in 
 cessantly as he moved among his guests. Some 
 one's envy was aroused to fever heat, and every 
 word of good will or praise that fell to his 
 rival's share made the hatred in his heart the 
 more bitter and the thirst for vengeance the 
 more keen. Someone's jealousy was brooding 
 and scheming the ruin of a fair young life, 
 and there were whisperings that may have 
 reached the ears of the Dona. "Did you notice 
 as he spoke a word in the ear of the bride, and 
 did you see how pale she looked as she shook 
 her head? I fear that Manuel has no love for 
 Don Feliz ; let him beware. It is the old story 
 of the rejected lover and his revenge. But 
 why should the Hidalgo care? There are 
 others as fair in Mexico who would love him."
 
 !A! Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FELICITA.* 
 
 " 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
 The awakening continents, from shore to 
 
 shore, 
 Somewhere the birds are singing, evermore." 
 
 TO-MORROW will begin the Fiesta de Sonora 
 the three-day season of the Mardi Gras, pre 
 ceding Lent three days of processions, pa 
 rades and balls, a carnival of roses and merry 
 making. Handsome floats, gay knights and 
 fair ladies, gorgeously attired in mediaeval cos 
 tumes, will escort King Carnival to the Plaza 
 de Armas to invest him with the keys of the 
 city, that he may order his heralds to proclaim 
 a season of unrestrained joy and hilarity. To 
 night there is to be a "serenata" and to-morrow 
 a "Battle of Flowers" on the Alemeda, with 
 cascarones, confetti and candies. All Hermo- 
 sillo is gay. At every turn may be heard the 
 strains of "La Golondrina," the national air. 
 
 * The Little Happy One.
 
 Felicita. 9 
 
 "Hidalgos" and "gentes de pueblo" alike 
 make merry. It is a time for music and laugh 
 ter and for the sound of wedding bells to be 
 re-echoed from the rocky summit of El Cerro 
 de la Campana.* 
 
 The Mexican world is again awakened to 
 the joyousness of a winter season. The Cas- 
 tilian roses seem to cling more lovingly to the 
 trellises over the broad veranda of their spa 
 cious home, the home of Don Feliz and Palla- 
 dita. The fountain dances more playfully in 
 their open courtyard. The sheep-bells seem to 
 tinkle more sweetly among the flocks on the 
 hacienda, and the love-light in Don Feliz's eyes 
 shines brighter than ever a little soul has 
 opened its eyes in their cradle of happiness. A 
 fair young mother gazes with worshipful bless 
 ing as Don Feliz raises a little wee urchin in 
 his arms. "Felicita, you shall be my 'Little 
 Happy One/ indeed." 
 
 The good Padre Mendez, the brother of the 
 Don, immediately began to build up great hopes 
 for his niece. Over the holy font he baptised 
 her "Felicita," the Little Happy One, meditat- 
 ign as he did so, "If God spare you, you shall 
 be my joy and the joy of my parish. When old 
 age overtakes me you shall be my comfort. 
 Yes, true, the bishop says I may soon be sent 
 to a new parish in the north, but what of that ? 
 
 * The Mountain of the Bell.
 
 io A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 It will not be so very far away, and Don Feliz 
 and Palladita will visit me and bring my Fe- 
 licita. Then when you grow up, you will sing 
 in my church sometimes, and minister to the 
 care of my parishioners. You will help me 
 with my poor Indian charges, and will teach 
 them to be Christians. Then God will reward 
 you and we shall both be happy;" and for a 
 time there were none happier in Mexico than 
 the padre, the mother and the father of the 
 little one. 
 
 Then the winds of the north once more 
 brought rumors of Indian invasion. A call 
 from the Government summoned Don Feliz 
 to arms. He scarcely hesitated. After one 
 long embrace he placed in the hands of Heaven 
 and the good priest his beloved wife and daugh 
 ter, and with words of cheer and encourage 
 ment, left them with a sad but brave heart to 
 the safe keeping of the holy man, and rushed 
 into the field to meet Pesquiero and Morales 
 against renegades and full bloods. What en 
 sued is a bitter history of Indian and Mexi 
 can warfare, almost too cruel to relate here, yet 
 an emancipation of bleeding Mexico ; one more 
 bond of Union under whose spell the Eagle and 
 the Serpent may learn greater things than 
 strife, feud and warfare. 
 
 Days glide tediously onward, fading into 
 weeks, and weeks into months. Meanwhile, 
 the good "padre" had been transferred to his
 
 Felicita. I 1 
 
 new parish in the north, the hacienda was 
 placed in the hands of an overseer, and the 
 mother and daughter retired for greater safety 
 to the convent near Hermocillo. Then it was 
 that Don Feliz returned to them and arranged 
 for their welfare, and as he departed at the 
 convent door, Palladita stooped, and raising the 
 baby, placed it in his arms, and the tears came 
 into both parents' eyes. 
 
 "No, I will not keep you, Feliz; a soldier's 
 duty is the protection of his country. When 
 you come back to us the little one and I will be 
 waiting for you if you do not come back, 
 then then you will be waiting for us, and God 
 will call us to you." Little did he think how 
 precious would be the memory of these mo 
 ments in later years. 
 
 Led on by a brave commander, his troops 
 fought with all the force of demons. They 
 gained a victory at Arispe and Matopl, were 
 checked at Noconi, and after a fearful struggle 
 recaptured the important city of Hermocillo, 
 and finally, after skirmish upon skirmish, 
 Sonora and Sinaloa were once more at peace. 
 
 With anxious anticipation and hopes of 
 peace and home and rest, Mendez saddled his 
 spirited pony and rode speedily over the sage 
 and cacti grown fields to the convent, to his wife 
 and child whom he had not seen for many 
 sorrow laden days.
 
 12 !A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EL DESDICHADO.* 
 
 "The sea of fortune doth not ever How, 
 She draws her favors to the lowest ebb" 
 
 AFTER a long ride Don Feliz Mendez and his 
 companions arrived at the hacienda. A brief 
 inspection and they again mounted and de 
 parted. 
 
 "Tired of waiting, Jose? We might as well 
 be journeying onward, looking about the 
 rancho. They didn't destroy as much as might 
 have been expected. Oh, we'll soon have things 
 looking quite different. You must come out 
 when the seiiora is here. Hope we will have 
 good rains this year, there is such great need 
 of them. Hand me a light, will you, Jose? 
 Thanks. One can ride easier while smoking. 
 'Bout two o'clock? I thought it was later. I 
 guess we will get to the convent before night 
 fall." 
 
 "Yes, the horses will be able to find the way 
 
 *The Unfortunate One.
 
 El Desdichado. 13 
 
 all right, Mendez. The Indians been meddling 
 much?" 
 
 "No, not much that I can see," replied Men 
 dez. "I had everything secured, however. 
 Everything will be looking well by spring. 
 Things just appear neglected. But I wonder 
 what became of the shepherds. They ought to 
 be round about here. However, we won't look 
 for them to-night. I'm confident that all is 
 well." They threw their horses into an easy 
 gallop and swayed rhythmically along, chatting 
 in a friendly manner. 
 
 At length they had crossed the rolling foot 
 hills, and passed into the more rugged canons, 
 coming, finally, to a place where the road 
 abruptly forked. 
 
 "We are at the parting of the ways, com- 
 pafiero. Here one follows the right or the 
 wrong. This trail to the right leads over a 
 steep baranka (cliff), at the foot of which, 
 however, a half-breed named Cabeza, 'Cabeza- 
 Loca,* they call him, keeps a respectable fonda.f 
 The left leads over the mesa, also to the con 
 vent, but it is longer, and has no stopping 
 places. The choice, compaiiero, lies with you." 
 
 "I haven't been in these hills much, but let 
 us find the 'Loco.' He may have news of the 
 sefiora and the little one. These little inns usu 
 ally know all that happens. The convent, they 
 say, is safe, but there is no knowing what that 
 
 * Crazy-head. t Inn.
 
 14 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 robber, Cortiorque may, even now, be at. He 
 is a sneaking coward. He never shows a 
 feather at which one may fire a shot." 
 
 "Did you say Cortiorque? Manuel Corti 
 orque? Surely, this is the man to whom the 
 'Loco' owes his life, and what is more, I have 
 heard him say at Ures, that he had sworn to 
 avenge a wrong for this same Cortiorque in 
 payment for it. Some love affair, no doubt. 
 He speaks much over the red wine, this half- 
 breed, but when sober he's as sullen as a dog." 
 
 As his companion spoke the old lines of 
 dread again settled upon the temples of Don 
 Feliz. When Jose ceased the Don did not 
 break the silence. The atmosphere seemed sud 
 denly to be filled with forebodings. The weird- 
 ness of it all oppressed Jose, and he looked up 
 into Mendez's drawn, white face in awed ex 
 pectancy. 
 
 Mendez pondered. To go on to the fonda, 
 cognito, might endanger his life and that of his 
 wife and child. To disclose his suspicion might 
 lead to serious embarrassment. He must act 
 quickly. The hazard, he knew, lies in the mo 
 ment's decision. 
 
 "It is much further than I thought. How 
 the afternoon passes! We must hasten. We 
 have yet ten miles to ride, have we not? We 
 will stop at the 'Loco's' for a moment's re 
 spite, and then ride on all the faster, but, Jose, 
 none must know us; either our purpose or our
 
 El Desdichado. 115 
 
 way. I will have a dispatch for the governor 
 when you return, the safe delivery of which 
 will pay you well ;" and his looks meant much. 
 
 "Si, Senor, bueno," ("Yes, sir, good,") an 
 swered Jose. 
 
 They had proceeded some distance when they 
 perceived at the foot of a declivitous hill, a 
 well-tiled adobe, around which there was a 
 thick hedge of native cacti, some six or eight 
 feet high. Another hedge of the same plant 
 enclosed a corral to the rear of the house, where 
 a peon, a native of the working class, aided by 
 the shepherd, or coyote dog, could be seen, 
 driving a large herd of bleating sheep. In 
 front of the house was a sort of a trellis-work 
 frame of poles, over which were stretched in 
 numerable strings of red peppers or chilies. 
 One sees them throughout Mexico. The 
 ground immediately surrounding the house was 
 swept spotlessly clean, and in front of it were 
 several bushes of those hardy, red Mexican 
 roses, whose leaves, in Senora, are supposed to 
 be a remedy for many ailments. 
 
 The two horsemen fixed their eyes upon a 
 man who stood near the open side-door. It was 
 Cabeza. Apparently he had just returned 
 from a neighboring rancho. His horse still 
 panted at the door. Yet there were no bags 
 upon the horse's neck, nor even the customary 
 traveling blanket. 
 
 "Que hay, Sefiores. Como estamos. What
 
 1 6 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 is there new at Paralto?" And he bowed po 
 litely. "My house is at your disposal, Seriores. 
 Will you alight and enter? The road is long 
 and dusty, and the good Virgin has provided. 
 Shall it be mescal or wine, caballeros?" 
 
 A touching of sombreros, a light grasp of 
 the hand, and they all entered the adobe to 
 gether. 
 
 Within were some half-dozen men, mostly 
 peons and half-breeds, smoking cigarettes and 
 chatting around a table upon which were a 
 number of glasses, evidently just emptied. A 
 half-filled bottle of pulque stood beside them. 
 As the three men entered the others looked up 
 carelessly, and each one spoke a word of 
 friendly welcome. The host passed on into 
 another room to prepare some refreshments 
 that were ordered. The conversation was re 
 sumed where it was broken off. 
 
 "Seen the Yaquis around lately.'"' inquired 
 one young fellow, whom they addressed as 
 Diego, and who had just entered. "Coming 
 down the north trail, looked as if the whole 
 tribe had been on horseback. Trail overrun 
 with footprints. I fear more trouble. When 
 Loco comes back we'll ask about them. I be 
 lieve he has been north, across the border re 
 cently." 
 
 At this inquiry, Juan Moran, a big, surly half- 
 breed, broke in, "Loco don't talk much, very 
 friendly with the Indians. This morning I
 
 El Desdichado. I7J 
 
 came over to pass away the time, but fie wasn't 
 much company. Guess his old companion has 
 been worrying him again. Seen anything of 
 Cortiorque lately, Diego?" 
 
 At this Mendez relit his cigarette, which in 
 his eagerness to listen he had allowed to go out, 
 and although seemingly lost in thought, he 
 grasped every word of the conversation. 
 
 "Saw him yesterday coming in this direc 
 tion. Said he had some business with Cabeza 
 about some sheep. I dare say so. Probably 
 lambs. Such a business man that Manuel. 
 Ha! Ha! How are things up your way, 
 Juan? Indians troublesome?" 
 
 "No, haven't missed much. The mission 
 people seem uneasy, though. Indians too free 
 with things. I guess they are glad the convent 
 is so near the chapel. They have some fugi 
 tives there, too. Padre Luis seems anxious 
 about his charges. By the way, that Corti 
 orque is quite friendly there. I guess they trust 
 him, too. Turned very devout lately, and quit 
 drinking. Saw the Senora Palladita last week. 
 You know of the Dona of Don Feliz? She 
 looked rather thin, but cheerful. Expected the 
 Don any day, she said. She was in the convent 
 garden talking with some of the women of our 
 rancho, but she doesn't go beyond the walls 
 much. Seems to have a dread of something. 
 Good woman, that, and very aristocratic." 
 
 As Loco was serving up savory dishes of
 
 1 8 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 steaming tomales, enchiladas, tortillos and fri- 
 joles-and-carne for some of his guests, the Don 
 and Jose rose to go, when suddenly the door 
 was unceremoniously thrown open and three 
 burly men burst into the room, calling out, 
 "The mission wants aid, the padre has sent 
 here for every man of you." 
 
 The men were all on their feet in an in 
 stant, their meal forgotten. Their faces were 
 blanched with dread, and they feared to ask 
 questions. Enough! The church must not be 
 endangered. 
 
 Speedily snatching up their cloaks and som 
 breros, they rushed to the stables, flung them 
 selves into their saddles and were soon riding 
 in a quick gallop over the rugged trail to the 
 convent, not knowing what had happened. 
 On and on they rode. Quicker and quicker 
 they plied their spurs, and faster and faster 
 raced their horses, until the air was filled with 
 their labored panting, and the muttered curses 
 and prayers of the horsemen. 
 
 "Mother Mary, have mercy. Christus-Savior, 
 Mother of Jesus, mercy, mercy," were the 
 prayers of Don Feliz. 
 
 Swiftly the miles flew backward, until the 
 white walls of the convent appeared, flooded in 
 the silvery light of the rising moon. Nearer 
 and nearer they pressed, until at last the mourn 
 ful peal of the bells fell on their ears in spite of 
 the noise of the horses' hoofs, Every peal
 
 El Desdichado. 19 
 
 seemed to send bitter tidings of sorrow. 
 Their curses were turned to prayers for the in 
 mates. "Mary, Mary, Mother of Jesus, have 
 mercy, have mercy." 
 
 Mendez had ridden almost in a trance. Each 
 moment seemed hours. Each mile seemed a 
 league. Benumbed with fear for his loved 
 ones, the note of the bell fell on his ear like a 
 funeral knell. The convent walls loomed up 
 before him like a great white spectre. His 
 every muscle was tense with anguish. 
 
 At the convent they leaped from their horses 
 and rushed into the open door. Everything 
 within was in a state of confusion. Some sis 
 ters, gathered about an object, no doubt a dy 
 ing victim of the day's tragedy, were weeping 
 and wringing their hands. 
 
 Mendez saw the bowed head of Padre Luis 
 before the altar, and hastened to him. "For 
 the love of the Father, Padre, the senorita, the 
 little one?" he inquired, almost breathless. 
 
 The old man lifted his eyes in bitter anguish, 
 attempting scarcely to look about him, and in 
 a dazed monotone he murmured, "Gone, my 
 son may Christ have mercy," and his head 
 again fell upon his breast in insupportable sor 
 row. 
 
 "Gone, father, gone?" 
 
 "Gone, the Indians " 
 
 Mendez understood nothing more. The 
 very earth was slipping away. The tapers
 
 2O [A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 faded one by one. The sweet face of the Vir 
 gin before him took on a sad, sorrowfully pity 
 ing look, and then faded from his vision; line 
 by line the lineaments of the Crucified Savior 
 vanished, and his sad, enduring eyes closed at 
 last. 
 
 "Gone, the Indians ." What a word of 
 
 anguish in that thought ! What victims of tor 
 ture! "The Indians! and the worst of all of 
 them, the Yaquis!" 
 
 When again his surroundings began all to 
 come back to him, he found himself upon his 
 knees before the altar, the old priest bending 
 over him in muttered prayer, scarcely a word 
 of which was audible. Only an occasional 
 "Mercy, mercy," and the name of the Savior 
 and His Sacred Mother. 
 
 While his strength was returning to him, 
 in a faltering voice, which was now and then 
 completely drowned by tears, the dear old padre 
 told his sorrowing child, the sad story of the 
 misfortune that had befallen them. 
 
 For weeks past Cortiorque had been a fre 
 quenter of the neighborhood, and sometimes 
 visited the convent, bringing provisions and 
 other necessities. Early that morning he had 
 come, as usual; this time reporting some sick 
 ness to the sisters way down in the canon, and 
 giving a message requesting the presence of 
 one of the sisters and Padre Luis. That morn 
 ing there were fewer than uswal at the convent,
 
 El Desdichado. 121 
 
 several having gone the day before to Ures on 
 some weighty religious duty. So while it 
 seemed almost impossible for the padre to leave, 
 yet he could not think of denying the request 
 of a dying man, and then he had scarcely any 
 fear of anything happening in his absence, since 
 everything had been quiet for weeks, and there 
 seemed no evidence whatever of danger. 
 
 Imagine his surprise, at arriving at his des 
 tination, to find most of the family absent on a 
 visit, and the rest in the best of health. Im 
 mediately suspecting intrigue, he started home 
 ward, filled with dread to think of what might 
 happen during his absence. 
 
 At length his worst fears were realized. The 
 frenzied sisters told of a band of Yaquis who 
 had arrived immediately after his departure. 
 With them were two men, who seemed to be 
 their leaders. In spite of resistance, they gained 
 admission, seized several of the women and 
 children, and bound them to the saddles of their 
 ponies. In the meantime, the Indians appropri 
 ated whatever took their fancy. The sisters 
 heroically endeavored to save their charges, and 
 preserve the sacred property of the church and 
 convent, but all to no avail. Some of them 
 were even cruelly injured in the attempt. Their 
 masked leader at first tried to keep his band in 
 check, but he soon became utterly unable to 
 govern them. Then ensued great destruction, in 
 the midst of which, all the men of the little
 
 22 A Maid of Sonora, 
 
 settlement about the convent, alarmecl t>y tHe 
 commotion, attempted to come to the rescue, 
 but they were few in number, and their resist 
 ance was of little avail. They could regain 
 none of the captives. The Indians had mounted 
 their ponies, and with wild yells of triumph, 
 galloped away over the hills to the north, bear 
 ing their captives with them. Since then the 
 members of the little settlement had scarcely 
 been able to collect their shattered nerves 
 enough to administer to the needs of the suffer 
 ers about them. 
 
 As Mendez recovered his senses prayers 
 mingled with curses passed through his fever 
 ish brain, but throughout he kept a dogged si 
 lence. As soon as he had regained his strength, 
 he gathered together some two dozen men, all 
 eager to go in pursuit. Quickly armed and 
 mounted, they sped along to the northward. 
 They rode many a weary mile, but saw no 
 glimpse of the fugitives, yet here and there 
 were evidences of their pillage and slaughter. 
 At length they came upon the charred remains 
 of a human being. Hope and horror! No, it 
 could not be ! Anguish is the foster-brother of 
 sorrow. Now, Mendez scarcely dared hope 
 ever to see his dear one again, yet he could not 
 endure to think that these ashes were those of 
 Palladita. There was no time now to make a 
 diagnosis of them. They must be on, on after 
 the Indians, in hope of vengeance.
 
 El Desdichado. 23 
 
 At length, weary with sorrow and fatigue, 
 fearful of certain ambushment, his compan 
 ions forced the frenzied man to return to 
 the convent, where he was received with heart 
 felt sympathy. Sorrow ! sorrow ! sorrow ! was 
 it the will of the Creator? Is it essential, is 
 it necessary to the great Plan of the Architect ? 
 
 When all had departed, he stealthily returned 
 to the altar in the chapel to pray, but prayers 
 would not come. "A curse upon these fiends," 
 he cried, "who have torn the very heart from 
 out my breast ! Curse upon this desert land that 
 has promised me fruits and flowers in its mi 
 rage; that has lured me on by its flatteries, and 
 then gave me to drink wormwood instead of 
 wine. Oh, my Palladita! My Felicita! to 
 think that perhaps you are still the slaves of 
 these devils! Can there be a God that would 
 permit such an outrage ? Can there be a Satan 
 so vile as to throw my loved ones into the 
 hands of such demons? May the Virgin Mary 
 have mercy upon them ! May they be permitted 
 to die rather than fall victims to these children 
 of Beelzebub. Jesu Christo, can you not hear 
 the prayers of a distressed father? Oh, hard, 
 hard indeed, to ask for the death of my Palla 
 dita; yet she would wish it! If she could hear 
 me she would say, 'Feliz, Feliz, you are kind; 
 it is because you love me!" San Pedro and San 
 Pablo, have you not also suffered ? Can you not 
 pity a bereaved father and husband? Pray for
 
 24 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 me, oh, saints! Pray that my Palladita might 
 be brought back to me, pure and chaste, or pray 
 that she may be taken to the angels of heaven 
 rather than that she become the slaves of these 
 merciless demons. Then pray that my Felicita 
 might perish, too. Perish in her arms. The 
 good Mother of Jesus have pity on them." 
 
 As Mendez arose he could see through an 
 open door Padre Luis kneeling in the vestry 
 before a little rude figure of the Virgin, pray 
 ing, his face in tears. A tear found its way 
 down his brown, wrinkled cheek, and fell upon 
 the cross of the altar-cloth that the sen'ora her 
 self had lately presented to the good nuns of 
 the convent. The kneeling priest did not hear 
 the Don enter; he did not notice him until he 
 felt the hand of Feliz resting upon his shoul 
 ders, and a voice whispering in the ear of the 
 holy man, "It is the will of the saints;" with 
 out turning, he recognized the voice of the be 
 reaved, and replied softly, "The saints are mer 
 ciful, there is a voice from Heaven that tells 
 me our Palladita is in the embrace of Our Holy 
 Mother," and the two bowed before the image 
 and prayed. 
 
 One expedition after another was undertaken 
 to round in the maurauders, but they all re 
 turned dissatisfied. Finally it was learned that 
 Palladita and the child were no longer with 
 them. Then pursuit was abandoned.
 
 El Desdichado. 2$ 
 
 Mendez within these few months had become 
 an old man, his head bowed with grief, and his 
 heart was broken. Surrounded by the love of 
 home, he had prospered and conquered; over 
 come in turn with sorrow and the want of 
 love, the flourishing young stock withered, its 
 leaves fell, its roots shriveled, and it was ban 
 ished to the realm of "hope almost gone." 
 
 In the first days of his sorrow the Mexican 
 element of his nature had contented itself in a 
 bitter longing for revenge, but there had come 
 a sad tale from Ures which made his vengeance 
 needless. 
 
 One evening the guests of an old "fonda" 
 (inn) were astonished at the arrival of Corti- 
 orque, whom none had expected to see again. 
 
 He was haggard and worn with dissipation, 
 and his dark eyes spoke fiercely of too much 
 mescal, yet he walked up to the bar and drank 
 more, and way into the night he was still 
 drinking. Then he became talkative, even boist 
 erous. He told of how he had sworn to avenge 
 himself on Mendez, and glorified in the capture 
 of the seiiora. Then he swore bitter, awful 
 oaths at his ill luck, which, as he said, had 
 snatched his prize from him just as revenge 
 was within his grasp. He told of how the 
 Dona had weakened, and frail with long anxiety 
 and watching and riding, terrified and grief- 
 stricken, had died of a broken heart in the first 
 days of her capture. He laughed with a bitter,
 
 26 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 vengeful laugh, as he told of how at least her 
 grave was known only to himself. Later in 
 the night he became more wild. It was the last 
 raving before the stupor came over him. The 
 wine and mescal had overpowered him. He be 
 gan to mutter incoherently, finally sank into a 
 sleep, and was carried to another room and was 
 locked in, for it was the innkeeper's intention to 
 hand him over to the authorities. Of this there 
 was no need. He died in his delirium. His 
 case came before a Higher Court for Judg 
 ment. 
 
 And so it became known to Don Feliz Men- 
 dez that the saints had heard his prayers, at 
 least in part.
 
 Un Viaje. 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UN VIAJE.* 
 
 "A good man was ther of religion, 
 And was a poure persoun of a toun; 
 But riche he was of holy thought and werk" 
 
 A STRANGE rumor had come to the ears of 
 Padre Benito, the mission priest of Magdelena. 
 It was a rumor that the convent of Hermocillo 
 had been stormed and that the Palladita and 
 the child had been kidnapped by the Indians. 
 Great, indeed, was the good man's grief when 
 he heard of this, greater was it when a letter 
 from his own brother had confirmed the state 
 ment. Down upon his knees he fell and prayed 
 God that he might be the instrument of restor 
 ing to the saddened husband his beloved wife, 
 to the grieving father his daughter. On his 
 knees before the image of the Virgin he cried 
 mournfully, "Holy Mary, thou who hast had 
 thine own Beloved Son torn from thine eyes 
 and the eyes of man, know thou the grief of a 
 
 *A Journey.
 
 28 [A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 parent, and by thy supplications assist us, Oh! 
 Mother of Jesus, in restoring to the faithful 
 Feliz his Palladita, to the good father his 
 child." Long and fervently he prayed at the 
 altar that day. 
 
 Months and months passed, and there was 
 no news from the many sources of inquiry of 
 which he had bethought himself. His blighted 
 hopes were reflected not only by his own grief, 
 but by the grief of the parishioners as well, 
 simple, impressionable people that they were. 
 Then the months dragged into years and no 
 news. 
 
 "Why does not the reverend father per 
 mit us and we will tear to pieces these wolves 
 of the desert," the faithful would say, but the 
 grief of Padre Benito was not the kind that 
 found comfort in revenge. 
 
 "I know that God will some day help me to 
 find them," he would answer. 
 
 His fallen hopes were now and again fanned 
 by rumors that were vain. One day, Don Feliz, 
 on his way to Chihuahua, visited his clerical 
 brother at the Mission. The two men fell 
 into one another's arms when they met, and 
 it was a pitiable sight to see the priest and the 
 soldier stand with tear-stained faces gazing into 
 each other's eyes, each fearful of approaching 
 the subject. The priest was the first to speak. 
 "God will yet deliver them unto us, Feliz." 
 A great lump rose in the soldier's throat, and
 
 Un Viaje. \ 29 
 
 He only shook his head dolefully. His grief 
 at the thought of his loss was too great, and he 
 turned away his head. Two days after Padre 
 Benito bade the Don farewell, with this re 
 quest. "Pray to God, Feliz, they are in His 
 keeping. He will never see them injured. He 
 alone can deliver them to us." 
 
 Late one autumn, a small band of twenty 
 Apache Indians were seen traveling northward 
 with all their earthly belongings. They were 
 nearing the Sonora village of Magdelena, and 
 were said to be on their way to join others of 
 their tribe about Ft. Grant in Arizona. Most of 
 the men were attired simply in overalls and skin 
 moccasins; their long black hair being left to 
 fall carelessly over their bare shoulders. These 
 men, with the exception of two, rode pinto- 
 mustang ponies and held their rifles over their 
 laps. Seven women trudged behind them, car 
 rying large burdens of household goods upon 
 their backs, held fast, like the baskets in which 
 they bound their papooses, by bands that en 
 circled brow and temple. They were likewise 
 bareheaded and clad in most gaudy calico. 
 In front of them these women drove three very 
 lean horses, to which they had fastened, one on 
 each side, long sycamore poles, held fast by 
 straps of rawhide, passing about the chests 
 and over the shoulders of the animals. These 
 beams were again held together behind by 
 thongs of leather. Upon such devised sleds, or
 
 30 !A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 drags, were piled furs, bedding and food for 
 the horses. Alongside of these beasts of bur 
 den ran the Indian children, eight in all. Some 
 of the boys carried bows and arrows, and 
 amused themselves shooting at the jack-rab 
 bits that their lean coyote dogs scared up along 
 the way. Among these children there was one 
 girl child, much fairer than the rest, smaller 
 of feature, and but for the tan of the sun, with 
 complexion like the daughter of a Spanish 
 grandee. The old squaw who had her in 
 charge called her "Mananka," and seemed to 
 favor the little urchin to the extent that she al 
 lowed her continually to crawl upon the drag 
 and ride. At one time, as the clumsy vehicle 
 bounced over some huge rocks, the child fell 
 to the ground and received such a bruise that 
 it made her cry. "Bah!" called out the old 
 squaw, impatiently, in poor Spanish, "get up! 
 get up! and quit thy bawling. Any one can 
 tell that thou art not one of us. Thy people 
 know not how to be brave. They are cowards, 
 and thou are not unlike the rest of them. Get 
 up, or I will pull thee up by thy white ear. 
 Thou whining wild-kitten ; I have half a mind 
 to leave thee here to be devoured by the coy 
 otes." But in spite of her scolding she raised 
 the child, who choked her sobs, and gently 
 placed her upon the drag again. 
 
 As they came within view of the house of 
 the Rancho Paralto, the riders suddenly drew
 
 Un Viaje. f (31 
 
 tfieir Horses to a standstill upon tHe summit of 
 a hill. It was a picture for an artist as they 
 sat on their horses, silhouetted against the set 
 ting sun, their heads proudly thrown back, and 
 gazing at a man on horseback at a great 
 distance, who seemed to be riding from them at 
 breakneck speed. 
 
 "He is from the Rancho, and he is going 
 to inform some one at Magdelena that he 
 has seen us, no doubt," spoke up Mescalero, 
 their leader. "The white Governor has prom 
 ised us safe conduct, and yet no one knows 
 whether they will not come to kill us. Oh, 
 how I hate these Mexicans, and their lying 
 promises! I hate them worse than the poison 
 ous snake that strikes at us, for him we may 
 crush beneath our feet. I hate them," These 
 last words he growled beneath a whisper, and 
 he threw a look of scorn at the fair child on the 
 drag, which melted slightly as he looked into 
 her innocent eyes. 
 
 "No," answered a companion, "they will 
 not dare kill us. We have the Governor's 
 word. It is here on this paper," and he drew 
 from his garment a letter. "The padre at Her- 
 mocillo told me as much, and the padre does not 
 lie. But they will take the little pale one from 
 us. I did not tell the padre of her, for fear he 
 would demand the child. They may have 
 found it out. They will search for her here. 
 She must not stay at the camp to-night, and to-
 
 32 !A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 morrow she must be brought to us after dark. 
 She must not travel by day, for they will watch 
 us." 
 
 With these words they all turned down the 
 hill to a small canon, where a clump of syca 
 more trees gave them shelter for the night, and 
 a small brook gave them water. 
 
 Immediately the men unsaddled their horses 
 and tethered them with long horsehair lariat- 
 tos along the water's edge, where the grass 
 grew in bunches. The women rested their pa 
 pooses, bound tightly in their small wicker 
 frames, against tree trunks, and immediately set 
 about preparing camp. 
 
 They had just completed a meal of rabbit and 
 tortillos when Mescalero addressed himself to 
 one of his companions: "Thou wilt take the 
 child, the white papoose, to the Rio Frio, Tinto, 
 and await us under the baranka (cliff), where 
 Pasco once hid when he escaped from Pes- 
 quiera. Your Majela will go with him. She 
 will take some blankets and some flour for tor 
 tillos. You will await us there. We will be 
 there to-morrow night when the moon comes 
 up. You will allow no one to see you. If you 
 speed you will reach there to-night at day 
 break. Be gone, Tinto, for there will be peo 
 ple here from Magdelena to claim her soon. 
 Mananka, get thee gone with Tinto." 
 
 But Mananka, small as she was, demurred. 
 "I will not go with Tinto. He will make me
 
 Un Viaje. 33 
 
 walk, and I wish to ride on the drag. Besides, 
 Pepe lets me shoot his bow and arrows. I do 
 not want to go with Tinto," and she broke out 
 in sobs. 
 
 "Then I will beat thee with a stick 'till thou 
 dost go," threatened the wily old leader. 
 
 But he did not beat her. If she had been an 
 Indian child he would have struck her, or 
 rather it would not have been necessary to speak 
 twice to one of his own people. Instead, he 
 gave the infant a bright bead chain that he him 
 self prized, and coaxed her until she went. 
 There was some peculiar charm about the little 
 five-year-old that won him over to her, he knew 
 not what. 
 
 Very soon the clatter of horses' hoofs was 
 heard in the canon below. Immediately the 
 men, who had been lying about the fire playing 
 at monte, jumped to their feet and withdrew 
 from the fire, taking their loaded rifles with 
 them. The women, with their babes, hurried 
 away and hid. Then almost out of hearing a 
 voice called out: 
 
 "It is Padre Benito. He would speak with 
 Mescalero." 
 
 "Let the good padre approach," came the 
 answer. "He shall not be harmed." 
 
 The padre was held in high esteem by the 
 Indians of Sonora, and he feared no danger to 
 himself.
 
 34 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 It was a goodly scene as the zealous priest 
 stood full in the moonlight, bareheaded and 
 robed in black like a saint, his large silver cross 
 dangling before him. The attendants of the 
 padre awaited his return in the distance. The 
 wrinkled, brown old chief formed a striking 
 spectacle as he stepped into the moonlight alone, 
 open-handed, bare to the waist, save for a torn 
 scrape that was carelessly thrown over his 
 shoulders, about which fell great folds of 
 coarse black hair. 
 
 "Padre Benito bids you a fair night," came 
 the salutation. 
 
 " And we bid the padre welcome," came the 
 response. 
 
 Then the priest related his mission; that he 
 had been informed by one of his parishioners 
 that the Indians had with them a young girl of 
 some five years of age, answering the descrip 
 tion of his niece, Felicita. He told the old 
 Apache with all the pathetic words and accent 
 the whole story of her loss and capture. He of 
 fered for her restoration a large sum of money, 
 and added that he himself would deliver to 
 those who would restore her the benediction of 
 his Holy Church and his priestly blessing. 
 
 The old chief heard him with bowed head. 
 He no doubt pictured to himself a large heap 
 of shining Mexican dollars. He had won the 
 infant at a game of monte with a Yaqui chief.
 
 Un Viaje. 35 
 
 Would not this be a splendid price for her? 
 For one moment he was moved at the offer of 
 a benediction. But this lasted only a moment. 
 Then he said to himself: "No; when Pepe 
 grows up to be a man he will be 'Capitan/ 
 (chief) of my people. He will take my place. 
 They are close playmates, Mananka and Pepe. 
 She shall become his wife. She will grow to 
 love Pepe. And when they are married I will 
 tell her who her father is. He is a great Capi- 
 tan among the Mexicans. He has great estates. 
 Then she shall be sent to her father to plead 
 for us. She will get for us lands and cattle and 
 sheep, a large reservation in Mexico on which 
 we may dwell, so that our people may not starve 
 to death again when the dry years come. She 
 will do this all for her love for Pepe, who will 
 turn Christian for her. He will be Capitan of 
 my tribe. No, I will not sell her. I will tell 
 the good priest a lie." 
 
 Then looking into the eyes of the holy man 
 he replied: "Padre, we Indians are poor. We 
 are so poor that some days we have nothing to 
 eat. Look at our horses, they are lean and 
 old. The good padre has always been kind to 
 us. We are hunted down by the American be 
 yond the border like coyotes are hunted by the 
 cowboy. From the Mexicans we are often 
 made to hide in the mountains. But the good 
 padre gives us alms and intercedes for us. The
 
 36 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 poor Apache can do nothing for Padre Benito, 
 whom he loves and respects. This is what 
 makes Mescalero sad, that he cannot restore to 
 the good padre his brother's child. But Mesca 
 lero cannot give him what he has not. Padre," 
 he continued sadly, "there was such a child 
 lately in Nachez' band. She died of the small 
 pox. They buried her in the mountains. Per 
 haps it was another. I know not. The capitan 
 will give Padre Benito this promise; he will 
 look for the child among the Indians, if per 
 chance, she still lives. Mescalero will not for 
 get the priest's kindness to himself and his 
 people." 
 
 With a sad heart Padre Benito returned to 
 his companions. 
 
 "The old rascal has lied to your reverence," 
 said Juan Ruiz. "I saw the child with mine 
 own eyes as I sat in the shade under the bridge 
 he crossed." 
 
 "Saw her!" retorted a companion. "How 
 dost thou know her, Juan? Thou hast never 
 seen her before to know her." 
 
 "No, that I have not," replied the positive 
 Juan, "but the good padre has often told me of 
 her. This child was white. That I saw; quite 
 white, and she was just about the age of his 
 Felicita. I am sure it was the child. Padre, the 
 old chief has lied to you, of that I am certain." 
 
 "Nay," replied the priest, "we will leave that
 
 Un Viaje. 37 
 
 witH the Shepherd. If the lamS is to tie found 
 He will find her and return her to the fold," and 
 the words of the priest silenced them. 
 
 A few weeks later Mananka and Pepe were 
 building sand houses and chasing grasshoppers 
 on the desert of Arizona.
 
 38 (A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LA NINITA.* 
 
 "Take it to thy breast, though thorns its stem 
 
 invest, 
 Gather them with the rest" 
 
 ANYONE at all acquainted with the life of 
 General Lawton knows with what brevity and 
 dispatch he was accustomed to give his orders. 
 He was not a man of many words, this brave 
 American soldier. 
 
 "To watch that canon, sir, will call for a 
 score of men, and every man awake. Mesca- 
 lero, they say, has forgotten how to sleep. His 
 medicine-man has given him some poisonous 
 potion. We will have to furnish him with an 
 antidote. He says he will not run, but I tell 
 you, boys, he will, and the only way to make a 
 man run is to run after him." 
 
 As the captain's words seemed directed to his 
 young sergeant, he, in a manner waiving his 
 customary discipline, even volunteered informa- 
 
 *The Girl Child.
 
 La Ninita. 39 
 
 tion. This so unmilitary an action had become 
 the constant practice among these soldier asso 
 ciates of the Southwest frontier. 
 
 "The mesas will have to be patrolled, and an 
 extra heavy guard placed over the wagons. 
 These bucks are worse than coyotes ; you never 
 see them in the daytime, and at night the whole 
 country is alive with them. I've heard them 
 bet that they could steal your blankets and fry 
 your bacon on your own camp-fire without 
 awakening you." 
 
 This was said while the necessary prepara 
 tions were being made for the night. The camp 
 was still alive with dark, busy forms of the 
 men as they arranged things, now and then 
 chatting, and again resuming a customary 
 whistle. Then tents were pitched on the side 
 of a hill that looked out upon the broad mesa. 
 It was one of the many desert fortifications 
 which were but a momentary stand against the 
 Apache, who had become mutinous, and had ne 
 cessitated a little longer pursuit than usual. 
 
 Mess had just been completed, and as yet the 
 western heavens were ruddy with the sunset. 
 
 Suddenly a Papago scout appeared with 
 news for the captain. 
 
 "Mescalero come steal ponies. Pretty soon 
 here. By and bye ponies all gone, Senor, no 
 catch 'em, no shoot 'em Mescalero." 
 
 The captain was never slow in grasping a 
 situation.
 
 40 ! A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 "Now, if there is a man among us who loves 
 his flag, and I guess there is no love lost on 
 these Indians! See here! fifty picked men of 
 Troop B through the gap to the west. Your 
 men down the Arroyo, Jackson ! and now, Doy- 
 lan, take your boys 'long the western patrero of 
 Morales canon until you come within hailing 
 distance of Lee's men. Then do your best to 
 drive the Indians to the south." 
 
 There was no lazy stretching of legs, and 
 arms, no grumblings. The Saxon had learned 
 from the Apache. A glimpse from the enemy 
 meant spontaneous action. 
 
 In a moment all had been dispatched as noise 
 lessly as the Athenians before Troy, and as 
 quickly as the Boers in South Africa. These 
 American-Indianized warriors and athletes of 
 the sage and cacti knew the danger of delay. 
 They had not attained the proficiency of their 
 Apache instructors, but they did credit to their 
 schooling, and have become almost as subtle 
 and stealthy as their red brothers. 
 
 The desert sun had just passed behind the 
 distant hillside yet the sense of his terrific 
 glare still lingered everywhere. The heat of 
 the stones and sand beneath the soldiers' feet 
 was almost unbearable. Now and then light 
 whiffs of air caught up little heaps of alkali 
 dust and carried them in a slender whirlwind 
 high into the sky, then all settled down again 
 as still as before.
 
 La Ninita. 41 
 
 It is a weary matter to trudge and climb, un 
 til the great, dark shadows reaching from hill 
 top to hill-top announce the approach of ever- 
 welcome night the only relief from the dry, 
 scorching, withering desert glow. 
 
 Two of the Papago scouts had just returned 
 when the sudden "pang, pang" of musketry 
 welcomed the dispatched soldiers into the midst 
 of Mescalero's band. Then what ensued is 
 simply a reiteration of Indian warfare. An oc 
 casional exchange of shots, groans and curses, 
 with the ultimate result to the Americans of 
 three mounds that mark the burial of three 
 brave soldiers ; for the Apaches, one dead war 
 rior, two dead squaws, one wounded brave, and 
 captive child. 
 
 At length they returned to camp, and were 
 again soon assembled with the scanty guard 
 that had been left in charge of the wagons. 
 
 "Well, Wilson, what have you here?" were 
 the captain's words, as his eyes fell upon the lit 
 tle maid. "Were these the orders I gave you, 
 sir? What do you mean by bringing us this 
 charge?" 
 
 Before he ceased speaking a dozen lips were 
 opened in eagerness to tell the story of which 
 the soldiers had been the proud witnesses, yet 
 they were all silenced by a wave of the captain's 
 hand, and his easy, "Don't be hasty, boys, let 
 him tell his own tale."
 
 42 (A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 And the sergeant easily defended his seeming 
 disobedience. 
 
 "I took her in the name of humanity, cap 
 tain. You yourself would not have done less. 
 You know one never stops to think when such 
 a moment comes. It must be done and then 
 thought of. The child was in the midst of 
 death, and I brought her here in the name of 
 heaven. War's bad enough for a man. She 
 was clutched in the arms of a dying squaw, 
 and to save her from the trample of our horses' 
 feet, some one had to rescue her at once. The 
 bullets were heavy and thick. There was no 
 time to hesitate, and I was near. I stooped and 
 placed her on the saddle and started to ride on 
 with the rest. Her father, who was hiding in 
 the brush near by, rushed at me with his gun 
 aimed to shoot. I turned on him and had 
 almost sent a blow, when a bullet, probably 
 aimed at me, pierced his left side. I have 
 brought her here, yes, a charge, but I shall see 
 she is cared for. No Christian could do less. 
 There's no good comes of warring on children. 
 Besides, I do not believe that she's Indian, sir, 
 she's too light. Her type is Spanish." 
 
 As he finished speaking he stood the child, 
 the wee bit of an urchin that she was, by his 
 side, dropping her from his arms where he had 
 been holding her since he had taken her from 
 the saddle. As her feet touched the ground, she 
 still clung tightly to his hand, convulsively, as
 
 (La Nifiita. 43 
 
 if with fear of his departure, and looked up at 
 him with wild, beseeching eyes. Then, in an 
 swer to her mute appeal, Joel again took her 
 in his arms. 
 
 "Well, Joel, we will care for her in some 
 way," and the captain's heart was also filled 
 with sympathy, and he admired his young 
 friend none the less for his defence for a merci 
 ful action. 
 
 They turned to go to camp, when several 
 soldiers, who had been sent to reconnoitre, 
 came in hastily, bearing with them a wounded, 
 bleeding Indian, who kept crying aloud for 
 the captured child. It was old Mescalero him 
 self. 
 
 "Mananka ! Mananka ! Nina mia. No no, 
 soy su padre, Senor. Su padre el Don vive, 
 vive en Hermocillo." ("Mananka! Mananka! 
 my child. No, I am not your father the Don 
 lives, he lives in Hermocillo.") Wildly he ges 
 ticulated, he waved his hand frantically to 
 wards the southward. "Your father, Manan 
 ka." The great dark, deeply furrowed face was 
 full of meaning. He strove again to speak, but 
 the words were lost within his brain. His eyes 
 spoke hopelessly. Again he threw all his en 
 ergy into his voice, and with a throb, heartrend 
 ing, said : "Mananka," and lay upon the sand 
 a vanquished warrior. His soul had passed 
 into the great beyond. 
 
 Death did not give him time to tell his tale.
 
 44 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 Another word might have meant a world of 
 difference to the child. It might have meant 
 a return to Mexico; it might have meant con 
 vent walls, perhaps, too, a great hacienda or a 
 governor's mansion; but it might also have 
 meant to her years and years of toil in those 
 wild and dismal deserts. 
 
 One by one the muscles of his strong face 
 had smoothed themselves out, and all the 
 strength of an infinite peace possessed his dusky 
 countenance. 
 
 When they placed his blanket over the silent 
 features each heart was filled with queer sur 
 mises as to the meaning of his antics. Here 
 and there they chatted in little groups about it 
 all. 
 
 "What do you think he meant to say, Wil 
 son ? He doubtless was very anxious about that 
 little gal." 
 
 "Well, captain, I'm sure I can't say, but I 
 wish he might have had time to finish. At 
 first I thought he might be her dad in spite of 
 her light features, but did you notice she did 
 not want to go to him? She clung to me as if 
 he was a stranger, and some way I don't know 
 exactly why, but I still persist in believing that 
 she isn't an Indian. There must be something 
 in this. Do you know anything about this, 
 this Don Feliz?" 
 
 "Well, no. Yes, perhaps I've been over the 
 border a bit in my day. Beamer there was
 
 La Nifiita. 45 
 
 with me, he'll remember, too. One always 
 hears much of this Don down in Hermosillo. 
 You see he was one of those good-blooded 
 Spanish fellows that the peons are always talk 
 ing about. If it's the same one? Then, too, 
 you know he was a genuine soldier, and that 
 adds a lot to a man's popularity down there. 
 Let me see, I think he lost his family in the In 
 dian wars. Seems as though they never quite 
 knew how it happened. The Yaquis were 
 mixed up with it some way. Did you ever 
 hear the straight of that, Beamer?" 
 
 "Y-e-s, I've heard a good many yarns of 
 that kind down in Mexico," replied Beamer, 
 from where he lay, his six-foot-two stretched 
 out on the sand, "but the one that hung to 
 gether best was about a rival of the Don's stir 
 ring up the Yaquis and the other Indians until 
 under his directions they captured the family, 
 taking them out of the convent or some other 
 place;" and then he added, reflectively, "but 
 you can't tell how much of their stories are 
 true, these peons." 
 
 "Well," resumed Duncan, "I've heard some 
 such story, too, but anyway they were never 
 found, and this rival hung himself and there 
 was never any clew left. Seems as though this 
 Don lived around there for a while, and every 
 one thought lots of him, but he kind o' couldn't 
 stay, and after awhile he disappeared. They tell 
 all sorts o' stories about that, too. Some say
 
 46 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 he went to Spain, and some say he went to a 
 place from whence he will never return sui 
 cided out of grief for his wife and child. Any 
 way, no one has heard from him since he left, 
 and the hacienda is deserted." 
 
 "Did he have much property?" asked Joel, 
 interested. 
 
 "O, yes, one of the wealthiest men of all that 
 country once. Had a grant, I believe, acres 
 and acres of land, mostly mesa, fine home. 
 Duncan, there, has seen it, too. You know, 
 Dune, and I had the gold fever once and went 
 to Mexico to mine silver as a remedy, and 
 drifted into those parts. You've heard us talk 
 about it fine place that. Wouldn't mind own 
 ing it yourself, eh, sergeant?" 
 
 "Wonder if he had any people around 
 there?" spoke up the captain. "It seems as if 
 he must have had and was there much of a 
 family?" 
 
 "Well," replied Duncan, resting his chin in 
 his hand as he half-reclined with his elbow on 
 his knee, and pausing a moment in which 
 Beamer almost strained himself to remember, 
 but could not "well, I don't know, but I've 
 heard something about a brother of his being 
 a priest, but the fact is, I've never paid much 
 attention to the matter. One hears so many 
 tales in Mexico, you can't remember all of them. 
 Say, Beamer, do you remember about the 
 priest?"
 
 La Ninita. y 4^ 
 
 "No," responded Beamer, thoughtfully, "no, 
 Duncan, can't say I do. Fact is, never heard 
 of him but about the family well, I reckon 
 it was just a small one. You see Mendez Men- 
 dez,that was the Don's name was just a young 
 man; had married a daughter of one of the 
 good old families down there. I reckon there 
 was just his wife, and maybe a child or two." 
 
 "Well, I do wonder what the old Indian 
 wanted," broke in Wilson. "I believe this little 
 one is one of the Don's children. Well, I'll 
 be blessed, if she ain't sound asleep. Never 
 thought of it. Was so interested never thought 
 to look. What shall we do with her, captain? 
 Poor little kid, she is cuddled up here like a 
 little kitten. I'll ask her to-morrow and find 
 out what she knows about it all." 
 
 "Wilson, you make quite a nurse," laughed 
 Beamer, teasingly. "But you needn't fear 
 about her belonging to this Don ; that is one of 
 the old chief's schemes to save his child. Say, 
 boys, Joel makes a fine nurse, doesn't he ? Equal 
 to a woman. Have to get you an apron and a 
 white cap, Wilson." 
 
 "You shut up and come along and help me 
 fix a place for her to sleep. You're jealous of 
 me, that is all ; that is what is the matter with 
 you." 
 
 "That's right, Joel," put in the captain. 
 "Never mind their taunting, my boy. Just get 
 some blankets and make a bed here by the fire.
 
 48 [A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 and to-morrow we will take her over to the 
 Fort until we know what to do with her. Some 
 of the women folks there will take care of her. 
 She'll be snug enough here by the fire, and the 
 guard can watch her. This is your night on, 
 Wilson." 
 
 Almost before he had ceased speaking the 
 little one rested on a bed of blankets, and a 
 pillow rudely contrived out of a coat, and Joel 
 threw his own blanket over her to keep her 
 warm. 
 
 It seemed a short time to the lad as he stood 
 on guard, for he really was only a lad, scarcely 
 more than twenty. He watched every move 
 ment of the night, and many a time glanced to 
 wards the child, sleeping so quietly in the tent. 
 She slept on, as only a child can sleep, closely 
 guarded by the tender care of strangers. 
 
 "What shall we do with her if there is no 
 one to claim her?" The thought came to him 
 again and again, but he never deviated from 
 his first decision. "I will keep her. I believe 
 it was meant that I should do so, but, of course, 
 we must try to find her parents first ; they have 
 the first claim. Yet I almost hope she may be 
 left to me. Never did have a sister or brother ; 
 wouldn't it be jolly to have her at home. Won 
 der if mother would care; but then I would 
 see to it that she didn't bother. That is the 
 very thing, I'll write about it as soon as we get 
 to quarters."
 
 La Ninita. , v 49 
 
 r~ 
 
 Knd so in his own mind he settled the matter 
 
 very quickly, as a man generally does, putting 
 aside the little details upon which a woman 
 would put much stress. 
 
 He never once thought of all the long, long 
 years in which, to an extent at least, she would 
 be a hindrance; that would not have been true 
 to his loving, impulsive nature. He never 
 thought of the possibility of his having a home 
 some day in which she might not be needed. 
 He was only a merry, open-hearted boy, and 
 he was ready to take her into his life as he 
 might have done a forlorn little kitten, or a 
 poor, wounded bird. There seemed no other 
 way to do, and he cared for no other. It was a 
 thought in accordance with the manner in 
 which he had gone through the few years of 
 his existence, cheerful and thought free, with a 
 laughing face and a sunny heart, taking and 
 giving happiness everywhere, and doing it all 
 as a matter of course. 
 
 So as the night wore on and the stars began 
 to fade away, and the sky began to roll all rosy 
 in the east, he built castle and dream-towers for 
 his new sister, and planned a wonderland for 
 her, now and then even catching a glimpse of 
 the far future, when she would be a grand lady, 
 cultured, educated and beautiful. 
 
 He was still thinking when the first sunbeams 
 called the camp to action, and the men began to 
 go about their work.
 
 '5O !A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 "Well, Joel, tired of watching ? better have a 
 little rest." 
 
 "Oh, no, captain, we've had a lovely night; 
 never heard a coyote." 
 
 "What did you say, Wilson?" asked one of 
 the other guards, coming up, "never heard a 
 coyote? Well, I guess you must have been 
 a-dreaming. I heard enough of them to wake 
 the dead."
 
 La Madre. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LA MADRE.* 
 
 "We are governed by sympathy. 9 * 
 
 i 
 
 UPON their return to Fort Grant, Joel wrote 
 a letter that ran as follows to his mother in 
 San Francisco: 
 
 "My DEAR MOTHER: You doubtless will 
 have received my telegram before this reaches 
 you, and know that everything is quiet after 
 the skirmish we have just had. I sent it as 
 soon as possible that you need not worry you 
 are such an anxious little mother. I hope you 
 are feeling cheerful and happy. I am to be with 
 you in about a fortnight, and I shall be at home 
 for some little time at least, and if no trouble 
 arises to bring me back, my stay may be a long 
 one. Won't that be jolly ! 
 
 "And now I have a little surprise for you, 
 mother. You never have refused me anything, 
 and I can remember many and many a time 
 
 *The Mother.
 
 52 (A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 when I was a little chap that mother had many, 
 many things to forgive, and she was always 
 dear and good about it. Well, it helps a fellow 
 when he has a mother that he can always de 
 pend upon. 'What is it?' Well, mother, it's a 
 girl ! You know when we had the last fray with 
 the Indians, I captured a papoose, and, mother, 
 I want to keep her. Yes, I know you will say 
 that a young fellow like I am, and a soldier, at 
 that, who scarcely knows where he will rest 
 his head on the morrow, hasn't much time to 
 care for such a charge. That is what all 
 my friends say. The boys all laughed at me at 
 first, but they don't now. Mother, if you will 
 take her, I'll see that you are not bothered. 
 She is a cunning, wee bit of an urchin. Mrs. 
 Haverhill is taking care of her for me just 
 now. You know that is Captain Haverhill's 
 wife. She has been very good to all us boys 
 here. But the baby ! No, you wouldn't call her 
 much of a baby. I guess she is about seven or 
 eight, or so, but she is so tiny! She doesn't 
 seem to know a bit of English, but she speaks 
 Spanish so prettily and knows Apache, too. A 
 squaw had her when we got her, so everyone 
 thinks she must be Indian, or part Indian, but 
 I don't believe it, mother; she is very fair, so 
 I believe she is Spanish, or Mexican, at least, 
 but we will talk all about that when I get 
 home. An Indian that we thought to be her 
 father died in camp, but in his dying statement
 
 La Madre. 153 
 
 he says her father was some Don in Mexico, and 
 we took her to the dead squaw the squaw was 
 accidentally shot in the skirmish the child did 
 not recognize her, and when we asked her in 
 Spanish if that was her mother, she only burst 
 into tears and shook her head; later she said 
 she did not know. Well, she was frightened. 
 Perhaps some day she will recollect. 
 
 "I'm trying to teach her English, but I 
 haven't much time just now. She doesn't seem 
 a bit afraid of me, but will stand and watch me 
 with her large, dreamy, dark eyes at whatever 
 I am doing, and when I am finished, she says, 
 'Sefior, Senor/ in such a soft tone of voice that 
 I pick her up and we frolic about like two chil 
 dren. Then we have a lesson, and she always 
 wanders into talking of buds and flowers and 
 mountains, and then we forget all about the les 
 son. Sometimes she talks about the Indians, 
 when suddenly she will seem to be dreaming a 
 day-dream about them, but if I ask her about 
 them she begins to whimper, and her little face 
 loses its sunshine, so I stop. Mother, I think 
 you will find a loving heart in that desert 
 nymph. Now please don't disappoint me, 
 mother; I know you will not. 
 
 "Affectionately, JOEL." 
 
 After he had addressed and posted the letter 
 he felt very much relieved. The thought of it 
 had bothered him very much. He fcnew that
 
 54 A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 his mother would either take greatly to tfie 
 idea or be very much displeased with his boyish 
 notion. 
 
 Several evenings later he started towards 
 Captain Haverhill's, but before he reached the 
 house, out flew a little midget, calling lustily: 
 "Sefior, Senor," and there was Mananka, 
 breathless and smiling. She had just awakened 
 from a nap, and her glossy black curls were 
 falling over her shoulders in a topsy-turvy 
 mass. Running up to him, she caught the 
 young soldier with both her brown, chubby 
 hands, and skipped along at his side, digging 
 her bare toes in the sand at each gleeful hop, 
 until they reached the door from which Mrs. 
 Haverhill was watching them. 
 
 "Well, Joel, aren't you ready to give her up 
 to me yet ? I believe she is the merriest little elf 
 I ever saw. This morning I was making some 
 pastries, and she kept nosing around with 
 those big, dark eyes wide open, and the first 
 thing I knew she was getting a pan to practice 
 pie-making. She is a regular mimic. So then 
 she and I made a pie. Wouldn't you like to 
 see it? I'll confess it's not a very beautiful 
 specimen, but then, maybe, it will taste better 
 than it looks. And it's the babe's first pie, you 
 know, Joel." 
 
 "Poor, little, motherless creature," said Wil 
 son, as he drew her pretty form up closely to 
 him. "She was so terrified over there on the
 
 La Madre. '55 
 
 mesa, she clung to anyone. I can almost feel 
 the convulsive clasp of her little arms about my 
 neck yet. No, no, Mrs. Haverhill, I will never 
 give her up. It may seem strange to you, but 
 it seems that she was given into my care, and 
 I'll just keep her. I only hope mother will love 
 her, too." 
 
 "Oh, I know she will," replied Mrs. Haver- 
 hill, "she can't help it. I never saw a creature 
 creep into one's heart more quickly. Why, she 
 has only been in camp a short time, and every 
 one loves her; but she is rather partial about 
 her favors. Her dignity is rather droll. You 
 know Mark Rainford ? Well, he has been whit 
 tling her a doll at odd times, and yester 
 day noon he came over, all smiling, 
 and offered it to her. It was so quaint; 
 rather an ingenious affair. She was just en 
 chanted with it. Her eyes fairly sparkled as 
 she hugged it up close. I really thought she 
 had found some one that she thought fully as 
 much of as of you, Joel. Mark was delighted. 
 He stayed around about half an hour playing 
 with her until the bugle called him to mess; 
 at that he picked her up, kissed her and turned 
 to go. Well, I declare, you never saw such a 
 change in your life. Those black eyelashes 
 fairly swept over her eyes, and she looked at 
 him with such a look of disdain. I couldn't 
 have kept from laughing if I hadn't feared a 
 share of that glance myself. She looked at
 
 56 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 the doll rather mournfully, but resolutely 
 handed it back to Mark, and though he left it 
 on the table, and hasn't since touched it, yet 
 she won't play with it. Poor Mark, I really 
 felt sorry for him. She put me in mind of 
 some grown-up children I have seen before 
 now. 
 
 "There goes the bugle, and you haven't had 
 any of that wonderful pie. Come over after 
 dinner if you aren't busy, Joel." And he hur 
 ried away, leaving a merry little figure at the 
 door calling him a fond "Adios." 
 
 One day the reply to his letter came, and it 
 read: 
 
 "Mv BELOVED SON : All of us were so wor 
 ried to hear of the recent Indian outbreak, and 
 so your message and letter fell like a balm on a 
 mother's wounded heart. What would she do 
 if anything happened to her boy! I'm so glad 
 that you are coming home, dear. The old 
 house is lonely without your good-natured 
 laugh. Louise often inquires in her childish 
 way, 'When's Joel coming back?' All of your 
 friends are delighted to know you are coming. 
 
 "I hope you haven't been reckless or thought 
 less, dear. But bring the little one home with 
 you. We will see what we can do for her. 
 Perhaps mother needs a little girl to keep the 
 house cheery, now that you are gone so much.
 
 La Madrc. (57 
 
 Mother awaits son with an anxious Heart, so 
 don't delay, Joel. You must be here soon. 
 "Lovingly, MOTHER." 
 
 "Dear old mother," thought Joel, "you are as 
 good as gold, never a cross word. Yet I know 
 you are skeptical and will await our corning be 
 fore you will thoroughly believe what I say," 
 and Wilson folded up the letter carefully and 
 put it in his pocket. 
 
 Joel went to Mrs. Haverhill at his earliest 
 convenience, and together they made plans for 
 his departure, while Felicita how Mananka 
 came to be so rechristened no one knew sat as 
 quiet as a little mouse looking into their faces 
 with a wise air of knowledge, as they talked 
 about the things that interested them. She had 
 learned a great many English words, and 
 seemed happy to recognize one. 
 
 It was late when Wilson bade them all good 
 night and started away. The rising moon was 
 scurrying through the heavens filled with fleecy 
 clouds. The air was sharp and cool for Ari 
 zona, save for the occasional howl of a coyote or 
 the hoot of a billy-owl. He unthinkingly 
 walked away down the road in the moonlight. 
 It seemed as if something very beautiful had 
 come into his life. And as he walked along 
 two faces were constantly before him ; one that 
 of a dirty, little, mischievous urchin with danc-
 
 58 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 ing black eyes, enfolded in flowing coal-black' 
 hair, beside it was the sweet face of his 
 mother, kind and benevolent, framed in soft 
 white purity. They were the faces of two that 
 he loved.
 
 El Discipulo. ' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EL DISCIPULO.* 
 
 "And all about her neck and shoulders Hew 
 A flock of little loves, and sports and joys, 
 With nimble wings of gold and purple hew." 
 
 AFTER a short stay in San Francisco our lit 
 tle gypsy entered the Sisters' School in San Ra 
 fael. The world had been opening up to her 
 like a great wonder-book, with picture pages 
 of gorgeous scenery and gilded kings and 
 queens. So unlike the Fort and Desert! al 
 most too soon forgotten amid the dazzling rev 
 elations of her new life. The great city, with 
 its Golden Gate Park, where she could ride don 
 keys and drive goats, fly about in the merry-go- 
 round, see the birds and animals, hear the music 
 and watch the crowd of gaily dressed people; 
 the Cliff House where the ocean roars, and 
 shiny, silvery seals lay about lazily sunning 
 themselves; the water-front, with its wonder 
 ful ships; the theatres with their children's mat- 
 
 *The Pupil.
 
 60 (A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 inees, the Chutes with its monkeys and wild 
 beasts and funny performances, and all the 
 city's noise and cars and wagons and immense 
 buildings. 
 
 "Where do the people all come from, Uncle 
 Joel?" She would ask him a thousand ques 
 tions, sometimes in English, more often in her 
 Apache-Spanish, calling him "Tio" (uncle) by 
 way of respect; a custom prevalent among 
 the Indians among whom she had lived. 
 
 The little, kind mother grew fonder of her 
 each day. Groomed and dressed in all the ha 
 biliments of a Southern lass, she became an 
 object of pride with her, fondled and caressed 
 and kindly cared for. 
 
 "She shall be a little lady, like you, Lou. 
 You shall go to the sisters' school together, 
 and then to college, so that we can be proud of 
 you both, and then you will grow up to be my 
 daughters." 
 
 And so it came about one day, accompanied 
 thither by the mother that loved them both, 
 these two happy creatures, one our own Feli- 
 cita, the other her playmate, Louise Gordan, 
 the only daughter of a rich widower of Wheel 
 ing, W.Va., entered upon their studies at Sacred 
 Heart Convent, in San Rafael. The spacious 
 building, with its gardens all enclosed by high 
 hedge and fence, seemed at first dark and 
 gloomy to the merry little midget just emerg 
 ing from the midst of the city's gaiety, but a
 
 El Discipulo. 6 1 
 
 kindly touch and word of the sister in charge, 
 a genial smile from the old priest who visited 
 the convent to conduct mass, constant encour 
 agement from the mother superior, and happy 
 playmate associates, soon gave it another tone. 
 The nature of our little student was moulded to 
 resemble the cheering, encouraging world about 
 her, resplendent with the green hills smiling 
 with the yellow poppy, majestically guarded by 
 Mount Tamalpias, raising his proud head in 
 the west, while on the east lay San Paolo Bay 
 spread out in silvery sheen, alive with white- 
 winged yachts and swift-sailing fishing smacks. 
 
 There human associations, too, that figured 
 in her life, student associations that brought her 
 happy hours, edifying and broadening her mind 
 and expanding the scope of spiritual and men 
 tal vision. 
 
 Long walks through the shady poplar vistas 
 in the environment of the convent, little picnics 
 to Lichtenburg Canon, or to Inspiration Point, 
 and now and then a climb to the top of Tamal 
 pias, or to Willow Camp or Tennessee Cove fig 
 ured in the many enjoyments of her stay at 
 Sacred Heart. They took her childish, fairy- 
 spirit back sometimes in sorrow, sometimes 
 in gladness to the brown sandy hills of Sonora 
 and Arizona. 
 
 So these few years passed hurriedly in study 
 and play, play and study, almost undisturbed 
 by the progress of the world without. Her
 
 6i A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 school life was laid aside for the city when Sat 
 urday morning brought her to the dear little 
 mother, who always came to meet her at the 
 door. That was always a red-letter day for 
 our demure, brown gypsy. Her day to have 
 the trap and the bob-tail, to drive mother and 
 Lou through the park if the day was clear, or 
 to attend matinee, if it was not. It was her 
 day to see the young lieutenants at parade, for 
 Joel was stationed at the Presidio in San Fran 
 cisco now. After drill they would often ride 
 over to Fort Point to see the great guns that 
 faced the sea, and watch the artillery. Then 
 perhaps they would drive over to the Presidio 
 Hospital, where Felicita's lithe form could be 
 regularly seen among the sick. They were al 
 ways glad to see her, and declared that she 
 came to them as a messenger of health 
 and freedom. There was the cemetery, too, 
 that received from her regular visits ; where her 
 sympathetic heart expressed its feeling for the 
 nation's patriotic dead, as she roamed through 
 it with her beloved Joel. 
 
 Every young officer sought her acquaintance, 
 child that she was. Each visit brought her me 
 mentoes of their esteem and their attention, as 
 expressed in innumerable little curios and gifts, 
 picked up in army life. But while her every 
 visit brought her a shower of welcome, yet this 
 magnetic little soul was entirely unpretentious. 
 
 The Presidio had an inexplicable attraction 
 
 \
 
 El Discipulo. 63 
 
 for her. It, somehow, reminded her of Fort 
 Grant, about which, in pre-civilized days, she 
 had often rolled in the sand and dust as she 
 played with her Indian playmates. But the In 
 dians were not there, and the Indians, she 
 would ponder, "were they not people, after 
 all?" Again and again old soldiers told her 
 stories of the Indian wars, while she listened 
 attentively, and she would think of her earlier 
 life that was all so hazy and so queer. They 
 would tell her stories of the founding of San 
 Francisco, of Friars Parlou and Cambon, and 
 of the padres of Mission Dolores across the 
 hills to the south. On her return home she 
 would recount them, always leaving the little 
 mother wondering how so small a head could 
 hold all she knew, then the old lady, so proud 
 of her charge, never failed to inform the lieu 
 tenant of Felicita's progress. 
 
 On one of these occasions a slight blush stole 
 over the young man's face. He stooped over 
 her, and taking her gray head between his broad 
 hands, kissed her lovingly, saying as he did so, 
 "Mother, you will be as proud of Mananka," 
 he was fond of her Indian name "as I am." 
 
 Unfortunate, proud mother! could he only 
 have known how deeply this blush, this act, 
 touched her heart, and disturbed the happiness 
 of her whose life from his infancy had been 
 lived wholly for her son. Had he known what
 
 64 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 a truth that story, that blush, that kiss revealed 
 to her ! 
 
 Upon another occasion the young officer, 
 absorbed in reading the news of the day, sat 
 opposite the little miss, whose elbows rested 
 upon the table, supporting with her two tanned 
 hands a well-proportioned head, whose black, 
 flowing hair, hanging loosely about her well- 
 rounded shoulders, encased in glossy ebony a 
 sunny, bright, brown face, from which two 
 large, soulful eyes seemed to peer admiringly 
 into her guardian's very heart. 
 
 "Well, Mananka, are you dreaming about 
 the old woman that lived in the shoe?" re 
 marked the lieutenant, not in the least dis 
 turbed. 
 
 "No, no, Tio Jose, I have been thinking 
 about you. I have been thinking of how some 
 day you would be a general, and then instead 
 of sending you soldiers to kill Indians you 
 would teach all my people how to live like 
 white people, and I would be one to go and 
 teach them, and you would order the soldiers to 
 protect me. That is the way the soldiers and 
 .the padres did, Tio, in the old Spanish days in 
 California." 
 
 She had the way of calling him "Tio Jose," 
 when she meant to tease him. 
 
 "Little dreamer," replied the lieutenant, "you 
 are not an Indian," and he continued reading. 
 
 After a moment she began again. "Joel," she
 
 El Discipulo. '65 
 
 remarked, "you told me that your first night 
 at home you would hear me read my story 
 about the Presidio, and now you must let me 
 read it to you. It's got a moral, too." 
 
 "Well, then, go on," replied the soldier, lay 
 ing down his paper. 
 
 "Once upon a time, when grandmother was 
 
 a child Yes, but not your grandmother," 
 
 replied Felicita. "It might have been mine," 
 and she read to him the well-known story of 
 the founding of the western city of San Fran 
 cisco. 
 
 As her interest increased, she thoughtlessly 
 drove a sharp pencil through the page of her 
 theme. "It all began with sixteen leather- 
 armed soldiers just to think. Ah! Joel, I've 
 spoiled my paper, and it was all for you, you 
 stupid!" she exclaimed, and our little enthu 
 siast resumed her dreaming, while Joel lay 
 back in his chair and laughed at her, for he had 
 been watching the performance all the while. 
 Then he straightened up and asked: 
 
 "Well, my little leather-coated Spanish 
 trooper, where's the moral?" 
 
 "Oh, the moral, Uncle Joel, the moral is : if 
 you don't be a great general, and I a good Sa 
 maritan missionary some day, the Indians in 
 Arizona will all die like they did here long, 
 long ago." 
 
 Their conversation ended here, but it en 
 dorsed the feeling in their hearts; her admira-
 
 66 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 tion for the rising soldier, his growing esteem 
 and affection for his captive ward, developing 
 so rapidly under his care and protection. 
 
 Her years at school passed by like so many 
 blossoms in a bee's flight, that buzzing and 
 humming about a wild rose alights for a mo 
 ment upon the delicate petals of a sweet brier in 
 order to fill its tiny proboscis with honey, then 
 taking wing, flies quickly to another and an 
 other, until, borne down with the sweetness it 
 has gathered, returns to the hive from whence it 
 has come, not to devour its store, but to de 
 posit its treasure for the use and benefit and 
 happiness of others. So with the maiden and 
 her education, only in her case the honey-comb 
 had not yet been filled. There were fields of 
 flowers yet, fields of poppy and white sage, 
 from which to gather her sweetness, there were 
 yet many, many empty cells for this busy little 
 bee, cells to be filled in her College life and in 
 the life of the World Outside.
 
 El Adelantada. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EL ADELANTADA.* 
 
 "There is she crowned with garlands of con 
 tent, 
 There doth she manna eat, and nectar drink." 
 
 SOME time after matriculation at Stanford, 
 Felicita wrote to Mrs. Wilson: 
 
 "How different all seems now to me! The 
 great sandstone quadrangle, with its long, rest 
 ful arcades built in the old Mexican style, an 
 architecture that I am so fond of, because it has 
 something in common with Arizona, the spa 
 cious, cool class-rooms, the Arboritum so invit 
 ing at times, the long drives and walks about 
 the campus, Encina and Roble halls, our dormi 
 tories, where the Stanford spirit is the strong 
 est, a spirit that every Stanford man and 
 woman will be proud of. Oh, mother, you do 
 not know how I am already in love with my 
 new alma mater. When I first left you and 
 
 * The Progress.
 
 68 !A. Maid of Sonora. 
 
 the convent, and Joel and all, I felt that I was 
 being exiled from all that was near and dear to 
 me, but what a truant to my former feelings I 
 am ! Here I am beginning to feel that the day 
 that takes me from Stanford and from Roble 
 will almost rob me of my soul. Some of the 
 girls are speaking of organizing Sororities, and 
 leaving the hall, but they cannot feel as we feel 
 who have almost made Roble a part of our 
 lives. What a dream-life college life is, any 
 way. But it is not all without seriousness, 
 mother, you may be sure. You will believe 
 me when I say that I have not studied as I do 
 now, in all my life. There is so much to learn 
 when one has an ambition. But it seems, 
 mother, that I never had such an inspiration to 
 work, and my studies are such a joy to me now. 
 I'm afraid they were not always so at the con 
 vent. Just to think if all goes well, I am to be 
 graduated as a 'Pioneer.' 
 
 "Just yesterday afternoon Lou and I took a 
 ride on our wheels to the Stanford home. We 
 met the Senator and Mrs. Stanford out among 
 the trees. They invited us to take a cup of tea 
 with them, and we spent a whole hour there 
 chatting of our hopes and our plans. They lis 
 tened so interestedly that we chatted like two 
 magpies. What a refined and elegant gentle 
 man the Senator is! He just seems to know 
 'worlds,' mother, yet his presence never em 
 barrasses. Mrs. Stanford reminds me much
 
 El Adelantada. 69 
 
 of you, in her quiet ways, mother. She seemed 
 to take a great fancy to us, and invited us to 
 come up and see her real often. I shall never 
 forget her kindness and gentle manner." 
 
 Long before she had entered the University 
 the question had been "where?" and as often 
 the answer came "to your own people." This 
 voice seemed to be calling her constantly, and 
 she resolved to adopt such studies, which when 
 once mastered would contribute to the welfare 
 of the Indian people, from which, in spite of 
 the protests of Joel, she believed she had 
 sprung. If she could have the endowment of a 
 broad, useful education, the support of strong 
 friends, how much then could she do in educat 
 ing and uplifting those poor, godless creatures, 
 the victims alike of vice and disease, and the 
 white man's avariciousness, from whose miser 
 able lot she was so miraculously rescued. Be 
 sides, her studies would give her pleasure when 
 among them, so unfathomably inferior to her 
 self; her only solace would be her knowledge. 
 Cicero had taught her long before how precious 
 is the realm of acquired force and self-reliance 
 that a liberal education alone can give when he 
 said, "these studies feed youth, give pleasure to 
 old age, are an ornament to us in prosperity, 
 offer us a refuge and a solace in our adversity, 
 delight us at home, do not impede us abroad, 
 are our companions by night, travel with us and
 
 yo A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 retire with us to the country." Furthermore, 
 would Joel not always be at her side, in 
 thought, in heart ? as she herself once told him : 
 "Brother, you are always with me, encourag 
 ing me in my studies, rejoicing with me in my 
 victories, both those over my lesser self and 
 over my difficulties, kindly correcting me where 
 I err, and praising me when I accomplish a dif 
 ficult task." 
 
 Every evening the Freshman "Co-ed" could 
 be seen treading the broad walk from Roble to 
 the Quadrangle, and through the long arches, 
 along the cool courts, where the red-tiled roofs 
 reflected the splendor of the evening sun. And 
 when she had received the letter that she went 
 after it was usually from mother or Joel, she 
 would often steal with it to a seat in the Ar- 
 boritum, a place under a large oak, near the 
 Mausoleum, and there read, undisturbed, "in 
 maiden meditation fancy free;" and there, 
 among the Druid trees, God's kind world 
 seemed to speak with silent tongue words that 
 the heart alone could hear and understand. 
 
 But the sky was not always rose and opal for 
 her. There were times of forebodings and mis 
 givings of the future, when the heart was sad; 
 days of illness and overwork, when the captain 
 Joel was a captain now seemed less sympa 
 thetic, and the reason could not be fathomed; 
 days when mother seemed to be drifting fur 
 ther and further away. Then once there had
 
 El Adelantada. 71 
 
 come tidings, rumors in which Joel's good name 
 and honesty were attacked. She well knew 
 that he was fond of horses, that he had spent 
 his leisure as a recreation at the races in Oak 
 land and Ingleside. He had often told her, 
 too, v of sums that he had lost and won. But 
 what of that ? Was it not the favorite pastime 
 of the young officers of the Presidio when not 
 on duty to spend an afternoon at the races, and 
 was he not a Southern gentleman with the love 
 of horses inborn? Felicita did not fear for 
 Joel. She could not conceive that he could ever 
 allow himself to be dragged into disgrace, and 
 hence she gave little credence to the rumors. 
 
 But there were not many days like these in 
 her life, for a heart like hers could not long be 
 sad and discontented where there were friends 
 and fellow workers and congenial pursuits; 
 where so much mirth and good fellowship 
 abounded. Nay, these were only experiences 
 that broadened and made her sympathetic, that 
 brought her nearer her fellowman and her God. 
 
 The four years of Felicita's university life 
 passed not very unlike that of other students. 
 There were days and days of hard work, of ex 
 aminations and theses work, of research work 
 and statistical compiling, but there were also 
 many, many social affairs to break the monot 
 ony of it all; parties at Roble and dances 
 at the Fraternity houses, "at homes" with 
 the professors, and receptions to the fac-
 
 72 'A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 ulty, student excursions into the beautiful re 
 cesses of the Santa Cruz range, trips to La 
 Honda and to Woodland, concerts in the Old 
 Chapel, football, baseball, tennis, field days, 
 boating on Lagunita, and a variety of other 
 amusements to break into lectures and "dig 
 ging" and cramming for examinations. Visits 
 from mother and Joel were frequent and often, 
 and again young officers from the Presidio 
 came to spend a holiday or a Sunday. 
 
 On one particular Thanksgiving Day the 
 campus was alive with students flying the Car 
 dinal; people from all about assembled in their 
 gala dresses, gay in garb and light of heart. 
 It was the fourth annual intercollegiate game 
 in San Francisco. Students were assembled on 
 the wide portico in front of incina Hall dis 
 cussing the coming event, vociferously cheering 
 their heroes, and in concert the "rooters" of 
 the day raised their voices in songs and yells 
 for their alma mater, while they awaited the 
 arrival of a special train to carry them to the 
 city. When it arrived, gay in Cardinal bunt 
 ing,^ it shrieked, as it never did before, the yell 
 of the Stanford men. The people thronged 
 into the car as the university band, some forty 
 pieces, struck up "Hail, Stanford, Hail," the 
 Stanford anthem. Until the train moved away, 
 Stanford was aglow with enthusiasm. The 
 clear blue sky, the warm rays of the bright sun,
 
 El Adelantada. 73 
 
 the confident spirit of the students all seemed 
 propitious omens of victory. 
 
 That morning, Felicita, her crimson ribbons 
 floating in the soft breeze, stood with Louise 
 Gordan patiently awaiting the train to start for 
 San Francisco, where she could meet Joel and 
 mother, when her meditations were disturbed. 
 
 "May I share this seat with you, Miss Wil 
 son?" 
 
 It seemed the very opportunity for which 
 David McVeigh had longed and prayed. 
 
 If there was one who held the especial es 
 teem of the young lady it was David McVeigh. 
 Thoroughly responsive, and of deep sensibili 
 ties, she seemed always to burst into his pres 
 ence with the air of "you must succeed." Un 
 fortunate lad! He did not understand the 
 "why" of this. The future had bound him to 
 a narrow past that had not yet been broken. 
 
 But Felicita understood. She anticipated his 
 impulse by drawing him into a conversation 
 concerning their futures. 
 
 "And when I am far away," she remarked, 
 "far off among the cacti, the sage and the wild 
 Indians of Arizona, I know of one who will 
 think of me. David, we shall always be 
 friends," then, after a moment's pause, "just 
 friends, that is all." 
 
 "Friends," the word followed him to the 
 city, to the game ; the glad hurrahs of five thou 
 sand or more could not drown it in his heart,
 
 74 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 the songs of the students could not drive it from 
 his mind. 
 
 All that afternoon the two powerful football 
 teams moved over the field, now in a heavy 
 floundering manner, now in a quick, snappy 
 game over the white-lined oval, first one side 
 gaining an advantage, then another; at one 
 time with a victory for the Blue and Gold, at 
 another with success for the Cardinal. But 
 David McVeigh did not see much of the game. 
 He sat quietly meditating, gazing steadfastly at 
 the University section opposite his own, where 
 Felicita had said the captain had procured seats 
 for himself and for her. Occasionally a player 
 with an injury would be aided off the field, 
 then an unusual silence fell over the mul 
 titude, but David McVeigh was little dis 
 turbed. At the end of the second half 
 alone he evinced interest; then the victorious 
 Cardinal was everywhere in evidence. Great 
 signs bearing the figures 6-0 were raised over 
 the heads of the surging multitude of Stan 
 ford students and sympathizers, who formed 
 themselves into one compact mass about their 
 successful team. Men were jumping over the 
 bleachers, casting their caps in the air, and ut 
 tering earsplitting yells; hats, canes went up, 
 horns blew, blew into space so the noise com 
 pletely drowned the strains of the college bands. 
 In a few minutes the crowd had organized itself 
 into a procession, still yelling and jostling in a
 
 El Adelantada. 75 
 
 most maddening manner. At the head of this 
 organized serpentine orgy, Stanford football 
 heroes were borne upon the shoulders of jubi 
 lant students. These were released at the gate 
 to be borne triumphantly in a tally-ho through 
 out the city, to be followed by a zigzagging pro 
 cession, a yelling and singing mass of students. 
 Near the east gate a number of young men, 
 decorated in Blue and Gold, clustered together 
 in their disparagement resolved to tear down a 
 strip of red bunting that adorned the East 
 bleachers. The moment they attempted to carry 
 out their resolution, some of them rushed to the 
 framework and began wildly tearing at the 
 cloth, perfectly careless of the surging mass of 
 Stanford sympathizers. However, David was 
 awake to the insult of his college colors. In 
 an instant he was past the bleachers and 
 cleared the walls. An instant more and he had 
 the foremost offender by the heels, and with one 
 quick jerk cast him to the ground. Then a gen 
 eral melee ensued, in which blows were received 
 and freely given. When a few minutes after 
 wards the crowd had been dispersed by peace 
 makers, David lay bleeding and unconscious, 
 with a scalp wound inflicted by a blow an inch 
 above the right temple. Felicita, from her place 
 in the grand stand, watching the surging multi- 
 tud, was the first to observe the melee. She 
 saw David as he rushed forth before her to 
 leap into the crowd below. It was then that
 
 76 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 she tore away from the side of the captain and 
 followed David into the crowd, but was thrust 
 back by the surging mass. 
 
 When the injured man opened his eyes he 
 saw a lithe, female form bending over him, ap 
 plying cold water, and attempting, with a 
 small lace handkerchief, to staunch the flow of 
 blood. The captain, too, was there, and in his 
 large-hearted, brotherly way, drove back the 
 morbidly curious bystanders. He folded David 
 in his brawny arms and carried him through 
 the gate into a carriage, with orders to the 
 driver to carry him to their home on Van Ness 
 Avenue. 
 
 "Felicita," David ventured, as they were 
 driving along, "can you ever forgive me? I 
 couldn't stand to see them drag our colors in 
 the dirt." 
 
 "There is nothing to be ashamed of, 
 McVeigh," said Joel, kindly. 
 
 That night Felicita did not go to the thea 
 tre. She was not there to listen to the cheers 
 for David McVeigh, for the "Co-ed" and 
 every Stanford man knew who was meant by 
 "the Co-ed." She remained at home to contrib 
 ute to the wants of a wounded, fevered friend. 
 
 Some days after Felicita and David were 
 driving through the beautiful green hills that 
 lay between the University campus and La 
 Honda. 
 
 "Felicita," he ventured, "have you quite
 
 El Adelantada. 77 
 
 made up your mind to spend your life among 
 those cannibal Apaches? Just to think! What 
 an odd girl you are! Perhaps you will forget 
 it by the time you graduate. But that is not 
 long now. Let me see four months." 
 
 "Quite made up my mind, David. But then 
 you know, Dave, you are to be a mining engi 
 neer. Perhaps you will come to Arizona to 
 discover the treasure mines that it is reported 
 the brave Colorado and the early padres worked 
 in the days of the conquest, and later hid from 
 marauding Indians. 
 
 "What a nice little story for our 'Sequoia/ 
 if, in my rambles about the desert, Dave, I 
 could find some old, old Indian, O, a hundred 
 years old, who would tell me where those mines 
 are, because I had fed him or cared for him. 
 Then I could show you where the treasures are, 
 and we could work them together, and become 
 immensely rich, have homes and lands to give 
 the poor creatures who must now roam about 
 as outlaws in the sandy deserts, living on what 
 they can steal and beg, because no one has ever 
 taught them how much better it would be for 
 them to use their hands in honest work. David, 
 I once dreamed that an old, old Indian woman 
 told me a great secret. Some day I will tell 
 you what she told me." 
 
 "But I cannot understand," continued David, 
 "I cannot understand why you of all people, 
 should want to go into the darkness, out of
 
 78 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 light and life. You, Felicita, so young, so cul 
 tured, so ambitious and full of life, should want 
 to bury yourself there. Can't you see what an 
 injustice it would be to that dear little devoted 
 mother? Can't you see the wrong in it? The 
 wrong to Joel ?" he continued pleadingly, and 
 a glance from her eye led him to remark, "I 
 I cannot think that you love Joel Wilson 
 Felicita?" 
 
 "David," her voice trembled as she spoke. 
 Had he also probed into her heart, or had he 
 heard of the misfortune of the captain? The 
 world seemed cruel to her for an instant, and 
 in that cruelty there was something like a mock 
 ery of honor and justice. Oh, could he but 
 know how she loved Joel! Could she but tell 
 David! Tell the world as her heart told her. 
 Could she but tell David that she believed in 
 Joel's guiltlessness. "Mananka, I am inno 
 cent !" these the captain's words, were audibly 
 written upon her heart and she knew them to 
 be the truth. 
 
 She gazed at David in doubtful surprise, but 
 she had misunderstood his meaning. Not jeal 
 ousy prompted his remark. It was the soul 
 that she had awakened in him that spoke. It 
 spoke in tones of hope for her. 
 
 The silence that ensued was almost deaden 
 ing to him. Finally, looking him square in the 
 face, she began : 
 
 "David, David, I am going to Arizona after
 
 El Adelantada. 79 
 
 my commencement is over; it will be best, 
 best for you and for me and for the cap 
 tain, too, David. And as you are my friend, I 
 shall ask you to tell Dr. Jordan and Mrs. Wing 
 they have always been very kind to me tell 
 them why I have gone. Mother will know, and 
 the captain, too. In the midst of this," point 
 ing to her surroundings, "a great voice seems to 
 tell me never, never to forget who I am. I am 
 going back to my people, David, to the Indians 
 of the desert." 
 
 Then the calm, fixed expression on her face 
 changed to one of anguish, as she thought 
 of the man she loved. In a moment she re 
 gained her self-possession, and she related to 
 David, for the first time in her life to anyone, 
 saving Lou Gordan and Lou had been 
 more a sister than a friend all she had ever 
 heard, and all she recollected of her childhood. 
 
 "And I have made up my mind," she con 
 cluded, "yes, I feel it is the task God has fitted 
 me for, to give my education and my heart and 
 my life and my all to my people. That was 
 what I was born for, David, and educated and 
 suffered for, and, oh! it is no use God has 
 pointed the way, the only way. I must forget 
 that I am a woman, David, forget everything 
 but these poor creatures to whom He sends me. 
 Heaven knows, these poor, grovelling beings 
 are my brothers and my sisters, they are my 
 flesh and blood. God has given me this charge.
 
 80 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 I have no right to disobey. I will go, David." 
 
 It was all clear to him now. David had 
 nothing to answer. The placid expression on 
 her face told him of the comfort it gave to her 
 to let him know all. His own silence assured 
 her that her confession for it was a confession 
 even of her love for Joel would remain as in 
 violably in his heart as it was in hers. 
 
 They drove on to where the hills opened into 
 beautiful dale, enclosed in a deep wood of 
 nodding sequoia and oak, where a myriad of 
 poppies, forming great beds of yellow, reflect 
 ing gold, held up their proud heads to heaven 
 as if in their silence they were singing a Te 
 Deum in Holy Mass. 
 
 "How beautiful!" they both remarked, al 
 most simultaneously, and David ventured : 
 
 "Felicita, I hope your whole life will be 
 spent amid just such blossoms and just such 
 beautiful surroundings."
 
 Una Culpa. ' Si 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UNA CULPA.* 
 
 "These blenches gave my heart another youth, 
 And worst assays proved thee my best of 
 love." 
 
 MAJOR WILSON looked rather serious and 
 thoughtful ag he left the Presidio grounds that 
 evening. The week had been a busy one at 
 army headquarters, preparatory to transferring 
 certain companies, temporarily stationed at San 
 Francisco. When he had completed the usual 
 routine work for the day, he felt a great weight 
 removed from his shoulders. 
 
 But his mind was not at ease. The tran 
 quillity of his military life had been broken into. 
 His seriousness was not all due to overwork. 
 For him there was a problem yet to solve. He 
 could not emancipate himself from this 
 thought. 
 
 Joel had been accustomed to taking his even 
 ing drive with his mother ; sometimes with Fe- 
 
 * An Accusation,
 
 82 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 licita, or occasionally with a brother officer, or 
 Lou Gordan, but never alone. To-day the car 
 riage drove away with only one occupant, 
 Major Wilson. He did not even notice the sa 
 lute of a young lieutenant of his acquaintance, 
 so busily was he occupied in his thoughts. All 
 he observed was that men and vehicles were 
 coming and going, and such significant objects 
 in the park as the Museum and the Music 
 Stand and the Tea Garden. And he would not 
 have noticed the latter had it not been for a 
 happy picture that presented itself to him; the 
 picture of a nut-brown lass standing on the rus 
 tic bridge waving to him as he passed. But 
 Felicita was not alone, therefore, the carriage 
 did not stop in deference to her friend. It con 
 tinued to roll over miles of park and beach 
 roads, and rattled over cobbled streets until it 
 halted before one of the homes of Van Ness 
 Avenue. 
 
 Felicita was at the door to meet him as he 
 dismounted. He greeted her carelessly and 
 passed on. For some reason she did not stop 
 him to banter with him as usual, and as she had 
 intended. She perceived that he was troubled. 
 
 A few moments later Felicita entered with 
 the evening paper, without a word, her ex 
 tended hand offered him the periodical, upon 
 which great headlines, clearly exposed to view 
 could be read : 
 
 "Embezzlement Disclosed." For a moment
 
 Una Culpa. 83 
 
 more her eyes fell upon the lines: "It is re 
 ported upon the best authority, that Major Joel 
 Wilson, of Battalion , stands accused of the 
 felonious appropriation to his own use of large 
 sums of money probably amounting into the 
 thousands, from the treasury of the Grand 
 
 Lodge of , for which he has been acting 
 
 in the capacity of secretary." 
 
 Felicita could read no further. Bursting into 
 tears, she involuntarily threw her arms about 
 the major's neck, sobbing as she did so: 
 
 "I do not believe it, Joel ; I never, never will 
 believe it. It is false. They are telling lies 
 about you." 
 
 For a moment Joel did not answer. Then 
 without the least emotion he stated : 
 
 "Yes, Mananka, it is false. Thank God, that 
 you do not believe it is true. That is all that 
 I feared, Mananka," and the big, brawny sol 
 dier bowed over her and kissed her.
 
 84 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EL CORAZON.* 
 
 "O f Cupid, so thou pity me." 
 
 THERE is usually a coldness and distance 
 about college-bred women that tags them wher 
 ever they go. There is usually an air of wis 
 dom and prudish sophistication that causes 
 them to seem unnatural, and too often unat 
 tractive. Our admiration for them increases, 
 our esteem for them is not lessened, but they do 
 not inflame our hearts or touch our chords of 
 sympathy. It is possibly not that they are edu 
 cated ; it is because they imagine that their edu 
 cation must brandish all girlish fancies, sup 
 press all impulse, deaden all signs of passion, in 
 short, give them an air of completedness with 
 out the factor "man," give them a masculine 
 rather than a womanly intellect, turn all their 
 energies, their forces, their talents into channels 
 governed by the head only. For them the 
 heart must have no pulse, the mind no imagi- 
 
 *The Heart.
 
 El Corazon. 85 
 
 nation, the spirit no haven of love, unless they be 
 first subjected to the governing spirit of self- 
 sufficiency which too often is their battle cry. 
 
 Oh, where has flown the soul that once beat 
 in this love red pulse, so airy, delicate and fear 
 lessly careless in the days of childhood, so 
 sweetly confiding gracefully loving and play 
 fully fond in girlhood, so capable in impres 
 sions, yet in resistance strong? Has college re 
 moulded her very nature, or has she become 
 the mere product of tendency a woman with 
 out the charm womanly ? Is the original lost ? 
 Is she no more a Miranda, a Desdemona, a Per- 
 dita, a Juliet or an Imogen, or even a Portia? 
 
 Happily in this change Felicita lost none of 
 her girlish charms, but rather enriched them 
 and invested herself with those that may be 
 procured from the terrace above which she was 
 stepping. Through natural deference she had 
 made few confidential friends, and while she 
 was a general favorite, there was that subtle 
 something about her that placed her a little 
 apart from her comrades. Whenever they 
 thought of it they attributed it to the story 
 surrounding her adoption. She had never- 
 however, reasoned about it, and yet she never 
 overcame entirely the sensitiveness her peculiar 
 situation forced upon her. To herself, amid 
 all the grandeur of her surroundings, she was 
 an Indian. 
 
 In all that pertained to refinement and cul-
 
 86 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 ture Felicita was certainly well endowed. No 
 shade of sin, no line that spoke of vanity could 
 be traced upon those love-lighted features. 
 Strife, disappointment, reverses, the rude life 
 of her childhood, her strange encounters and 
 almost irreparable loss of father, mother and 
 childhood's companions, demanded no expres 
 sion on her features saving an occasional, fleet 
 ing, questioning sadness. All was harmony 
 within that soul, without consciousness of it 
 and without effort. Her eyes, large, dark, well 
 rounded dials, that peered from between a pro 
 fusion of black hair, cheeks and cheek-bones 
 Castilian, refined in outline, teeth well set and 
 well framed, a nose rather Greek than Roman, 
 somewhat narrow at the bridge, lips a trifle 
 thin, yet curving in a jovial expression of a 
 satisfied nature above a chin delicately rounded, 
 determined, but not aggressive, her features 
 blended in a harmonious whole all the noble 
 virtues of a truly noble woman. There was 
 that about her genial nature that bespoke a 
 strong yet flexible intellect. There was noth 
 ing about her nature or her bearing to distract 
 from that exalted charm that invested her from 
 infancy. Her's was a soul of love. 
 
 Throughout the day a friend had visited Fe 
 licita and Louise. The day was one for recall 
 ing reminiscences, and the young woman's 
 mind reverted to the earlier days of her life. 
 Her years were full of change, and each change
 
 El Corazon. 87 
 
 had brought with it a wealth of feeling. There 
 was first the garrison, then the convent, and 
 then the college. First the soldier, then the 
 Captain, then the Major; first the desert, then 
 the village, then the city; first the guardian, 
 then the friend and then the lover? It 
 seemed to her to have been the life of someone 
 else, not her own. But there was another one 
 in her life, a little, fond, gray-haired mother. 
 The thought was the cause of struggling emo 
 tions with her. She had all her life placed 
 gratitude above her personal wishes. What 
 ever her life was to be she had resolved to live 
 it for the happiness of those who were more to 
 her than herself. Joel's mother's fond hopes, 
 confided to her in an atmosphere of trust, were 
 sacred to her. It was a sacrifice that she must 
 make of herself. Was there not a God that 
 would console her? Was there not a Heaven 
 that would compensate her loss? Was there 
 not a mother's kiss that to her was Heaven's 
 own reward? Would he not forgive her for 
 his mother's sake ? Oh, would he not forgive ? 
 And yet he must never know. It was a con 
 fidence that she may not abuse, and could not 
 if she may. Was it not his mother's whole 
 hope, whole ambition, that Joel should marry 
 in the high walks that he was accustomed to 
 tread ? yes, that he should marry Louise Gor- 
 dan. Louise, who had ever been a boon com 
 panion, a sister to her. What was she, Felicita,
 
 88 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 but an unclaimed Indian, and he, proud Major 
 Joel Wilson, descended from one of the first 
 families of Virginia. She felt ungrateful ever 
 to have lived to be a stumbling-block to his hap 
 piness; to have come between mother and son, 
 her mother and her brother, her mother and 
 her loved one ! 
 
 One by one such thoughts came to her, and 
 growing bolder, they aroused in her deeper 
 anxieties and fears. They were like children 
 who had grown weary of play, and were de 
 manding greater attention when, with one 
 bound, as if in concert, they bore down upon 
 her fevered brain in a burst of tears and throbs. 
 
 Within every heart there is a strength that 
 we do not fathom in our afflictions. It is this 
 hidden sense that saves us in moments of great 
 est disparagements. It is not reason. It is 
 the innate consciousness of self-control and 
 self-possession, called into play by inherent feel 
 ing, that we dare show each other only one side 
 of our nature, namely, the strong side. 
 
 In a moment the tears were brushed away, in 
 trust that time would change all. Perhaps 
 after a while the Major and Louise would be in 
 a home of their own. Then if she could not 
 endure it was she not going to return to the 
 desert anyway? to her own people, her own 
 wild, reckless, helpless people; to the desert 
 where the lark and mocking-bird were free and 
 happy, and she, Felicita, could be free and
 
 El Corazon. 89 
 
 happy with them. It was the hope of youth, it 
 was the fondness of a girlish heart that was 
 coming to her resale. Before the sun had set 
 she was her own merry self again. Her fears 
 were banished, only perhaps to be swept back 
 again by greater heart throbs. But these four 
 lines dwelt in her memory: 
 
 "Must we never, never stand, 
 Soul to soul and hand to hand? 
 r Are the bonds eternal set, 
 That should keep us strangers yet?"
 
 90 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 EL REDENTOR.* 
 
 "In this world it is not what we take up, but 
 what we give up that makes us rich." 
 
 JUST what occurred behind the barred doors 
 of the Grand Lodge as it met that autumn, no 
 one but the initiated may ever know. The agi 
 tation among its members at its opening, and 
 their mysterious secretiveness at its close, and 
 the immense interest evinced by all the Major's 
 friends during its session indicated that his wel 
 fare was at stake. 
 
 As the Major returned home on the second 
 day of its session he met Felicita driving up 
 with her new trap and tandem from a jaunt in 
 the park. The young officer approached her 
 with a smile on his lips, and handed her an 
 evening paper, saying as he did so : 
 
 "Mananka, did I not say you were right?" 
 and Felicita read : 
 
 "The charge of embezzlement brought on 
 
 *The Redeemer.
 
 El Redentor. 91 
 
 the day of by the Grand Lodge of was 
 last night dismissed. After a careful scrutiny 
 of the books of the Lodge, the Committee on 
 Investigation brought in a report favorable to 
 the accused, and his bondsmen were forthwith 
 absolved. The mistake arose through the neg 
 ligence of the Auditing Committee in the keep 
 ing of the accounts." Then more in detail con 
 tinued an explanation of how the mistake 
 arose. When Felicita completed her hurried 
 perusal of the article, the Major drew from his 
 pocket a small leather case, from which he 
 took a letter and handed it to Felicita. It 
 read: 
 
 "Mv DEAR MAJOR: The service you have 
 done me can never be repaid. God knows, since 
 this matter was made public I have hardly 
 slept or lived. My fear was not so much, be 
 lieve me, for myself as for you, for your kindly 
 mother, whom the blow of your disgrace would 
 have killed, for your esteemed sister, and for 
 your many friends, Major. Had your kind 
 ness not come to my rescue I believe your noble 
 nature would have really sacrificed all than to 
 have allowed me to bear the disgrace which I, 
 not you, would have perpetrated. I can never 
 forget how much I have indulged in your 
 friendship in the past, and what a friend you 
 were to me in my present need. Where you 
 have obtained the money to save me from the
 
 92 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 bars is not for me to ask, yet I regret that you 
 should have had to make a sacrifice for one so 
 unworthy. 
 
 "I only hope that the day may not be far 
 off when I may, in some slight degree at least, 
 be able to return so great a favor, and now, 
 Major, I can only humbly beg that you accord 
 me an audience soon, that I may better show 
 rny gratitude, and understand. 
 
 "Sincerely and fraternally, 
 
 "CHARLES MCCHARLES." 
 
 Felicita looked at the Major in a manner that 
 asked a hundred questions, and he answered 
 her: 
 
 "It is a long story, Mananka. A story that 
 I cannot tell you all about, and yet I have so 
 often felt that you ought to know of it. But 
 you shall not know all, for there is much that 
 concerns my friend alone, Mananka, and I 
 know you would never have me abuse his trust 
 in me. 
 
 "You will remember the day that Dr. Coch- 
 ran drove up here to take me out to Ingleside. 
 That was long ago, when I first came to San 
 Francisco, and mother protested against my 
 driving out with him, for she said she did not 
 like his looks. Well, that was the beginning 
 of my troubles. You know I often went to the 
 races after that, and one day I met McCharles 
 there. Shortly after we met at lodge again,
 
 El Redentor. 93 
 
 and then we became close friends. We often 
 met at the track; and both bet heavily at times ; 
 sometimes we would lose and sometimes win. 
 After a while losing became chronic with 
 McCharles, and then, as I was usually flush, I 
 loaned him money. After a while I began to 
 distrust him, not because he refused me once 
 or twice when I was in need upon a pretence 
 that I knew to be false, but because, without his 
 knowledge, I entrapped him in deceptions of 
 which I was the victim. One day he came to 
 me for money, and I blankly refused. He said 
 nothing. Shortly after that we were elected as 
 officers of the Grand Lodge ; I as treasurer, he 
 as auditor. From time to time demands came 
 to me from the auditor to pay out certain 
 moneys, requisitions that I suspicioned to be 
 falsified. I knew that he was spending large 
 sums at the races, and losing, but that was not 
 my affair. Then came the crash. I at first 
 thought of saving myself, and you and mother. 
 Then one evening I was returning from the 
 Presidio on the car, just ahead of me I saw 
 you in the trap. You were alone and could 
 not manage the horses, that were frightened by 
 a passing ambulance. Some one jumped from 
 a passing carriage, caught the leader just as he 
 was about to drag the trap over the sidewalk, 
 leaped upon the seat, and drove the horses into 
 a side street. Then my eyes followed him as 
 he handed you the reins, tipped his hat to you,
 
 94 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 and hastened back to rejoin his carriage. I 
 saw who it was. It was Charles McCharles. 
 That moment I thought to save him, for it was 
 in my power, and so I have." And then after 
 a moment's pause, "But, Mananka, you never 
 told me of that escapade, and it might have 
 cost you dear, and why didn't you, Mananka?" 
 
 "And why didn't you tell me that you saw 
 me?" she answered, in a woman's way. 
 
 To this Joel could only reply : 
 
 "Well, well, Mananka, I always distrusted 
 that man." 
 
 Felicita scarcely heard his answer. She was 
 thinking of Joel, who had saved a forger from 
 justice because of the love of that Joel for a 
 poor little Indian maid; and they were both 
 silent a long while.
 
 La Querida. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LA QUERIDA.* 
 
 "Love is the life of the soul, it is the har 
 mony of the Universe." 
 
 AND then came the night before commence 
 ment, in which life always seemed to be crowd 
 ing tumultuously ; one crested wind-driven 
 wave upon another, tossed into a little sheltered 
 bay, which, before, perhaps for years, had rip 
 pled along in playful murmurings, unheedful of 
 the tides, coming and receding in well-beaten 
 paths. 
 
 The thought came to her that she must soon 
 leave these surroundings, which she had so 
 learned to love. She would perhaps that day 
 take her last drive with old "Uncle John" 
 through the Arboritum. She would perhaps 
 take her last walk about the Quadrangle, that 
 great enclosed Quadrangle of buff stone and 
 red-tiled roof. The great oaks and the tall, 
 nodding eucalypti would bid her good-bye, as 
 
 "The Beloved.
 
 96 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 would her instructors and her friends that she 
 had learned to esteem so highly. The shades of 
 the Mausoleum, the bench in the oak near the 
 cacti beds, the quiet alcoves of the library 
 would miss their recluse, their habitant She 
 thought of the mornings she would arise, not 
 to look upon the beautiful Santa Qara valley, 
 which Bayard Taylor is pleased to class with 
 the plains of Mexico and the Valley Damascus. 
 She thought of the days when in the evening 
 twilight she could no longer discern the Lick 
 Observatory crowning Mount Hamilton, by 
 the glint of the sun's reflection, when she could 
 no longer look upon the picturesque Santa 
 Cruz range to the southwest, wafting its long 
 shadows eastward, when the bay, the bay 
 three miles in the distance, would no longer ap 
 pear to her vision like a vast, silvery sheen. 
 And she thought of human associates, too. Of 
 him whose large and warm heart has so in 
 delibly stamped itself upon the character of 
 the University he guides as president, whose 
 calm and impassive exterior teaches us to ad 
 mire and respect sincere simplicity and frank 
 expression of all that is best in our natures; 
 whose strong conviction of right and un 
 daunted, brave determination to stand by what 
 his convictions tell him is right, urges us to 
 forego complying too hastily with public opin 
 ion, and to act according to the dictates of our 
 consciences and our own best judgment And
 
 La Querida. 97 
 
 thought of her closer associates, to whom she 
 owed the moulding of her character, and the 
 broadening of her mental and spiritual hori 
 zon. 
 
 Thoughts like these occupied her mind as she 
 sat seemingly attentive, the afternoon of her 
 Commencement, to the orations of the occasion 
 in the men's old gymnasium, near Encina, 
 where the exercises were held in those primi 
 tive days. Such thoughts entered her mind as 
 she stood under the '95 oak at its dedication, 
 and as she mingled with the gay and happy at 
 Mrs. Stanford's reception. They had a deeper 
 significance to her than mere meditations, be 
 cause they contrasted themselves with the heat, 
 and the desert, and the wild, uncouth tribes of 
 the Arizona mountains. 
 
 After all the pomp and display of all the nu 
 merous formal and informal affairs of Com 
 mencement week, Felicita and Louise antici 
 pated a very pleasant affair in Felicita's in 
 formal "at home" to a small circle of intimate 
 friends. 
 
 When that evening came, and the last flutter 
 of feminine drapery swished over the stair 
 landing, the Major, who was enjoying without 
 the cool breeze that swept over the bay, entered 
 and resumed a chat with his mother that his 
 departure a few moments before had so ruth 
 lessly broken off. 
 
 "It hardly seemed to me, mother, that I was
 
 98 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 as young as they when we made such a sputter 
 over that commencement of mine at the Mili 
 tary Academy." 
 
 "Yes, we scarcely realize, son, that the years 
 roll by and leave us older. But then you seemed 
 very young to me, Joel, only a boy, Joel, my 
 lad. Do you know I have been thinking of 
 your father all day to-day. Somehow even 
 now when I look at your broad shoulders and 
 realize your age, it seems as though my little 
 boy has been lost in the passing years, but even 
 then the little Virginia cadet was never more 
 dear to me than my Joel of to-day." 
 
 "And, mother," responded the young man, 
 "how is it with Mananka and Louise? Do 
 you think that college life has changed them 
 towards you, mother or towards me?" 
 
 "Oh, dear me, no! but why, why Felicita 
 should want to go and waste her culture and 
 her sweetness upon those worthless Indians is 
 more than I can comprehend, Joel. It has 
 caused me many a sleepless night ;" and then 
 after a pause, "but I suppose it is natural. 
 There will always be that longing in her na 
 ture." And the thin lips met in a half-rebuking 
 line of earnestness. 
 
 "Now, mother," replied Joel, who had be 
 come thoroughly Western, "do not let that note 
 of Southern pride creep in. I know that no 
 one loves Mananka more than you do, mother. 
 Has she been speaking of it lately, and so made
 
 La Querida. 99 
 
 you speak of it now? She has never spoken 
 of it to me. Isn't that odd?" and Joel Wilson 
 gazed away into space musingly. 
 
 "That is just her way, Joel. She thinks 
 more of it than you or I know ; but I hope she 
 will soon stop thinking of it and decide to re 
 main with us at home. The old house would 
 be lonely without her. She doesn't need to be 
 planning for her future. If she ever does, her 
 culture and her beauty will win her a lovely 
 home some day. I am very content to have 
 her always here with me, Joel. And how could 
 Mananka ever think of leaving Louise? They 
 have been such close companions for so many 
 years," and turning towards him she continued, 
 "Joel, my boy, there's the girl for you. Don't 
 you think so? Her mother and I were close 
 friends as girls. I can remember when her 
 father came to court her mother. He was a 
 Colonel then in the Southern army." And the 
 kind old face looked into the younger one with 
 a fond hope of seeing approval there, but she 
 turned away disappointed, for the Major was 
 not thinking of the banker's daughter. 
 
 A visit from the two young women inter 
 rupted their conversation, and left his mother's 
 query unanswered. 
 
 As Joel turned his gaze met two figures, 
 daintily dressed in white, giving the appear 
 ance of two zephyrs, such as one would read 
 about in Moore's "Lalla Rookh."
 
 ioo A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 He rose to go upstairs, and paused with one 
 foot upon the first step, tantalizingly uttering 
 an exaggerated sigh : 
 
 "Can a poor mortal be expected to remain 
 heart whole before two such creatures?" 
 
 "You thought you would say something 
 pretty so that you wouldn't be scolded for be 
 ing so long about those flowers, didn't you?" 
 retorted Louise. 
 
 "And I know someone who will have to 
 present himself in a smoking jacket this even 
 ing if there isn't a change soon," added Feli- 
 cita, with a look of teasing authority. 
 
 "Come, now, don't both of you scold," re 
 turned the Major, in a pretended crestfallen 
 tone. "Here are the posies, girls, and I can 
 show two thorn-pricked fingers. You ought to 
 sympathize with me in my suffering. Are you 
 going back upstairs to pin them on?" 
 
 "Of course," answered Lou, with a smile. 
 
 "I can get there first," replied the Major. 
 
 Whereat they all three, with a merry laugh, 
 ran pell-mell like three children, and made such 
 a hub-bub that Mrs. Wilson hobbled out of the 
 room on her crutches, leaving her maid to fol 
 low in anticipated mirth. 
 
 "Children, children !" laughed .Mrs. Wilson, 
 in mock disapproval, "shall I send you to the 
 nursery? There you are playing, and it is 
 seven and after!" 
 
 "Oh, goodness," murmured Lou, with a lit-
 
 La Querida. 101 
 
 tie gasp, as she relinquished her hold on Joel, 
 and they both ran away laughing, while Joel 
 stood breathless at the end of the stairs. 
 
 The evening was not an unusual one. There 
 was bowing and nodding, and complimenting 
 and merriment; there was music and refresh 
 ments, and toasting and story telling, cards, 
 and fortune telling, and dancing. 
 
 In the midst of the mirth the Major brought 
 in a gypsy fortune teller, procured at a nearby 
 gypsy camp, and when finally the Major's for 
 tune was told, someone listened more atten 
 tively than the rest. Someone's eyes would 
 have reminded you of those of Palladita on the 
 night of her wedding, someone turned pale, 
 then flushed, and then sighed deeply. 
 
 After all the good-nights were said, and the 
 guests departed, and the heavy door closed 
 with a soft click, and the key was turned almost 
 noiselessly in the lock, our brawny soldier stood 
 with his hand resting on the shoulder of his 
 loving mother. 
 
 "Tired, little mother? You have done well 
 to keep so cheery to-night." And he turned 
 towards her with an involuntary movement as 
 to caress her; she was so small besides his 
 broad, strong stature. 
 
 "Yes," she answered a trifle wearily. "I am 
 tired, and it has grown late, Joel; but what a 
 merry time it was, and I was so proud of our 
 girls," and she stroked his head with her hand.
 
 IO2 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 As Joel was helping her up the stairway, she 
 stopped half way to call Felicita: 
 
 "Are you coming, too, Mananka?" Louise 
 had already departed. 
 
 "Yes, mamie," answered the girl. "Good 
 night, guardie," to Joel, and she was already 
 beside the little mother, who stood waiting for 
 her. 
 
 "Are you going to need Mananka?" Joel 
 asked, gently. 
 
 "Why, no," she answered, questioningly, 
 as she paused on the next step to hear him fur 
 ther. 
 
 "If you are not too tired I would like to 
 speak with you a moment, Mananka. I must 
 be back early in the morning," he offered as a 
 slight excuse. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not too tired, Joel," answered Feli 
 cita, wonderingly. "I'll come good-night, 
 mother, dear," and the kind old lady kissed her 
 good-night. 
 
 "It seems as if some of them were here 
 yet, Joel," laughed Felicita, as she picked up a 
 withered pink rose from the floor, remember 
 ing having seen one of her girl friends coyly 
 toss it to one of the young men of the party 
 who had sought it, had missed it, and she was 
 hurried away by the dancers, while the rose, 
 soon forgotten, was trodden under heedless 
 feet, until at last, marred and torn, it was left 
 to wither on the deserted floor.
 
 La Querida. 103 
 
 "Do you know, Mananka," he began, half 
 heedless of his surroundings how dearly he 
 loved the name, "Mananka," that name of the 
 dusty little child of the red-men, who had woven 
 her silken-black Andalusian locks so closely 
 about his heart that no earthly power could un 
 twist the wavy coils ; "Mananka," how the name 
 seemed to be hers, and to bind within itself 
 every thought and feeling of " childish grace and 
 sweetness. "Do you know," he reiterated, "if I 
 was to be asked this minute who is the happier, 
 you or I, I could scarcely grant you the honor." 
 
 "And, yet, perhaps I should still be wander 
 ing in the hot Arizona sands had you and your 
 dear mother been less kind to me, Joel, less 
 noble, less self-sacrificing." 
 
 For a moment they sat silently gazing into 
 the dying embers. 
 
 "No," he retorted, "no sacrifice, Mananka," 
 
 "Yes, it was, Joel," she disputed, "yes, it 
 was; and I am going to show my gratitude 
 some day, when, when God wills that I can," 
 and she tilted one slender, little slippered foot 
 on the fender, demurely musing. 
 
 Joel gazed down upon her bright, dusky 
 beauty which the fire-light and her snowy robe 
 cast in such vivid contrast. 
 
 "And do you know, Mananka, when God 
 will will that you can ?" he added, as he took a 
 seat on the arm of the chair beside her, and 
 took her upturned face in his two broad hands ;
 
 IO4 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 "right now, by making this the happiest mo 
 ment of my life." 
 
 She did not misinterpret his meaning. Her 
 long lashes fluttered over her startled eyes, and 
 her hands crushed the petals of the rose heed 
 lessly that they held. 
 
 "Joel!" 
 
 Then two little tears made their way through 
 two soulful eyes looking pleadingly into his. 
 He knew then what a sacrifice his life had been 
 for her. He knew better what a sacrifice the 
 simple inflection of his own name meant for 
 that trusting, white-haired mother who had 
 given up her whole life to him, and to her, and 
 he felt sad. 
 
 For a moment they were both silent, then 
 Mananka began : 
 
 "Joel, I am going away. I am going far 
 away to Arizona, to my own people, to show 
 them how to live nobler and better lives. I 
 know that you will forgive me, Joel. I know 
 in time you will forgive me, and you will help 
 me as you have always done. Yes, I came into 
 your life as a poor, little, homeless, nameless 
 waif, with not a visible tie connecting me with 
 a single living human being. You became a 
 brother to me, more, you became father, 
 brother, sister, all in one. And Joel," she turned 
 to him now and looked him square in the tear- 
 stained face, "I have always thanked God that 
 He makes men who are whole-souled and
 
 La Querida. 105 
 
 strong like you are, and that He makes women 
 with loyal and true hearts. He means that they 
 should make homes that will perpetuate His 
 love and His goodness, and yet, Joel, He does 
 not wish either the one or the other to sacrifice 
 all toward that home. Oh, Joel, there are 
 women who have beauty and fame and wealth, 
 women of quality, whose names and whose 
 families would be an honor to you and to your 
 true Southern blood, and whose love would 
 honor any man. Joel, think. What am I that 
 you should love me! Joel, Joel, it would only 
 be a sacrifice, a greater sacrifice," and she 
 threw out her hands imploringly, as if begging 
 him to say no more. 
 
 "Sacrifice, Mananka? Is it sacrifice for a 
 man to accept as a gift that which is dearest to 
 him in all the world? Mananka, then the old 
 home must lose its sunshine? No, I cannot 
 live here then, not without your love, Ma 
 nanka !" 
 
 "My love not love you, Joel ? Oh, heavens, 
 I love you only too well but you will forgive 
 me, Joel, you will forgive me and you will 
 think of mother," and as she looked up at him, 
 with a determined resoluteness in her eyes, he 
 bent over her and quietly impressed a kiss as if 
 she were a dear one passing out of his life. 
 "Good-night, child," he added, and yet he was 
 conscious that there would be another time for 
 him, somewhere in the vague, distant future,
 
 io6 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 when there should be no barrier between their 
 loves. For the first time he understood. It 
 was the noblest sacrifice, and he loved her now 
 in a manner that he had never loved before. 
 
 There was little said that morning at the 
 breakfast table. No song bird as usual flitting 
 from quarter to quarter in merry laughter and 
 jubilant song. No sunshine that beamed from 
 a fair, benevolent face where it was used to 
 shine in loving and life-giving kindness. A 
 night of tears had banished that laughter. A 
 night of sobs drowned the musical notes that 
 were wont to come, but in all this sadness a 
 firm, sweet look of determination took posses 
 sion of those features; a determination that 
 only three understood. 
 
 A few days after a great tear dropped from 
 a soldier's eye as he signed his name to a letter 
 addressed to a brother officer at Fort Grant. It 
 was a letter asking that his ward might be ad 
 mitted as a nurse to care for the sick at the 
 garrison, and to administer to the Indians 
 there. Then after a few days of weary wait 
 ing, in which Felicita's whole life seemed to be 
 undergoing a change, a change so great that 
 again and again both the Major and Mrs. Wil 
 son attempted with vain pleading and reason 
 ing to persuade her from her purpose, but her 
 answer was always the same, "Mother, I must 
 go, I must, mother! It is all for the best! 
 No, no, Joel!" Then came the looked-for tele-
 
 La Querida. 107 
 
 gram welcoming her to a new life and a new 
 duty. 
 
 That evening at Oakland-Mole two tear-wet 
 cheeks were pressed one against the other ; one 
 old and white and wrinkled from which the 
 Sun of Heaven had so long sent forth its beams 
 in all kindness and refined benevolence of soul, 
 the other cheery and young, bespeaking a heart 
 of love and life of sympathy, and as the lips of 
 these two touched each asked herself, "Why, 
 why this parting?" 
 
 There were two battles for Mananka. There 
 was but one for him. Yet his manly heart 
 nearly broke as he helped her into the already 
 moving car. He bent over her tear-stained 
 face, kissed her good-by, and whispered : 
 
 "Mananka, somethings tells me I will be 
 with you soon," and he leaped out of the car 
 to rejoin his mother, as it rolled out of the 
 yards of the Mole.
 
 io8 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LA FORTALEZA.* 
 
 "We pick our own sorrows out of the joys 
 of other men, and from their sorrows likewise 
 we derive our joys." 
 
 As the sun again arose to renew his battle 
 with the arid earth, there began a new experi 
 ence for Felicita in the Fort Grant reservation. 
 She could scarcely believe that it was herself, 
 here, in this desert waste. 
 
 As the stage rolled on from the station to 
 the Fort she could catch a few faint glimpses 
 of childish delight, of time when she stood in 
 awe before the old padres. Faint, shadowy 
 memories of her childhood flitted across her 
 memory. "Had the beginning really been like 
 this?" The hills looked quaint and bare 
 against the cloudless sky except in patches 
 where the sun-scorched earth and brush were 
 heaped in lonely mass. Not a green thing ap 
 peared in sight, save far down the hill-rimmed 
 
 * The Garrison.
 
 La Fortaleza. 109 
 
 valley, where a thin, winding thread of willows 
 marked the path of a weary little stream, that 
 laboriously strove to carry its waters to the 
 sea, but finally sank helplessly into the sand, 
 almost untraceable, until the scanty rains of 
 autumn gave it new strength to struggle. Here 
 and there bunches of knot-grass and a few 
 spears of salt-weed could be seen, grey with 
 dust. Over this vast wound a white, rut- 
 covered highway, over which a lone horse 
 man rode. Doubtless he was one of the 
 Reservation Indians coming for tobacco, or to 
 lounge about the silent garrison. 
 
 As the rider plodded doggedly along he left 
 behind a cloud of dust that arose, hiding the 
 trees behind him. It surely seemed far more 
 lonely now than in the days of her infancy. 
 
 As the stage rolled up before the office door, 
 Mananka alighted without the least ado, drew 
 the serape she had bought in Tucson closer 
 about her shoulders, and stepped to the open 
 door of the office, in which the Post quarter 
 master was standing, nodded, and addressed 
 him: 
 
 "I am Miss Wilson, sir. Is Major Dupre 
 in?" 
 
 She was shown into the office; a gentleman 
 arose and addressed her : 
 
 "I am Major Dupre, madam." 
 
 She handed him a letter. 
 
 "I have been expecting you, Miss Wilson,"
 
 no A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 the gallant young officer answered. "You are 
 very welcome, indeed. We do not often have 
 visitors here. And you have come to work 
 among the Indians. Well, a hopeless and 
 thankless task," and he turned and smiled as 
 if to say "what folly," and added, "I will con 
 duct you to your apartments." 
 
 Their path led them down a long hall, over a 
 stairway, to a small, cheerless room, with bare 
 walls, carpeted with old, worn blankets, and a 
 jaguar skin for a rug. The emeublement of 
 the room was in accord ; a rude, wooden wash- 
 stand and a table, a bench, two camp chairs, 
 and a camp cot, with two red blankets to form 
 a sofa. On one side there was a dresser of 
 hard oak, and a large mirror, the dust still 
 clung to it, newly purchased. A few days, 
 however, brought about a transformation in 
 that room; calico curtains screened the little 
 windows, a bright spread was thrown over 
 the table. It contained books and pictures, and 
 a thousand little souvenirs and pretty trifles. 
 
 That evening Felicita met the ladies of the 
 camp few that they were genial young 
 women, but of a rather negative type, whose 
 husbands thought for them, talked for them, 
 and lived for them. However, they were tol 
 erable, and if not an inspiring factor in the life 
 of the good Samaritan, yet at least they did not 
 stand in the way of her endeavors. 
 
 That night as Felicita repaired to her room,
 
 La Fortaleza. U 1 1 
 
 turning from all the mysterious vagueness of 
 the day, she seated herself in the plain little 
 rocker, almost her only article of comfort, and 
 closing her eyes, she wandered away to her girl 
 hood home, and the loved ones there. She 
 seemed to see those she loved sitting in the 
 gaslight, which fell equally as soft on the dark 
 hair as the silvery locks. After a while her 
 eyes opened and she found all so silent and 
 lonely. Then sinking upon her knees, and 
 flinging her arms down upon the window sill, 
 she buried her quivering face in her hands, and 
 her figure shook with sobs of grief. 
 
 "Oh, it is so much harder than I dreamed," 
 she moaned. "No one, no one, cares. Oh, 
 why could I not have been born like he! Why 
 could I not have been her daughter indeed! 
 Oh, mother, dear, good mother, why could your 
 little girl not stay and be your little girl al 
 ways, and Joel Joel " 
 
 The sobs became pitiful, little audible plead 
 ings that gradually exhausted themselves, and 
 subsided with the faint tremblings of her bent 
 shoulders. At last she became silent again, and 
 raised her tear-stained face and looked at the 
 silent scene before her with eyes fully open. 
 Once more resolute, in reverence, she bowed 
 her head, and with clasped hands, prayed to the 
 God that had saved her from the thorns of the 
 cacti, and the diseases and poverty of her In-
 
 H2 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 dian neighbors, and with that remorse vanished 
 forever from her heart. 
 
 Before long she was a well-known visitor 
 at all the Indian dwellings for miles and miles 
 around. So, too, gradually, she became ac 
 quainted with the inmates of the Fort, and the 
 poor wretches in the hovels about it. 
 
 Her first endeavors met with little encourage 
 ment at the garrison. The men, while always 
 kind and obliging, looked upon her aspirations 
 as a woman's whim, as an expression of eccen 
 tricity. When she reported to the army phy 
 sician for duty his cynical smile as he gave her 
 his instructions indicated his interest in the 
 poor creatures under his charge. Upon speak 
 ing to an officer about her work she met with 
 the reply : 
 
 "Yes, miss, there's a good many sick ones 
 among the Indians, but the squaws are a surly 
 lot, and I guess you won't get much thanks for 
 your trouble. You'll come to think like the 
 rest of us ; that these people are scarcely human. 
 Surely God has forgotten them, they have lost 
 every sense but greed." 
 
 "Well, sir, do you think one might help the 
 children?" she replied. "Surely they would 
 not resent that? If they are ill it seems to me 
 someone ought to help them. Why, they might 
 die in this terrible heat." 
 
 "Yes, they not only might, but they do, and 
 sight better for them, too. What are they
 
 La Fortaleza. 113 
 
 good for, anyway? They just live to eat and 
 to loaf and rob when they are young, and to be 
 left to die, if the Fort does not take care of them 
 when they are old. They don't care any more 
 for one another than they do for their clogs. 
 No, no, not nearly so much. And here are 
 these poor soldiers, cooped up here to watch the 
 worthless lot, living on nerve tension. And 
 what do they get for it? A mighty poor ex 
 istence, I can tell you, miss. But the situation 
 reaches a climax when the young women, such 
 as you, are sent here among them. It is hard 
 enough for us rough men, God knows, this 
 desert and heat. Yes, I know in a way we are 
 to blame. The Government run 'em in here like 
 we do sheep into a corral. But we had to do 
 it to protect ourselves. No, that's no reason 
 we shouldn't be human. Well, yes, if you in 
 sist upon it, I suppose it will do no harm for 
 you to go and work among them in their filth 
 and wretchedness. But don't expect any 
 thanks," and he left her to send one of the 
 women with her upon her first mission. 
 
 Together with two guards that were sent 
 with them, they, Felicita and her companion, 
 wound their way to a little one-room adobe, 
 which, to one unaccustomed to Indian life, 
 would hardly suggest a human habitation. The 
 broken earthen walls were barely able to sup 
 port the mat of tule-weed which served as a roof 
 and this itself was broken into the last stage
 
 H4 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 of dilapidation. The wind had beaten against 
 it for years, and it leaned feebly towards the 
 northward, taking but meagre comfort in the 
 further support of two poles which had long 
 since staggered under the weight of its de 
 crepitudes. The floor was of dirt. On the 
 walls hung a few lithographs picked up, no 
 doubt, about the Fort. In the door sat an old 
 woman in a bewilderment of rags. Her hair 
 was fantastically bound in a red bandanna. 
 Her figure was huddled in a heap over a moist 
 clay pot which she was busily ornamenting with 
 weird blue reptiles, that bore somewhat of a 
 resemblance to braids. About her were strewn 
 some few jars, and to one side, within, were 
 built up a few stones, where, cold days and 
 nights, a fire was built whose smoke issued 
 through a hole in the roof, when the wind, in 
 its fury did not drive it back into the house. 
 In one corner were piled up scraps of blankets 
 and wearing apparel used as bedding. 
 
 The old hands kneaded the dark clay, which 
 was no less grimy than they were, and occa 
 sionally altered the position of the cigarette 
 tightly held between her wrinkled lips, and the 
 smoke of which spasmodically hid the face 
 above it. 
 
 As the two women approached, she grunted 
 once or twice, but neither ceased her work nor 
 looked up. 
 
 "Little girl heap sick?" asked Felicita.
 
 La Fortaleza. 115 
 
 "Uh, Uh !" grunted the old squaw. 
 
 "Oh, they cannot talk any English," re 
 marked Mrs. Marshall, "and not much Span 
 ish, either. Some of them understand a little, 
 but, never mind, go on in, we will find the child 
 lying about somewhere." 
 
 "Why, poor little creature!" said Felicita, as 
 they entered and found the child lying on a 
 heap of rags. "Her hands are burning hot 
 She will die in this dark, close room." 
 
 "Oh, no, she won't," offered her companion. 
 "Apaches can stand lots of dirt. They do not 
 know any difference, and it does not hurt 
 them." 
 
 "Poor child," retorted her companion, "her 
 eyes are as large as saucers. Her fever is very 
 high." 
 
 And, Felicita, not heeding her companion, 
 was all attention to the little heap of misery be 
 fore her, so quick is a true heart to bleed with 
 compassion for the suffering. As her hands 
 busied themselves with the self-appointed task, 
 Felicita's brain was buried within a flood of 
 thought. Oh ! to think that perhaps she was 
 once like this! What if no one had ever cared 
 to help her! How much she owed for all God's 
 goodness to her ! We never, never know of the 
 awfulness of Indian degradation until we see 
 it ourselves. Can there be anything more 
 wretched? Can there be anything more de-
 
 n6 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 praved than these grimy, black-haired creatures 
 of the desert ? 
 
 While these thoughts occupied her mind, she 
 tidied the little creature's coarse black hair, 
 smoothed the hard bed, and put some cooling 
 medicine between the parched lips. The child's 
 black, mournful eyes continued to follow her 
 every movement, with a startled wonderment, 
 as if to say, "What does it all mean?" 
 
 So they traveled from hovel to hovel, con 
 tributing as they went; sometimes entering 
 one-roomed adobes like the one just described, 
 sometimes stopping at little brush shacks. The 
 same dirty scenes were presented to them again 
 and again. In some instances they were a trifle 
 varied by the presence of the lords of the 
 manors, who invariably sat about smoking in 
 stolid heedlessness of their slaving womankind. 
 In some instances there were sick children, and 
 occasionally a feeble remnant of a past genera 
 tion, but in most cases it was simply a repetition 
 of ignorance and grime. 
 
 "Well, miss," said Mrs. Marshall, on their 
 way to the Fort, "I suppose you see now what 
 worthless creatures they are. Your toil is use 
 less. You might return and not find a trace of 
 to-day's work. It would all need to be done 
 over again." 
 
 "Oh, but they are so helpless," replied Feli- 
 cita. "Maybe after a while when they see how
 
 La Fortaleza. 117 
 
 much better it is for them they will be glad to 
 follow the better way." 
 
 "No, they will not. No one can help them," 
 came the answer, with a conviction which bit 
 ter experience had made beyond dispute. 
 
 A flash of pitiful sympathy passed over the 
 young face, but the girl made no reply, and 
 they walked on silently. 
 
 When Felicita went to her room that night 
 she seated herself at the window and gazed out 
 upon the starlit plain. How different it all 
 seemed from what the morning lights had 
 painted. The pale moon softened the rugged- 
 ness of the hills, covering them with a mellow 
 radiance. What a wide, wide waste it was, 
 and, oh, how much the young eyes saw to do, 
 and how strong was the heart to meet the yearn 
 ings of her soul ! 
 
 There are moments when our souls are so 
 full that our thoughts are crowded into a mass 
 of indistinguished chaos. So it was that night 
 with Felicita. Her own life and its require 
 ments were swallowed up, as it were, by this 
 great universal problem, "humanity," which 
 had conquered greater minds than hers. 
 
 From the very first Felicita applied herself 
 with unfailing devotion to her task. Some 
 times she would stay even into the nights, when 
 it was necessary to be at the side of the sick; 
 but never was she neglected by the soldiers and 
 officers at the Fort, who soon learned to love
 
 n8 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 her, especially the sick and the comfortless; 
 they were to her like the stricken, aged beggar, 
 whose wrinkled, care-laden brow the pearly 
 white hand of the kindly nun is not too sacred 
 to stroke. They were indeed red men and red 
 women, many of them criminals by nature and 
 condemned by justice, and yet, to her at least, 
 they had souls. Souls with responsive chords if 
 one only knew where to find them. And so in 
 a way her sacrifice was being recompensed. 
 
 "And how do you like your young mistress?" 
 asked an officer of Marianella, Felicita's hand 
 maid, as he found her dreamingly basking in 
 the sun on the veranda of the garrison. 
 
 "Very much, surely," she answered, in her 
 soft, Mexican tongue, "but I fear that she is in 
 love, Captain, and that her lover is in heaven," 
 pointing up. "Sometimes she walks along for 
 miles and she speaks not one word, wearily her 
 eyes scan the desolate land, wearily they follow 
 the paths and trails in their windings over the 
 mesa below, wearily they watch the ravens as 
 they fly overhead, clapping their wings and 
 hovering with doleful cries over the solitary 
 sycamore on the plain. Sometimes, I think 
 there is something in her life like this tree, 
 which does not call for me or you, Seiior, nor 
 for "la sefiora," your wife, but for some one 
 who is not here to keep her company. Perhaps 
 he is there," and she pointed up again to the 
 blue sky.
 
 La Fortaleza. 119 
 
 That day Felicita had started early for a 
 brush hut far out on the reservation, where she 
 had gone to administer to a case of small-pox, 
 a disease at that time very prevalent among the 
 Indians about Fort Grant. While she was there 
 an old, old squaw, huddled up upon a bunch of 
 rags in one corner, who seemed to be endowed 
 with greater intelligence than the rest, and 
 claimed to be a Yaqui, one of Mexico's most 
 advanced and proudest races, spoke to her of 
 Sonora and Sinaloa, and the Indian wars and 
 Mexican troubles, and in these incongruous 
 ramblings over the past she spoke of a little 
 Mexican girl, "muy pequefia," very small, that 
 had once fallen into her hands, after a struggle 
 that the Indians had with the whites near Her- 
 mosillo. Felicita came to be regarded as one 
 of their own people by these cautious denizens 
 of the desert, and they frequently spoke to her 
 of their wanderings as they did also of their 
 troubles. 
 
 "Mexican people steal our horses and chil 
 dren," the old woman stated, "and we can 
 never trust to their promises. There was a 
 Mexican a long time ago, but I cannot remem 
 ber his name, who joined us, and told us that 
 Captain Mendez had told his white men to kill 
 all the children and the squaws of the Yaquis, 
 and that the nuns at the convent in Hermosillo 
 would call us to a' barbecue of sheep and fri- 
 joles (beans), and that if we went we would
 
 I2O A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 all be poisoned and die. Not long after that 
 we were asked to come to the barbecue at the 
 convent, but the day before one of our men who 
 had been at the convent suddenly took sick and 
 died. This angered everyone. The Mexican 
 who was with us urged on our men. They fell 
 upon the convent, killed many of these wicked 
 people, and took away the wife and little daugh 
 ter of this Mexican captain. Then the Mexi 
 can and Gandora, our leader, quarrel about the 
 woman, and so my tribesmen drove the leader 
 away. Gandora decided to send the woman 
 back, because he had been told by the old men 
 of the tribe that if anything happened to her a 
 scourge would destroy all our people. But the 
 first night she died. I do not know why. I 
 think because she worried for the captain so. 
 They gave the little girl to me. After a while I 
 left them and came north with the Apaches. I 
 brought the little girl with me, but Mescalero 
 claimed her and took her away from me, and 
 I never saw her again. Sometimes I look at 
 you and think you look like that little girl, Se- 
 norita." 
 
 The story puzzled Felicita. Could the story 
 be true? Could this Captain Mendez be her 
 father? "Will the mystery some day be re 
 vealed to me," thought Felicita, as she sat at 
 the cabin door looking over an infinitude of 
 hopeless, changeless mesa, over fields and fields 
 of hot, vibrating sand, with only an occasional
 
 La Fortaleza. 121 
 
 bush of greasewood, or mesquite. Away off in 
 the distance she could see rough, frowning rocks 
 in the mountains, and it seemed to her that 
 they stood for all that was lonely and desolate 
 in life. It seemed to her the picture of her own 
 existence unfolding before her through the 
 story of the old squaw, lone and dread and bar 
 ren. This desert without a relief was to her 
 like her future without him ; the far-off moun 
 tain with unsupportable cliffs represented to her 
 the obstacle that she could never surmount, her 
 love for Joel. And as she turned away from 
 both with a sigh, her eyes fell upon a cool val 
 ley between two hills almost sheltered from a 
 careless observer, and from the hot sand be 
 yond. It was a small valley, but as she looked 
 longer her mental vision fashioned there a cool 
 spring, and about that spring there were laugh 
 ing flowers and green, shady trees, holding their 
 heads gracefully up to heaven as if, arrayed in 
 beautiful colors and reflected sunbeams, they 
 offered their all to their Maker, and were pray 
 ing to Him for further benedictions. This 
 was her grateful soul returning to her as the 
 ringers of memory's hand passed rapidly over 
 the keys of time and played melodies at her 
 heart's dictation, full of brightness and prom 
 ise. "Might not the old woman's story help me 
 to all this happiness," she thought, as she sat 
 there, casting her eyes upon the land to the 
 south, and then again to the sleeping boy within
 
 122 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 to whose comfort she had just been contribut 
 ing. 
 
 Presently in the distance she saw a soldier 
 coming towards the cabin. When he arrived 
 within a hundred yards of it he called to her. 
 When she came to him he handed her a mes 
 sage, stating as an apology his orders not to ap 
 proach nearer the infected dwelling. The note 
 read: 
 
 "Miss Wilson, will you please return at once 
 to the barracks, man seriously ill, and we need 
 your help. 
 
 "(Signed), CAPT. MARSHALL." 
 
 A few instructions to the old Indian woman, 
 a tug at her horse's saddle girth, and Felicita 
 rode galloping over the mesa land, back to the 
 Fort at the side of the soldier, who had a story 
 to tell her, and this story had much to do with 
 her own life.
 
 La Amiga. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LA AMIGA.* 
 
 "Friendship is a plant that loves the sun, 
 thrives ill under clouds" 
 
 ONCE, late that autumn, when Louise Gor- 
 dan had returned from Santa Cruz, where she 
 had been spending the summer months, she 
 visited Mrs. Wilson, and naturally their con 
 versation turned upon the absent one. 
 
 "Please do not think me very, very imperti 
 nent, Mrs. Wilson, but cannot I, too, know the 
 real reason why Felicita went away ? We were 
 always just like sisters together, but she never 
 would tell me what was on her heart. She 
 must be very lonely. I know she always wished 
 to do something for those poor Indian people, 
 but surely there was another reason or she 
 would never have left us, when we all loved 
 her so much. Will you never tell me, Mrs. 
 Wilson?" 
 
 A soft hand smoothed the hair of the girl's 
 head, and a kind voice answered : 
 
 "I hardly know, child, I hardly know." 
 
 *The Friend.
 
 124 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 "And you love her, I know you do," resumed 
 Louise, "and you would not have let her go 
 unless you thought it to be for the best. Do 
 you know, one day, just before she went, I was 
 over here you know the day I came over for 
 the lilies you wanted me to take to the hospital 
 and you told me that Felicita was upstairs. I 
 ran up just as I used to. She was putting away 
 all her old keepsakes, and there were tears 
 in her eyes. She wouldn't tell me what the mat 
 ter was. She said people cried sometimes 
 when they were not really sad. But I knew 
 that was not her case. I didn't say anything 
 more. You know how Felicita was. You 
 wouldn't dare ask her anything if she didn't 
 want to be confidential. What do you think it 
 was that made her unhappy, Mrs. Wilson ?" 
 
 "How can I tell you, Louise," answered the 
 old lady, kindly. 
 
 Louise looked up into the face above her. 
 The smile upon it seemed almost a caress, but 
 she thought only of the good Samaritan far 
 away among strangers. She felt that she 
 wanted to help her friend, because she loved 
 her. She had known Mrs. Wilson so long 
 that she had learned to read her thoughts at a 
 glance. 
 
 Almost each day of the last few weeks pre 
 vious to Felicita' s departure, Louise had been 
 with her friend. She could not avoid seeing 
 the change that had overtaken her. Felicita's
 
 La Amiga. 125 
 
 kindness towards her adopted mother had 
 been even more kind than ever, but the ab 
 sence of that usual cheery joyfulness that was 
 used to dwell in the eyes and the voice of Fe- 
 licita was marked. Louise noticed, too, that 
 the Major's face had become sober with a seri 
 ousness not entirely his own. And now as she 
 looked up into the countenance of Mrs. Wilson 
 she seemed to divine the reason of it all. It is 
 a way woman has. She seemed to know why 
 Felicita had gone. The ruddy hue came to her 
 cheeks, and she arose. 
 
 "You need never tell me, for I know, Mrs. 
 Wilson." 
 
 Louise seated herself quickly on the arm of 
 the rocker, bent her face down and let it rest 
 a moment on the soft, old cheek. 
 
 "Do you know ?" interrogated Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 "Yes, I think I know," came the answer. 
 "But I wish she had not wanted to go. It is 
 so lonely with her gone, and Major away from 
 home. But she seemed to feel that it was her 
 duty, and perhaps it is well that she should do 
 as she thought best. But I feel as if she ought 
 to have stayed; after a while she might have 
 had a home of her own here, and have been 
 happy. Do you want me to tell you why she 
 could not stay, Mrs. Wilson? Why, I think 
 she could not stay?" 
 
 "Why are you so mysterious, Louise? Yes, 
 tell me; but surely I know."
 
 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 "Did you ever think of Major Joel marrying? 
 Did you, Mrs. Wilson?" 
 
 It was an abrupt question, especially surpris 
 ing as it came from the girl whom she had 
 placed in so many air-castles of her son's pos 
 session, but the old lady answered readily : 
 
 "Of course, lassie, mothers always think of 
 such things for their children. But why should 
 we speak of that, Louise?" 
 
 "Because because, for a long time I have 
 been wanting to tell you something. And that 
 something is this : the Major loves Felicita 
 with his whole heart, and I know she would 
 give her life for him, Mrs. Wilson, and I am 
 sure you know that is just why she went away." 
 
 The old woman stopped her knitting, gazed 
 motionless into the face of Louise, surprised at 
 what seemed to her boldness on the part of the 
 young woman. 
 
 "Child, child," she answered, "you have 
 startled me very much. Joel and Mananka? 
 No, no ! That cannot be. Come into the house, 
 Louise, it has grown chilly out here," and she 
 spoke in a tone that demanded silence on a topic 
 so vexing to her. 
 
 That night when all was quiet in her little 
 room, Louise Gordan wrote the following let 
 ter to Joel : 
 
 "Major, I have long had something on my 
 heart to tell you, and yet for the sake of that
 
 La Amiga. 127 
 
 dear little mother, whom we all love and re 
 spect, I have refrained, but for your sake, 
 Major, I must say it. So I am to speak to you 
 open-heartedly and frankly. Why should we 
 bicker over words? Major, I have long wanted 
 you to place your heart where it would be hap 
 piest. I know, as you know, where only that 
 could be. The Easter tide of your life is at 
 hand. The beautiful white lily that stands for 
 the resurrection of your life still blooms in your 
 heart with all the spiritual sweetness and purity 
 of the past days. Then do not allow it ever to 
 fade. For the friendship you bear me, even 
 for the love you have for that mother who so 
 often spoke of me as her daughter, much more 
 for the love I bear her whom I know you love, 
 cultivate, cherish this pure lily so that each day 
 in your life may be made happier and you bet 
 ter by its fragrance and its purity and beauty. 
 You must be worthy of her, Major; you must 
 be hopeful. You could never give anyone you 
 do not love all there is in your heart. No, 
 Major, it would be pitifully droll to attempt it. 
 Be kind to her and be kind to the little mother 
 for my sake. I earnestly pray, Joel, that you 
 may be blissfully happy some day with Felicita, 
 in a house of which you are the pillar and the 
 strength, and Felicita the blessing. May God 
 keep you strong and brave. 
 
 "As ever, LOUISE."
 
 128 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 EL MENSAJE.* 
 
 "Hope never spreads her golden wings but on 
 unfathomable seas." 
 
 As they rode over the mesa the soldier, in an 
 unconnected manner, related : "There is a 
 young officer at the barracks just up from the 
 Pass. He was trapped there with two others 
 at Nugents, shot through the thigh by some 
 renegades, or by the Indians from down there 
 that Lieutenant Bullock routed after the raid at 
 Nogales last week. He's not in much of a con 
 dition to talk, but he keeps inquiring after you, 
 and so the captain thought he'd better send 
 after you right off. He's pretty low, poor 
 man, from the loss of blood. He was brought 
 in by Corporal Beamer, one of Bullock's men of 
 the 7th, and by a Mexican boy that came 
 along with him from Tucson. They say that 
 the major was sent to Nogales from Denver to 
 look into the claims of the Mexican Custom 
 
 *The Message.
 
 El Mensaje. 129 
 
 House keeper, and to confer with the authori 
 ties of Tucson, to look into the matter of Bul 
 lock's capturing thirty Indians south of there 
 lately. Well, they say he was aching to come 
 to the Fort here, and so at his first opportunity 
 he started over, leaving Mescal this morning 
 before sun up. He was warned not to come, 
 as the Indians were not friendly, but I don't 
 believe it was either a Yaqui or Moqui that 
 shot him. I believe it was one of those Greasers 
 from the Santa Teresa country, looking for 
 horses. Whoever they were they put a pretty 
 bad hole into his leg. If the boys had had a 
 little more sense they would not have let him 
 lose so much blood. He's more faint and 
 feverish than hurt." And so they chatted as 
 they rode over the plain, sometimes their horses 
 were in a gallop, sometimes in a walk. 
 
 With her usual acuteness, Felicita soon be 
 gan to understand the whole situation. Not 
 long since she had received a short note from 
 the Major, stating that he had been transferred 
 to the Department of Colorado to act, for a 
 time, in a clerical, rather than a military capac 
 ity, and that he purposed coming to the Fort at 
 his earliest convenience. Then, too, the raid at 
 Nogales had been much discussed at the Fort, 
 so that she was conversant with every phase of 
 it. An attack had been made on the Custom 
 House at Nogales on both the Mexican and 
 American sides by a mixed band of Yaqui and
 
 130 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 Moqui, and a few white renegades from Santa 
 Teresa. They failed in their purpose of plun 
 der, but succeeded in doing considerable dam 
 age to the surrounding country, besides killing 
 several persons. The Yaquis then started for 
 Tucson, and Lieutenant Bullock, commanding 
 Troop E, or the 7th U. S. Cavalry, was dis 
 patched against them. A fight took place 
 twenty miles south of the town, in which three 
 of the Indians were killed and thirty taken pris 
 oners. The report at Denver of this raid ef 
 fected a dispatch of Major Wilson to the scene 
 of action to adjust claims arising against the 
 Government of the United States. Wilson 
 was also sent to investigate in the capture of 
 the thirty Indians and to arrange for their trans 
 portation to some available reservation. Upon 
 his arrival at Tucson it was found that nothing 
 further could be done until more complete in 
 structions were received from headquarters, and 
 the Mexican Government had authorized some 
 one to act with Major Wilson. Meantime Joel, 
 accepting the company of an old fellow-in-arms, 
 whom he had met at Tucson, and a trusty, 
 worthy Mexican boy, determined to avail him 
 self of the interim by visiting Fort Grant and 
 the little maiden, who for so many years had 
 been his greatest care and his greatest bless 
 ing. He could not rest until the road could 
 be covered that separated him from her. 
 The evening before his departure from Tuc-
 
 El Mensaje. 131 
 
 son to the Fort, the Major had received a letter 
 written him by Louise. Some indefinable in 
 fluence caused the Major to start with joy as he 
 completed reading the note. Coming as it did 
 on that memorable eve, it seemed to be a 
 prophecy to him. Would this sandy, cactus- 
 grown desert again be his Eldorado as of yore ? 
 Would it be his Ultima Thule? Did his gar 
 den lie beyond this wind-blown vast? 
 
 Over and over in his mind he revolved the 
 maybes and the ifs as he permitted his horse to 
 walk leisurely through the passes, past formida 
 ble hills, steep and rocky in places, in places 
 again sloping and studded with little scrubby, 
 yellow pine and mesquite bush. He had been 
 riding ahead of his comrades, alone and un 
 suspecting, when suddenly a shot rang from 
 behind a clump of bushes from a higher place 
 in the canon and across the gulch ; another shot 
 and another, and before the Major could bring 
 his revolver to aim he was struck in the thigh 
 by a rifle ball. Beamer and the Mexican boy 
 came up at once, upon the approach of whom, 
 the offenders, no doubt expecting a greater 
 number to follow, left their retreat and fled. 
 
 The best possible care was given the wounded 
 man, but conditions were unfavorable, and the 
 ride was trying in the extreme. Joel's fortitude 
 held out bravely until within sight of the Fort, 
 when his strength giving way, he fell into the 
 arms of his two companions, and had to be
 
 132 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 carried into the chamber of his old college 
 mate,, the commanding officer. There it was 
 Felicita found him, still tossing in agonies of 
 pain and delirium, crying out her name and call 
 ing for his mother. 
 
 That moment when Felicita crossed the 
 threshold there were a thousand prayers in her 
 heart, all pleading and calling to her God at 
 once. A prayer of regret at ever leaving him, 
 a prayer of woman's sympathy, a prayer that 
 thanked God for this golden opportunity to 
 meet Joel and to speak with him whom she 
 loved, and to care for him and to nurse him 
 back to health. Then came a prayer asking 
 God's mercy, and reproaching herself for feel 
 ing joyful while he lay sick and unconscious 
 before her. And there was another orison 
 that went up to heaven with all the hope and 
 fervor that can come from a sensitive heart 
 that feels, and a deep soul that loves, a prayer 
 that was said in the sacred sanctum of the soul's 
 confessional, to be communicated to her God 
 alone.
 
 La Tristeza. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LA TRISTEZA.* 
 
 "And his head is bowed with weight of years," 
 
 TIME passed. Each day became a weary, 
 vain search. Even though at last he lost all 
 hope, yet this seemed all that was left of life 
 to Don Feliz Mendez. He had become a rest 
 less wanderer; homeless, wifeless, childless, he 
 who shortly had all the happiness of a beauti 
 ful, joyous house. 
 
 He tried staying at his hacienda among the 
 hills, the home around which every heartstring 
 was woven, but each wall sent out to him a si 
 lent, sorrowful echo of old-time gladness, where 
 once every room resounded with the merry 
 voices of a wife singing, and a babe's prattle. 
 In time the shadows deepened beneath his eyes. 
 He could endure it no longer. One evening he 
 revisited each cherished spot, and closed the 
 last door with a solemn reverence. He had dis- 
 
 * "The Bereavement"
 
 134 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 posed of all the chattels. He would forsake 
 every object that made him sad. He would go 
 out into the world. 
 
 Silently he went to the stable, mounted his 
 horse and rode away into the darkness. On 
 and on he rode, scarcely knowing whither, un 
 til after hours of riding he found himself de 
 scending the steep hill in front of Loco's tav 
 ern. Not a light shone. All was dark. 
 He dismounted and knocked at the door. 
 Only a hollow sound of emptiness came 
 to him from within. The adobe was 
 deserted. Another ligament connecting him 
 with the past was severed. He looked 
 down into the depths of the canon, and 
 there was only darkness for him. The trees, 
 the great, rugged live oaks about him sobbed 
 and quivered in seeming sympathy. No hu 
 man sound broke the stillness of that loneliness, 
 yet away through the shadow came the mourn 
 ful note of the turtle dove, which echoed and re 
 echoed in his heart, and the sadness became the 
 more unbearable as he likened that cry to the 
 plaint of his Palladita for him as she bore the 
 cruelty of her captors. The Don mounted 
 his horse and rode slowly out of the canon. 
 
 As he came upon the mesa again from the 
 great shadow of the hills, the moon, just 
 arisen, shone down in a calm, soft, radiant 
 splendor. The eucalypti trees on the border of 
 a rancho away to the westward threw their tall,
 
 La Tristeza. 135 
 
 straight forms up against the horizon like so 
 many sentinels of the night. The air was clear 
 and cool, and sweet, and fanned his face like 
 the airy caress of invisible fingers. And in all 
 this gentle vastness the world seemed peopled 
 by no one but his own sorrowing soul, which 
 spread its wings further and further into the 
 infinite void, the void of no hope. 
 
 There are moments in a man's lifetime when 
 the vastness of such solitude comes like the per 
 fumed benediction of holy incense. It carries 
 with it a longing, a mighty, surging, longing 
 for peace. Every subtle link of human sym 
 pathy seems shattered into unredeemable frag 
 ments. Even God seems so vague, awe-inspir 
 ing, that He is unapproachable. There is then 
 no longing for death ; that is too weird, untangi- 
 ble and unsatisfactory ; the longing is for peace. 
 The vastness of silence alone is satisfying. 
 The throbbing of a hundred hearts seem 
 crowded in one frail breast, and the surging of 
 myriads of thoughts rush through a weary 
 brain. 
 
 Just such a soul- felt longing filled Don Men- 
 dez's heart as on and on he rode in that sil 
 very moonlight night, when in this hopelessness 
 the words of his brother, the priest, came to 
 him : "There is a God in heaven who sees fur 
 ther into the future than unhappy man." 
 
 The adventures of the bereaved Don cannot 
 be written on a page. Suffice then to follow
 
 136 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 the winding path of the restless wanderer. Af 
 ter returning once more to his old homestead 
 at Hermocillo, as above related, he betook him 
 self to the city of Chihuahua, entered into the 
 political agitation of the times, and led the 
 spirit of the Mexican Liberals. At various 
 times he was sent by his constituents to the Na 
 tional Congress in the City of Mexico, had 
 supported Lerdo de Tajada, and had become 
 the staunch friend of Porfirio Diaz, afterwards 
 to play so eminent a part in the historical drama 
 of the Republic. He had been several times en 
 trusted with troops by the President. Once he 
 had led them against the rebels in Chihuahua 
 and Sonora, again he led a considerable force 
 against the Yaqui Indians in the north. In 
 all this time he never married. Then after an 
 active life of many years given up, like the 
 true patriot that he was, to the reorganization 
 and unification of his country, he once more re 
 turned to the west, to Hermocillo, now bowed 
 with age and care, to pass the declining years 
 of his life in peace and comfort amid familiar 
 scenes and kindly, friendly faces. 
 
 But rest was not for him. The too grate 
 ful people of Hermocillo, ever mindful of his 
 youth and sacrifices, conscious of his strong, 
 Liberal principles, called him to be their al 
 calde, their mayor ; they appealed, when he ob 
 jected on the ground that he was too old to 
 serve the public, to his patriotism, and pointed
 
 La Tristeza. 137 
 
 out to him the urgent needs of Hermosillo. He 
 accepted. Years followed. 
 
 Old and bowed and gray, the sturdy Mexican 
 sat one day at his broad desk, his brown, 
 wrinkled face supported by a hand no less 
 marked with age over which fell a few locks of 
 white hair, slightly curled. Upon his shoul 
 ders, though the day was not cold, carelessly 
 hung a great green cloak, such as the Mexican 
 soldier wears when the day is chilly. With 
 eyes half closed, and head bent, he had been 
 perusing a document of State, carefully penned 
 and gay with large, yellow seals and bits of 
 ribbon, such as one constantly sees in Mexican 
 courts. Little by little his eyes closed as he 
 attempted to read, and little by little his head 
 bent further towards his breast, until, semi 
 conscious that sleep was overtaking him, he 
 would straighten in his chair, open wide his 
 eyes, only to fall back in the same stupor, when 
 reading made him drowsy. In this drowsiness 
 the paper would vanish from him entirely, 
 leaving on the canvas of his dream-mind the 
 picture of the prosperous hacienda, of Palla- 
 dita, and of a sweet little girl-child that he 
 loved beyond conception. 
 
 Then came a rap at the door, that vanished 
 his beautiful picture and quite startled him. 
 
 "Truly," thought Feliz, "truly, I am get 
 ting old old and feeble. Enter! enter!" he 
 replied, in a hollow voice, once so resonant, and
 
 138 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 a youth approached him bearing a packet of 
 mail. 
 
 "Well, indeed. It is a letter from my 
 brother at Magdelena, the padre," grumbled 
 the old man, as he looked over his mail and 
 groped among papers, scattered on his desk, 
 for a pair of glasses. "He has not written me 
 these six months; not since I sent him money 
 for that new chalice. He and his Indians and 
 their pilgrimages! They will only kill him 
 and rob him. If like me, he had had a wife 
 
 and a child " By this time he had found 
 
 his large, gold-rimmed spectacles, and perus 
 ing the first few lines of the opened letter, he 
 sank back in his chair almost breathless. 
 
 "Can this be possible?" mumbled the old vet 
 eran, "or am I as Ysabella has so often chidden 
 me, indeed, in my dotage," and to convince 
 himself he read the letter several times over. 
 
 There was little more done that day in the 
 office of the alcalde. Such business as was press 
 ing was at once dispatched. The key of the 
 great, old-fashioned safe was turned in its 
 lock and delivered over to his secretary, with 
 a few instructions to act. during his absence. 
 
 Before the next morning had dawned Don 
 Feliz Mendez had become young again. His 
 easy-going housekeeper could scarcely believe 
 her eyes as she saw the otherwise dignified vet 
 eran hurrying about the house in boyish frenzy, 
 singing as a youthful peon sings while he herds
 
 La Tristcza. 139 
 
 his flocks, bowing and smiling at every turn. 
 
 "Valgame Deos!" replied the old domestic, 
 "Don Feliz has regained years of his life in one 
 night ! What a miracle ! But the Don must not 
 forget his head. There will be time until to 
 morrow. And Pepe, too, will need time to 
 prepare to go with him," and she busied her 
 self with her work. 
 
 "Pepe? Pepe?" replied the old man, straight 
 ening up at full length, somewhat astonished 
 at the remark of the old woman as she ventured 
 a word in behalf of her procrastinating hus 
 band. "Let Pepe not detain me one moment. 
 Pronto! Ysabella! Quick!" and soon the anx 
 ious father, accompanied by the faithful Pepe, 
 was on his way to Nogales.
 
 140 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 EL RENDIR.* 
 
 "Everywhere the human soul stands between 
 a hemisphere of light and another of darkness." 
 
 CLAD in the plain blue and white of her nurse 
 garb, Felicita seemed all too slight and frail 
 for the work she had undertaken; an appear 
 ance intensified by a delicacy of feature and a 
 sweet simplicity of nature all her own among 
 the rough surroundings of a military garrison. 
 
 She had not been long in making herself 
 ready for her visit to the sick. 
 
 "You have been a long while, Mananka," 
 were the first words that greeted her in a feeble, 
 hollow voice, yet cheerful and hopeful, as Joel 
 came to perfect consciousness. 
 
 "Joel !" It was the only word she could utter 
 as she grasped the outstretched hand and 
 smoothed the heavy locks on his high forehead. 
 
 Joel feebly smiled at the fickleness of fortune 
 in placing so much enthusiasm in such a fever- 
 
 * The Surrender.
 
 El Rendir. 141 
 
 worn body as his as he sank upon his heap of 
 pillows, conscious of his weakness. 
 
 "Put the chair close up, Mananka. I'm not 
 strong enough yet to speak loud." 
 
 "You must not speak at all now," she re 
 plied, in a professional way ; "when you are well 
 again, Joel, you can tell me all, all that you 
 have to tell." 
 
 This silenced him for a while, and he lay 
 gazing at her without a word.- Then finally, 
 out of exhaustion, he fell into a long, deep sleep. 
 When he again awoke Felicita was watching 
 over him at the head of the bed. 
 
 "Mananka," he half whispered, "have you 
 heard from mother?" 
 
 "Yes, Joel," replied the little nurse; "she 
 thinks she will be herself again in a few weeks. 
 She will get better quickly, and then we will 
 have her with us here, until you are entirely 
 well, at least." 
 
 "And how about you, Mananka ?" he queried, 
 looking up at her steadfastly. 
 
 "Well, Joel, I have been very happy since I 
 am doing what God meant for me to do." And 
 then, after a pause, "You know that I have 
 asked God each night that he might be kind to 
 you." 
 
 "Mananka," he replied thoughtfully, "I, I am 
 not worth your sacrifice." He little realized 
 that within his own breast there was a soul 
 as true as her own. "I am sorry, Mananka,
 
 142 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 that my rashness has broken into your work 
 and your happiness." 
 
 All unconsciously he had touched the key 
 note to her emotion. 
 
 "Oh, Joel, do not say that now. Within a 
 few days I shall be at my work again, and shall 
 be the same harum-scarum you used to know." 
 
 "Mananka," he asked, "how long has it been 
 since you went away?" 
 
 "Only a few months," she laughed. "Only 
 a few months, Joel !" 
 
 "Oh, it seems almost years since I bade you 
 good-bye at the train ; yet I knew it could not be 
 for always. A person's heart does not measure 
 time by the clock, does it, child?" 
 
 "No, Joel; but I am deceiving the doctor. 
 You must rest a while now," she said, softly, 
 and a faint alarm, causing her to suspect a re 
 turn of fever, and he smiled feebly, as he real 
 ized her fear. 
 
 "No, no, Mananka, the doctor cannot cure 
 this fever. No, no, don't go. I have some 
 thing more to tell you." 
 
 But she enforced the rules of her profession 
 and left him nothing more to talk to than the 
 bare walls. 
 
 The next morning as she entered the room 
 she found him so far convalescent that he was 
 humming a tune, quite familiar to her, to him 
 self. 
 
 He caught her hand as she attempted to
 
 El Rendir. 143 
 
 smooth his pillow, and he bade her be seated 
 near him. 
 
 "Mananka," he began, "do you remember 
 that evening, long ago, when you stood in the 
 flickering fire-light telling me you were going 
 out of my life? No, you need not answer, dear." 
 Oh, what need was there for her to answer, 
 when he had those speaking eyes before him! 
 "I can see you yet," he continued, musingly, 
 "the warm light rippling over those features 
 so dear to me, in whose calm, sweet loveliness 
 was pictured so much love and gratitude. No, 
 don't try to speak or go away. I shall hold 
 you this time," he said, teasingly. "This is 
 only Joel," and he added, "I knew then that 
 you were more to me than all the world besides, 
 but now, now I know how much more than 
 that you are, and, please God, you will never 
 go out of my life again, Mananka. You seemed 
 to have wanted to go. Had I known then what 
 I do now I would have held this little hand so 
 closely that it never could have slipped away. 
 No, Mananka, it was no one's fault. I love 
 you both the more for what you have suffered 
 for my sake. Dear old mother!" he mused; 
 "God has made no holier thing than a woman's 
 love. There came a time when I could scarcely 
 endure your absence, Mananka. 'Home ?' Oh, 
 child, I had no home. The Post called me, and 
 I was only too willing to go. There were long, 
 weary days after that, but there was a day that
 
 144 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 brought me happiness. That was the day I 
 was sent down here. I believe I would have 
 come anyway, Mananka, but you know my 
 pride. It has so often stood in the way. And 
 after I got here came that letter from Louise. 
 That made things stand so differently between 
 mother and me, Mananka. Now I want you to 
 read that letter, Mananka. It's under my pil 
 low here. Can you find it ?" 
 
 Joel's face lit up with hope as he watched 
 her open and read it. 
 
 Mananka read it over and over, from the 
 first word to the last, then folded it up ten 
 derly, as if it had contained the very soul of 
 life, and mechanically placed it under the pil 
 low again. Then all the why and the whence 
 and the whither of life seemed to unfold itself 
 to her. Life was no more like the great ex 
 panse she had a few months gazed upon 
 through the open window. It was now for 
 some reason, beginning to be a definite some 
 thing; and then in the midst of all this happi 
 ness came the blighting thought of her humble 
 Indian birth, and that thought cast a shadow 
 over the features which a moment before 
 were so bright with happiness. 
 
 Joel observed the change, and hoped to avert 
 its effect. 
 
 "Mananka?" he remarked, questioningly, 
 but a rap at the door called her from his bed 
 side.
 
 La Novia. 243 
 
 LA NOVIA.* 
 
 "Behold while she before the altar stands, 
 Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 
 'And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
 How the red roses Hush up in her cheeks, 
 ] And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne 
 Like crimson dyde in grayne" 
 
 AND it all came about in this way. On the 
 day that Major Wilson left Nogales for Fort 
 Grant, Padre Benito Mendez, a mission priest 
 of the Mission of Magdelena, in Sonora, whose 
 parishioners had suffered much wrong at the 
 hands of these renegades and Indians from 
 across the border of Arizona, hastened to No- 
 gales to file his complaint with the American 
 authorities. On arriving there he was in 
 formed of the commission of Major Wilson, 
 and being hard pressed for time, and greatly 
 desirous of having the matter brought before 
 the proper tribunal, immediately repaired with 
 
 *The Bride,
 
 146 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 several of his servants to the Post. Upon his 
 arrival at the garrison he met with a surprise, 
 for being told there of the misfortune that had 
 befallen the young major, he was denied ac 
 cess to the sick room. Unwilling to be foiled 
 in his purpose, the kindly old priest asked to 
 speak to the sick man's nurse, hoping thereby 
 to effect an early interview with the major. 
 When the lithe form of the garrison nurse 
 made her appearance, neatly clad in its simple 
 uniform, the old padre could scarcely believe 
 his eyes as he saw standing before him on the 
 broad portico of the shackelty old building, so 
 beautifully silhouetted in the twilight sun of 
 an Arizona summer, the very image of his sis 
 ter-in-law, Palladita. 
 
 "Felicita mia," he half whispered, half cried, 
 in his amazement, as the young woman bowed 
 in token of respect and reverence. 
 
 "Pardon me, Senorita," he continued, in his 
 quiet, gentle manner, "for a moment I fancied 
 I saw before me, grown to womanhood, my 
 beloved niece." 
 
 And then, told in the sweet, welcome accents 
 of her mother tongue, a knowledge of which 
 she had carefully preserved in her studies, Fe 
 licita heard for the first time in her life, the 
 strange story of her birth and her babyhood. 
 As the messenger of her fate concluded, she 
 arrested any change from the subject by putting 
 forth a small, suntanned hand that she had but
 
 La Novia. 147 
 
 a moment before taken from the fevered grasp 
 of her guardian and her beloved. 
 
 "And, Padre," she said, sobbingly, "perhaps 
 I am this Felicita this little orphan. And if 
 I am indeed this child, will you tell me where 
 is my father, that I again may be truly 'Fe 
 licita/ the little happy one? Perhaps, Padre, 
 he who lies within, wounded and sick, and per 
 haps " 
 
 At first a delicate blush stole over her soft, 
 brown cheeks; then her eyes, responding to a 
 thousand emotions, filled with tears, until, all 
 unstrung, her resisting nature gave way to 
 sobs. Gently the aged priest laid his hands 
 upon her head, and turning her gaze into his 
 as he did so, he told her in his fatherly way : 
 
 "Felicita, you are none other. None but my 
 Palladita ever had those eyes." 
 
 There was something in the countenance of 
 the kindly old minister that gave her confidence ; 
 there was something in that assurance that 
 thrilled her with the feeling that God had com 
 missioned him for the one purpose to complete 
 her happiness. Resisting no longer, the brave 
 little nurse rested her head upon the grizzly 
 old priest's broad chest and wept; wept she 
 knew not what for, lest it was because of the 
 consummation of life's hopes. That reader 
 alone can tell who at some time in his life has 
 had heaven burst upon him unexpectedly, at 
 one bound, banishing with its warm, cheering
 
 148 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 sunlight, and all its splendor and beauty tfie 
 darkness of a mysterious past. 
 
 Early that next morning the story was whis 
 pered from man to man. The old Indian 
 woman who had told her queer tale to Felicita 
 was summoned, and she was made to repeat 
 over and over all she knew of the story. Then 
 when the news was brought to Beamer's ears 
 he was ready, with as much additional evidence 
 as was necessary, to prove the fact. 
 
 Not many days thereafter a happy message 
 sped from the grey old mission of Nogales to 
 the far western city of Hermocillo. It brought 
 to Don Feliz Mendez the happy tidings of a 
 daughter found. Sent from one brother to an 
 other, from priest to alcalde, from daughter to 
 father, it read as follows: 
 
 "Mv BELOVED BROTHER : As at the words 
 of the Angel of God the cruel chains fell from 
 the feet of St. Peter, and he was immediately 
 restored to his liberty, so by our constant 
 prayers and sacrifices your long-lost and loving 
 daughter, my niece, your own Felicita, has been 
 restored to us. Brother, rejoice with me. 
 Much joyed at hearing these happy tidings, ad 
 mit yourself in prayer to the embrace of the 
 Living God, and then prepare to come to meet 
 us. There is more in store for you when you 
 arrive. So commending you, dear brother, to 
 the protection of the Saints, and to the mercy
 
 La Novia. '149 
 
 of God, and to the patronage of the Blessed 
 Virgin, I am ever, believe me, your affectionate 
 brother, BENITO." 
 
 This was accompanied by a note saying : 
 
 "Mv BELOVED FATHER : God in his benev 
 olence has granted that we shall meet again 
 after so many years of hopelessness. From 
 hour to hour I await anxiously your arrival that 
 I may receive your paternal blessing, for my 
 self and for him whom I have ever loved. 
 Anxiously and lovingly, 
 
 "Your own FELICITA." 
 
 When Mananka returned to Joel she told 
 him of all her happiness, of the story of the old 
 Indian woman, of the priest, and of her father. 
 There was no need now for an answer to his 
 query. A moment later found her kneeling in 
 silent prayer at his bedside, her clasped hands 
 resting on his heaving chest, and their prayers 
 were mingled in a solemn thanksgiving to 
 their God. 
 
 The physician was no longer required to 
 visit the wounded soldier. 
 
 Some few days after the bells of St. Xavier's, 
 the Jesuit Mission of Tucson, sent forth glad 
 tidings as the benediction was said over the 
 heads of the bride and bridegroom by Padre 
 Benito. A kindly mother wept tears of joy
 
 150 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 as she beheld before her, united for life, trie 
 two of all the world that she loved best. 
 
 "Felicita," offered the alcalde, "thou hast 
 made me young again. It is to me as though 
 I have found my Palladita, and as if this is our 
 wedding day. May God ever bless thee and 
 thine." 
 
 'A moment later hands unseen 
 Were hanging the night around them fast, 
 But she knczv a bar was broken between 
 Life and life; they were mixed at last 
 In spite of the mortal screen/'
 
 La Hacienda. 151 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LA HACIENDA.* 
 
 "Home the nursery of the infinite." 
 
 PANORAMAED by high mountains that are 
 covered with scrub pines and made purple by 
 the evening sun of Arizona, the great rancho of 
 Major Joel Wilson reminds you of a Roman 
 villa, a Southern plantation, or an English es 
 tate, save that in dominion it exceeds them all. 
 As you drive through the still atmosphere the 
 serenity of which is broken by the bleating of 
 sheep or the shrill notes of a mocking bird, 
 you will become conscious of the setting sun, 
 for a soft breeze, no more fearful of the fervent 
 heat, dares to wave the top of some lone bush 
 near by. Here and there are bees that drink 
 their last, and as though angered at being be 
 lated, buzz and fly homeward. The shades of 
 the tall bushes are beginning to steal over the 
 narrow, dusty roads, and the barren mountains 
 rapidly, yet quietly, clothe the east in darkness. 
 
 * The Plantation.
 
 152 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 Shadows stretch like great long projecting 
 arms, as though nightly bidden by the God of 
 nature to enfold within their bosom all the little 
 valley, with its many happy souls, as it nestles 
 clown closely and more close in the lap of the 
 brown, barren hills. 
 
 On your way to the "Casa Alegre," the 
 ''Home of Joy," of the Wilsons, you will drive 
 through large grain fields, golden in their 
 harvests, through lanes of lime trees, and by 
 orchards of orange and lemon, stately and ver 
 dant in their pride, vast vineyards where the 
 ripe grapes hang in clusters sweet and juicy. 
 Perhaps on your way you will encounter old 
 Felipe, said to be the oldest Indian in Arizona. 
 When you pass him he will touch his hand to 
 his tall sombrero in the way of a salute. To 
 remove it were impossible, as it is fastened 
 with a heavy cord under his wrinkled chin. 
 Then you will pass a long row of adobe huts, 
 where dwell the Indians, the special charge of 
 the Dona Felicita, as Mrs. Joel Wilson is called 
 among the people. You will notice their pros 
 perity, and with what peaceable contentment 
 they are preparing for the approaching night. 
 As you pass these dwellings little Indian chil 
 dren, neatly dressed, will address you in the 
 Mexican tongue with a "Buenos Tardes, 
 Sefior." They are the children of the Govern 
 ment Indian school, established at the rancho 
 by the influence of the Major. As you ap-
 
 La Hacienda. 153 
 
 proach the House you will observe, sitting on 
 the wide porticoes in evening twilight, com 
 fortably resting in a great arm chair, an old 
 lady, whose kindly eyes and hospitable Southern 
 manners seem to bid you enter, even though you 
 have not yet stated your mission. Once intro 
 duced, you are a welcome visitor. An Indian 
 servant attends to your horses, an Indian maid 
 will show you to your quarters. When the 
 mistress enters you will be heartily greeted, and 
 if you are conversant in Spanish you will be 
 introduced to a proud old Don, just up from 
 Hermocillo on a visit. He will address you in 
 the most honorific terms, extending to you 
 every courtesy and favor. But your interesting 
 chat to-day with Don Feliz Mendez must needs 
 be interrupted, for Padre Benito has just ar 
 rived from Magdalena, and Padre Benito al 
 ways takes precedence. In the geniality and the 
 good nature of the old priest you are scarcely 
 conscious of that restraint so often felt in the 
 ppesence of the clergy. You have not yet met 
 the Major. He has been away to attend a sit 
 ting of the Territorial Legislature, but is ex 
 pected back any moment. You have indeed not 
 had long to wait, for at this instant a maid has 
 announced his arrival. A thousand times you 
 are made welcome to the "Casa Alegre." Joel 
 Wilson has not forgotten you. He is the last 
 in the world to forget an old friend, much less 
 an old college mate. But you cannot yet claim
 
 154 A Maid of Sonora. 
 
 his undivided attention. That attention is al 
 most entirely directed to the dear little wife in 
 his arms, in whose eyes shines the glory of a 
 blissful contentment, happiness and pride. And 
 well may she be proud, for the Major's endeav 
 ors to gain statehood for Arizona have been 
 recognized, and his grateful constituents have 
 but now elected him as delegate to the 
 National Congress. There is another to whom 
 preference is shown. It is the kind old mother, 
 who, with moist eye and smile on her lips, 
 stands before him supported on a crutch. You 
 would be hard-hearted indeed to restrain a tear 
 as he raises that snowy white head towards his 
 own and impresses a kiss on that wrinkled 
 brow, where dwell two eyes whose look speaks 
 of love for her son that death alone can quench. 
 Nay, not even death, for in the Other World, 
 too, he will receive those kind caresses by vir 
 tue of the Fifth Commandment that he has so 
 carefully obeyed. 
 
 When the morning again awakens you may 
 go with your hostess and the good old padre 
 among their charges in the little Indian village 
 close by, there to administer with them to 
 those that need help, and to comfort those that 
 need comfort. You will, indeed, be moved 
 by the love and affection these poor denizens of 
 the desert show the Dona and their confessor. 
 And here among them, as their "chiefo," their 
 leader, stands Pepe, the Indian playfellow of
 
 La Hacienda. 155 
 
 the child Mananka, grown brave and strong, 
 and beloved by his people. 
 
 Little children lovingly cling to the skirts of 
 the sefiora. 
 
 Old men and old women reverently nod their 
 heads, hopeful of the priest's blessings. Then 
 you may turn and ask yourself : "Where among 
 these is the spirit of Natchez, of Geronimo, of 
 Mescalero ? Certainly here it has not been over 
 come by the sword and bayonet." The faces 
 of these children of nature call to your mind 
 the hand and the heart that has made them 
 happy. In one accord they seem to tell you, 
 "we worship with you one God, the great God, 
 Love." 
 
 At your departure you will remember the 
 words of the kind old padre : "There is a God 
 in heaven who sees further into the future than 
 unhappy man." And His name will be the last 
 word on the tongue of Felicita, the Little 
 Happy One, as she bids you a fond "Adios."* 
 
 *God keep you. 
 
 THE END,
 
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