LIBRARY 
 
 University of 
 
 California 
 
 Irvine
 
 PAXCIIA. 
 
 See page r>9.
 
 ^TORIES OF 
 
 OLD NEW SPAIN 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS A. JANVIER 
 
 AUTHOR OF COLOR STUDIES, THE~A"ZTEC TREASURE-HOUSE, 
 THE MEXICAN GUIDE 
 
 E los mandamientos de la Justicia, e del derecho son tres. El primero 
 es, que ome biua honestamente, quanto en si. El segundo, que non faga 
 mal, nin dano a otro. El tercero, que de su derecho a cada vno. E aquel 
 que cumple estos mandamientos faze lo que deue a Dios. 
 
 ALONZO EL SABIO, Terccra partida, Titulo II, Ley Hi. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1891
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1891, 
 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
 
 TO 
 
 C. A. J. 
 
 2200586
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS 7 
 
 NINITA 35 
 
 PAXCHA : A STORY OF MONTEREY 59 
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN 95 
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH 126 
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT 160 
 
 LA MINA DE Los PADRES 187 
 
 SAINT MART OF THE ANGELS 212 
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE . 313
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 
 
 HE who goes westward from the City of Mexico 
 goes out by the gate of the Tlaxpana, and BO along the 
 causeway to Tacuba ; the very path over which the 
 Spaniards passed, leaving many killed and of the living 
 nearly all being sore wounded, when they fled from 
 the city that dismal night more than three hundred and 
 fifty years ago. 
 
 But this now is a very pleasant path ; for on the 
 right and on the left of it are fertile fields and trimly 
 kept gardens, and shading it are many great green 
 trees. And only a little way out upon it is the village 
 of San Antonio, built of gray-brown adobe on the level 
 land beside the causeway, and peopled by certain rag 
 ged, uncared-for, easy-going descendants of the race 
 that now serves where once it ruled. 
 
 The wayfaring stranger who loves a dish of friendly 
 talk with chance acquaintances and the wayfaring 
 stranger not thus socially disposed will find all lands 
 barren, and will come again to his own land not one
 
 8 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 whit the wiser of the world than when he left his home 
 will rest awhile in this village to chat with whomso 
 ever it may please Heaven to send him to hold converse 
 with. Nor need he fear that Heaven will not pro 
 vide him with a talking-mate. Let him but seat him 
 self beneath one of the great trees beside the roadway, 
 and presently a stray old man will pause to pass a 
 greeting with him; then a vendor of earthen pots, 
 coming in from some outlying village to the city to sell 
 his wares, will halt his donkey on whose patient back 
 the great red pots are high heaped up and will ask in 
 a gentle voice for a light for his corn-husk cigarito j 
 an old woman will hobble up and say a friendly word 
 or two ; a young woman with a baby in her arms will 
 edge out shyly from a near-by doorway, and so stand 
 modestly aside, but ready to add her contribution to 
 the conversation when it shall become a little more 
 general and when amicable relations with the stranger 
 shall become a little more assured ; then another old 
 man or two will join the group, accepting with a grave 
 courtesy the offered cigarito a lazy young fellow with 
 baskets to sell, but with no apparent desire to sell 
 them, will seat himself near ; and outside of all will be 
 a light fringe of pernicious ragged little boys. And all 
 of these simple-hearted folk presently will be as frank 
 and as friendly as though they had known their chance 
 acquaintance all their lives. 
 
 It will be in such wayside talk as this that the 
 stranger alone will learn for in books he will look for 
 it in vain the story of the little church that once stood 
 hereabout; of the very little convent there was ad 
 joining it ; of the two Franciscan friars who ministered
 
 SAX ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 9 
 
 in the church, dwelling in the convent, and whose 
 earthly possessions (and these but held in trust from 
 Heaven) were a little garden, and the doves which had 
 built nests in a corner of the convent, and a certain, 
 grave, black cat, and a lame and very lazy ass. 
 
 It was all in the far-back time when the Spanish 
 viceroys were the rulers of Mexico ; when the fleet 
 sailed once a year from Cadiz westward, and once a 
 year sailed eastward from Yera Cruz laden deep with 
 silver from the mines ; when hushed voices still told in 
 horror of great cruelties done by the fierce Chicheme- 
 cas to frontier adventurers into the region north of 
 Queretaro ; and when the good fathers, setting death 
 and torture at defiance that God s work might be done 
 by them, still were busy sending out their holy missions 
 for the saving of heathen souls. The Viceroy in those 
 days was the illustrious Don Antonio Sebastian de To 
 ledo, Marques de Mancera ; who came into the capital 
 of his vice-kingdom and there assumed the duties of his 
 high office in the month of October in the year 1664. 
 
 About this time it was that in the convent of San 
 Antonio de Padua that in a little time came to be 
 known only as San Antonio of the Gardens, because 
 hereabout, then as now, the fertile land was laid out in 
 many little gardens which the Indians tilled there 
 dwelt the two brothers Antonio and Inocencio. Fray 
 Inocencio was a short and round and plump-cheeked, 
 ruddy little man, and Fray Antonio was very tall and 
 thin and pale. These brothers were vowed to the Ilule 
 of St. Francis, and until ordered hither for the cure of 
 Indians souls the great convent of San Francisco in the
 
 10 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 City of Mexico had been their home. A wonderful 
 change it was for them when they came out from that 
 " vast bee-hive of holiness " as the convent of San 
 Francisco is called by a chronicler of the time to 
 dwell in a convent whereof they were the only inhab 
 itants, and the extent of which, not counting the tiny 
 sacristy of their tiny church, was just a little refectory, 
 that also was a kitchen, and two cells. Yet had it been 
 the size of a city they scarcely could have been more 
 elated by their translation ; for whereas in the great 
 convent they were but two brothers among hundreds, 
 with many above them in degree, here they were every 
 thing themselves free to divide between them the 
 whole range of the conventual offices, from that of Por- 
 tero up to that of Guardian. 
 
 As they stood for the first time alone together in 
 the little garden, the door behind them that opened 
 upon the causeway being closed and barred, and as the 
 knowledge of the absolute power that was theirs in this 
 their kingdom came into their hearts, Fray Inocencio, 
 who was of a lively disposition and very quick to give 
 animated expression to his thoughts, skipped in a most 
 carnal fashion ; and still more carnally stood for an 
 appreciable length of time upon one leg while he held 
 the other leg in the air. 
 
 Fray Antonio, whose mind was of a graver and more 
 temperate cast, looked upon this exhibition of worldly 
 pride sorrowfully, but not reproachfully. Weakness 
 of the flesh was Fray Inocencio s besetting sin ; but 
 he knew his weakness, and when he failed to overcome 
 it he expiated it by penance and sought remission of it 
 in prayer. This was known to Fray Antonio, and so
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. H 
 
 was his loving, gentle soul the less disposed to manifest 
 by outward sign his inward sorrow when, as now, his 
 brother lapsed from grace. 
 
 In the darkness that night Fray Antonio heard the 
 sound of scourging in Fray Inocencio s cell, and in the 
 morning the usually ruddy cheeks of the little round 
 brother were pale and his eyes were dull ; but peace 
 rested on him, for he felt that through the sacrifice of 
 the flesh the sin of the flesh had been expiated, and so 
 his spirit was at rest. 
 
 When the mass which they celebrated together was 
 ended, and they had come into the refectory to make 
 and to drink their chocolate, he said simply, as he stood 
 beside the fireplace, stirring the chocolate in its earthen 
 pot : " God brings the least deserving of us, brother, 
 into the high places of the earth ; but he loves best 
 those who, though thus exalted, still serve him humbly. 
 We have only to seek his aid, and of his strength he 
 will so arm our weakness that we may prevail over the 
 sin that shows itself in carnal pride." 
 
 The gentle eyes of Fray Antonio rested lovingly 
 upon Fray Inocencio, and in them shone the light of 
 a comforting and sustaining trust as he answered, 
 " Brother, the grace of God ever is greater than our 
 sins." jSTor did the thought at all enter his simple soul 
 as assuredly it would have entered a soul in which 
 there had been even the very least of worldly guile 
 that other than a serious meaning could attach to Fray 
 Inocencio s reference to the exaltation of their estate. 
 Thus ever did Fray Antonio help and strengthen Fray 
 Inocencio with a sweet and holy love : and many needs 
 had Fray Inocencio of such comforting, for, the flesh
 
 12 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 proverbially being weak in little round and ruddy men, 
 the seasons were sadly short in which he had not some 
 misdeed of his unruly nature to bemoan. 
 
 In all seasons a heavy burden rested upon Fray Ino- 
 cencio s soul because he was so ruddy and so fat. This 
 corporal affliction, sadly unseemly in one vowed to the 
 austerities of the religious life, was of such a nature 
 that abstinence had no effect upon it and for the re 
 moval of it even prayer was without avail ; so that 
 what little solace his case allowed him was to be got by 
 regarding his fatness as a cross put upon him for his 
 soul s sake, warning him to eat little and so to mortify 
 the flesh that good might come to him in the end. Yet 
 was this a hard cross for Fray Inocencio to bear ; for 
 he had a very eager natural love, as strong as it was 
 sinful, for all manner of toothsome things. Especially 
 had he a most passionate fondness for beans \vhich after 
 being well boiled were fried delicately in lard which 
 dish was not less delicious than it was damnably fatten 
 ing. Most pathetic was his look of resignation when 
 beans thus cooked were served in the refectory of the 
 great convent of San Francisco, as he resisted their suc 
 culent temptation and ate instead the little dry cakes of 
 corn -meal. 
 
 In the convent of San Antonio of the Gardens Fray 
 Inocencio was spared the temptation of fried beans, for 
 Fray Antonio, that his brother might not be led into 
 sin, declared that he preferred his beans boiled. And 
 more than this did Fray Antonio do for his brother s 
 comforting. Being himself by nature a most abstemi 
 ous man, with no liking for food save as a means of 
 sustaining his life and strength in God s service, he de-
 
 SAX AXTOXIO OF THE GARDENS. 13 
 
 liberately set himself to eating in private great quan 
 tities of all manner of fattening tilings ; and this he did 
 to the end that by rounding out his own leanness he 
 might make the plumpness of Fray Inocencio easier for 
 him to bear. But beyond throwing into disorder by 
 such unwonted quantities of rich food the functions of 
 his liver, the stuffing that Fray Antonio gave himself 
 produced no results. Therefore, being as yellow as an 
 orange, he gladly gave over his strange discipline. 
 This was wise of him, for the simple truth of the mat 
 ter was that it pleased God that one of these brothers 
 should be fat and that the other should be thin ; and 
 neither of them, howsoever he might strive, the one by 
 eating too little and the other by eating too much, could 
 change that which God had decreed. 
 
 Though thus tried in flesh and in spirit, these broth 
 ers were very happy in their life in the little convent 
 and in their ministrations of the sacred offices in the 
 little church. In their garden they tilled the earth lov 
 ingly, taking great pleasure in its sweet, fresh smell, 
 and in the bounteous return that it yielded them. Fray 
 Inocencio had a rare knowledge of the gardener s craft, 
 and especially had he a relish for growing such vege 
 tables as were good to eat. In this previcarious form 
 of gluttony, as it might be called, he did not deny him 
 self ; for, setting a stout guard upon the cravings of his 
 own stomach, he carried on his back the best of all the 
 good things which lie grew to the great convent : where 
 the brothers, less scrupulous than himself, ate them all 
 with a prompt avidity. Fray Antonio, though he did 
 his share of work in the kitchen-garden, found his 
 pleasure in the growing of beautiful and sweet-smelling
 
 14 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 flowers, which each day he set before the sacred image 
 of the great San Antonio that the little church en 
 shrined. Sometimes Fray Antonio fancied that as he 
 placed upon the altar dedicated to his holy namesake 
 these sweet offerings there shone upon the gentle face 
 of the saint a loving smile. Nor would such miracle 
 have been surprising, for this very image as the chroni 
 cler Vetancurt tells had raised a dead child to life ! 
 In that good time faith was a living principle in the 
 hearts of men, and the blessed saints graciously requited 
 the trust that was placed in them by working many 
 miracles. It is not so in these evil later days. 
 
 In the holy work that was set them of saving hea 
 then souls the brothers ever were instant and zealous. 
 Fray Inocencio assailed the devil at all times and in all 
 places with a stout energy that was in keeping with the 
 sturdiness of his body and mind. Indeed, such pictures 
 as this plump little friar drew of the entire devilishness 
 of a very personal devil, and of the blazing horrors of 
 a most real hell, sufficed to scare many an Indian, 
 though through all his life set firmly in the wicked 
 courses of idolatry, into the saving ways of Christian 
 righteousness. Fray Antonio was less successful as an 
 exerciser, but his gentle words and great tenderness of 
 heart and spirit enabled him to make, perhaps, more 
 lasting converts. Through the ministrations of this 
 good brother many a troubled heathen soul was set at 
 rest in Christain holiness, being brought happily to 
 grace through love. 
 
 In the first spring-time that the brothers dwelt in 
 the little convent there came to build in a nook of the 
 wall above the garden a pair of doves. These Fray
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 15 
 
 Inocencio took under his especial care; giving them 
 grain to eat, and placing for them in the garden an 
 earthen vessel full of water wherefrom they could 
 drink even as the blessed Saint Francis, who called all 
 living creatures his brothers and sisters, cherished the 
 doves which he rescued from the hands of the fowler, 
 and took to dwell with him in the convent at Ravac- 
 ciano, where was his home. And the doves, recogniz 
 ing Fray Inocencio s friendliness, soon grew so tame 
 that they would come and eat from his hand and would 
 perch upon his shoulders, and even would nestle in the 
 hood of his blue gown. From year to year they in 
 creased in number, and at last there came to be so 
 many of them that the good brother almost would be 
 hidden by the cloud of birds surrounding him. The 
 trust which these little creatures placed in him made 
 him the more earnestly try to stifle a sinful thought 
 that at times would come into his soul how good they 
 would taste in a pie ! Once in his unregenerate youth, 
 before he took upon him the vows of his Order, he had 
 eaten a pie made of doves ; and although he never 
 yielded to the temptation that assailed him, the smell 
 and the taste of that pie lingered in his memory and 
 cruelly tormented him to his dying day. 
 
 For Fray Antonio dove-pie had no temptations, and 
 the doves were a source of constant pleasure to him, for 
 all of God s creatures he loved. In the quiet of the 
 hot noontime there was a restfulness and friendliness 
 in their sweet cooings that refreshed him as he sat 
 meditating in the dusky coolness of his cell ; and he 
 found not less pleasure in listening as they rustled and 
 cooed softly to each other in their nests, after the curi-
 
 IQ STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ous fashion of these birds, in the watches of the night. 
 But Fray Antonio loved the doves less for themselves 
 than because they were the beautiful creatures of a 
 Creator who did all things well. 
 
 A source of constant solicitude to Fray Inocencio in 
 this connection was the possible misconduct of another 
 dependent of the little convent a certain black cat that 
 Fray Inocencio dearly loved. The official name of this 
 cat was Timoteo ; bestowed upon him for the reason 
 that this is a name well- suited to a cat, and also in de 
 risive reprobation of that schismatic Monophysite of 
 Egypt, who in the fifth century usurped the Patriarch 
 ate, and was known popularly as " Timothy the Cat." 
 It was the fancy of Fray Antonio to bestow this name 
 upon the black kitten which wandered one day into the 
 convent, and which, after making a sniffing exploration 
 of the whole of the small establishment, signified his 
 approval of it and of its inhabitants by accepting Fray 
 Inocencio s offering of milk, and by thereafter settling 
 himself to sleep in a comfortable fold of Fray Ino 
 cencio s blue gown. 
 
 Fray Antonio, the friend and intimate of the schol 
 arly Fray Agustin de Yetancurt (who at that very 
 time was writing his chronicle, El Teatro Americano, 
 that has given him a world-wide fame), was himself a 
 learned student of the Fathers of the Church ; and he 
 explained, at what Fray Inocencio, whose tastes were 
 not scholarly, considered a most unnecessary length, 
 the schism that the false Patriarch known as " Timothy 
 the Cat " upheld, and that the General Council of Chal- 
 cedon condemned. Nor did Fray Inocencio, in his 
 heart of hearts, approve of saddling upon a kitten of
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 17 
 
 obviously amiable qualities and presumably excellent 
 parts the name of a bogus Patriarch, who, according to 
 Fray Antonio s own showing, was an outlaw from the 
 Church, a usurper, and a murderer. Therefore was 
 Fray Inocencio well pleased when the kitten developed 
 a power of purring so thunderously (relatively speak 
 ing) that Fray Antonio fell into the way of speaking of 
 him as Susurro which word, in the Spanish tongue, 
 signifies the Purrer and thus himself provided an ac 
 ceptable substitute for what any self-respecting cat 
 could not but regard as a highly objectionable name. 
 
 Of a certainty Fray Inocencio never knew that Su 
 surro ate doves ; but lie had painful suspicions. There 
 were times and seasons when Susurro would retire to 
 the roof of the convent as though for the purpose of 
 sunning himself. Yet with such ostentation was this 
 purpose manifested, that not unreasonably doubts as to 
 the purity of his motives and intentions might be en 
 tertained. As he would lie basking in the sunshine, his 
 fore-paws tucked comfortably beneath his breast, and 
 his long black tail stretching out straight behind him, 
 Fray Inocencio more than once was pained by observ 
 ing a swaying of that same tail and a twitching of his 
 black ears, and also a certain look of eagerness that in 
 unguarded moments would come into his half-closed 
 great yellow eyes all of which seemed to betray the 
 existence in some dark corner of his mind of thoughts 
 the like of which no honest cat should have. 
 
 Fray Inocencio sorely was pained by these sugges 
 tions on Susurro s part of a tendency toward what, 
 under the circumstances, would be nothing short of 
 mortal sin. In the simplicity of his nature he made 
 2
 
 18 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 especial prayer to the miracle-working image of San 
 Antonio that Susurro might be given strength to resist 
 the temptation that beset him, and that so the doves 
 might go unharmed. And to Fray Antonio he told 
 that he had made his prayer. 
 
 Now in the gentle nature of Fray Antonio there 
 was a strain of kindly whimsicalness the same that 
 had led him to bestow upon the stranger kitten the 
 name of the Egyptian Patriarch and this noAv moved 
 him to take the case of the cat and the doves into his 
 own hands. Therefore it was that when a convenient 
 season occurred Fray Inocencio having gone with a 
 back-load of vegetables to the great convent he sought 
 Susurro in the garden, and found him there, slumber 
 ing. Fray Antonio awakened him gently, and although 
 a mild resentment shone in his yellow eyes because his 
 slumbers were cut short, he seated himself gravely upon 
 his haunches, around which his tail was trimly drawn, 
 yawned slowly, and then seriously looked up at Fray 
 Antonio as though awaiting the communication to hear 
 which he had been aroused from sleep. Fray Antonio, 
 leaning a little forward as he sat upon a bench in a 
 shady corner of the garden, looked not less seriously 
 upon Susurro s face and thus addressed him : 
 
 "It hath come to my knowledge, Timoteo, whom 
 we call also Susurro, because of thy mighty purr, that 
 the devil hath put into thy heart evil thoughts concern 
 ing these friends of ours, the doves. Hearken well, 
 therefore, to that which I shall say unto thee ; for as 
 thou heedest it or slightest it so will thy name among 
 eats be honored or condemned. Thy instinct, truly, is 
 to catch doves and to eat them. With this instinct I
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 19 
 
 will not quarrel, for God hath given it to thee. But 
 God s gifts, O Susurro, may be abused ; and a sore 
 abuse of this dove-eating instinct of thine would it be 
 shouldst thou kill and eat these birds which have no 
 fear of thee and which dwell with thee here in thine 
 own home. Rather shouldst thou strive to divert into 
 worthy ways the less worthy of thy natural tendencies, 
 that so, by exalting to good purposes thy baser passions, 
 thou mayst achieve righteousness. Thus did the Holy 
 Cat of Zempoala, whose memory still is reverenced 
 although the brief term of his earthly life ended more 
 than a century ago. Hearken well, Susurro, while I 
 read to thee what my friend the chronicler, Father 
 Yetancurt, hath written concerning the part which this 
 cat was permitted to take in manifesting God s will 
 that a great and worthy work should be done. 
 
 So speaking, Fray Antonio drew from the bosom of 
 his habit a roll of manuscript that he opened out and 
 smoothed upon his knee ; while Susurro sunk from his 
 erect posture to one of greater ease, tucked away his 
 paws beneath his breast, and at his spiritual instructor 
 solemnly blinked his golden eyes. Fray Antonio, with 
 a grave emphasis, read to him these words : 
 
 It was about the year 1540 that the Reverend 
 Father Friar Francisco de Tembleque felt stirring in 
 his heart a good desire (that, assuredly, God put there) 
 to build an aqueduct by which the towns of Otumba 
 and Zempoala should be supplied abundantly with water 
 wholesome to drink which at that time the people of 
 these towns were compelled to bring from springs seven 
 leagues away. And his plan was to make an aqueduct 
 over all that distance, carrying it across three wide val 
 leys on no less than one hundred and thirty-six arches,
 
 20 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and making over the deepest of the valleys one arch so 
 great that beneath it might pass (had there been any 
 such thereabouts) a ship under full sail. And to this 
 work the Servant of God for so Father Tembleque 
 well was called set himself with a stout heart; and the 
 Indians worked for him joyfully. And at the spot 
 where the great arch was to be, in what then was a 
 tangle of wooded wild land, he built a little chapel to 
 the glory of Our Lady of Bclen ; and close beside the 
 chapel he made for himself a cell so narrow that 
 scarcely was there room within it for him to lie down 
 to sleep. 
 
 And God showed his love for his Servant by giving 
 to dwell with him a gray cat, which every day from 
 the wild woodland round about brought quails for his 
 master s sustenance ; and in the season of rabbits, a rab 
 bit. And between the Servant of God and this cat 
 there was much love. 
 
 To Father Tembleque there came one day a stranger, 
 who courteously, yet with a curious particularity, ques 
 tioned him about the progress of the great \vork that he 
 had in hand. For certain persons of the baser sort had 
 said in the ear of the Viceroy that Father Tembleque 
 was wasting his time and the substance of the Church 
 in striving to do an impossible thing ; and this stranger 
 really was an alcalde of the court, whom, that he might 
 know the truth, the Viceroy had sent thus secretly to 
 ask searching questions and to see for himself how the 
 work went on. And as the two communed together, 
 behold the cat came out from the wood to where they 
 stood in talk and laid a rabbit at his master s feet ! 
 
 When said the Servant of God : " Brother Cat, a 
 guest hath come to us, and therefore is it necessary that 
 thou shalt bring me this day not one rabbit, but two." 
 
 Hearing these words, the cat, in due obedience, be 
 took himself once more to the thicket. But the alcalde, 
 thinking that this might be a trick that was put upon 
 him, sent after the cat to spy upon him one of his own
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 21 
 
 servants. And the servant presently beheld a greater 
 wonder. For in a moment the cat met with another 
 rabbit, which he caught without any resistance at all on 
 the creature s part, and with it returned to his master 
 again : thus plainly showing that all had been disposed 
 thus by God. 
 
 And the Sefior Alcalde, being so substantially as 
 sured of the miracle, returned to the Viceroy and said : 
 " Though it seems to be impossible to bring the water 
 by the way that Father Tembleque hath chosen, and 
 though the work that he hath set himself to do seems 
 to be beyond the power of man to accomplish, yet 
 assuredly will he succeed ; for I have seen that which 
 proves beyond a peradventure that God hath vouchsafed 
 to him his all-powerful aid " : and he told to the Viceroy 
 the whole of the miracle which through the cat had been 
 wrought. Therefore did the Viceroy encourage Father 
 Tembleque in his great work ; and, God s blessing con 
 tinuing upon it, in seventeen years time the aqueduct 
 was finished the very aqueduct through which the 
 water comes to the towns of Otumba and Zempoala at 
 this present day ! * 
 
 "And dost tliou believe, Susurro," asked Fray 
 Antonio, with a brisk vehemence, " that this Holy Cat 
 of Zempoala would have played the dastard part toward 
 these doves, our home-mates, that possibly thou contern- 
 platest ? Is ever ! Assuredly, never ! Therefore lay to 
 thy heart the story of his worthy life, and call upon our 
 
 * To the still greater glory of the Holy Cat of Zempoala, whoso 
 honorable history the chronicler Fray Agustin do, Vetancurt has set 
 forth as above in the Menologio Franciscano, October 1st, of his 
 Teatro Mexicano (City of Mexico, 1698 ; folio), the fact may be 
 added that the aqueduct of Zempoala still fulfills, in part at least, 
 the useful purpose for which Father Tembleque built it more than 
 three centuries ago.
 
 22 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 father St. Francis who loved all animals and trusted 
 them to aid th ee in setting so strict a guard upon thy 
 sharp teeth, and upon the sharp claws wherewith thy 
 paws are armed, that through the fleshly temptation 
 that is in these members of thine thou fallest not into 
 
 sin I 
 
 t -5 
 
 As he spoke these words, Fray Antonio arose from 
 his seat and signified by a gesture of his hand that the 
 sermon was at an end. Whereupon Susurro also arose, 
 but slowly and languidly. In front of him he extended 
 his paws as far as ever they would go, and erecting his 
 hinder parts and bending his fore-shoulders downward 
 he spread out all his claws and dragged backward upon 
 them so that they made little furrows in the earth. 
 Then he drew together his front and his hind feet, and 
 so humped his back in a great bow. After all of which 
 he seated himself upon his haunches, looked straight 
 into Fray Antonio s kindly face, blinked at the good 
 brother his golden eyes, and gave a most prodigious 
 yawn. That these were the outward signs of a spirit 
 meet for repentance Fray Antonio seriously doubted ; 
 yet did he stoop down and stroke gently the jowls of 
 the disciple whom he had sought to lead into the way 
 of righteousness ; and to this friendly act Susurro re 
 sponded by breaking at once into the great purring 
 whence came his name. 
 
 Fray Inocencio, coming quietly through the church, 
 and standing just within the door of the sacristy that 
 opened upon the garden, had been an unobserved addi 
 tion to Fray Antonio s congregation : that otherwise 
 had been composed of Susurro, to whom the sermon 
 directly was addressed, and the doves, in whose interest
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 23 
 
 it was preached. Now, coming forward from the 
 shadow of the doorway into the sunlight, he spoke with 
 grave approval of the edifying nature of the discourse 
 to which he had been privileged to listen, and com 
 mended his brother for thus emulating the goodness of 
 their father St. Francis, who had preached to the birds, 
 and of his own blessed namesake, St. Anthony of Padua, 
 who had preached to the fishes neither of whom, Fray 
 Inocencio declared seriously, saints though they were, 
 could have addressed to Susurro a more moving or a 
 more excellent discourse. Fray Inocencio attributed 
 the obvious confusion into which Fray Antonio was 
 thrown by this commendation, notably marked by a flush 
 of unwonted color in his pale cheeks, to a sudden flying 
 to arms of his modesty upon being surprised in the com 
 mission of a good deed. 
 
 Fray Antonio found himself beset by reason of his 
 brother s praises by a curious case of conscience, most 
 difficult to deal with. In preaching his sermon to 
 Susurro he had but given play to a certain delicate and 
 quaint fancy that was natural to him ; possibly for so 
 may a man of fine temperament be affected by his sur 
 roundings and by the tendencies of the times in which 
 he lives there was an underlying vein of seriousness in 
 his discourse : certainly there was no thought in it of 
 irreverence. But he knew that it was far from being 
 the grave utterance that Fray Inocencio considered it to 
 be, and for which Fray Inocencio gave him a serious 
 credit that was far from beinor his due : and he knew 
 
 O f 
 
 also that to try to explain the subtle qualities which 
 composed his mood when as he now perceived the 
 devil had instigated him to address Susurro would be
 
 24: STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 only to confuse with unavailing doubts the simple faith 
 that was in his brother s soul. Therefore, as the smaller 
 of two evils, he accepted silently the undeserved com 
 mendation that was bestowed upon him. That night 
 although Fray Inocencio heard it not, for his slumber 
 was of the substantial sort that is the portion of little 
 fat men whose consciences are at rest there was a 
 sound of scourging in Fray Antonio s cell. 
 
 So far as this was possible in one whose heart was 
 full of love and charity, Fray Inocencio at times envied 
 Fray Antonio because he was superior to the many temp 
 tations which made his own life burdensome ; but he 
 knew nothing of the temptations of the spirit which be 
 set his finer-natured companion, and which sometimes, 
 as in this case of yielding to a too whimsical humor 
 that yet was as much a part of his natural being as of 
 Fray Inocencio s natural being were his stoutness and 
 his ruddy cheeks begot evil results which caused him 
 heart-bitterness and much distress of soul. 
 
 Doubtless, being more sublimate, the pains of con 
 science which attend upon waywardness of the spirit 
 are more searching than those which attend upon way 
 wardness of the flesh ; yet because of their gross and 
 tangible nature the fleshly sins are more instantly ap 
 palling. Thus Fray Inocencio probably would have 
 reasoned, had he possessed a mind disposed toward 
 such abstract considerations, together with a knowledge 
 of the spiritual suffering which Fray Antonio at times 
 endured ; but as neither of these possessions was his, he 
 simply bemoaned very heartily his own frequent lapses 
 from grace. And greatly did he lament one especially 
 great sin, the doing of which came about in this wise :
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 25 
 
 One day, while Fray Inocencio was gathering let 
 tuces, and while Fray Antonio was tending lovingly his 
 flowers, there came over the top of the garden wall the 
 sound of angry words, and then of heavy blows, and 
 then of a cry that was something like the bray of an 
 ass, and being a very great cry and terrible some 
 thing like the shriek of a giant in pain. With the 
 promptness that was customary with him Fray Inocen 
 cio unbarred the door and ran out upon the causeway to 
 sec what was the meaning of this commotion ; arid as 
 beside the door stood a stout staff, that he carried with 
 him for support when he walked to the great convent 
 with a back-load of vegetables, he seized it that he 
 might not affront the danger, if danger there were, un 
 armed. More deliberately came out also through the 
 doorway Fray Antonio. And very pitiable was the 
 sight that met their eyes. 
 
 Upon the ground lay a poor ass, laden with great 
 earthen pots, and the two Indians with him were beat 
 ing him with their sticks to make him rise, the while 
 shouting at him all manner of coarse abuse. The ass 
 with so agonized a look that a heart of stone would 
 have been melted by it with pity, was crying aloud in 
 pain ; for one of his legs as the brothers saw, though 
 the Indians seemed to perceive it not had broken un 
 der him as he fell beneath his too-heavy load. He was 
 but a small ass, and his lading of pots would have been 
 overheavy for a strong mule. 
 
 Then was the wrath of Fray Inocencio so kindled 
 within him that every fiber of his little round person 
 tingled with rage. Forgetting all the teachings of 
 gentleness of the blessed saints, and the example of long-
 
 26 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 suffering set him by the good father St. Francis, and 
 his own vow to a life of peace and holiness forgetting 
 all this, Fray Inocencio in an instant had gathered up and 
 tucked into his girdle the skirts of his blue gown, that 
 he might have the free use of his short stout legs, and 
 most carnally had fallen afoul of the backs and shoul 
 ders of those cruel Indians with his staff. 
 
 As for the Indians, this visible outbreak of the 
 wrath of God took them so sharply by surprise, while 
 such pain penetrated their brown hides with the blows 
 which Fray Inocencio rained down upon them, that with 
 out pausing for thought or consideration they inconti 
 nently took to their heels. In an instant they had 
 plunged through the slimy water of the acequia beside 
 the causeway, and were fleeing away across the meadow- 
 land beyond as though their assailant had been not a 
 little stout friar, but the devil himself. 
 
 Then Fray Inocencio, puffing greatly for at the best 
 of times he was but a short-winded man knelt down 
 beside the ass with Fray Antonio and aided him to loose 
 the cords which bound the pots upon its back, and so 
 set it free of its grievous load. Together, very tender 
 ly, they lifted the maimed creature and carried it into 
 the convent garden, and while Fray Inocencio gave it 
 water to drink and this before he had quenched his 
 own thirst Fray Antonio, who had a good knowledge 
 of the surgeon s craft, set himself to binding up the 
 broken leg in a splint. And the poor ass, seeming to 
 understand that it was being dealt with by friends who 
 meant well by it, suffered them to do with it what they 
 would. 
 
 It was not until their labors were ended the broken
 
 SAN ANTONIO OP THE GARDENS. 27 
 
 leg well set, and the ass straitly fastened in a little stall 
 that they made for him that he might not stir the leg 
 in its setting that Fray Inocencio had time to think of 
 the sin which he had fallen into in giving his righteous 
 anger such unrighteous vent. He was the more dis 
 tressed in spirit because, for the very life of him, he 
 could not create in his heart a sincere repentance of 
 having given to those Indians so sound a beating. 
 Strive however much he might to crush it, the thought 
 would assert itself that they richly deserved not only 
 every blow that they received, but also the great many 
 more blows which they escaped by running away. And 
 with this thought most persistently came a carnal long 
 ing to get at them again and finish the work that he 
 had so vigorously begun. To Fray Inocencio s dying 
 day this sin remained with him ; and while the prick 
 ings of it were hard to bear, he had of it, at least, the 
 compensating advantage that it always was with him 
 as a wholesome reminder to keep his too-ready anger 
 within due bonds. 
 
 Fortunately for it is to be feared that he could not 
 have resisted it the temptation to finish the beating 
 was not put in his way. That the Indians returned and 
 carried off their earthen pots was inferred by the broth 
 ers when, having ended their surgical and other minis 
 trations to the ass s comfort, they looked out upon the 
 causeway and found that the pots were gone. And 
 they believed that from the Indians came the rather 
 mysterious old man who presented himself the next day 
 at the convent with a confused request for medicine for 
 a sick child ; and who contrived, while the apothecary- 
 work was in progress, to get into the garden where the
 
 28 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 hurt ass was and to make an examination of its state. 
 But from tins old man they could learn nothing of the 
 owners of the ass ; nor were their many inquiries among 
 the Indians round about better rewarded. That the 
 owners thus modestly veiled their identity, and that 
 they made no effort to reclaim their property, on the 
 whole was not surprising. No doubt they held, and 
 wisely, that a broken-legged ass was not worth adven 
 turing for within the dangerous range of the little 
 friar s staff. 
 
 Chiefly, as Fray Inocencio very firmly believed, be 
 cause of the many prayers to this end that he addressed 
 to the miracle-working image of San Antonio that was 
 in the little church, the ass in due season got w r ell. But 
 as, through some mischance, the broken bone had gone 
 awry in the splint, it healed crookedly ; so that that leg 
 was shorter than the other legs. From this fresh mis 
 fortune the ass suffered no pain, but thenceforward he 
 was very lame. 
 
 Being thus healed, and, after a fashion, a servicea 
 ble ass once more, the question what they should do 
 with him perplexed the brothers sadly. Of other valu 
 able property, being strictly vowed to poverty, they 
 had none. The cat Timoteo, called Susurro, and the 
 doves, were wild things of nature ; of no use to man 
 save in so far as they were a source of happiness through 
 the love in them and for them that God inspired. But 
 the case of the ass, an animal both useful and valuable, 
 was different. Fray Inocencio, into whose heart the 
 devil put the thought that the ass very well might bear 
 to the great convent the loads which he himself was 
 wont to carry thither on his back, reasoned that, inas-
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 29 
 
 much as the ass in truth was not their own, but only in 
 their ward until his rightful owners should be found, 
 they might use him in all conscionable work without 
 falling into sin. But Fray Antonio, seeing more clearly, 
 pointed out that they had striven earnestly but vainly 
 to find the ass s owner, and that now there was small 
 chance that the owner ever would be found at all ; and 
 he showed, further, that no matter in whom might vest 
 his actual ownership, to them would belong, should 
 they elect to avail themselves of it, his usufruct ; which 
 possession was a thing of value inconsistent with the 
 poverty to which they were vowed. Yet, since the ass 
 was not truly their own, he admitted, they had no right to 
 sell him and to give the money to the poor supposing 
 the somewhat improbable case of any one being found 
 willing to buy an ass that in addition to great natural 
 laziness was hopelessly lame ; nor were they free to give 
 him away. Giving him in trust, to be surrendered 
 should his owner ever be found, was the only solution 
 of the matter they could arrive at ; and this failed be 
 cause they could find no one who would accept the ass 
 on these, or, indeed, on any other terms. Yet to sup 
 port the ass in absolute idleness, as Fray Antonio was 
 forced to own, would be to violate the law of his being 
 under which a beneficent Creator had placed him in 
 the world for the good of man. 
 
 Altogether this case of conscience was so nice a one, 
 and so beset by difficulties, that after the brothers had 
 debated it for a long while together fruitlessly, and had 
 prayed for guidance without receiving light upon their 
 path in answer to their prayer, they determined to rele 
 gate its decision, through Fray Agustin de Vetancurt
 
 30 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 to whom, their little church being adjunct to the par 
 ish church of San Jose" in San Francisco, they were 
 directly responsible to the Yery Reverend Father 
 Friar Juan Gutierrez, who then governed the province 
 of the Santo Evangelio, to which their convent per 
 tained, and who was the Senior Provincial of the Fran 
 ciscan Order in New Spain. 
 
 This high resolve they executed. Driving before 
 them the cause of their spiritual tribulation, and accom 
 modating their steps to the halting slowness of his gait, 
 and even stopping when he turned aside to crop in a 
 meditative fashion at some especially tempting bunch 
 of grass, they went together along the causeway, past 
 the church of San Cosine, the convent of San Diego, 
 the burning-place of the Inquisition, and the Alameda, 
 and so through the outskirts of the city to the great 
 convent. They entered by the gate from the Zuleta, 
 and fastened the ass in the court-yard beneath the win 
 dows of the building set apart for the use of the com 
 missioners-general of the Order the same building that 
 now profanely has been changed into a hotel. 
 
 There was not a little merriment among the broth 
 ers when the purpose for which Fray Antonio and 
 Fray Inocencio had come thither with the ass was 
 known ; for already the brothers within this convent, 
 being grown rich and lustful of earthly pleasures, had 
 so fallen from grace that conscientious scruples in re 
 gard to the ownership of a lame, wretched ass seemed 
 to them laughable. But the Father Yetancurt, who 
 was a holy man, and who had chosen Fray Antonio and 
 Fray Inocencio for the missionary work that they had 
 in charge because in the midst of much that was evil
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 31 
 
 and corrupt they liad remained pure, treated with a dtte 
 seriousness the case of conscience that they had come 
 to have resolved. That he smiled a little as he exhib 
 ited the matter to the Father Provincial is true ; and 
 this great dignitary smiled also on hearing what a 
 quaint cause of perplexity beset the souls of the two 
 brothers and had been brought by them, in their rare 
 simplicity, to him for resolution and adjustment. But 
 the smiles of these two good men had in them nothing 
 of derision, and, in truth, were not far removed from 
 tears. 
 
 " It is the spirit of our father St. Francis alive 
 again," said the Provincial, reverently ; and in all hu 
 mility they thanked God that innocency so excellent 
 should be found remaining pure amid so much of 
 earthly corruption and spiritual guile. 
 
 Then came the brothers before the Father Provin 
 cial, and by his grace told him the whole of the matter 
 that filled with anxious doubts their souls. Fray Anto 
 nio, who feared nothing but evil and the doing thereof, 
 said what he had to say reverently, as became him in 
 such a case, yet plainly and at his ease : telling how the 
 ass came into their possession, yet touching but lightly 
 upon the fiery part that Fray Inocencio had played ; 
 how they had sousrht earnestly but had failed to find 
 
 / o */ 
 
 his lawful owner, and therefore had no right either to 
 sell him or to give him away ; how no one could be 
 found willing to accept him as a trust ; and how, being 
 thus forced to keep him themselves, they feared that 
 the use of him was a valuable possession that their vow 
 of poverty forbade. Fray Inocencio, who was terribly 
 frightened at speaking to so great a personage, grew
 
 32 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 pale and stumbled in liis speech ; but by God s help ho 
 told truly how he had beaten those cruel Indians ; how 
 his repentance of this act was not complete, since he 
 could not banish from his heart the wish to finish the 
 punishment that he had begun ; and how the devil had 
 put into his heart the desire to keep the ass, that in 
 bringing vegetables to the great convent his own back 
 might be spared. Having thus said to the end what he 
 felt it to be his duty to say, he drew a long breath, 
 wiped with the sleeve of his gown the beads of sweat 
 from his forehead, and was still. That the case might 
 be complete, the Father Provincial looked from the 
 window and saw the ass tethered in the court below, 
 and the brothers pointed to his crooked leg and told 
 how in its healing the bone had gone awry ; and the 
 ass, hearing the voices of his friends, looked up toward 
 them with affection and brayed a mighty bray. 
 
 With a full heart answered to them the Father Pro 
 vincial : " It is God himself, my brothers, who hath 
 given this ass to you in reward for your tenderness and 
 goodness of heart, and to accept a gift from him surely 
 is no infraction of your vow. Go in peace to your con 
 vent again, and keep for your service this poor beast 
 that you have saved from a life of misery, and in whose 
 brute heart I perceive that there is for you such well- 
 deserved love. Take you also my blessing though, in 
 truth, rather should I ask your blessing than thus give 
 you mine." 
 
 And the brothers, very grateful for the dispensation 
 in their favor, but not at all understanding the full 
 meaning of the Father Provincial s words, made proper 
 reverence to him and went their way homeward ; being
 
 SAN ANTONIO OF THE GARDENS. 33 
 
 full of happiness because of the glad consciousness, un 
 troubled by doubt or misgiving, that the ass now really 
 was their very own. 
 
 Thereafter so often as it was necessary that vege 
 tables should be brought from the little convent to the 
 great one the bearer of the load was the lame ass, and 
 behind him or beside him Fray Inocencio walked. As 
 they slowly journeyed, these two held pleasant converse 
 together ; for Fray Inocencio maintained that the ass 
 understood the meaning of human speech as well as he 
 himself understood the meaning of the glances which 
 the ass gave him, and the various twitchings of his 
 scraggy tail, and the shakings of his head, and, above 
 all, the whole vocabulary that was in the waggings of 
 his ample ears. 
 
 It was, indeed, a cheery sight to see these friends 
 upon the road together. At his best the ass hobbled 
 along at a pace that a tortoise would have scorned for 
 its slowness ; and at times ho would stop wholly and 
 would gaze around him with a look of thoughtful in 
 quiry ; or he would step aside to crop a bit of grass 
 that pleased his fancy ; and ever and anon he would 
 edge up to his friend and rub his long nose gently 
 against the friar s side, and then would look into his face 
 with a glance so movingly tender that nothing more 
 could have been added to it for the expression of his 
 love. For his part, Fray Inocencio patiently accommo 
 dated the naturally brisk movements of his own stout 
 little legs to the ass s infinite slowness : when the ass 
 would stop, he would stop also ; when by any chance 
 the ass missed sight of a choice bunch of grass, he would 
 lead him to it and would wait by him until he had 
 3
 
 34 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 cropped it to the very last blade ; and when the ass by 
 his nose-rubbings would manifest his love, he would 
 gather the ass s long, shaggy head in his arms against 
 his breast and would lavish upon him all manner of 
 terms of endearment as he stroked gently his fuzzy 
 ears. 
 
 So the fame of these two went through all the city ; 
 and upon the ass, who truly was as lazy as he was lame, 
 the common people bestowed the name of Flojo, which 
 word, in the Spanish tongue, signifies " the lazy one." 
 In this wise came the proverb that is spoken of any one 
 who greatly loves a useless beast or person : he loves 
 him as Fray Inocencio loved Flojo, the lame ass. 
 
 Over the brothers, dwelling peacefully in their little 
 convent, and serving God by loving his creatures and 
 by ministering faithfully to the welfare of the souls of 
 their fellow-men, the years drifted happily. Unharmed 
 by Timoteo, called Susurro, who waxed fat and sluggish 
 as age stole upon him, yet lost nothing of the sweetness 
 of his nature nor of the thunderousness of his purr, the 
 doves increased and multiplied ; the little garden yield 
 ed ever freshly its substance of fresh food and sweet- 
 smelling flowers ; the ass, Flojo, tenderly cherished by 
 his masters, developed yet greater prodigies of laziness 
 as his years advanced ; and the brothers themselves, 
 happy in leading a life in all \vays innocent and very 
 excellent in the sight of Heaven, knew not what it was 
 to grow old, because their hearts ever remained young. 
 
 And in the fullness of their years, their good lives 
 ended, Fray Antonio and Fray Inocencio passed out 
 gently from time into eternity, and were gathered home 
 to God.
 
 NIOTTA. 
 
 ALL her life long, that is to say for very nearly sev 
 enteen years, Nifiita had lived in the little town of 
 Santa Cmz. Not the old Santa Cruz, but the new one 
 the Villa Nueva de Santa Cruz de la Caiiada, as they 
 called it, those lank Spaniards who built it, in compli 
 ance with the orders of the pious King Philip, up on 
 the head-waters of the Kio Grande del Norte, a trifle 
 less than three hundred years ago. And the town to 
 day is very much what it was when its founders, hav 
 ing, as they believed, sufficiently fulfilled the king s 
 command, ceased building. Twenty or thirty adobe 
 houses, low and mellow-brown as the sun strikes down 
 upon them, cluster around three sides of the plaza. 
 On the fourth side stands the old adobe church of 
 Nuestra Senora del Carmen, grown to stately propor 
 tions in modern times that is to say, within the past 
 two centuries but most reverenced because of its old 
 chapel that was builded first of all, when the good 
 Franciscans came out into the wilderness to save heathen 
 souls. And in this chapel is the gracious image of Our 
 Lady that the great Queen Isabel, long before the new 
 town of Santa Cruz was thought of, had caused to be 
 made and sent over seas for the edification of those con-
 
 36 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 verted to the true faitli in her new-found island realm. 
 Ninita greatly loved that sweet image, and, on occasion, 
 she made to it her most especial prayers. 
 
 But Niilita, while a good girl who went to the sacra 
 ment regularly, and who regularly first cleared her little 
 conscience of the various small sins which accumulated 
 upon it from month to month, had not often been 
 moved to address to Our Lady any very earnest prayers. 
 Her life was still too young, too fresh, too joyous in its 
 sweet innocence to make any very earnest praying on 
 her part necessary. Three times, in all, she had come 
 to Our Lady with petitions which came strongly and 
 warmly from her heart : once when little Carlos was 
 born and her mother lay very, very ill so ill that the 
 padre came with the holy oil, and the nurse opened the 
 window in the thick adobe wall, that the free spirit 
 might find its way out easily and so swiftly get to 
 heaven ; once when the lurro fell down and crushed 
 her father with the load of wood ; and once when a 
 pestilence of small-pox was destroying right and left 
 over in the near-by pueblo of San Juan. This last 
 prayer was that Santa Cruz might be spared and she 
 was quite conscious, down in the very depths of her 
 heart, that the real burden of her prayer was that her 
 own pretty face might escape the pestilence. It horri 
 fied her to think that she might have to go through 
 life seamed and scarred like old Dolores. And all her 
 prayers had been granted. By a miracle, as the padre 
 said, her mother did not die, but got well. The Amer 
 ican doctor said that her life was saved because the 
 window was opened and some fresh air got into the room 
 the first that had been there for years. ]STinita, who
 
 NINITA. 37 
 
 shared the contempt of her race for fresh air, believed 
 the padre. Her father, who was a wiry little man, got 
 well, too, though the poor burro died, having broken 
 his back. And, as a dead burro is a thing almost un 
 known, the people came from miles around to look at his 
 little fuzzy corpse, and stroked, almost tenderly, his long 
 ears, out of which the wag had gone forever. Nor did 
 the pestilence of small-pox come to Santa Cruz. Now 
 who can wonder, her prayers having been so fully an 
 swered, that Niflita loved the gentle face and figure of 
 Our Lady, and knelt before her reverently ? 
 
 There was, indeed, about Santa Cruz a perfect pla 
 cidity that well might produce a quiet, loving faith 
 such as dwelt serenely in Ninita s little breast. Since 
 that dreadful day in January, three-and-thirty years 
 before, when the battle was fought, out on the mesa, 
 and the victorious Americanos came into the town and 
 wrecked the padrds house, and despoiled the church of 
 its treasures a sad day s work still silently testified to 
 by the broken walls and bare sacristy since that dread 
 ful day there had not been a single event of any sort to 
 stir the town from its perfect quietude. Nifiita s father 
 had been in that fight, and still bore upon his right arm 
 the brave scar where the American saber had cut in to 
 the bone. In his shoulder he still carried the Ameri 
 can bullet that abruptly ended his fighting. But all 
 this happened long before Ninita s day. She knew of 
 it only as a dreadful story that was told to her when 
 she was a little child when she really was the baby- 
 girl of the household, " la ninita " sitting close by her 
 father s side out on the stone pavement before the door 
 way in the cool evenings, while the wind blew fresh
 
 38 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 through the broad valley and the sun went down be 
 yond the mountains in a golden blaze. 
 
 During all her life there had been in Santa Cruz 
 only peace and happiness. Her father, somewhat fit 
 fully, to be sure, had tilled his little plot of ground, 
 lying close upon the margin of the Rio Grande, with 
 his two little steers and his little wooden plow; and 
 Nifiita herself had helped in this work, paddling about 
 barefooted in the mud and with a clumsy hoe turning 
 the water from the acequia from channel to channel 
 until the whole field was freshened and gladdened by its 
 grateful presence. Then, when her day s work in the 
 fields was ended, she would wash her feet in the stream 
 and trot home to help in making supper ready not a 
 very serious performance, for the supper was atole and 
 goat s-milk almost the year round. After supper she 
 would bring the water from the spring ; placing the 
 great tinaja close by the open chimney, where, through 
 the chill night, the water would grow deliciously cool 
 in the draft. As she grew older it was noticed that 
 among the village maidens Ninita bore her water-jar 
 upon her head most gracefully, and was the lightest, 
 lithest, liveliest, and prettiest of them all. And she 
 was such a sweet, helpful little body, so ready with a 
 kind word and a kind act, that even her girl friends 
 forgave her her good looks and loved her. Surely 
 there was every reason why she should be happy ; and 
 she was happy as happy as the day was long : and, 
 somehow, the days are very long down in that pleasant 
 old New Spain. 
 
 But now, at last, a trouble had overtaken Kinita, 
 and for the fourth time in her life she had stolen into
 
 NINITA. 39 
 
 the chapel of Our Lady to pray. Vespers were over, 
 and through all the great church there was a duskiness. 
 Into the little chapel a gleam of light came through the 
 western window, and played upon Our Lady s golden 
 crown not the crown of real gold that was sent by 
 Queen Isabel (that had gone northward long ago in the 
 saddle-bag of an Americano), but the gilded crown 
 that had been made of late in Paris, and that Our Lady 
 failing to get anything better wore with a gracious 
 serenity. The light played, too, upon Our Lady s face 
 a gentle, loving face, that Nifiita felt was looking 
 down upon her full of sympathy. And so, coming as 
 near as her respect for the holy image would permit 
 her, though not so near as her heart prompted, she 
 dropped down upon her knees in the dusk and prayed. 
 She knelt there upon the clay floor for a long while so 
 long that the dusk passed into gloom and the gloom into 
 dark but still a faint ray of light stole in from the west, 
 and through the darkness the saintly face looked kindly 
 down upon her, and a dim glory seemed to shine from 
 the golden crown. At last she rose. There were tears 
 in her eyes, but her heart was lighter. She stole out 
 softly from the chapel, through the dark church, and 
 into the starlight. She did not see the padre, nor did 
 he speak to her as she passed him in the cool darkness. 
 He \vas a wise and good man, and he knew that some 
 times hearts grow too tender to be touched by any hand 
 but God s own. 
 
 But this time Xifiita s prayers were not for her peo 
 ple. At her home, in the adobe house, over on the 
 other side of the plaza, all was well. As she came 
 from the church she found her father smoking his
 
 40 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 cigarrito with unruffled happiness sitting the while, 
 like a patriarch of old, before his gate in the evening. 
 "Within the house her mother was going through the 
 mysterious process that Mexican women probably be 
 lieve to be dish-washing. On the clay floor her little 
 brother was contending amicably with the big dog for 
 a bone. There was nothing wrong here ; it was a 
 household permeated by contentment and possessed by 
 peace. !N"o, NiBita s sorrow was not for her people. 
 For the first time in her life she was sorrowful for her 
 self. Her prayer was for her own right guidance the 
 prayer that the saints have had put up to them so many 
 times in the long ages since the world began : that a 
 maiden s love may be led and guided in the right way. 
 
 A year before, Niiiita would have laughed had any 
 one told her that this world-old prayer would so soon be 
 hers. She would have laughed, and would have shyly 
 pointed to tall Manuel, who never was far from her 
 side in those happy days. That she should marry Ma 
 nuel had been decided upon by old Jose and old Manuel 
 while yet the two were children, making little adobes 
 and building toy houses together out under the big cot 
 ton-wood tree, by the acequia. It was a marriage that 
 in every way would be desirable. Old Manuel and old 
 Jose were the fastest of friends. They had fought to 
 gether, and had been wounded together, and had suf 
 fered loss of property together when the hated Ameri 
 canos invaded the land : and what binds men more 
 strongly together than brothership in arms and com 
 munity in wrongs ? And then for years they had been 
 wrangling good-naturedly over the right to the water 
 that flowed across a field of Jose s before it reached
 
 N1NITA. 41 
 
 Manuel s land. For their old friendship s sake they 
 were eager to have the marriage take place ; and for 
 the sake of settling the one dispute that ever had come 
 to jar upon their friendship, it was agreed that this 
 field over which the water came should be Niiiita s por 
 tion. There was great satisfaction between the two old 
 fellows when this excellent plan was thought of and 
 decided upon. In their joy they drank more of the 
 Albuquerque wine than was good for them, and so were 
 roundly rated by their wives. 
 
 ~Nor was their manifest destiny at all objected to by 
 Ninita and Manuel as they grew up out of childhood 
 and came to know about it. Manuel would have been 
 hard to please indeed had he not been pleased with 
 Nmita, the roundest, daintiest little body in all the val 
 ley between Antonito and Santa Fe. And Ninita had 
 equal reason to be satisfied with Manuel. He was a 
 gallant young fellow, with crisp black hair, black eyes 
 that were bold yet tender, a brave figure, and the natu 
 ral grace that is the heritage of the children of the 
 South. He was, too, as good-hearted as lie was hand 
 some. Everybody spoke well of him ; and, what is 
 more surprising, the praise that he got was deserved. 
 It seemed a match made in heaven ; Nifiita thought so, 
 certainly, sometimes, when her brown eyes were turned 
 up to his, and each saw plainly the other s love. 
 
 And yet now iSinita had prayed from the depths of 
 her soul that the sweet Lady would guide aright the 
 love that was in her heart. And in thus praying she 
 had admitted to Our Lady, while yet denying it to her 
 self, that the love which for so long had flowed on 
 smoothly in the same pleasant channel had begun to
 
 42 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 stray from its right course that within her heart was 
 going on a fight between an old love and a new. 
 
 This fight was something more than an ordinary 
 heart-battle ; it was a veritable war of races. Manuel s 
 rival of whose existence, as yet, Manuel had but a 
 faint, uncertain suspicion was not of his hybrid race, 
 that strange mixture of Spanish and Indian blood that 
 has come to be known as Mexican. John Grant was 
 pure Saxon : tall, large-limbed, with merry blue eyes 
 that yet had a world of tenderness in them, and with 
 blonde hair and beard ; and for a man who had run a 
 level for a thousand miles or so across the plains, and 
 who had been making surveys for a year or more under 
 the blazing sun of l^ew Mexico, he was wonderfully 
 fair. To Kinita, when he first cantered across the 
 j)la2dj in the early morning sunlight, and pulled up 
 short at her father s gate, this blonde young fellow, in 
 blue flannel shirt and corduroy trousers tucked into his 
 boots, appeared as a god. Down in the depths of her 
 heart, among the drops of her Indian blood, she had, if 
 not exactly a belief, at least a touch of superstitious 
 faith, in the coining again of the fair Montezuma ; and 
 she knew that when the god returned it would be with 
 the first rays of the rising sun. But this faint remnant 
 of a nearly shattered creed had no real hold upon her, 
 and in a moment she laughed a little to herself, and 
 then, more seriously, exorcised the evil spirit that had 
 put such thoughts into her mind by making upon her 
 breast the sign of the cross. 
 
 Yery charming she looked, to be sure, standing 
 there in the shadow of the gateway, with the court 
 yard behind her all lit up by the light of the rising sun.
 
 NINITA. 43 
 
 Grant, looking at her from under the broad brim of his 
 felt hat, thought that she was the most beautiful creat 
 ure he had ever seen ; and this somewhat hastily formed 
 opinion was not far from the truth. 
 
 In shaky but intelligible Spanish he asked for per 
 mission to see her father, and when old Jose came out 
 from the court-yard he set about explaining his busi 
 ness. The railroad, coming down from the North, was 
 to traverse that very field over which Jose and Manuel 
 had quarreled so pleasantly in the years gone by the 
 field that was to be Ninita s marriage portion and 
 Grant had come, he said, to pay for the right of way. 
 A great time he had making clear to Jose the meaning 
 of that same phrase, " right of w^ay," for it involved 
 the meaning also of railroads monstrosities of which 
 only a hazy conception resided in Jose ? s mind. But 
 when, at last, the old man fairly got the bearings of the 
 case, his anger got the better of his Mexican politeness. 
 A railroad cross his land ? Xever ! lie had fought 
 the invaders once, and he was not too old to fight them 
 again. lie would die before he would see the iields 
 laid waste which he had tilled his life long, and which 
 his father and grandfather and all his line before him 
 had tilled for two centuries. He did not care for 
 money ; God had given him all that was needful to 
 make life happy, and money was of no use. He had 
 had enough of Americanos in the past his hand 
 touched the place where the Texan ball still lay in his 
 shoulder and this particular Americano, he said ab 
 ruptly in conclusion, was at liberty to go at once to the 
 devil. Arid, saying this, old Jose pulled uSTinita within 
 the gate, and then slammed it in John Grant s face.
 
 44 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Grant, who was not at all prepared for such an out- 
 burst, but who was in the habit of taking things coolly, 
 slowly gathered up the reins from his horse s neck and 
 went away, whistling meditatively. But he was think 
 ing less of what Jose had said than of what he had 
 seen. For many a long day he carried in his mind the 
 picture that he had come upon so suddenly as he can 
 tered across the plaza : Xinita standing in the shadow 
 of the doorway, with the court-yard bright in the morn 
 ing sunlight beyond. 
 
 Now, of course, a railroad that is to unite two nations 
 can not be stopped by a single cranky old Mexican es 
 pecially when the railroad-builders are more than ready 
 to pay their way. And back of this truism, in this 
 particular instance, was the fact that John Grant was 
 not the sort of man to drop a piece of work when he 
 had once fairly begun it. He did not go to the devil, 
 as Jose had impolitely suggested ; on the contrary, he 
 went to the company s solicitor, and explained to that 
 functionary the necessity of using means more powerful 
 than persuasion to bring Jose to terms. Evidently this 
 was not a case in which mild measures would prove use 
 ful : and yet, for some reason which he did not satis 
 factorily account for to himself, Grant made a number 
 of visits to the adobe house in Santa Cruz before he 
 finally invoked the power of the law. Upon old Jose 
 all his blandishments were thrown away. The old fel 
 low did not suffer his anger to overcome him again 
 but with Spanish dignity and Mexican stubbornness he 
 held his ground. Between him and the Americanos 
 there was a gulf of hatred that nothing could bridge 
 least of all, a railroad that was to destroy his lands.
 
 NlSfrTA. 45 
 
 Tins was liis position, and lie held it as resolutely as lie 
 had held the redoubt out on the mesa tliree-and-tliirty 
 years before. 
 
 It was during these days, while Grant came and 
 went, that the first doubts as to the happiness and fit 
 ness of her future found their way into Ninita s heart, 
 and bred trouble there. They were only little doubts, 
 at first ; but they grew, and grew, until at last they 
 wrenched and tortured her whole being. She still loved 
 Manuel, but she felt that a stronger love was taking 
 hold upon her ; and she even hoped that an answering 
 love came out to meet her own. 
 
 All this was not a matter of a day or a week. It 
 came gradually. The summer was slipping by, and, as 
 the hot days one by one went past, each marked a little 
 change in Niilita s heart. Old Jose, finding that the 
 law of the commonwealth is greater than the will of the 
 individual citizen, had surrendered sullenly, and sullenly 
 had pocketed the comfortable sum allowed him for his 
 wasted land ; but he persisted in believing that Grant 
 was the cause of all his troubles, and upon that par 
 ticular Americano he had concentrated the hate which 
 previously had been bestowed upon the American nation 
 at large. Old Manuel and young Manuel shared this 
 feeling, for they also felt that they had suffered wrong. 
 Indeed, through all the valley there was an under 
 current of anger and discontent as the country-side folk 
 saw the current setting do\vn upon them from the 
 North, and felt themselves powerless to stay it. They 
 cared nothing for progress, for improvement, these sim 
 ple souls ; and they cared very little for the unheard-of 
 quantities of money which were paid for the damage
 
 46 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 done tlieir lands in comparison with what they cared for 
 the loss of the lands themselves. But what irritated 
 them most keenly, though not one of them could under 
 stand, much less explain, this feeling, was the sudden 
 inroad of a civilization utterly unlike, utterly inhar 
 monious with, their own. Instinctively they recognized 
 the advent of a race stronger than theirs, which must of 
 necessity first subjugate and then exterminate them 
 not by force of arms, but by force of brains. These 
 white men from the North were invaders, surely destined 
 to be conquerors ; nor were they the less to be dreaded 
 because they came as friends and were free-handed with 
 their gold. In body and brain they were the superiors 
 of the people among whom they came ; by the inevi 
 table law of nature theirs must be the dominant race. 
 Not a single Mexican ever went through this analysis of 
 his hatred of the incoming Americanos but, all the 
 same, the hatred was there, and this was its cause. It 
 did not show on the surface, but it smoldered hot be 
 neath the crust of good manners with which all Mexicans 
 are veneered. 
 
 And Nifiita had so far forgotten the sentiment of 
 her people, the will of her father, and her faith to her 
 lover, that she had suffered her love to go out toward 
 one of these hated strangers ; and, even more than this, 
 she had so far forgotten her maidenly dignity that she 
 had given her love unasked. In his curt fashion, so un 
 like the gracious forms of speech to which she had been 
 through all her life accustomed, John Grant had said 
 many civil things to the Mexican beauty ; and he cer 
 tainly did very unnecessarily prolong his dealings with 
 her father, for no other reason than that he might in-
 
 NINITA. 4Y 
 
 crease his opportunities for seeing her pretty face. 
 During all the summer, while the embankment was 
 creeping down the valley coming to and crossing Jose s 
 field and passing on to the southward he made many 
 excuses for holding interviews with the master of the 
 old adobe house in Santa Cruz. Being courteously re 
 ceived on these occasions given to eat if his visit hap 
 pened upon a meal-time, and to drink if it did not 
 Grant promptly arrived at the conclusion that the old 
 Mexican had been humbugging him all along, and was 
 only too <jflad to get his land oif his hands at so <?ood a 
 
 / o o o 
 
 price ; a conclusion as near the truth as the guesses of a 
 man of one race usually are about the feelings of a man 
 of another. 
 
 As to making love seriously to ISnnita, Grant never 
 once thought of it. Marrying a Mexican and marrying 
 a mulatto were much the same thing to his Saxon mind ; 
 and he was a good fellow in the main, and was alto 
 gether above the love-making that could end only in her 
 wrong. But it was only natural, he thought, to amuse 
 himself a little with this pretty girl whom fate had 
 brought across his path. His work was hard enough, 
 and his life was lonely enough down in that semi-barbar 
 ous region, he felt, to entitle him to play a little when 
 he had a chance. Nor did he for a moment think, to 
 do him justice, that his play could be mistaken by Ninita 
 for earnest. In the civilization that he understood, men 
 might make pretty speeches to pretty girls without a 
 serious meaning attaching to their light words ; he did 
 not realize that in this other civilization which he had 
 come upon things were not the same. Indeed, he did 
 not realize that this new phase of life that he had en-
 
 48 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 countered was a civilization at all. "When he wrote to 
 his friends in the East he described himself as living 
 among half-reclaimed savages, and he believed this de 
 scription to be the truth. So, when he had the chance, 
 he said nice things in his jerky Spanish to Nifiita, and 
 was not a little pleased to see the color come into her 
 pretty brown face and the long lashes droop over her 
 beautiful brown eyes. 
 
 He did not have such chances often, for Mexican 
 girls are sharply looked after, especially when an 
 Americano is near. But now and then he would come 
 upon her standing in the gateway as on the day when 
 he saw her for the first time and once or twice he was 
 so fortunate as to meet her at the spring. And so, little 
 by little, without knowing it and without meaning to do 
 it, he stole Nifiita s heart away. 
 
 The summer now was nearly ended. The embank 
 ment had gone on down the valley, past the village, and 
 the trains had begun to run constant sources of won 
 der and alarm to the simple folk who up to this time 
 had held that, besides their own legs, l>urros and rattling 
 ox-carts were the only known means of transportation. 
 Grant s work near Santa Cruz was ended, and he was 
 going back to the East; he had had enough of the 
 barbarism of the Southwest, he said. 
 
 Perhaps, had Xiilita known that he was so soon to 
 leave her, she would not have gone that evening to the 
 chapel of Our Lady of Carmen to pray. But she did 
 not know it, and her troubled heart sorely needed com 
 fort and rest. That day, as she was coming from the 
 spring in the sunset light, Manuel had met her, and had 
 asked her, very gently and tenderly, why she had so
 
 NIX1TA. 49 
 
 changed. Had lie been harsh, had he insisted upon his 
 right to her love, she might not have felt very deeply 
 his reproaches. But it was not in Manuel s nature to be 
 harsh with Xifiita, and the love that he asked for was 
 asked for humbly. In the evening lierht, he looked 
 
 *j o o / 
 
 down upon her with the love in his eyes that once had 
 seemed to her so perfect and so satisfying ; and she had 
 almost cursed herself because, as she turned toward him, 
 his dark face and eyes and hair disappeared for a mo 
 ment, and in their stead came a vision of blue eyes set 
 in a fair face, framed in yellow hair and beard. She 
 could not answer him, and for the first time in their 
 lives he had gone from her sorrowing. 
 
 This was the trouble that Niilita had taken to Our 
 Lady over in the chapel ; and with all the strength of 
 her heart she had prayed that the love which was in her 
 might be guided in the right way. As she came out 
 through the dusky church into the white starlight, it 
 seemed to her that her prayer had been answered. The 
 gentle Lady seemed to have told her that her love be 
 longed to her own people, not to strangers; and 
 presently she found herself softly saying over and over, 
 under her breath, Manuel s name just as she used to 
 do before the Americanos came down into the land. 
 For the first time in a long while she was possessed by 
 a spirit of love and peace. Our Lady had heard and 
 had answered her prayer. 
 
 She went out and seated herself upon the stones in 
 
 front of the gateway looking in across the court-yard, 
 
 and over the adobe wall beyond, at the young moon 
 
 just rising above the mountains. As she sat there, still 
 
 4
 
 50 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and happy, she heard the beat of a horse s hoofs out 
 upon the road that led across the mesa to Espafiola. 
 The regular cadence made a little tune in her mind, to 
 which she said " Ma-nu-el, Ma-nu-el," half unconsciously. 
 The hoof -beats came nearer, softly over the bit of sandy 
 road beyond the padres garden, and then with a clatter 
 up the stony hill behind the church. Then, before she 
 realized it, the horse had crossed the plaza, and John 
 Grant had dismounted and was standing by her side. 
 How beautiful he looked standing there, uncovered, in 
 the moonlight ! Kinita s heart beat hard, and all the 
 peace that her prayer had given her was gone ! 
 
 He had come to bid good-by, Grant said. He was 
 going away going to his home far off across the plains 
 and mountains; he feared that he never would see the 
 senorita again ; he was glad that he had met her thus 
 alone ; would she be sorry when he was gone ? 
 
 He spoke lightly, but there was a touch of real feel 
 ing in his tone for no one, not even a cool-headed 
 Americano, could know Niflita without loving her at 
 least a little and the tone meant more for her than 
 the words. All that she felt was that he did love her, 
 and that he was going away. In spite of herself she 
 gave a little sob. 
 
 " Poor little girl ; then you are sorry ? " said Grant, 
 gently. He felt very kindly toward her, seeing how 
 truly she grieved because he was going away. 
 
 " And will the senorita give a little kiss un fasito 
 in parting?" he added. 
 
 He had laid his hand upon her shoulder as he spoke, 
 and as he touched her he felt her tremble. For an in 
 stant she did not answer. Then, with a sudden, pas-
 
 51 
 
 sionate movement, she turned toward him, flung her 
 arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his. It 
 was un beso not im besito and the memory of it 
 staid by him to his last day. 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps. Grant gently un 
 clasped the arms from about his neck, and said, in Eng 
 lish for Ninita s kiss had startled him so much that his 
 small stock of Spanish was all gone from him " Good- 
 by, dear child ! God bless you ! " Then he jumped on 
 his horse and galloped away. 
 
 Ninita stood dizzily for a moment. Then she heard 
 her father s voice, but sharp and cruel : " Thou hast dis 
 graced thy name ! " And another voice, broken and 
 piteous, said : " Thou hast betrayed thy love ! " 
 
 This, then, w r as the answer that Our Lady had given 
 to her prayer ! She sank down slowly, miserably upon 
 the stones. 
 
 After what seemed to her a long while, she heard 
 her father s voice again : " There is work for us to do 
 to-night, Manuel. Get thy knife and thy horse ! " In 
 a dreamy way she heard departing footsteps, and then, 
 after a while she could not tell how long the tramp 
 of horses. Her father, rode out through the gateway, 
 close by her side, and she heard him call Manuel s 
 name ; she heard Manuel answer, and she heard the 
 sound of the horses feet on the stony hill behind the 
 church, as the two rode away together through the 
 faint moonlight. As she lay there in dumb agony, she 
 knew that her father and her lover had ridden out into 
 the night to kill John Grant. 
 
 Grant had ten miles before him to the camp at
 
 52 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Chamita, but he knew the road, and he had the light 
 of the young moon. It was a still, delicious night 
 the sort of night that comes often in New Mexico 
 and he rode slowly, that he might enjoy it to the full. 
 This was his last ride along the lovely Rio Grande val 
 ley he was to start for the States the next evening 
 and he wanted to make the most of it. And even had 
 he not been disposed to ride slowly for the ride s sake, 
 his queer adventure with the pretty Mexican would have 
 made him forget to press his horse to speed. lie was 
 a good deal astonished by Ninita s demonstration, and a 
 good deal flattered by it, as any man would have been. 
 
 " Poor little body ! I really do believe that she loves 
 me," he said to himself, with a good deal of quiet com 
 placency. 
 
 And then he fell to wondering how much of his 
 
 o 
 
 adventure it would be advisable to tell to Miss Eleanor 
 WMttredge, of Boston for whose use and benefit he 
 had spent a month s pay in the purchase of an engage 
 ment ring, the last time he had been in the States. And 
 so his thoughts wandered back and forth from the East 
 to the West ; from Miss TVliittredge in Boston, whom 
 he loved sincerely, and whose dignified person and char 
 acter he as sincerely respected, to this wild little Mexi 
 can girl in Santa Cruz, who had startled him with a kiss 
 such as all the Miss Whittredges in the world together 
 could not give. He went slowly over the mesa, slowly 
 across the bridge to Espanola, and slowly along by the 
 river-side toward Chamita. The night was perfect, and 
 his thoughts moved about pleasantly in his mind. Once, 
 when he aroused himself, he heard horses galloping on 
 the other side of the river along the shorter road from
 
 53 
 
 Santa Cruz to Cliamita, that crossed the river at the 
 ford. Had he been in a hurry, he would have taken 
 that road himself ; but he was not in a hurry. People 
 down in New Mexico have a habit of galloping about 
 the country at night, and, unless they happen to be gal 
 loping up behind you, you do not pay much attention 
 to them. So Grant relapsed into his musing. 
 
 He was aroused very completely, just as he had 
 passed a clump of pinones, by a rush of horses toward 
 him, and by a thrill of pain as a knife sliced its way 
 into his left arm. Had not his own horse swerved just 
 as the thrust was made at him, that ride in the moon 
 light would have been his last. Grant had not lived 
 for five years on the plains, and for a year more in 
 Kew Mexico, without picking up enough of the customs 
 of the country to know what to do in such an emer 
 gency. He struck his long Mexican spurs into his horse, 
 and felt for his revolver. There was not much satisfac 
 tion in finding that his pistol-pocket was empty ; he had 
 left his revolver in camp ! If the other people had pis 
 tols, it was all up with him ; if they had only knives, he 
 had a chance of getting oft . Ilis horse was a good one 
 and fresh, and the bound he had given when he felt the 
 spurs had left the others behind. So he rode onward 
 through the moonlight, crouching down over the high 
 pommel^of his saddle, and expecting every moment to 
 feel a pistol-ball cracking in through his ribs. 
 
 But the ball did not come. 
 
 " They must be Mexicans," he thought, " and that ac 
 counts for their being without pistols and operating 
 with knives." 
 
 This reflection comforted him a little ; but he knew
 
 54 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 that a single unarmed man against two men armed even 
 though the two be Mexicans, and armed only with knives 
 has only a trifling chance of coming out victor. lie 
 gave his horse the spurs again, and set his teeth hard ; 
 and so he went along the river road, not ten yards 
 ahead of the Mexicans, for a couple of miles. Then 
 the luck turned in his favor. 
 
 As he rounded a bend in the road he came upon 
 three of his own men, who had halted and faced about 
 when they heard horses galloping up behind them. 
 They sat quite still : two of them holding cocked revolv 
 ers, the third with a Winchester all ready to bring up 
 to Ins shoulder. 
 
 " It is I Grant ; these brutes have cut me. Shoot ! " 
 he shouted, as he recognized the party. In the East, an 
 order of this sort might be questioned. In the South 
 west, we shoot lirst and question afterward. The two 
 revolvers and the rifle cracked together, and the fore 
 most of the two Mexicans fell with three balls through 
 him all three had shot at the same man. The other 
 Mexican went straight through Grant s party, and on 
 like a flash up the road. But he did not go far. The 
 Winchester cracked again, and his horse galloped on 
 with an empty saddle. 
 
 " That was a close call, old fellow. I didn t think 
 these Mexican hounds had pluck enough to turn high 
 way robbers. But we ve settled em this time. Win 
 chesters and revolvers are ahead of Mexican knives ev 
 ery time eh, old man ? " 
 
 But Grant did not answer. lie was dizzy and faint. 
 
 " Take him into camp, Jim ; "NTed and I ll look after 
 these beggars. We ve got to hunt up the alcalde at
 
 NINITA. 55 
 
 Espafiola, I suppose, and make depositions and give 
 ourselves up for trial, and that sort of thing. An awful 
 waste of time over two blackguard Mexicans ; but it 
 can t be helped, you know. By Jove! there s blood 
 running out of your sleeve, Grant. You must have an 
 ugly hole in you. Here, get your coat off and let s tie 
 you up, and keep you from leaking." 
 
 So Grant was tied up, and then taken into camp, 
 where he fainted dead away. 
 
 It was the evening of the next day, and again Ni- 
 fiita went into the chapel of Our Lady, and knelt upon 
 the clay floor not near the sweet image, but far away 
 from it in the darkness. 
 
 Niilita s heart was broken was dead. She could 
 not pray. She scarcely knew why she had come to 
 the chapel ; there only stirred in her a vague feeling 
 that here, though the gracious Lady no longer could be 
 her friend, no longer could listen to her prayers, at least 
 she would not be crushed to the earth by cruel, bitter 
 words. ISTo one could be her friend any more. Her 
 mother had cursed her when her father was brought 
 home dead ; had told her : " This is thy work. Go thou 
 also, with thy sins upon thee, and die ! " and old Manu 
 el, looking upon his dead son, had echoed her mother s 
 curse. Even the padre, the good padre, had turned 
 from her when she looked toward him with her eyes 
 imploring pity. As she stood in the gateway the peo 
 ple of the village had crowded about her, and their 
 words of cruel abuse even yet were ringing in her 
 ears. 
 
 Yet, had she really sinned ? She could not think
 
 56 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 so. In her own heart she knew that that kiss was a kiss 
 of renunciation and farewell. Much of her life went 
 with it, but all of her life that was left would have been 
 Manuel s. She was sure of this, and she was sure that 
 Our Lady would have given her strength to forget, after 
 a while, the love that had so mastered her, and would 
 have made her love for Manuel once more strong and 
 true. If! O God, if and Nifiita bowed her head, 
 and a great agony filled her soul. 
 
 No, there was no use praying. Our Lady looked 
 down upon her no longer gently, but with a grave se 
 verity that turned her broken heart to stone. Not even 
 here could there be comfort for her. She must indeed 
 have sinned if the gracious image turned against her ; 
 and then in her ears sounded again her mother s words : 
 " Go thou also, with thy sins upon thee, and die." Yes, 
 that was all that there was left for her to do. It would 
 be very easy to die ; and, perhaps, in death there would 
 be peace. - 
 
 She knelt there for a long time, while the darkness 
 gathered around her. How very, very long ago it 
 seemed to her was that evening when she had knelt and 
 asked Our Lady to guide aright her love ; and yet she 
 knew that it had been but the evening of the day before. 
 But time had ceased to have any meaning for Nifiita ; 
 she was already reaching out into the dim vastness of 
 eternity. 
 
 Through the still night, as she knelt there silently, 
 prayerless, there came the sound of a locomotive-whistle 
 it was the night express for the North. The train 
 was still miles away down the line, for sound travels 
 very far in that still, pure air, and more than a quarter
 
 NlSflTA. 57 
 
 of an hour would pass before it would go thundering by 
 the village and up the valley beyond. 
 
 Suddenly, Ninita gave a little shudder. Then she 
 rose steadily and walked out through the darkness of 
 the church into the faint moonlight walked on down 
 the hill behind the church, past the padrds garden, out 
 into the fields beyond, and so at last to where the rail 
 road swept around a curve through a grove of cotton- 
 woods. This was the field that was to have been her 
 marriage portion. It was under those cotton-woods, by 
 the aceguia, that she and Manuel had made little adobes 
 in the years so long gone by. She noticed how greatly 
 the trees had grown, and wondered to herself that she 
 had never noticed it before. Through their branches 
 she could see the head-light of the engine, a great ball 
 of fire, coming up the line. She did not know that 
 Grant was sitting in the lobby of the sleeping-car 
 looking a little pale, but not much the Avorse for the 
 wound he was telling the conductor about as he smoked 
 his cigar. It was better that Niilita did not know how 
 close Grant was to her. At least one added pang of 
 grief was spared her at the last. 
 
 " Must a been one of them Mexican goats, I guess, 
 Bill," said the engineer of the express to his fireman, as 
 they felt a little jar, just as the engine rounded the 
 curve, and then saw something black glance down the 
 embankment and fall among the trees. 
 
 " Guess so. Serve him right for bein fool enough 
 to go to sleep on the track. Just like a Mexican goat 
 to do that. Goats and Mexicans, they re all much of a 
 muchness, and all d - fools together. What s the use
 
 58 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 of any of em /don t know, and I haven t found the fel 
 low that does." And the engine and train, the advance 
 guard of the coming race, swept on up the line. 
 
 Down under the cotton-wood, by the acequia, Xi- 
 fiita one poor little soul of the race that must go lay 
 dead.
 
 PANCHA : A STORY OF MONTEREY. 
 
 "WHEN the Coride de Monterey, being then Viceroy 
 of this gracious realm of Xew Spain, sent his viceregal 
 commissioners, attended by holy priests, up into the 
 northern country to choose a site for an outpost city, 
 there was found no spot more beautiful, none more 
 worthy to be thus honored, than this where the city of 
 Monterey stands to-day. And so the commissioners 
 halted beside the great spring, the ojo de ayua, that 
 gushes out from its tangle of white pebbles in what now 
 is the very heart of the town ; and the priests set up 
 the sacred cross and sang a sweet song of praise and 
 thankfulness to the good God who had so well guided 
 them to where they would be ; and the colonists entered 
 in and possessed the land. 
 
 This all happened upon a fair day now close upon 
 three hundred years gone by. From century to century 
 the city has grown, yet always in accord with the lines 
 established by its founders. The houses a-building now 
 are as the houses built three hundred years ago ; and, 
 going yet farther into the past, as the houses which were 
 built by the Moors when they came into the Gothic 
 peninsula, bringing with them the life and customs of a 
 land that even then was old. So it has come to pass
 
 60 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 that the traveler who sojourns here having happily 
 left behind him on the farther side of the Ilio Grande 
 the bustle and confusion and hurtful toil of this over- 
 powering nineteenth century very well can believe 
 himself transported back to that blessed time and coun 
 try in which the picturesque was ranked above the prac 
 tical, and in which not the least of human virtues was 
 the virtue of repose. 
 
 Very beautiful is the site of Monterey : its noble 
 flanking mountains, the Silla and the Mitras, are east 
 and west of it ; its grand rampart, the Sierra Madre, 
 sweeps majestically from flank to flank to the south 
 ward, and its outlying breastwork, a range of far-away 
 blue peaks, is seen mistily off in the north. And the 
 city is in keeping with its setting. The quaint, myste 
 rious houses, inclosing sunny gardens and tree-planted 
 court-yards ; the great cathedral where, in the dusk of 
 evening, at vespers, one may see each night new won 
 ders, Rembrandt-like, beautiful, in light and shade ; the 
 church of St. Francis, and the old ruined church beside 
 it built, first of all, in honor of the saint who had 
 guided the Viceroy s commissioners so well ; the bowery 
 plaza, with the great dolphin-fountain in its center, and 
 the tree-clad plazuelas, also with fountains ; the narrow 
 streets ; the old-time market-place, alive with groups of 
 buyers and sellers fit to make glad a painters heart 
 all these picturesque glories, together with many more, 
 unite to make the perfect picturesqueness of Monterey. 
 
 Yet Pancha, who had been born in Monterey, and 
 who never had been but a league away from it in the 
 whole space of her little lifetime, did not know that 
 the city in which she lived was picturesque at all.
 
 PANCIIA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. Gl 
 
 She did know, though, that she loved it very dearly. 
 Quite the saddest time that she had ever passed through 
 *was the week that she had spent once at the Villa de 
 Guadalupe a league away to the eastward, at the Silla s 
 foot with her aunt Antonia. It was not that tia An- 
 tonia was not good to her, nor that life at the Villa de 
 Guadalupe as well conducted a little town, be it said, 
 with as quaint a little church, as you will iind in the 
 whole State of Nuevo Leon was not pleasant in its 
 way ; but it was that she longed for her own home. 
 And when, coming back at last to the city, perched on 
 the forward portion of uncle Tadeo s burro, she peeped 
 over the burro s long ears at the place where the road 
 turns sharply just before it dips to cross the valley 
 and caught sight once more of the dome of the cathe 
 dral, and the clock-tower of the market-house, and the 
 old Bishop s Palace on its hill in the far background, 
 with the Mitras rising beyond, and a flame of red and 
 gold above the Sierra left when the sun went down : 
 when Pancha s longing eyes rested once more on all 
 these dear sights of home, she buried her little face in 
 tio Tadeo s pudgy shoulder and fairly sobbed for joy. 
 
 Many a person, though, coming a stranger and with 
 a stranger s prejudices into this gentle, lovely Mexican 
 land, would have thought Pancha s love of home quite 
 incomprehensible ; for her home, the house in which she 
 dwelt, was not lovely to eyes brought up with a rigor 
 ous faith in right angles and the monotonous regularity 
 of American city walls. In point of fact, persons of 
 this sort might have held and, after their light, with 
 some show of justice that Pancha s home was not a 
 house at all.
 
 62 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Crossing the city of Monterey from west to east is a 
 little valley, the arroyo of Santa Lucia, into which, mid 
 way in its passage, comes through another arroyo of a 
 few hundred yards in length the water from the ojo de 
 agua the great spring whereat the Conde s commis 
 sioners paused content, and beside which the holy fa 
 thers sang songs of praise. Along both banks of these 
 two little valleys grow trees, and canebrakes, and bana 
 na groves, and all manner of bushes and most pleasant 
 grass ; and in among the bushes and trees, here and 
 there, are little huts of wattled golden cane overlaid 
 with a thatch of brown. It was in one of these jacales, 
 standing a stone s-throw below the causeway that crosses 
 the awoyo of the ojo de ayita, upon the point of land 
 that juts out between the two valleys before they become 
 one, that Pancha was born, and where most contentedly 
 she lived. Over the jacal towered a great pecan-tree; 
 and a banana grew graciously beside it, and back of it 
 was a huddle of feathery, waving canes. Truly it was 
 not a grand home, but Pancha loved it ; nor would she 
 have exchanged it even for one of the fine houses the 
 stone walls of which you could see above and beyond it, 
 showing gray through the green of the trees. 
 
 For nearly all the years of her little life the love of 
 the beautiful city of Monterey, of her poor little home 
 that yet was so dear to her, of the good father and 
 mother who had cared for her so well since she came to 
 them from the kind God who sends beautiful children 
 into the world, for her little brother and sister, the twins 
 Antonio and Antonia, who gave a world of trouble 
 for they were sad pickles but who repaid her by a 
 world of childish lovingness for her care : for nearly all
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 63 
 
 her life long these loves had sufficed to fill and to satisfy 
 Pancha s heart. But within a year now a new love, a love 
 that was stronger and deeper than all of these put to 
 gether, had come to her and had grown to be a part of 
 her life. And Pancha knew, down in the depths of her 
 heart, that this love had begun on the very first day that 
 her eyes had rested upon Pepe s gallant figure and hand 
 some face the day when Pepe, having been made cap 
 tain of a brave company of contrabandistas, had come 
 up to Monterey to partake of the Holy Sacrament at 
 Easter, and to be blessed by his old father, and to receive 
 the congratulations of his friends. 
 
 Pancha s father, Cristobal, a worthy cargador who 
 never in the whole twenty years that he had discharged 
 
 v v O 
 
 the responsible duties of his calling had lost or injured 
 a single article confided to his care, and old Manuel, 
 who held the honorable position of sereno a member 
 of the night-watch in the city of Monterey, had known 
 each other from a time long before Pancha was born ; 
 and from a full understanding of each other s good 
 qualities, and from certain affinities and common tastes, 
 the two old fellows had come in the course of years to 
 be the closest of friends. Cristobal the cargador bet 
 ter known, being a little bandy-legged man, as Tobalito 
 was scarcely less delighted than was Manuel himself 
 when Pepe, a motherless lad who had grown to man 
 hood in the care of a good aunt, came up from his 
 home in Tamaulipas that Easter-tide to tell of his good 
 fortune. The boy was a gallant boy, they both agreed 
 as they drank his health more times than was quite 
 good for them in Parras brandy of the best, on which 
 never a tlaco of duty had been paid and before him
 
 61 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 had opened now a magnificent future. Being a captain 
 of contraband istas at twenty-two, what might lie not be 
 at thirty ? His fortune was assured ! And old Cata- 
 hna shared in this joy of her husband s and of her hus 
 band s friend, and drank also, relishingly, a little mug of 
 brandy to Pepe s good fortune present and to come. 
 Even the twins, Antonio and Antonia, entered into the 
 spirit of the festive occasion, and manifested their ap 
 preciation of it by refraining from signal mischief for 
 the space of a whole hour : at the end of which period 
 Pancha, perceiving that they were engaged in imitating 
 the process of washing clothes in the stream, and judg 
 ing rightly that the earnestness of their operations 
 boded no good, was just in time to rescue the yellow cat 
 from a watery grave. And it was on this happy day, 
 as Pancha knew afterward, that her love for Pepe first 
 began. 
 
 This was a year past, now ; and for many months 
 Pancha had been gladdened by the knowledge that her 
 love was returned though, as yet, this sweet certainty 
 had not come to her in words. Indeed, during the past 
 twelvemonth Pepe had been but little in Monterey. As 
 became a young captain of contrdbandistas who longed 
 to prove that he deserved to wear his spurs, his time 
 had been passed for the most part in making handsome 
 dashes from the Zona Libre into the interior. Already 
 the fame of his brilliant exploits was great along the 
 frontier ; already to the luckless officers of the contra- 
 resguardo his name was a mocking and a reproach. 
 AVhat with his knowledge of the mountain paths and 
 hiding-places, his boldness and his prudence, his infor 
 mation coming it might be treason to say from where,
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. G5 
 
 but always exact and trustworthy of where the revenue 
 people would be at any hour of any day or night, the 
 contraresguardo seemed to have no more chance of 
 catching him than they had of catching the wind of 
 heaven or the moon itself. 
 
 Once, indeed, Pope had a narrow escape. At the 
 outskirts of Lampazos word came to him that the cus 
 toms guard was at his very heels. There was no hid 
 ing-place near ; to run for it with a train of heavily 
 laden burros was of no earthly use at all ; to run for it 
 without the burros would have been a disgrace. And 
 Pepe did not attempt to run. As fast as they could be 
 driven he drove the burros into the town, and halted 
 them in squads of three and four at friendly houses ; 
 spoke a word or two at each door, and then galloped off 
 with his men into the outer wilderness of chaparral. 
 And when, ten minutes later, the men of the contrares 
 guardo came nourishing into Lampazos, certain of vic 
 tory at last, not a vestige of the contrabando could they 
 find ! True, in the patios of a dozen houses were cer 
 tain weary-looking burros whose backs were warm, and 
 near them were pack-saddles which were warm also ; 
 but what had been upon those pack-saddles no man 
 could surely say. The explanation vouchsafed that the 
 lading had been fire-wood was not, all things considered, 
 wholly satisfactory ; but it could not be disproved. And 
 as the possession of warm pack-saddles and warm-backed 
 burros is not an indictable offense even in Mexico, the 
 contraresguardo could do nothing better in the prem 
 ises than swear with much heartiness and ride sullenly 
 away. And to the honor of Lampazos be it said that 
 when, in due course of time, Pepe returned and with- 
 5
 
 66 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 drew his lurro-tr&in from the town, not a single pack 
 age of the contrabando had been stolen or lost ! 
 
 cD 
 
 So Pepe, by his genius and his good luck, proved his 
 right to wear his spurs. And the merchants of the in 
 terior held him in high esteem ; and people generally 
 looked upon him as a rising young man ; and Pancha, 
 who read aright the story told by his bold yet tender 
 brown eyes, suffered herself to love this gallant captain 
 of contrabandist s with all her heart. 
 
 Yet while this was the first time that Pancha had 
 loved, it was not the first time that love had been given 
 her. A dozen young fellows, as everybody knew, and 
 as even she, though quite to herself, demurely acknowl 
 edged, were in love with her to their very ears. One 
 or two of them had gone so far, indeed, as to open com 
 munications, through proper representatives, for the 
 rare favor of her hand. The most earnest, though the 
 least demonstrative of these, was a certain captain in the 
 contraresguardo, by name Pedro ; a good fellow in his 
 way, but quite shut out beyond the pale of reputable 
 society, of course, by his unfortunate calling. 
 
 Naturally, Pancha never was likely to think very se 
 riously of loving Pedro ; yet pity for him, acting on her 
 gentle heart, had made her in some sort his friend. It 
 was not altogether his fault that he was an officer of the 
 contraresguardo, and other people besides Pancha be 
 lieved that but for this blight upon him a good career 
 might have been his. But luck had been against Pedro 
 from the very day of his birth ; for when he was born 
 his mother died, and a little later his father died also. 
 Being thus left lonely in the world, he fell into the 
 keeping of his uncle, Padre Juan, a grim priest who,
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 67 
 
 having lost all happiness in life himself, saw little reason 
 why he should seek to make the lives of others glad. 
 Dismally the boy grew up in this narrow, cheerless 
 home. The Padre fain would have made of him a 
 priest also ; but against this fate Pedro rebelled, and ac 
 cepted, while yet a boy, the alternative means of liveli 
 hood that his uncle oifered him in the service of the 
 contraresguardo. 
 
 As his rebellion against his proposed induction into 
 the priesthood showed, the boy had strong stuff in him. 
 lie had a mighty will of his own. And there was this 
 in common between him and his grim uncle : a stern 
 resolve, when duty was clear, to do duty and nothing 
 else. Therefore it came to pass that Pedro, being 
 entered into the hateful service of the customs pre 
 ventive force, presently was recognized by his superiors 
 as one of the very few men of the corps who, in all 
 ways, were trustworthy ; and as trustworthiness is the 
 rarest of virtues in the contraresguardo a service so 
 hated that usually only men of poor spirit will enter it 
 at all his constant loyalty brought him quick promo 
 tion as its just reward. Yet Pedro had no happiness in 
 his advancement. Each step upward, as he very well 
 knew, was earned at the cost of greater hatred and con 
 tempt. Those who would have been his friends, had 
 the lines of his life fallen differently, were his enemies. 
 Nowhere could he hope to find kindliness and love. 
 Therefore he grew yet more stern and silent, and yet 
 more earnestly gave himself to the full discharge of the 
 duty that was sacred to him because it was his duty, but 
 that in his heart he abhorred. Nor did he ever waver 
 in his faithfulness until, coming to know Pancha, his
 
 68 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 cliilled heart was warmed by her sweet looks of friend 
 liness, the first that ever he had known ; and, as fate 
 decreed, the force of duty found arrayed against it the 
 force of love. 
 
 Pancha had a tender, gentle nature, in which was 
 great kindliness ; and before she knew Pepe there was 
 some little chance, perhaps, that in sheer pity of his 
 forlornness she might have given Pedro her love. This, 
 of course, showed how weak and how thoughtless 
 Pancha was ; how ignorant of the feelings of society ; 
 how careless of the good opinion of the world. To be 
 sure, the possibility of her loving Pedro never passed 
 beyond a possibility ; but that it went so far counted for 
 a great deal to him, to whom, in all his life, no single 
 gleam nor even faintest hope of love had ever come. 
 The gentle glance or two which she had cast him in her 
 compassionate sorrow for his friendlessness sank down 
 into the depths of Pedro s heart, and bred there for her 
 that great love tender, yet almost stern in its fierce in 
 tensity to which only a passionate, repressed nature 
 can give birth. And through the year that passed after 
 Pepe had gained his captaincy, and at the same time 
 Pancha s favor, Pedro s love had grown yet stronger 
 and deeper grown the more, perhaps, because it was 
 so hopeless and so deeply hid ; but Pancha, whose very 
 life was wrapped in Pepe s now, had almost ceased to 
 remember that such a person as this rueful captain of 
 the contraresguardo lived. 
 
 Still another life-thread was interwoven -with the 
 life-threads of these three. Dearest of Pancha s girl 
 friends was Chona for so was shortened and softened 
 her stately name, Ascencion daughter of a lenador
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 69 
 
 whose jacal was near by, and with whom her father had 
 been long on friendly terms. 
 
 A grand creature was this Chona, daughter of the 
 lenador. The simple folk among whom she lived called 
 her " La Reina," and her majestic beauty made her look 
 indeed a queen. Yet was she not loved by those among 
 whom she lived. Her nature was as imperious as her 
 beauty was imperial, and, save only Pancha, there was 
 none who called her friend. Because of their very un- 
 likeness, these two were drawn together. Pancha had 
 for Chona an enthusiastic devotion ; and Chona gra 
 ciously accepted the homage rendered as her queenly 
 right. In the past year, though, since Pepe s triumphal 
 visit to Monterey, a change had come over Chona that 
 was beyond the understanding of Pancha s simple, lov 
 ing heart. She no longer responded even in the fitful 
 fashion that had been her wont to Pancha s lovingness. 
 She was moody ; at times she was even harsh. More 
 than once Pancha, chancing to turn upon her suddenly, 
 had surprised in her eyes a look that seemed born of 
 hate itself. This change was grievous and strange to 
 Pancha ; but it troubled her less than it would have 
 done a year before. For now her whole heart was 
 bright with gladness in her love of Pepe, and with the 
 glad hope that his love was given her in return. 
 
 So, for Pancha at least, the time passed blithely on. 
 Her mood of compassion for Pedro was forgotten, and 
 her loss of Chona s friendship if ever she had possessed 
 it caused her no great sorrow ; and all because her love 
 for Pepe filled to overflowing her loving heart. 
 
 This was the way that matters stood the next Easter,
 
 70 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 when Pepe again came up to Monterey to take part in 
 the blessed services of the Church, to see again his old 
 father, and again to receive graciously the congratula 
 tions of his friends. 
 
 And this time Pepe told his love to Pancha in words. 
 In the warm twilight of the spring evening being fol 
 lowed, as custom in Mexico prescribes, by the discreet 
 tia Antonia, also come to Monterey for the Easter fes 
 tival they walked slowly among the bushes and trees 
 lining the bank of the ojo de agua, passed beneath the 
 arch of the causeway, and stood beside the broad, clear 
 pool where the water of the great spring pauses a little 
 before it flows outward to the stream. It was on this 
 very spot, say the legends of the town, that the good 
 Franciscan fathers, three hundred years ago, set up the 
 holy cross and sang their song of thankfulness and 
 praise. 
 
 And here it was while the discreet tia Antonia 
 manifested her discretion by standing where she could 
 watch closely, yet could not hear that to Pancha were 
 whispered the sweetest words that ever she had heard, 
 that ever she was to hear. In her memory dwelt for a 
 little while joyously the picture of the dark water at 
 her feet that, a little beyond, grew green with aquatic 
 plants ; the massive stone causeway that cast a shadow 
 upon them in the waning light reflected from the red 
 sky beyond the Mitras crest ; the trees beside the spring 
 swaying a little in the gentle evening wind ; the hush 
 over all of the departing day. Yery dear to Pancha 
 was the memory of this picture until, in the same 
 setting, came another picture, ghastly, terrible, that 
 made the place more horrible to her than the crazing
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 71 
 
 horror of a dream. But the future was closed to her, 
 mercifully, and in her heart, that Easter evening, was 
 only a perfect happiness and a perfect love. 
 
 Later, when they went back to the jacal of wattled 
 cane, there was great rejoicing among the older folk that 
 Pope s suit had sped so well. It was not, of course, a 
 surprise to anybody, this suit of his. In point of fact, 
 it all had been duly settled beforehand between the two 
 old men as a well-conducted love affair in Mexico 
 properly must be and this dramatic climax to it was a 
 mere nominal concession to Pope s foreign tastes, ac 
 quired through much association with Americanos upon 
 the frontier. So, the result being satisfactory, the Parras 
 brandy was brought forth again, and toasts were drunk 
 to Pepe s and Pancha s long happiness. And these were 
 followed by toasts to the success though that was as 
 sured in advance, of course of a great venture in which 
 Pope was about to engage ; a venture that infallibly was 
 to make him a rich man. 
 
 The scheme that Pope had devised was worthy of 
 himself. Its basis was an arrangement made who shall 
 say how ? that all the forces of the contrarcsguardo 
 and rurales should be sent on a wild-goose chase into 
 the mountains, and sent far enough to make sure that they 
 should stay in the mountains for a whole night and a 
 whole day. And, the coast being thus cleared, it was 
 the purpose of this daring captain of contrdbandistas to 
 come up from the Zona Libre with not one, but with 
 three great trains of burros laden with contrabands, and 
 to bring these trains, in sections and under cover of 
 darkness, actually into the city of Monterey ! Further, 
 to make quite sure that in the city he should meet with
 
 72 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 no hindrance to the execution of his plans, he had ar 
 ranged that at the hour his trains were to enter from 
 the east, a jacal should be set on fire over in the west 
 ern suburb. Fires occur but rarely in Monterey, and 
 when one does occur all the town flocks to see it : it is 
 better than a, fiesta. It was a stroke of genius on Pepe s 
 part to think of this diversion ; and the man who owned 
 the doomed jacal one of Pepe s band who himself had 
 a share in the venture was eager to put so brilliant a 
 plan into execution. Indeed, to insure success a hun 
 dred jacales might have been profitably consumed ; for 
 the contrabando was to be exceptionally rich in quality 
 as well as great in quantity, and the profit upon it would 
 be something -that to such simple-minded folk as Manuel 
 and Tobalito and Catalina seemed almost fabulous. 
 
 The very risk of the venture, as Pepe pointed out, con 
 stituted its safety. In the mountains there was a chance 
 at any time of a fight, but in the city streets there was 
 literally nobody to fear " unless the serenos should turn 
 contraresguardo ! " he suggested ; whereat there was 
 much cheerful laughter, that of the honest sereno Ma 
 nuel being loudest of all. 
 
 The lenador, Tobalito s trusted friend, hearing the 
 sounds of festivity and snuffing the Parras brandy from 
 afar off, came in to join them ; and being informed of 
 the happy issue of Pepe s love affair, and of Pepe s 
 noble project, he gladly joined in drinking the -double 
 toast and in adding his good wishes to theirs. So they 
 made merry over their hopeful prospects; and even 
 when the twins, Antonio and Antonia, succeeded in an 
 unwatched moment in possessing themselves of the 
 precious bottle of Parras brandy, and thereafter, to their
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 73 
 
 great joy, emptied a considerable portion of it over 
 the unfortunate yellow cat, a mere desultory spanking 
 was deemed to be a meet atonement for their sinful 
 deed. 
 
 So Pepe rode lightly out from Monterey, and behind 
 him rode not black care, but brightest joy, and after 
 him went good wishes and great love. When he came 
 again he would be rich, and dearer than all other 
 riches Pancha would be his. Truly, a young fellow 
 of three-and-twenty, who had carved his own way to so 
 brave a fortune, might well rejoice within himself ; and 
 Pepe did rejoice with all his heart. As he rode down 
 the valley the valley that is scarred by the railroad 
 now his thoughts ran back pleasantly over the past 
 few years of hard work in his profession ; over his 
 many successes tarnished by not a single serious failure; 
 and still more pleasantly his thoughts ran forward into 
 the future, when all his toil was to receive, over and 
 above a liberal compensation, a most sweet reward. 
 One more deal in the game that he knew so well how 
 to play, and all the stakes would be his. Xo wonder 
 that Pepe s heart was glad within him ; that his soul 
 was filled with joy. 
 
 Yet Pancha, left behind in Monterey to wait while 
 Pepe worked, was sorrowful. As sometimes happens 
 to us when we are confronted by the certainty of great 
 happiness, she was possessed by a gloomy sadness that 
 came of dark forebodings in her mind. The very 
 greatness and sureness of this happiness awed her into 
 doubt. She knew that to take her good fortune in this 
 faint-hearted way was not wise in itself, and was not 
 what Pepe would approve ; and that she might please
 
 74 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Pepe she berated herself roundly and tried to laugh 
 away her fears though they scarcely amounted to fears, 
 being but shadowy doubts and unshaped thoughts in 
 which always was a tinge of nameless dread. But 
 scolding herself and laughing at herself were equally 
 unavailing ; therefore she betook herself to that refuge 
 which is dear to women the world over, but which es 
 pecially is dear to women in Roman Catholic lands 
 the refuge of prayer. 
 
 A placid, holy place is the church of San Francisco 
 in Monterey. It stands upon a quiet street, the Calle 
 de San Francisco, where little travel or noise of traffic 
 ever comes, and about it always is an atmosphere of 
 sacred rest. On one side of it is the ruin of the old, old 
 church where, near three hundred years ago, the colo 
 nists sent northward by the Conde de Monterey first met 
 within church walls to offer up to God their sacrifice of 
 praise and thanksgiving for the grace shown to them in 
 bringing them within so fair a land. On the other side is 
 the old convent, where long the good Franciscans dwelt, 
 and whence they went forth to save poor heathen souls. 
 The convent is deserted now, but holy memories live on 
 in it, and sanctify its silent, sunny cloister and its still, 
 shady cells. And close beside the convent grows a 
 single stately palm, larger and more beautiful than any 
 other palm in all the country round. The old church 
 is shadowy within, and a faint smell of incense hangs 
 always in the dusky air. The floor is laid in panels of 
 heavy wood, worn smooth by the knees of the five 
 generations which have worshiped there, and beneath 
 each panel is a grave. Reverently do the Mexicans be 
 lieve that thrice blessed is the rest in death of him who
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 75 
 
 sleeps within the earth made consecrate by bearing on 
 its breast the house of God. 
 
 So it was to this old church, the church of her 
 patron saint, whose name she bore, that Pancha came to 
 pray that Pepe might prosper in his gallant adventure, 
 and that the happiness in store for both of them might 
 not be wrecked by evil chance. To pass from the heat 
 and glare of the April sunshine into the cool, dark 
 church was in itself a refreshment and a rest. Save an 
 old woman or two, slowly and wearily moving from 
 station to station and slowly and wearily at each station 
 repeating her form of prayer, the church was deserted ; 
 and in the quiet corner near the chancel rail where 
 Pancha knelt, far away from the mumbling old women, 
 there was a perfect quiet, a holy peace. Her prayer 
 was a little simple prayer : only that the good Saint 
 Francis would keep Pepe safe from all harm, and that 
 the contrabando might not be captured, and that she 
 and Pepe might be married as they had planned to be, 
 and might live on in happiness together to a good old 
 age. When she had made her prayer she knelt on for 
 a long while, dreamily thinking of the saint s goodness 
 and of his mighty power to guard and save. And, as 
 she knelt there, gradually faith and hope came back 
 again into her heart, and the conviction grew strong 
 within her that the blessed saint had heard her prayer 
 and had sent to her this comforting for assurance that 
 it should be granted to the full. So at last, heartened 
 and quieted, she came out once more into the April sun 
 shine. Yet even as she left the church there passed 
 before the sun a cloud. Pancha, whose mind was full 
 of happy thoughts, did not perceive this cloud.
 
 76 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 That day in Monterey one other heart was troubled, 
 but to it came not peace nor rest. Much to her sur 
 prise, Pancha standing near the causeway over which 
 Pepe gallantly had ridden forth upon his brave advent 
 ure, her heart full of love and hope and fear had felt 
 an arm about her neck, and turning had found Chona 
 by her side. In her tender mood this mark of affection 
 from the friend whom she had deemed lost had moved 
 her greatly, and with little urging she told to Chona the 
 sweet happiness that at last certainly was hers ; and 
 wondered to see the look of hate there could be no 
 mistaking it now that came flashing into Chona s eyes. 
 
 "And he l.oves a pitiful thing like you! Loves 
 you, when he might Go ! you are no friend of mine ! " 
 
 In Chona s voice there was a ring of bitter contempt 
 that lost itself, with the abrupt change, in yet more bitter 
 rage. With an angry push that almost threw Pancha 
 into the water, she turned, sprang up the bank, and dis 
 appeared among the trees. So was Pancha made yet 
 more sorrowful, and yet more gladly turned to the holy 
 church for rest and comfort in prayer. 
 
 For Chona there was no comfort. Her brain was 
 in a whirl, and in her heart was only wretchedness. 
 The fate had come to her that for months past she had 
 known must be hers ; yet now that it actually had over 
 taken her, she resented it as though it were a sudden 
 and unexpected blow. Against hope she had hoped to 
 win Pepe s love and now all hope was dead, and she 
 knew that her chance of having him for her very own 
 was lost forever. Still worse was it that the love which 
 she longed for so hungrily should go to another. This 
 was more than she could bear. Pepe s death, she felt,
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 77 
 
 would have caused her a pain far less poignant for she 
 herself easily could have died, too. But Pepe lost to 
 her arms, and won to the arms of such a poor, spiritless 
 creature as this Pancha, was an insult that made greater 
 the injury done her a thousand-fold. Her fierce love 
 was turned in a moment to fiercer hate ; and from hate 
 is but a single step to revenge. 
 
 That night, when the lenador came home and in 
 good spirits, for he had sold his wood well he told 
 Chona gleefully of the grand project that Pepe had on 
 foot ; of the clever scheme by which the customs people 
 were to be tricked ; of the fine fortune that surely was 
 coming to the captain of contrabandists now as a fit- 
 tine: culmination of his gallant career. 
 
 o o 
 
 After her father, with a prodigious yawn, had ended 
 his narration and had betaken himself to sleep, for a 
 long while Chona sat there in the open space before the 
 jacal alone with her own thoughts. In the darkness 
 and stillness for only the low, soft rippling of the 
 water broke in upon the pcacefulness of night the 
 longing for revenge that possessed her slowly took form 
 in her mind. The hours passed .swiftly as she brooded 
 upon her wrong and upon the means that she had chosen 
 to compass vengeance. "When at last she arose and went 
 into the jacal, the morning star shone bright above the 
 twin peaks of the Silla, and the whole mountain stood 
 out sharply, a huge black mass, against the pale light of 
 the eastern sky. 
 
 Yet the morning still was young when Chona her 
 father meanwhile having started with the l)urro for the 
 mountains went down to the barracks of the contrares- 
 yuardo and asked of the sentinel on duty permission to
 
 YS STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 speak with the capitan Pedro. The sentinel smiled as 
 he dispatched a messenger with her request, and thought 
 what a lucky fellow the capitan Pedro was, to be sure. 
 
 " Come to me quickly in the Alameda," said Chona, 
 when Pedro had joined her. " I can tell you of a great 
 plan that the smugglers have on foot and also of a 
 matter very near to your own heart." Without waiting 
 for an answer, she turned sharply and walked rapidly 
 away. 
 
 Perceiving that she was much excited, Pedro did 
 not doubt that Chona had information of importance to 
 give him ; and his experience had taught him that the 
 treachery of a jealous woman was not a thing that the 
 customs preventive service could afford to despise. To 
 the personal part of her address he did not give a second 
 thought. Without returning to the barracks, he set off 
 at once for the Alameda. The sentinel, lazily watching 
 the two retreating figures, smiled again, and said to 
 himself : " Aha ! my little captain is a lucky man 
 to-day ! " 
 
 It is a good mile from the barracks to the Alameda. 
 Chona covered the distance rapidly. As she entered 
 the ragged pleasure-ground, she turned to make sure 
 that Pedro was following her, and then crossed it 
 quickly and disappeared through a gap in a hedge be 
 yond. When Pedro passed through the gap he found 
 her seated on the ground between the bushy screen and 
 the cane-field that it inclosed. They were remote from 
 all houses, from all curious ears : for the Alameda, beiruj 
 
 7 / O 
 
 but a forlorn place, has few visitors. 
 
 She motioned him to a seat beside her, and said, 
 hurriedly :
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 79 
 
 " The capitan Pepe will bring tliree great trains of 
 contrdbando on Friday niglit into Monterey." 
 
 " Yes ? lie is your lover ? " 
 
 She flashed her glittering black eyes on him savagely. 
 " It is no affair of yours who my lover may be. But I 
 will tell you this : Pepe is the lover of Tobalito s Pan- 
 cha the girl whom you love." 
 
 She marked with satisfaction how he winced under 
 her words, the gleam of anger that came into his eyes. 
 But, without giving him time to speak, she w r ent on 
 rapidly to tell of Pope s plan, and with a clearness and 
 precision that left no room for doubting that she told 
 the truth. Her excitement increased as she spoke. Her 
 black eyes grew blacker as the pupils dilated ; her breath 
 came short as her trembling bosom rose and fell irregu 
 larly; twice or thrice she pressed her hand upon her 
 heart. As she ended she sprang to her feet and held 
 erect her superb form. Her eyes gleamed with the 
 anger of hate, her hands were clinched, her guardedly 
 low voice quivered with a passionate energy. 
 
 " I have betrayed him into your hands, even as he 
 has betrayed my offered love. Take him ! Kill him ! 
 He has only my hate. And remember, it is lie who 
 has won from you Pancha s love. He must die ! " In 
 an instant she had plunged into the thicket of canes. 
 For a few moments the rustling of the leaves gave forth 
 a hissing sound as she fleetly pushed her way between 
 them ; the sound grew fainter ; presently it faded out 
 of hearing, and all was still. 
 
 Pedro stood for a while motionless, vacantly staring 
 at the place in the cane-thicket, still marked by the sway 
 ing leaves, where she had disappeared. Then slowly he
 
 80 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 passed through the gap in the hedge, and slowly walked 
 across the Alameda. When he came to the circle of 
 stone benches he sat down wearily. He did not in the 
 least particular doubt the truth of what Chona had told 
 him : and because he knew so surely that it all was true 
 a great sorrow weighed upon him ; a cruel conflict arose 
 in his heart. Chona had told him too much. Had she 
 told him only of Pepe s plans, her purpose would have 
 been easily gained ; for in a strictly professional and 
 matter-of-course way he would have crushed the smug 
 glers scheme effectually, and probably the smugglers 
 with it. Chona, judging his nature by her own, had 
 overshot her mark. The very fact that Pepe was Pan- 
 cha s lover, that his ruin would be her misery, that his 
 death might also be her death, made Pedro for the 
 first and last time in his life regard his duty falter- 
 ingly. For his love for Pancha was so loyal, so un 
 selfish, that even this very love he was ready to sacrifice 
 for her ; ready, for her happiness sake, to yield her to 
 another s arms. The question that now confronted him 
 was whether or not he could sacrifice for Pancha his 
 honor. 
 
 What made this cruel strait in which Pedro found 
 himself crueler still was the certainty that should he 
 save his honor, no one at all (yet it was only Pancha of 
 whom he thought) would believe that in capturing Pepe 
 he had been prompted by any higher motive than re 
 venge. Should Pepe be harmed, Pancha would hate 
 him ; should Pepe be killed and the chances favored 
 this issue, for Pepe was a man who far rather would 
 die than surrender Pancha would turn from him in 
 horror, as a loathsome creature too base even to die.
 
 PANCIIA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 1 
 
 These thoughts went whirling through Pedro s mind, 
 and there came to him no safe issue from his per 
 plexity. Toward whichever of the two paths before 
 him he turned, he saw standing a figure with a drawn 
 sword : Love barred the way of Honor ; Honor barred 
 the way of Love. 
 
 At last, the conflict still continuing in his breast, he 
 slowly arose from his seat on the stone bench, and slow 
 ly walked back into the town ; but he took the streets 
 by the hospital and the market-place, thus leaving the 
 arroyo of the ojo dc agiia far out of his path. As he 
 entered the barracks the sentinel looked at him curi 
 ously. "Oho! there has been a quarrel," he thought. 
 To quarrel with La Rcina, my little captain must be 
 a very great fool ! " 
 
 The noise and confusion, the loud talking and coarse 
 laughter of the barracks jarred on Pedro, and presently 
 he went out again. Walking without purpose, he re 
 traced unconsciously his steps toward the Alameda. 
 Then, finding of a sudden an object, he walked on rap 
 idly until the shady lanes beyond the Alameda were 
 traversed and he stood at the gate of the Campo Santo. 
 Reverently he entered between the stone pillars of the 
 gateway and stood in the presence of the holy dead. 
 
 In a shady corner of the old grave-yard he seated 
 himself upon a stone that had fallen from the wall, and 
 took up again resolutely the problem that he had to 
 solve. There in the perfect peace and stillness, with 
 only the dead about him for witnesses, the great battle 
 of his life was fought and won. His own faith in his 
 manhood came back to him and gave him strength ; the 
 doubt and trouble were cast out of his soul ; a steadfast
 
 82 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 light shone clearly upon the way that he must go. And 
 the silent counselors around him confirmed his choice. 
 By the very utterness of their silence, as it seemed to 
 him, they were as strong voices declaring that Love is 
 but the dying daughter of Time, while Honor is the 
 deathless son of Eternity. 
 
 When he stood up, the fight ended, he was very pale, 
 and sweat stood in great drops upon his forehead ; but 
 in every line of his figure was firmness. Erect and 
 steadily with something of the feeling, as he be 
 thought him, that had upheld him once when leading 
 his men upon a most desperate charge he marched be 
 tween the graves and out again through the gateway. 
 His resolute step was in keeping with his resolute pur 
 pose. Love lowered her sword and fell back, conquered. 
 The path of Honor was clear. 
 
 Being cheered by her prayer and by the good saint s 
 promise that it should be granted, Pancha went home 
 blithely and with a heart at rest. And further cheer 
 came to her from her mother, the excellent Catalina. 
 By profession, this good Catalina was a lavandera. 
 Hers was a vicarious -virtue, for, while her washing was 
 endless, its visible results rarely had any perceptible 
 connection with herself. Indeed, it is a fact that the 
 washer-women of Mexico are upheld by so lofty a sense 
 of their duty to their employers that only by the opera 
 tion of some extraordinary law of chance is it that their 
 own garments ever get washed at all. 
 
 Down by the edge of the clear stream, in company 
 with many other washer-women, Catalina practiced her 
 honorable calling, squatted upon the ground, and hav-
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 83 
 
 ins; in front of her a broad, flat stone. On this stone 
 
 o / 
 
 she soaped and rubbed and squeezed each separate gar 
 ment until her fine knowledge of her art told her that 
 cleanliness had been achieved, and that for the perfect 
 ing of her work was needed only copious rinsing in the 
 running stream. Close beside her, always, was a little 
 fire, whereon rested a little boiler ; and thence smoke 
 and steam curled up together amid the branches of 
 the overhanging trees. On the low bushes near by 
 were spread the drying clothes ; in the middle distance 
 stood out the straw-thatched hut ; and beyond, for back 
 ground, were trees and bushes and huts and half -hidden 
 stone walls. As near her as their perverse spirits would 
 permit them to come were the twins, Antonio and An- 
 tonia, scantily clad or not clad at all, usually engaged in 
 some small evil, or else basking like two little brown 
 lizards in the sun. Some day an artist will come to 
 Monterey who will paint Catalina at her work with all 
 her picturesque surroundings ; and if he paints the 
 picture well he will thereafter awake to find himself 
 famous. 
 
 Pancha, joining this group, and perfecting it by 
 standing erect beside the bubbling boiler, was further 
 cheered by Catalina s confident talk concerning the cer 
 tainty of Pcpe s success. Manuel had stopped at the 
 jacal on his way homeward coming sleepily back from 
 his vigilant duties on the city watch to leave the good 
 news that a detachment of the contraresguardo really 
 had been sent away early that morning toward Garcia 
 (mite in the opposite direction from that whence 
 Pepe would come. There could be no doubt about 
 this assuring fact, for one of his fellow-semios, being
 
 84 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 on duty near the barracks, actually had seen the force 
 depart. So it was clear that the most important part 
 of the promise made to Pepe by his employers had been 
 fulfilled. The other part, the massing of the rurales in 
 the wrong place at the critical moment, might now 
 confidently be counted upon and this made sure that 
 Pepe would accomplish safely his unostentatious yet 
 triumphal entry into Monterey. As became the pro 
 spective mother-in-law of the hero of this noble advent 
 ure, Catalina greatly rejoiced ; and Pancha, listening 
 to such heartening news, was still more firmly convinced 
 that the good Saint Francis had heard her prayer. 
 
 But even while these comforting thoughts upheld 
 the hopes of the watchers in Monterey, Chona s treach 
 ery was doing its work. In the early morning of the 
 third day after Pepe s departure there had been a tough 
 fight south of Lampazos and the end of it was the 
 capture by the contraresguardo of one of Pepe s three 
 trains. Broken by a sudden charge, the guard of smug 
 glers was overcome ; one or two were killed, half a 
 dozen were captured, and the rest saved themselves by 
 the speed of their horses and their knowledge of the 
 mountain paths. The men of the contraresguardo were 
 jubilant. But there was no joy in the heart of their 
 captain. He had but the cold satisfaction of knowing 
 that he had done his duty and bitter he had found 
 that duty to do. 
 
 "When the scattered ~burros had been driven together, 
 and their packs made fast again, the convoy set off 
 southward ; for the capture had been made in the State 
 of ISfuevo Leon, and the contrdbando would be turned
 
 PANC1IA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 85 
 
 into the custom-house at Monterey. Under the hot 
 sun the train moved slowly along the valley ; so slowly 
 that Pedro s horse, outwalking the short-stepping bur 
 ros, carried him far in advance of his command. lie 
 was too deeply buried in his own thoughts to perceive 
 his loneliness, and it was only when he reached the town 
 of Salinas that he roused himself and found that his 
 convoy was almost out of sight down the dusty, wind 
 ing road. On the bluff above the Salinas Iliver he 
 tethered his horse to a tree, and sat down in the shade 
 of the ferryman s hut to wait for his men to overtake 
 him. The barquero speedily slunk away; but Pedro, 
 heavy with his own heavy thoughts, took slight notice 
 of his movements, save that he was glad to be left 
 alone. 
 
 A quarter of a mile from where he sat the road 
 dipped into a recess behind a shoulder of the mountain, 
 and for a little space was lost to view. lie watched the 
 train until it entered this recess, and then, while waiting 
 for it to reappear, he bowed his head upon his hand. 
 His heart was very full of bitterness. There was but 
 little comfort for him in the fact that the train that he 
 had captured had not been commanded by Pepe in per 
 son ; for he knew that the precautions taken made the 
 capture, either in the mountains or in Monterey, of the 
 other two trains certain ; and not less certain was the 
 capture or the killing of Pepe himself. Certainly Pepe s 
 fortune, probably his life, already was as good as for 
 feited ; and with this forfeiture Pancha s hope of hap 
 piness was gone ! And the cruel part of it all was that 
 Pancha ever must believe that lie, willfully, revenue- 
 
 *J 7 O 
 
 fully, because she had kept back from him her love,
 
 86 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 had brought upon her this great misery. In the dark 
 ness that beset him he saw no way of hopeful light. He 
 had saved his honor, but he had wrecked his heart. 
 
 A rattle of rifle-shots snapped short his dismal rev- 
 ery. As he sprang to his feet he saw a squad of his 
 own people, a dozen or so, galloping up the road, and a 
 moment later four times as many men came out from 
 behind the shoulder of the mountain in sharp pursuit. 
 The pursued were bent low over the necks of their 
 horses ; from tho crowd of pursuers there came each 
 instant a puff of smoke followed by the sharp crack of 
 the report ; and each instant a horse fell, or ran wildly 
 with empty saddle, as the balls went home. 
 
 Pedro loosened his revolver in his belt and sprang 
 to his horse. The l)arquero had become visible again, 
 and was standing beside him ; on his face was a ma 
 licious yet not wholly unkindly grin. " Quick ! " he 
 said. " Get into the boat. You yet have time." As an 
 officer of the contraresguardo he hated Pedro cordially ; 
 but he had no especial wish to see him shot down, now 
 that the smugglers had recaptured the contrabanflo and 
 the fight was won. But Pedro already was mounted, 
 and his horse was headed not toward the river, but 
 toward his men. The l)arquero saw his purpose, and 
 seized his bridle with a strong hand. 
 
 " God ! Sefior Captain, would you ride straight to 
 your death ? " 
 
 " Let loose, or I shoot ! " 
 
 Like a flash Pedro s revolver was drawn and cocked, 
 and within an inch of the barquero s head. 
 
 " You are a fool, a madman ! Go ! " And the man 
 staggered aside as the horse, bounding forward, sharp
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 87 
 
 stricken with the spurs, brushed against him, and nearly 
 threw him to the ground. 
 
 "Es mi deber ! " (" Tis my duty ! ") came ringing 
 back through tlie rush of air as Pedro rode furiously 
 onward ; and it seemed to the barquero yet this was 
 so strange a thing that he could not trust his ears that 
 there was gladness, nay, even triumph, in Pedro s tone. 
 
 Whether spoken in sorrow or in hope, certain it is 
 that these were the last words which the capitan Pedro 
 spoke on earth. 
 
 In Monterey there was no knowledge of the loss and 
 of the gaining back again from the contraresguardo 
 of a part of Pope s treasure ; no knowledge that treach 
 ery had come in to defeat Pepe s well-laid plans. There 
 fore, when at last the momentous day arrived, there was 
 with Pepe s friends a glad expectancy and happy hope. 
 Under all, of course, was somewhat of fear that even in 
 the moment of its success failure might come and dash 
 the gallant plan. And because of such dismal doubt, 
 Tobalito s face at times was bereft of its accustomed 
 cheeriness, and for minutes together he would sit silent : 
 the while mechanically polishing the brass number (that, 
 as a cargador, he wore upon his breast), as was his wont 
 on the rare occasions when his mind was beset by troub 
 lous thoughts. But these fears, in which, also, the others 
 shared, had no endurance ; for all had steady faith in 
 the all-powerfulness of Pepe s lucky star. So, slowly, 
 the day wore on, and at last was lost in night. 
 
 Excepting the twins, Antonio and Antonia, no one 
 that night slept in the jacal. Tobalito sat before his 
 door and smoked incessantly his corn-husk cigarritos.
 
 88 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Beside him, smoking not less vigorously, sat Catalina. 
 A little apart from these was Pancha, holding in her 
 arms the yellow cat. And each of these three minds 
 was so busy with its own thoughts that all of the three 
 tongues were still. Only the yellow cat, having but 
 little mind, and that being soothed into a calm content 
 by Pancha s gentle strokings of her sleek fur, expressed 
 her perfect happiness, and so made talk for the whole 
 party, in a rumbling purr. 
 
 From where they sat although they could not hope 
 to see even the reflected light of the burning jacal that 
 was to clear the way for the entry of the contrabando 
 they could see, a hundred yards away, the stone cause 
 way standing out in the light of the young moon against 
 the darkness beyond. Pancha s mind was full of sweet 
 remembrance of the \vords which Pepe had spoken to 
 her over beyond the causeway, beside the pool, but five 
 little days before, and of the glad future that was bound 
 up in the fulfillment of his hopes. Tobalito and Cata 
 lina, being somewhat beyond the age of romance, were 
 thinking not less gladly of the good fortune that was in 
 store for them through the rich son-in-law who had 
 come to lighten the burdens of their old age. No more 
 would the cargador bear heavy ladings of other people s 
 goods ; no more would the lavandera wear her life out 
 in washing other people s clothes. And so all three 
 waited and watched eagerly : straining their ears for 
 the rattle of horses feet upon the stone-paved streets ; 
 straining their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the 
 burro-tr&m stealing in from the Zona Libre with its 
 rich load. For close beside them, across the causeway, 
 the train that Pepe himself headed was to pass. Now
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 89 
 
 and again they caught sight of a little point of flame 
 passing and repassing the farther end of the cause 
 way ; and they knew that it was the lantern of the 
 sereno, and that Manuel also watched and waited hope 
 fully to see his son, bearing his rich sheaves with him, 
 come gallantly home. All four of these fond hearts 
 were brimming full of love and hope and joy. 
 
 Slowly the young moon set. Then, suddenly, Pancha 
 was aroused by a strange confusion : pistol-shots 
 screams a rush of horses feet oaths the clash of steel 
 and on the causeway, dimly seen in the faint light, a 
 confused mass of men and horses and laden burros were 
 hurrying away before an orderly mass of horsemen rid 
 ing in upon them from the east. And, before the full 
 meaning of all this was clear to Pancha s mind, came 
 another rush of horsemen charging down along the 
 causeway from the west. Eight under Pancha s eyes 
 Pepe, surrounded by his foes, was fighting for his life ; 
 and Pancha knew that the fight was hopeless, and that 
 Pepe s life was lost ! Up at the end of the causeway 
 she saw quivering for an instant the light of the sercno s 
 lantern ; and a vast sorrow for the old man standing 
 there, full of years, yet henceforth to be childless, for 
 the moment overcame the bitter agony in her own 
 heart. But only for a moment. Then, with a cry 
 keen and woful that echoed along the arroijo, and 
 even for an instant made the men pause in their deadly 
 fight with every drop of her fierce Indian blood 
 aroused and burning in her veins, she sprang to her 
 feet, and but for Tobalito s strong restraining grasp she 
 would have gone to Pepe s aid and died wildly striking
 
 90 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 by Pepe s side as the Aztec women, her brave ances 
 tors, fought and died on the causeways of Anahuac 
 when the cruel Spaniards first came into the land. But 
 Tobalito held her fast and then a merciful unconscious 
 ness came to give her breaking heart relief. 
 
 When life came back to Pancha, she was alone in 
 thejacal, save that in one corner lay the twins, Antonio 
 and Antonia, still asleep ; and beside them, having fled 
 thither for refuge during the noise and confusion of the 
 fight, was huddled the yellow cat. "Within the jacal a 
 little candle feebly burned, casting a faint gleam of light 
 through the open doorway out upon the broad, smooth 
 leaves of the banana-tree. There was no sound to break 
 the serene stillness of the night, and, for a little, Pancha 
 half fancied, and tried hard to make herself believe, that 
 she was but awaking from a woful dream. But the 
 searching agony that wrenched her heart was too bit 
 terly real to give a chance for this fond fancy to have 
 play, and then, slowly but strongly, the thought came 
 into her mind that she must go to Pepe ; that, if living, 
 she must bear to him words of comfort and of hope ; 
 that, if dead, she must cast one last loving look upon 
 his face. 
 
 So she passed out into the darkness for only a faint, 
 hazy light beyond the Mitras showed where the young 
 moon had sunk away behind the mountains and walked 
 along the path that she and Pepe had trod together but 
 five days before. This time she did not pass beneath 
 the arch of the causeway. Where the path forked she 
 turned to the right and climbed the bank of the arroyo, 
 and so came out upon the causeway itself. In the dark-
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OP MONTEREY. 91 
 
 ness she tripped and nearly fell, and, looking closely, 
 she saw at her feet the body of a man. Resolutely, yet 
 shudderingly, she stooped still closer to see by the faint 
 starlight the dead face, and knew it for the face of one 
 of Pepe s companions. Beside the dead contrabandists 
 lay another dead body, clad in the uniform of the con- 
 trarcsgiLardo / and the two lay facing each other as they 
 had fallen in the fight. Beyond were yet others, and a 
 dead horse or two, and a dead lurro from which the 
 lading of precious stuffs had been hastily removed and 
 carbines and swords and pistols were lying where they 
 had fallen from dead hands ; for, in the joy of their 
 victory and capture, the contraresguardo had wasted no 
 time in bearing away their fallen comrades or in clear 
 ing off the field. And Pancha, wofully seeking for 
 Pepe, passed back and forth among the dead. 
 
 While she searched thus, she saw coming slowly 
 from the far end of the causeway a little point of light ; 
 and presently the old sereno, wrapped in his long cloak, 
 stood beside her. In a broken sentence or two he told 
 her that, with Tobalito and Catalina, he had followed the 
 contraresguardo to the barracks, and that Pepe was not 
 among the prisoners, and so he had come back to look 
 for him here. Pancha made him no answer in words, 
 but she took his hand and kissed it ; and, still holding 
 it, they searched together for the dead one who had 
 been all in all to them in the world. Along the whole 
 length of the causeway they searched, but found 
 him not. 
 
 " Yet he is here," said Manuel. " My boy is not a 
 prisoner, and if not a prisoner he surely was struck 
 down in the fight."
 
 92 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 And Pancha knew that Manuel spoke truth : Pepe 
 could not be safe and free from harm while all his men 
 were captured or slain. 
 
 While they paused midway upon the causeway, 
 standing upon the arch that spans the stream, a low, 
 faint moan sounded through the still night air. The 
 sound came up from the darkness below from the 
 space beside the pool. Bending together over the edge 
 of the unguarded footway, Manuel held down his lan 
 tern so that its light fell into the depth beside the wall 
 and was reflected back in broken rays from the rippling 
 water. Then he moved the lantern slowly, until the 
 light rested upon the bank and shone on Pepe s body 
 stretched upon the ground on Pepe s face upturned 
 toward them piteously ! And Pepe knew them. Up 
 through the darkness came faintly the words, " Pancha ! 
 Padre ! " 
 
 AYlien, going very quickly, they passed to the end 
 of the causeway, and so down the bank of the arroyo 
 to where he lay, he clasped feebly their hands as they 
 knelt beside him : the lantern throwing a weird, uncer 
 tain light upon the three, upon the dark stone wall, 
 upon the dark water of the pool. 
 
 " It was a trap, my father ; we were betrayed," he 
 said brokenly. " But we made a brave fight, and I can 
 die without shame." 
 
 He felt the quiver that passed through Pancha s 
 body as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, I must die, my Pancha. It is very near. All 
 is ended that we planned that we planned on this very 
 spot, not yet a little week ago. It is hard, my little 
 one but it must be." Then he was silent, and
 
 PANCHA: A STORY OF MONTEREY. 93 
 
 clinched his teeth this brave Pepe that his face 
 might not show to Pancha his mortal agony. 
 
 Manuel held Pope s hand and wept : the silent, for 
 lorn weeping of an utterly desolate old man. Pancha 
 could not weep. She clutched Pope s hand in both of 
 hers, as though forcibly she would hold him back to 
 life. Pepe understood her thought. 
 
 " It may not be, my Pancha, my Panchita. It is 
 very, very near now. (jive me one little kiss, my 
 heart" it was almost in a whisper that Pepe spoke 
 u one little kiss to tell me of your love before 
 I go." 
 
 And PO, for the first and the last time in her life, 
 Pancha kissed Pepe upon the lips : a kiss in which was 
 all the passionate love that would have been his in the 
 long years to come ; a kiss that was worth dying for, if 
 only by dying it could be gained ; a kiss that for a mo 
 ment thrilled Pepe with the fullest, gladdest life that 
 he had ever known and that, being ended, left him 
 dead. 
 
 Then Pancha, kneeling where the holy fathers, far 
 back in the centuries, had sung their Te Deum laudct- 
 mus ; kneeling where but five days before her life 
 had been filled with a love so perfect as to be beyond 
 all power of thankfulness in words of praise, looked 
 down upon her dead lover and felt her heart break 
 within her in the utterness of her despair. 
 
 Standing amid the dead upon the causeway above, a 
 dim shadow against the starlit sky, was another figure 
 unpcrceived by, yet completing, the group below. 
 The arms were raised, half threateningly, half implor-
 
 94: STOEIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ingly, and the lithe, vigorous form swayed in unison 
 with the wild throbbings of a heart in which sated hate 
 did mortal battle with outraged love. Chona had con 
 quered ; but even in the first flush of her triumph she 
 knew that love and hope and happiness, that everything 
 which makes life worth holding to, had been lost.
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 
 
 So full arc they of meaning and of music that, at 
 least to stranger hearts and ears, there is a great charm 
 about the names of the towns which the good Fathers 
 long ago founded in this old country of lSTew Spain. 
 That in which Don Jose" dwelt was called La Villa de 
 los Santos Xifios The Town of the Holy Children : 
 and it was so small, and so pervaded by the spirit of 
 peace and restf illness, that its gracious name seemed to 
 have cast over it a lasting spell. 
 
 It was a very little town : only a cluster of five or 
 six adobe houses, built not around a plaza, as the usual 
 custom is, but bunched together anyhow, beside a tiny 
 church at the end of a narrow lane. The lane went 
 crookedly across the fields following closely the water- 
 channels, that as much as possible the irrigable land 
 might be spared for a mile or more, and then opened 
 out upon the highway that led, far across the waves of 
 sand-hills clad with cedar-brush, to the great city of 
 Santa Fe. 
 
 Along this lane was the one \vay of communication 
 between the Town of the Holy Children and the out 
 side world ; and they who traveled it were few. Save 
 the Padre and Don Jose, only old Mdximo, the Padre s
 
 96 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 sacristan and servant, and old Pedro, who was at once 
 Don Jose s factotum and humble friend, ever had jour 
 neyed to the capital ; and, having visited a place so far 
 away and so magnificent wherein a bishop dwelt, and 
 also a general Maximo and Pedro were accorded by 
 their fellows a well-deserved reverence that had an en 
 larging effect upon their souls. The journeyings of 
 the rest of the townsfolk were confined to jaunts to 
 the other little towns lying round about in cozy nooks 
 among the mountains, or basking in the plentiful sun 
 shine of the broad Rio Grande Yalley Santa Clara, 
 San Pedro, San Cdrlos, San Juan, San Yldefonso, and 
 so on through the saintly calendar. 
 
 Don Jose had known better days ; at least days 
 which would seem better, when judged by the every-day 
 standard of the working world. Once he had been rich. 
 Now he was poor. Yet his riches had not brought him 
 happiness, only vexation of spirit and of body ; and 
 now, in his poverty, he had found contentment and 
 peace. To be sure, at times his thoughts would go 
 back longingly to the days when the great hacienda in 
 Chihuahua was his ; when five hundred peones were his 
 also ; when in the midst of his great possessions he 
 reigned supreme as reigned the patriarchs of old. 
 And he would contrast somewhat bitterly this kingdom 
 of his youth with the petty principality that remained 
 to him now that he was grown old ; his thousand or so 
 acres of land, of which less than a score of acres were 
 cultivated ; his subjects only old Paquito and old Pe 
 dro who managed the one the work of the house, and 
 the other the work of the fields. 
 
 But M hen Don Josh s thoughts went thus sorrow-
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 97 
 
 fully astray, Juanita had a way of stepping np softly 
 and kissing him upon a particular little spot upon his 
 cheek, just below the cheek-lxme, where his gray whis 
 kers grew thinly a little spot that she herself had dis 
 covered, and that was all her own. And then the 
 wrinkles would disappear from his forehead, the look 
 of longing would fade from his eyes, and he would say, 
 cheerily: "Si, Juanita; sta ueno, mi chiquita" Yes, 
 Juanita ; it s all right, my little one and his care, Avith 
 its cause, would be buried once more in the past. 
 
 Juanita, who shared Don Jose s little kingdom with 
 him, and thus exorcised sorrow from it, was his daugh 
 ter : and a fairer, more lovable crown princess never 
 reigned ! 
 
 Don Jose had lived in the Town of the Holy Chil 
 dren for a long time. Juanita who looked upon her 
 self as being quite an elderly sort of a person because 
 at the next feast of San Juan she would be eighteen 
 years old said that he had lived there always. As far 
 back as she remembered anything, she remembered only 
 the surroundings of this village home. Nor could she 
 see that her father in this time had changed in any way. 
 As a little child she remembered him as she still knew 
 him : his tall form bent a little by age, his kindly face 
 framed in a mass of tumbled, curly hair and shaggy 
 beard, which also, being grizzled and streaked with 
 gray, showed the touch of Time. Pedro, seeing more 
 clearly with his old eyes than Juanita saw with her 
 young ones, perceived that Don Jos6 in truth had 
 grown older. There was more of gray in his tumbled, 
 curly hair, his shaggy beard was shaggier and grayer 
 7
 
 98 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 too, and liis tall form still more was bowed as though 
 the burden of the years had grown heavier to bear. 
 
 And Pedro could see a much greater change by 
 going back yet a little further beyond the sad time 
 when the Senora s life ended on the very day that 
 Juanita s life began. He scarcely could believe that 
 the Don Jose, bowed and gray, whom he served now, 
 was the Don Jose", erect and still young in his vigorous 
 middle age, whom he served before that great sorrow 
 came. But he kept such thoughts as these to himself. 
 Thus far Juanita had known no sorrows ; and old Pe 
 dro loved her too well to cast upon the bright morn 
 ing of her life the shadow of a dark day dead and 
 gone. 
 
 Save this change in Don Jose, that somewhat early 
 had made him an old man, and the lesser changes 
 wrought by the flight of time in those around him, 
 no change at all had come to anything within the Town 
 of the Holy Children in the nearly eighteen years of 
 Juanita s little lifetime. The days drifted by pleasantly. 
 With them came no burden of care, and with them went 
 no burden of regret for other days as fresh, as beau 
 tiful, as full of quiet happiness, ever were ready to take 
 the place of those which were gone. 
 
 Juanita found great joy in the glad air and friendly 
 sunshine. And, in their due season, she found not less 
 pleasure in the friendly rains. The red mountains of 
 New Mexico are very beautiful in the rainy time. All 
 the green things, which try so hard, but so vainly, 
 through the dry season, to grow upon their arid flanks, 
 rejoice as the loving rain comes down to comfort them 
 after their nine months battle with the sun ; to give
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 99 
 
 them strength to live again through the nine months of 
 sunshine that surely will come when the rain is at an 
 end. And the red mountains grow redder, even to pur 
 ple, as their crests and sides are bathed by the many 
 showers sent down upon them by the kindly clouds. 
 ~No wonder is it that the Spaniards of old, reverently 
 seeing God in all his works, gave to these red mount 
 ains, so nobly beautiful, the name of El Sanyre de 
 CristoThe Blood of Christ. 
 
 Much of the love that was in Juniata s heart went 
 forth in these great masses of everlasting stone which 
 girded in her home. For the peaks and canons and 
 beetling cliffs she had special love-names of her own ; 
 for they were her close and dear friends. She made 
 stories about them for herself, peopling their purple 
 heights with saints and heroes of the Church, of whom 
 the Padre had told her brave stories saints and heroes 
 too good for the lower levels of the earth. Chief among 
 these strange loves of hers was the mountain of San 
 Yldefonso, that, ten miles away to the westward, rose 
 sharply from the very center of the valley and outlined 
 its square, battlemented crest in pale gray-blue against 
 the deep turquoise-blue of the sky. In this noble castle, 
 for so she called it and so, indeed, it seemed to be, so 
 regular and so symmetrical was its shape dwelt her 
 bravest soldiers and her best-loved saints. She never 
 tired of looking at this mountain down the vista of the 
 fair valley ; of fancying that the Ilio Grande, glittering 
 in the sunlight between its green banks, while the red 
 mountains of the blood of Christ towered above, was 
 the golden pathway that led to its stately gates ; of fan 
 cying that down this pathway rode ever noble knights
 
 100 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 to the waiting saints who, within the castle, would re 
 ward them fitly for their gallant deeds. 
 
 Juanita had time and to spare wherein to weave her 
 fancies. In gentle old New Spain there is none of the 
 bustle and toil and vexation of spirit by which the dwell 
 ers in less favored portions of the world are wearied in 
 body and cast down in heart ; and fancies are very real 
 in this land where life, no longer a burden, seems more 
 than half a pleasant dream. Nor in all New Spain was 
 there a place where fancies wove themselves more read 
 ily or in more airy forms than here in this little Town 
 of the Holy Children where trouble never came, where 
 all was placid happiness and peace. 
 
 Yet at last there did come, one day, into La Yilla de 
 los Santos Ninos a thrill of surprise. The Padre, re 
 turning from the great festival of the Corpus, in Santa 
 Fe, brought with him a strange rumor : that the Ameri 
 canos were coming down again once more from the 
 north not as they had come long years before, as con 
 quering soldiers, but as railroad-builders ; though what 
 a railroad was, not a single man, woman, or child in the 
 Town of the Holy Children, save the Padre himself and 
 Don Jose, at all could tell. The plaraaeferro-carril a 
 rut, a roadway, of iron was uncouth, strange, incom 
 prehensible. Doubtless, being an invention of the 
 Americanos, ftuaforro-carrtt was also an invention of 
 the devil. As everybody knew, between the devil and 
 the Americanos the relations were of the closest. 
 
 After much pondering upon the matter, in confer 
 ence with his friend Maximo, this popular view of the 
 matter was presented by Pedro to Don Jose for con-
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 101 
 
 firmation. ~Nor did the explanation that Don Jose gave 
 at all tend to shake his faith in the satanic genesis of 
 the threatened invasion. On the contrary, the explana 
 tion only bred in his mind a hazy concept of a great 
 howling demon, fed on fire and boiling water, that tore 
 across the land at a speed greater than that of a run 
 away l)urro j greater than that attainable by anything 
 earthly in a word, of a more prodigious devil than his 
 imagination well could lay hold upon. Therefore he 
 went back to Maximo in fear and trembling, crossing 
 himself vigorously, and fervently praying that the de 
 vastating horror which menaced the Town of the Holy 
 Children might be stayed. After this, no one doubted 
 that \\\Q ferro-carril of the Americanos was altogether 
 devilish and abounding in danger to Christian souls. 
 
 Presently the vanguard of the army of invasion ar 
 rived. After all, it was not a very formidable army : 
 only a half-dozen engineers for cavalry ; an axe -man, a 
 cook, and a couple of teamsters for infantry ; while the 
 nearest approach to an artillery train was a Studebaker 
 wagon, in which certain venturesome investigators dis 
 covered a few Winchester rifles, stacked handily upon 
 a loading of general stores. To be sure, besides the 
 Winchesters, the army was well provided with formida 
 ble revolvers ; but these reposed quietly in their holsters, 
 and their wearers, so far from manifesting a warlike dis 
 position, were friendly to a degree. Indeed, the party 
 was made up of brisk, merry young fellows, bent fully 
 as much upon having a good time as upon making sur 
 veys, and apparently quite determined to make them 
 selves as agreeable to the Mexicans as possible. Had 
 they not been Americanos, their laudable endeavor to
 
 102 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 establish themselves upon a friendly footing in the land 
 certainly would have been successful ; but the conditions 
 of the case were against them, and their endeavor failed. 
 The memory of the siege of Taos, of the battle and sack 
 of Santa Cruz, of the wreck of their own tiny town, of 
 the fall of Santa Fe, all this still was green in the mem 
 ory of the dwellers in the Town of the Holy Children 
 far too green to permit them, being good Mexicans, 
 to make friends of these Americanos, who, for all they 
 knew to the contrary, were the very sons of their old- 
 time foes. 
 
 For a time Don Jose shared this popular sentiment, 
 and had little to do with the railroad men. He had borne 
 his part bravely in that long-past, troublous time. High 
 up on his forehead, just under the edge of his tumbled 
 curly hair, was a gallant scar the mark of a Texan 
 saber, got as he stood firmly in the breach of the church 
 wall at Taos. As a good soldier, he bore no ill-will to 
 the soldier who had struck him down ; but it was not 
 in human nature that he should feel kindly toward the 
 nation to which that soldier belonged ; toward the peo 
 ple that had conquered his people, and that had left his 
 land bereft and desolate. And therefore it was that 
 while, as became a Mexican gentleman, he was courteous 
 in his dealings with these railroad-building Americanos 
 who had come down across the mountains from the 
 north, he made his dealings with them few, and treated 
 them as strangers, not as friends. 
 
 Yet presently, to the horror of old Pedro, his man 
 ner toward the invaders changed. It was Don Jose s 
 fortune his fate, perhaps as he rode homeward one 
 day, down the valley, to fall in with a couple of the
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 103 
 
 American engineers. The young men, full of enthu 
 siasm in their work, and thoroughly convinced that it 
 was destined to regenerate the benighted land in which 
 they w r ere carrying it on, and also charmed with this 
 delightful old fellow, whose manner and whose speech 
 were so pervaded by a courtly elegance, told in uncer 
 tain Spanish, but with an earnest energy, of the many 
 benefits to the people and to the country which the build 
 ing of the railroad surely would bring. They believed 
 heartily what they said, and their faith was infectious. 
 At first Don Jose listened only for politeness sake to 
 their glowing description of the coming season of re 
 vival, of universal comfort, of the fortunate few who 
 certainly would acquire great wealth. But as they rode 
 on and on, along the dusty road by the river-side, he 
 grew more and more interested in their talk ; and 
 presently his dark eyes began to sparkle with an eager 
 light, such as had not shone in them for years ; not 
 since the time in his early manhood when he began the 
 grand speculations which were to make him the richest 
 proprieta/rio in all Mexico and which ended in leaving 
 him owner of but one little, poor scrap of land. 
 
 Again he grew inattentive to their talk ; but now 
 not because it did not interest him, but because the 
 spirit of it had entered into the depths of his being and 
 was working great commotion there. The stray phrases 
 which penetrated to his mind rich farms, successful 
 vineyards, sales of land, new towns, great fortunes, 
 and the like gave strength to the nights of his own 
 fervid fancy, and filled with a greater eagerness his 
 eager soul. When their roads separated at the ford 
 at Chamita he scarcely roused himself to bid the en-
 
 104 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 gineers farewell, so earnestly was his mind engaged 
 with the bright future that had opened out before him 
 at the magic spell of their hopeful words. 
 
 Don Jose rode slowly through the ford, slowly along 
 the Santa Fe road to the point where the lane leading 
 to the Town of the Holy Children branched olf from it, 
 and slowly down this lane to Ms home. Outside the 
 little town he met the Padre, setting forth upon a mission 
 of mercy to one lying sick unto death, whose soul was 
 to be purged of the sins of the world that it was about 
 to leave ; but Don Jose rode on, his head bowed upon 
 his breast, and made no answering sign of reverence to 
 the Padre s salute. At the gate of the corral he 
 threw the end of the lariat to old Pedro without a 
 word though Pedro could not remember a time when 
 the like of this had happened before. Very close 
 friends were old Pedro and his master much closer 
 than master and man of the Saxon race, howsoever 
 steadfast their good feeling toward each other, ever 
 could hope to be. Pedro, too, had been in the fight at 
 Taos ; and in the darkness of night daring death he 
 had stolen into the church, and thence had brought Don 
 Jose from among the dead, and had nursed him back to 
 life. Don Jose never had forgotten this until to-day. 
 But to-day Don Josh s nature seemed to be entirely 
 changed. He even chid old Paquita who never be 
 fore had heard from his lips an unkind word because 
 by some mischance in the cooking she had suffered the 
 frijoles to be burned. And, strangest of all, Juanita s 
 kiss for the first time failed to drive the care-wrinkles 
 from his forehead and to bring a gentle light into his 
 brown eyes. And so began Don Jose s new prosperity.
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 1Q5 
 
 From this day onward, instead of shunning the 
 Americanos, Don Jose paid court to them. He spent 
 much time with them in their camp ; he rode out \vith 
 them while they ran their lines and staked off for con 
 struction ; he even made them welcome guests at his 
 own home. The engineers were rather flattered by 
 this unexpected tender of friendship ; and as it took a 
 practical turn they were well pleased with it. Presents 
 of fresh corn, of toothsome joints of kid, of melons and 
 fruit, came across to their camp on old Pedro s unwill 
 ing shoulders, and were very welcome there. And 
 after the rigors of camp food, the meals which Don 
 Jose gave them, of old Paquita s cooking, were veri 
 table feasts though, had they known how heartily 
 Paquita hoped that each mouthful would choke them, 
 it is possible that these feasts would have lost a little of 
 their relish. 
 
 The standing topic of conversation on all these oc 
 casions was the grand season of prosperity that would 
 come when the railroad should be finished and the en 
 terprising people of the Korth should pour down into 
 the land. Don Jos6 never tired of hearing how the 
 railroads of the Americanos were pushed out into desert 
 wastes only to make the wastes gardens and the deserts 
 populous. If a railroad thus could make a barren coun 
 try rich, how much richer then, he argued, must it 
 make a country that already was peopled and needed 
 only a market in order to develop abundantly its latent 
 wealth. And the bright vision of his little possessions, 
 fabulously increased in value and sold at a price that 
 would enable him again to own the great hacienda 
 down in Chihuahua, ever was before his eyes.
 
 106 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 He tried, one day, to make all tins plain to old 
 Pedro. But for once Pedro s opinions-were very much 
 at variance with those of his master. The upshot of 
 their talk was that Pedro said, very sturdily, that it was 
 better to be poor than to take the devil s money. And, 
 in answer to the objection that the devil had nothing to 
 do with the matter in hand, he expressed his emphatic 
 belief that the league which existed, and which always 
 had existed, between the devil and the Americanos 
 made devil s money and Americanos money one and 
 the same thing. Pedro s opinions were not many, but 
 such as he had were positive and strong. 
 
 About this time Don Jose fell in with a new ac 
 quaintance who pleased him mightily. This was a 
 certain Sefior Richards an Americano, of course 
 who had drifted down into New Mexico for no par 
 ticular reason, he said, but for the general purpose of 
 seeing what chances there were for investments in the 
 land that the railroad so soon was to make rich by open 
 ing it to the world. His anticipations of coming bene 
 fits were broader and more sanguine, even, than those 
 entertained by the engineers ; and, therefore, much 
 better suited to Don Jose s needs. Don Jose had 
 found the engineers rather lacking in enthusiasm, lat 
 terly. He had no cause for complaining of lack of 
 enthusiasm on the part of this new ally whose flights 
 of hopeful fancy more than matched his own. Where 
 the Mexican saw a promise only of hundreds, the Amer 
 ican saw thousands; and when Don Jose ventured, 
 doubtfully, to speak of thousands, Sefior Richards firmly 
 and positively spoke of millions. Indeed, there was no 
 end to the wealth and prosperity that he foretold.
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 
 
 Nor were his forecasts vague or illusive. They 
 were precise and practical. A land improvement com 
 pany ; a company for the sale of town lots ; a company 
 that would dig a great irrigating canal, and so bring 
 under ditch thousands of acres of arid land ; a com 
 pany that would plant vineyards and manufacture 
 wine these were the more notable of the plans which 
 were to make Don Jose s level lands in the valley and 
 ragged stretches of hill-side turn at last into gold. Don 
 Jose s brain was in a whirl with all these fine projects. 
 He could not at all take in their details, and much of 
 their general purpose was more than he could under 
 stand ; but their grand result was clear enough to him, 
 and contemplation of it made him glad at heart. 
 
 Moreover, he already held in hand an earnest of his 
 riches. The sum of money paid him by the railroad 
 company for the right of way across his lands seemed to 
 him in itself enormous for in this blessed region all the 
 things which make life comfortable were to be had in 
 plenty ; and money, with which comes sorrow, scarcely 
 was known at all. But Don Jose did not by any 
 means look upon his money as the seed of unhappiness ; 
 on the contrary, he believed that with its possession 
 happiness had come to him such as he had not known 
 for many long years. In truth, he looked back now 
 with something like contempt upon the placid life that 
 had been his in the past. To be sure, in this past time - 
 since the Seilora s death he had known no real sorrows. 
 lie had lived in quiet contentment, drawing from his 
 little herd and from his few fields all that he needed to 
 supply his bodily wants, with enough of overplus to 
 help his humble neighbors in times of dearth and
 
 108 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 being thus liberal with the goods which God had given 
 him, and being also gentle and kindly in his dealings 
 with those about him, he had many friends. But now, 
 in contrast with the life of magnificence that so soon 
 would be his, this simple life that for so long he had 
 been contentedly leading seemed worthless and mean. 
 
 By this time Senor Richards had shifted his position 
 from that of a constant visitor to that of a permanent in 
 mate of Don Jose s home. The two had so much to talk 
 about, so many brilliant schemes to plan and to shape, 
 that they could not afford the time lost in riding back 
 ward and forward between the Town of the Holy Chil 
 dren and Espanola, where Senor Richards had found 
 quarters. So, quite naturally, the American was in 
 duced, as a favor to his Mexican friend, to change his 
 abode. Old Pedro s patience was tried sorely by this 
 new move, for he hated the Seiior Richards most cor 
 dially ; but he had found by this time that remonstrance 
 with his master was useless, and so, moodily, he held his 
 peace. With old Paquita the case was different. She 
 was not in the habit of setting a guard upon her lips 
 at any time ; and at a time like this least of all. In 
 a fine rage she presented herself to Don Jose, and 
 freed her mind completely of the burden that rested 
 upon it of anger that an Americano should be thus re 
 ceived ; of conviction that he would repay his debt of 
 hospitality by some hurtful, evil deed. Paquita did not 
 specify what particular evil deed she looked for ; but 
 the thought of Juanita, young, beautiful, motherless, 
 was in her heart. Yet Don Jose was not moved 
 save to unwonted anger by this outbreak of rebellion 
 on Paquita s part. Nor did it in anywise affect the
 
 THE TOWN OP THE HOLY CHILDREN. 109 
 
 result. Precisely as liad been arranged, the Sefior Rich 
 ards came with his few belongings to the house in the 
 Town of the Holy Children and made it his home. 
 
 Juanita was the only member of the household, save 
 Don Jose himself, who regarded complacently this ad 
 dition to the household s membership. Of late her life 
 had been a lonely one. Engrossed by his many plans 
 for getting rich again, Don Jose had spared no time for 
 the pleasant, idle talk with Juanita about her heroes 
 and saints in the castle of San Yldefonso, about her 
 friends the mountains, about her goats and sheep and 
 the burro, and such like small matters in which they 
 both had found much simple happiness in the time that 
 was gone. And being thus cut off from the companion 
 ship that had become, though she knew it not, a neces 
 sary part of her life, Juanita was more than ready to 
 welcome to her home this stranger; whose presence 
 promised to afford her at least the pleasure and excite 
 ment which come with change. From what her father 
 had told her lacking anybody else to tell it to, for 
 Pedro steadily refused to have part or parcel with 
 the new order of things she was greatly impressed by 
 the wonderful power that this Americano possessed of 
 making their poverty turn into wealth. To be sure she 
 never had known until Don Jose now told her that 
 she was poor ; and wealth was a word altogether strange 
 to her. But it was only natural that the promise of 
 wealth should seem very good to her when she found 
 that its possession meant for her many new gowns and 
 real jewels, much finer than the sham ones worn by Our 
 Lady at Santa Cruz on the day of her festival, and visits 
 to the capital every year for the Corpus and the other
 
 HO STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 great feasts of the Church. Hundreds of times she 
 had sat upon old M&ximo s knee and had listened with 
 an eager longing that she herself might see it all with 
 her own eyes to his descriptions of the Corpus and of 
 the many splendors of Santa Fe. No wonder, then, 
 that she looked with reverent admiration upon this 
 Americano, who was to work the change in their for 
 tunes that would put these wondrous and much-hoped- 
 for delights within her grasp. Nor did her admiration 
 of the potent Americano suffer any decrease because he 
 was young and handsome not handsome as were her 
 own countrymen, but with a fair beauty that was alto 
 gether strange to her, and the more attractive because 
 it was thus strange. Presently, in Juanita s day-dreams, 
 the bravest knights in her castle of San Yldefonso also 
 were fair. 
 
 While Don Jos6 and his friend the Senor Richards 
 talked over their many fine projects for fortune-making, 
 and while Juanita s day-dreams took a shape and color 
 that they never before had known, the work of building 
 the railway went on with a rapidity that, to the easy 
 going Mexicans, seemed nothing short of miraculous. 
 Although they themselves did the digging and the cart 
 ing of the earth, the celerity with which the embank 
 ments grew, and with which the cuts through the hills 
 were completed, was so prodigious knowing, as they 
 did, how a whole summer scarcely had sufficed them 
 when they dug the great acequia that watered the hill 
 side above San Pedro that they were more than ever 
 sure of the existence of the league between the Ameri 
 canos and the devil. Nor were they well pleased with 
 their work in some other respects. The fields which
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 
 
 they loved, having tilled them all their lives long, and 
 knowing that in the past their fathers had tilled them 
 for centuries, were laid waste as the earthworks grew ; 
 and everywhere their cherished water-courses were di 
 vided. Yet, with the tendency of their race to make 
 life a holiday, they found solace for what they deemed 
 their misfortunes in the seemingly vast sums of money 
 paid them by the railroad company for their labor and 
 for their wasted fields. The possession of money was 
 new to them, and they found that it brought them many 
 pleasant things. The traders who came down with 
 wagon-loads of beautiful wares and stuff s from the 
 North did a brisk business ; and every night there was 
 a dance, and every Sunday a, fiesta, in one or another of 
 the little towns. JSTor did these simple prodigals stop 
 in their merry-making to consider that as their money 
 was going as fast as it came, and going only to secure 
 them passing enjoyment, nothing would remain in the 
 end to compensate them for the injury done to their 
 farms that would remain an injury always. 
 
 Don Jose was the one exception to this improvident 
 rule. lie held what had been paid him for his own 
 land, and, under the guidance of the Sefior Richards, 
 lie added to his little fortune largely. The two made 
 expeditions together down the valley, in advance of the 
 railway workings, and bargained for the land over 
 which the railway was to pass ; and presently sold what 
 they had bought to the railway company at a goodly 
 advance; for the valley folk had faith in Don Jose 
 because of the name for kindliness and goodness that he 
 had borne among them for so long a time and did not 
 question the fairness of the prices which he offered
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 them ; and the less, because these prices were higher 
 than ever had been paid in the valley for land before. 
 
 Senor Richards stated the case to the right-of-way 
 agent of the railroad company in these terse terms : 
 
 " We pay em a d d sight more for their land than 
 
 it s worth to them, and we take all the trouble of dick 
 ering for it and squaring the titles ; and then we sell it 
 
 f or a d d sight less than it s worth to you. It s what 
 
 I call a d d fair and square transaction all around. 
 
 And, d n it all, I m not here for my health, anyway." 
 
 In language less vigorous and more in harmony with 
 the sedate forms of Spanish speech, Senor Richards 
 made this same presentment of the case to Don Jose" ; 
 and urged, besides, that if the great plans which they had 
 in mind were to be realized, it was necessary that they 
 thus should accumulate a working capital. The busi 
 ness that they had in hand was a legitimate business, he 
 said, one in which any honorable gentleman honorably 
 might engage. 
 
 At first Don Jose certainly did not take kindly to 
 this "legitimate business," but gradually he suffered 
 himself to be convinced by the arguments of the " hon 
 orable gentleman " with whom he was associated. And 
 a still stronger argument tending to his conviction 
 was his growing love for the growing mass of silver 
 dollars which he had in store. He had made a hiding- 
 place for his treasure in the clay floor of his sleeping- 
 room, and at night he would dig away the clay that 
 covered it and would sit for hours contemplating it in 
 a dreamy ecstasy, as he pictured to himself the delights 
 which soon now were to be his : how he would be the 
 owner again of the great hacienda in Chihuahua ; how
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. H3 
 
 ho would live again the free, careless life of his youth ; 
 how once more he would receive the respect and honor 
 that is the due of him who owns broad lands. And, 
 thus richly fancying, he would grow pitiful of himself 
 as he thought of the many years that he had lost, here 
 in this miserable Town of the Holy Children, in a 
 meaningless and i<moble life. 
 
 O o 
 
 And yet, though he tried to smother it in the depths 
 of his heart, the thought would force itself upon him, 
 now and then, that his wealth was being bought at the 
 cost of certain precious things which wealth, in turn, 
 could never buy. Already his land transactions had 
 brought him the ill-feeling of the valley folk who, in 
 past times, had known him only by his kindly deeds, 
 and who had felt for him only respect and love. Those 
 whose land he had bought for little and sold for much, 
 as they gradually came to understand the loss that they 
 had suffered, were wroth with him ; and as they told, 
 up and down the valley, of the wrong that he had done 
 them, a sentiment of ill-will against Don Jose arose that 
 widened and gathered strength from day to day. In the 
 course of his rides abroad he no longer encountered 
 smiling faces and greetings which came warmly from 
 the heart ; the Padre, too, his tried and trusted friend 
 through many years, had drawn away from him ; and 
 even in his own home there was a chilling change. But 
 Don Jose, lilling his mind with thoughts of his great 
 store of dollars, and of the joys which these dollars 
 would buy for him, was able for a long while to hide 
 from himself the dismal truth that, in going out into 
 his new life in search of riches, he had left the love and 
 friendship precious above all riches of his old life be-
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 hind. Yet at last the time came when his mind no longer 
 could keep this secret from his heart. 
 
 One day, the Senor Eichards being away on an ex 
 pedition down the valley, concerning some land that 
 they purposed buying, Don Jose tried to make clear to 
 old Pedro the excellent things which were in store for 
 them all when his plans should be accomplished ; and 
 so sought to justify his acts in his servant s eyes. But 
 Pedro listened but coldly, and refused to be convinced. 
 So the end of their talk was that Don Jose bade him 
 begone for a stupid old fool. And Pedro, shouldering 
 his clumsy hoe, went down sadly and wearily to his labor 
 in the fields, wondering the while if Don Jose had 
 thought him so stupid that night, long ago, when he 
 crept in between the camp-fires of the Americanos to 
 the church at Taos and saved his master s life at the 
 risk of his own. 
 
 And much this same thought came into Don Jose s 
 own mind as, his anger cooling, he watched old Pedro 
 slowly and sorrowfully shambling away. For a long 
 time he sat with his head bowed down, w r hile his face 
 grew more and more thoughtful and sad. It is a dreary 
 thing suddenly to realize that the friendship of more 
 than half a lifetime is broken though the friendship 
 thus riven be only that of master and man, and the 
 friend lost only a clumsy old fellow with no ideas in his 
 thick head save those of duty and love. And Don Jose, 
 as the thought came full upon him that Pedro who 
 had saved his life, and who for so many years had served 
 him with a loving loyalty now no longer was his friend, 
 was very sad at heart.
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. H5 
 
 While ho sat thus mournfully musing, Paquita 
 crossed the patio / and he noticed, being in the mood 
 to perceive the omissions, that she did not turn, as for 
 so many years had been her wont when she came near 
 her master, to interchange with him the friendly smile 
 that was sure to be the prelude to a little friendly talk. 
 Here, then, was another faithful friend estranged. 
 
 He heard Juanita s step in the house and called to 
 her ; but when she came out to him her face was grave, 
 and, stopping a little space from where he sat, she asked 
 what he would have her do. She did not come running 
 to him with a laugh and kiss him upon the cheek ; and 
 he knew of a sudden that a long, long while had passed 
 since she had given him this sweet caress. 
 
 Dost thou not love me, little one ? " he asked ; and 
 his heart grew colder and sadder still as, instead of the 
 loving answer that she would have given a year before, 
 she said, simply, " Si, Senor," but made no motion to 
 come to his half-extended arms. And then, waiting a 
 moment or two respectfully, to know if he had any 
 commands to lay upon her, and iinding that he remained 
 silent, Juanita walked quietly away. 
 
 As he looked after her, longingly, he marked with 
 surprise how much within the year she had changed. 
 She no longer was a slim slip of a girl, and instead of 
 her light, quick step she walked heavily. In the door 
 way she paused and half turned, as though irresolute to 
 go or stay, and he saw that her face \vas flushed with a 
 deep red. For a moment her eyes met his, and the old- 
 time love-light seemed again to shine in them but it 
 was strangely blended with aii expression, half of doubt, 
 half of fear. Yet, before he had time fully to perceive
 
 116 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 all this, still less to comprehend it, she turned again, 
 hastily, and was gone. 
 
 And thus it was that Don Jose came to know clearly 
 that the money which he had gained had cost him all 
 the love that was his in the world. 
 
 For a while he again sat silent and sorrowful ; and 
 then he arose and walked, with something of eagerness, 
 out from the patio and across the road into the little 
 chapel. Although living at the very door of this chapel, 
 Don Jose but rarely entered it. In common with the 
 men of his race generally, he was content that the 
 services of the Church should be discharged for him by 
 his womenkind. But now he turned to the chapel in 
 earnest need, as the one fit place wherein his sorrow for 
 the past might be lost in prayer, and wherein, through 
 the answer to his prayer, might come hope for a better 
 future. The shadowy coolness of the little church, as 
 he entered it and left behind him the glare of sunlight, 
 was comforting to him soothing him as he would have 
 been soothed by a soft, cool hand laid upon his hot fore 
 head. There was no one in the chapel he Avas glad of 
 that and he sank down upon his knees before the little 
 altar, restf ully, as a wanderer finding welcome in a home 
 from which he has gone far astray. As he prayed 
 there, less in words than in thoughts, peace seemed to 
 come back to him, and love entered once more into his 
 heart. The memory of the many placid, happy years 
 which he had passed in the Town of the Holy Children 
 stole softly into his soul, and brought with it a soothing 
 sense of rest ; and at the same time came the firm de 
 termination that by the sweet Children s aid, and by 
 the Blessed Virgin s grace this life again should be
 
 THE TOWX OP THE HOLY CHILDREN. 
 
 liis. And so, at last, lie arose from before the altar and 
 went forth once more into the sunlight ; and in his 
 heart was happiness. 
 
 Don Jose, a sinner, forgot that sin though through 
 God s great goodness and mercy it may be forgiven 
 is a deadly stain that even true repentance can not efface ; 
 forgot that, while evil may be stopped at its source, the 
 consequences of evil done must go on and on until 
 through bitter sorrow is accomplished the expiation that 
 Fate inexorably demands. 
 
 The Seiior Richards, having, with some little trouble, 
 satisfactorily arranged a very promising deal down the 
 valley, came back late in the afternoon to the Town of 
 the Holy Children, to report the transaction to his part 
 ner, and to lay out plans for continuing their highly 
 profitable campaign. For private reasons of his own, 
 Seiior Richards did not intend to carry on this cam 
 paign much longer, and he already had partly mapped 
 out a bold stroke with which he intended to bring it to 
 an end. But that Don Jose should desire to end it was 
 a possibility that had not occurred to him. Therefore, 
 he was not a little surprised when in the after-glow of 
 sunset, as the two sat together in the patio smoking 
 their cigarritos, while the cool wind poured down from 
 the mountains arid brought with it a delicious refresh 
 ment after the long heat of the day Don Jose told him 
 of his changed intentions in regard to the execution of 
 their plans. Don Jose spoke nervously, almost timidly, 
 for his instinct told him that the Senor Richards could 
 not in the smallest degree comprehend the motives 
 which actuated him in renouncing the fair certainty of
 
 118 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 wealth ; and he felt that this friend, who had helped 
 him so well, so disinterestedly, had a just right for com 
 plaint in a sudden stoppage of their joint work while its 
 profits yet remained all on one side for, though the 
 money already in hand might be divided, the great 
 schemes for fortune-making, of which this money was 
 the substantial basis, still remained in the air. 
 
 For a little space, while he unfolded his intentions 
 in the slow speech that was habitual with him, the angry 
 light that he expected to see in the eyes of the Senor 
 Richards indeed was there. But as he talked on this 
 light died out, and when he had made an end of his 
 
 O ? 
 
 discourse the Americano s face wore a smile not a 
 pleasant smile, it is true ; nor one easy for a simple- 
 minded man like Don Jose to understand. However, 
 it seemed to be well meant, for the Sefior Richards 
 raised no objections to the dissolution of their partner 
 ship. It made no difference to him, he said, whether 
 or not their plans were executed. Other land-owners 
 on the line of the railroad, no doubt, would accept 
 gladly the chance that Don Jose chose to throw away ; 
 and, if they would not, he did not greatly care. On 
 many accounts, he added, he was disposed to return to 
 the States ; this was but a slow country for an Ameri 
 can to make money in ; after all, these plans which they 
 had formed for fortune-making were quite as likely to 
 fail as they were to succeed. 
 
 Don Jose, thinking only of his desire to retreat from 
 his position, did not notice the wide difference between 
 his friend s views now and those which he had expressed 
 that very morning when he had repeated with em 
 phasis liis frequently-urged belief that the very plans
 
 THE TOWN OP THE HOLY CHILDREN. H9 
 
 which lie now dismissed so airily would assure to them 
 both the speedy acquisition of fabulous wealth. Had 
 Don Jose perceived this change of front, the thought 
 might have occurred to him, ignorant though he was 
 of the darker side of human nature, that the honorable 
 gentleman his partner, for some reason that might not 
 bear examination, had been aiding him and urging him 
 to build a house of cards. 
 
 The proposition that the money should be divided 
 was accepted by the Senor Richards briskly. It had 
 better be done at once, that very night, lie said ; since 
 Don Jose had decided to abandon their joint under 
 taking, he would leave immediately in fact, by the 
 train that passed Chamita a little after midnight for 
 the States. In any one else, Don Jose would have 
 deemed strange such exceedingly prompt action ; but 
 in the case of this Americano he had come to know that 
 intention and action usually went hand in hand. 
 
 Juanita had been sitting near them while they talked, 
 but neither of them had spoken to her her father 
 had not even thought of her. Women are looked upon 
 as useful creatures in this part of the world, but they 
 have no part in the serious affairs of men. Kow she 
 arose from the bench by the doorway, and, with a sob 
 that startled them both, went into the house hurriedly. 
 
 " Ah ! the poor little one ! She mourns the loss of 
 the Corpus, and the beautiful gowns, and all the fine 
 things which I have promised her," said Don Jose. 
 The Senor Richards made no answer in words, but 
 again there appeared upon his face that curious, not 
 pleasant, smile. 
 
 The two men went into the house to Don Jose s
 
 120 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 sleeping-room, and Don Jose discovering now for the 
 first time its hiding-place to his friend dug up from 
 the clay floor his hoard of silver dollars and made a fair 
 division of them. He was strongly tempted little 
 liking the way that he had come by them to give 
 them all to the American ; but the thought of Juanita 
 restrained him. With such a sum as still was left to 
 him he could give her a marriage portion that would 
 assure her a worthy husband ; he felt that he was old 
 now, and his heart s desire was to see Juanita, the one 
 true treasure of his old age, well settled in life before 
 he died. Therefore he checked his impulse, and, when 
 the Senor Richards had verified his count, he returned 
 his own half of the money to its hiding-place in the 
 clay floor. Senor Richards stood by and watched him 
 the unpleasant smile again upon his face, though this 
 time it was unseen by Don Jose while he filled in the 
 hole and carefully leveled over it the clay. 
 
 When the two men separated for the few hours of 
 sleep which could be caught before the Senor Richards 
 would ride away to take the north-bound train Don 
 Jose returned across the dark patio. As he passed the 
 door of Juanita s sleeping-room he heard, through the 
 darkness, the sound of bitter sobs. Pushing aside the 
 partly open door, he went to where his daughter lay 
 sorrowing. Very tenderly, for his own heart felt a 
 nameless sorrow that entered irto and was a part of his 
 great love for his child, he asked : 
 
 " Doth thy little heart suffer, my little one, now 
 that all I foolishly promised thee is lost ? " 
 
 But Juanita answered only with a moan, and in the 
 darkness she clasped eagerly her fathei s hand.
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 121 
 
 For a long while, stroking her liands soothingly, he 
 sat beside her. But she would not be comforted, and 
 her quivering sobs wrung cruelly his loving heart. At 
 last she said, with such hollow tones of grief in her 
 voice as made it seem the voice of a tormented soul 
 speaking from amid the agonies of hell : " Xot now, 
 my father, not now. I must tell thee my sorrow but 
 wait yet a little time. Leave me for this one night 
 longer with thy dear love, that I had thought already 
 was lost to me ; leave me, and let me make to the 
 Mother of Sorrows my prayer." 
 
 And Don Jose, half smiling that so small a grief 
 thus should stir to its very depths Juanita s heart, 
 yet sorrowing because his own folly had brought this 
 grief upon her, kissed gently and lovingly her little 
 tear-wet cheek, and left her alone in the darkness to 
 pray. 
 
 Sleep came to Don Jose slowly. This had been a 
 day of great excitement to him, and his mind was 
 charged with many and conflicting thoughts. lie had 
 taken a decisive step that shaped positively his future 
 life. As he believed, he had relinquished wealth that 
 was within his grasp ; as he certainly knew, he had 
 accepted comparative poverty as his portion for the re 
 mainder of his days. Both his conscience and his 
 heart approved what he had done; yet it was not in 
 human nature, that, after making such a choice, he 
 should not feel some twinges of regret. And a real 
 poignancy was given to his sorrow by the grief that his 
 choice had caused his child, lie felt sure, of course, 
 that this little trouble of hers would be cured by time.
 
 122 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and that the life which he had chosen for her was far 
 more likely to bring her happiness than the life which 
 he had rejected ; jet it troubled him to think that any 
 act of his no matter how temporary her pain, nor how 
 greatly for her good the eventual result should make 
 in her tender soul so harsh a wound. And underlying 
 all these troubling thoughts, now that his mind was 
 awakened to the change that a year had wrought, was 
 the haunting fear that with the coming of the Ameri 
 canos the restf ulness and peace of the Town of the Holy 
 Children had departed, never to return. When at last 
 he slept, his sleep was dreamful and unsound. 
 
 Don Jose was awakened less by a noise than by a 
 presence by an instinctive feeling that he was not 
 alone, and that deadly peril was near. The room, with 
 out windows, was densely dark ; only a faint suggestion 
 of dim, reflected light came in through the open door 
 from the starlit patio. Through this slightly luminous 
 space, as he gazed intently, a figure seemed to move ; 
 and a moment later he heard a very slight soft sound, 
 as though a hand were moving over the surface of the 
 clay floor. The sound came from that side of the room 
 where his treasure lay buried, and as his light sleep 
 wholly left him, he knew that he was being robbed. 
 Some one of the many loose characters with which the 
 valley had been infested since the coming of the rail 
 way must have guessed that he had money by him, 
 and so had planned this daring theft. In the excite 
 ment of the moment, and in the confusion of a mind 
 aroused from sleep, it did not occur to Don Jose that a 
 robber of this sort would not have the precise knowl 
 edge of the interior of his house, nor of the exact spot
 
 THE TOWN OP THE HOLY CHILDREN. 123 
 
 where the money lay hidden, that this robber manifest 
 ly was in possession of. Indeed, he did not pause to 
 think about the matter at all. Over his head, hanging 
 upon the wall, within easy reach of his hand, was the 
 sword that he had carried so gallantly through the long- 
 past war the sword that had fallen beside him, when 
 lie was struck down in the church at Taos, and that 
 Pedro had brought away, in that dismal night-time, to 
 keep as a precious relic should his brave master die. 
 It was a good sword, and Don Jose s blood coursed 
 hotly through his veins, as he felt, although he was an 
 old man now, that he still could use it well. With a 
 cry he seized it, sprang to his feet, crossed the room, 
 and made a fierce lunge in the darkness. But his 
 thrust went into the empty air and before he could 
 recover himself a hand had clutched his throat. 
 
 " Hold your noise, you d d old fool ! I don t 
 
 want to murder you. I only want the money. Keep 
 quiet, and you ll be all right. Make another sound, and 
 I ll choke you ! " 
 
 Don Jose did not understand this speech, for the 
 words were English ; but he recognized the voice, 
 strained by passion though it was, as the voice of the 
 Senor Richards. But had he fully understood what 
 was said to him, and no matter who the robber had 
 been, he would not have yielded. His old soldierly 
 spirit, long at rest, was aroused again ; and it was 
 fiercely strengthened by the sense of the cruel wrong 
 that was being done him by this Americano, whom he 
 had sheltered in his own home, and whom he had made 
 his friend. He cried out as loudly as he could for the 
 grip upon his throat, and he gave one thrust, at least,
 
 124 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 with his sword that told. And the cry and the sword- 
 thrust sealed his fate. A revolver cracked, throwing 
 out for an instant a glare of red light into the darkness, 
 and Don Jose fell back upon the little heap of upturned 
 clay beside his treasure dead. 
 
 As he fell, a gleam of light shone outside the door 
 way in the patio, and then carrying a lantern, and 
 armed with no better weapon than his big hoe Pedro 
 rushed into the room ; behind him came Paquita, and 
 with her, wild-eyed and fear-stricken, Juanita. The 
 light lasted only for an instant. The revolver cracked 
 again, and Pedro fell dead by the side of Don Jose. In 
 the war-time of old, often had Pedro prayed that should 
 his master fall, battling fairly with an honorable foe, he 
 might thus fall beside him. But what bitter irony of 
 that prayer it was that they should die together in such 
 a dastard fight as this ! 
 
 For the instant that the light lasted Juanita s eyes 
 met those of her father s murderer ; and even the Senor 
 Richards, who was blessed with a commendable coolness 
 imder trying circumstances, trembled, with chilled blood, 
 before that wild look in which were mingled a deadly 
 horror and a desolate despair. Then Pedro s life and 
 the light went out together ; and went out also all light 
 from Juanita s forever-darkened soul. 
 
 In the darkness the two women heard the murderer 
 move the bodies upon the floor ; heard, a little later, 
 the clink of silver he was not the man to lose the fruit 
 of his work ; heard him pass through the door, close 
 beside them, and so across the patio to the corral, where 
 his horse, ready saddled, stood tethered ; heard him 
 mount, and heard the sound, ever lessening, of his
 
 THE TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN. 125 
 
 horse s hoofs as he galloped toward the ford in the 
 river, guided by the clear, pale light of the stars. So 
 still was the night that they even heard the splashing of 
 water as he crossed the ford at Chamita. At the same 
 moment sounded shrilly the whistle of the approaching 
 train for the Xorth ; and they knew that to arouse pur 
 suit was useless for the devil had saved his own.
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 GEORGE RAND, of tough New England stock, was as 
 brisk and as capable an engineer as ever held a transit. 
 But with his cool, practical Yankee blood ran another 
 strain. His grandfather, more fortunate than most young 
 Americans of his day, had been sent over seas to make 
 the grand tour ; and had vexed sorely the Puritan pre 
 judices of his family by bringing home a Papist wife. 
 The land of her birth never was clearly known in the 
 family, for the respectable New England folk to whom, 
 thus unwarrantably, she had become akin, simply and 
 decidedly refused to have anything to do with her. 
 Therefore, she lived with her husband apart from the 
 world, bore him a child or two, and then, possibly not 
 unwillingly, yielded up the ghost. Her portrait, hang 
 ing in the Rand drawing-room in the old-fashioned 
 house up at the State-House end of the Common, in a 
 private way ceremoniously chained off once a year to 
 the end that its privacy might be kept inviolate was 
 proof enough that she came from a southern land : a 
 gentle, gracious face of clear olive brown ; dark eyes, 
 all fire and tenderness ; lips soft and full, on which 
 warm kisses seemed to wait. 
 
 As a little boy, Rand fell into the odd habit of wor-
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 127 
 
 shiping this portrait : not metaphorically but literally. 
 In the doubtful light of dying day, in the warm dark- 
 someness of summer afternoons when close-bowed shut 
 ters barred the sunlight s entrance, he would steal softly 
 into the room and kneel before the picture and make 
 to it strange prayers of his own devising until one day 
 he was fairly caught in the midst of this irregular, not 
 to say unholy, adoration by his mother. Mrs. Hand 
 was a severely common-sensible young woman, born in 
 Newtonville, who, being fair herself, and holding to 
 sound Congregational doctrine, hated black-haired Pa 
 pistical women as she hated the personal devil who was 
 an important part of her rigid creed. Therefore, find 
 ing her offspring thus engaged, she was not a little hor 
 ror-stricken : which feeling found characteristic expres 
 sion upon the person of the offender in a sound spanking. 
 Possibly this form of correction was not precisely suited 
 to the offense that it corrected. But it seemed to have 
 the desired effect. So far as outward and visible wor 
 ship went, George Rand worshiped his grandmother s 
 portrait no more. 
 
 With the years that followed at school and college 
 in the keen jSTcw England atmosphere, with yet more 
 years of sternly practical life passed in building railroads 
 in the energetic West, whatever had been moody and 
 whimsical in the boy disappeared. When he was seven- 
 or eight-and-twenty, being then back in ISTew England 
 at work on a road that gave him, before it was finished, 
 a couple of years of life in the East, he married : as 
 genuine a love-match, he believed, as ever was made by 
 man. Mrs. Hand the elder was well pleased with this 
 marriage, for her daughter-in-law was a woman after
 
 128 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 her own heart : of good Salem stock, clever, wholesome, 
 and, withal, fair to look upon, and having a loving 
 heart. That her lovingness for her husband was deep 
 and genuine there could not be a doubt, and very tender 
 was her husband s love for her and these loves were 
 yet stronger and yet richer after the boy was born. 
 The marriage was one of those ideal marriages in which 
 respect and trustfulness and feeling of good comrade 
 ship unite to make an earnest, lasting love. 
 
 Before the baby was a year old, Hand went down to 
 Mexico. It was tough work for him to go, but his going 
 scarcely was a matter of choice. Such a chance as was 
 offered to him was not likely to come twice in a life 
 time not often in an engineer s lifetime did such a 
 chance come once. The tide was turning, and he could 
 not afford to miss so fair an opportunity to take it at 
 the turn. Like the brave woman that she was, his wife 
 gave him brave words of cheer and comforting ; bearing 
 her share, and more than her share, of the bitter trial of 
 parting, that his share might be less. So, with great 
 love for her, and cherishing in his heart the loving God 
 speed with which she had sent him forth, he journeyed 
 downward into the South. 
 
 Late day is a very perfect time in Mexico. As the 
 sun sinks behind the mountains, and the glare and heat 
 go after it, cool shadows come forth modestly from 
 where they have been in hiding all day long ; and a 
 cool, delicious breeze sweeps down from the mountains 
 comfortingly ; and after the weariness of long hours of 
 scorching sunlight there is coolness, and shadiness, and 
 rest.
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 129 
 
 Then do the house-doors open slowly, one by one, and 
 those who have sought shelter from the heat within the 
 thick clay walls, arouse themselves from sleep and come 
 forth drowsily. Little groups form here and there be 
 fore the open doors and talk about nothing with the 
 ease that only a life-long habit of talking about nothing 
 can give. Women pass and repass to and from the 
 spring or the acequia, if the town is not lucky enough 
 to o\vn a spring bearing upon one shoulder, gracefully, 
 great water-jars ; "oyas," as they call them in the soft 
 ened Spanish, that is not of Spain. Thin lines of smoke 
 curl upward from many little fires, and a smell of many 
 tortillas cooking comes most cheeringly to the nostrils 
 of a hungry man. 
 
 George Hand, standing in front of an adobe house, 
 waiting for his supper to be made ready, dwelt upon 
 this slow-going activity and found therein great solace 
 for his soul. It was not new to him, now. In one little 
 town or another, where his headquarters for the time 
 had been, he had known it and greatly relished it each 
 night for the past half year. But custom could not 
 stale for him the charm of this easy-going languorous 
 life ; that yet had underlying it lava seas of passionate 
 energy whence, at any moment, might burst forth 
 storms of raging hatred, or not less raging storms of 
 love. 
 
 In some strange way that he could feel, but could 
 not understand, Hand s whole heart went out to these 
 people, whose life and customs and modes of thought, 
 though so unlike those of the people from among whom 
 he came, in very truth seemed those to which he had 
 been born. It was an absurd fancy, of course, but from 
 9
 
 130 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the first day that he was in Mexico he had felt not like 
 a stranger, but like one who, having been for long years 
 in foreign lands, at last gladly and thankfully comes 
 home. Each day this feeling had grown stronger, until 
 now it well-nigh wholly possessed his being frighten 
 ing him when, as would happen now and then, he real 
 ized how utterly he was becoming estranged from his 
 own land. At first he had given play to this queer 
 fancy, taking a humorous pleasure in strengthening it 
 by throwing himself as completely as possible into the 
 life that surrounded him ; by seeking to adopt not 
 merely Mexican customs of living but Mexican views of 
 life and modes of thought. And now, when he was be 
 ginning to realize how completely his whim, as he had 
 regarded it, had become himself, the way backward was 
 beset with difficulties hard to pass. Moreover, he knew 
 that he was losing his old-time fighting power ; that his 
 moral strength was slipping away from him ; that he 
 was dropping each day more and more into the very 
 Mexican habit of drifting with the stream. 
 
 The only strong ties which bound him to the sterner, 
 higher civilization of which he had been a part, were 
 his wife and child. These still were realities to him ; 
 but even these were beginning to grow unreal. Each 
 week came loving letters from his wife, fresh breezes 
 which, for a little space, cleared the warm, enervating 
 atmosphere in which he lived. While the freshness 
 lasted his answers were written. He found that if he 
 suffered more than a day to pass after the letter came, 
 the effort of writing was so great that he had not 
 strength to overcome it. He believed that his love for 
 his wife still was strong and true yet would he be
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 startled now and then when he found himself fancying 
 what his life would have been had he not married this 
 fair Saxon woman, but one of these Mexican women 
 whom he now saw around him : whose dark beauty en 
 treated him, and whose Latin-Indian blood was flame. 
 These were not safe thoughts, still less safe were they 
 when from generalities they descended to particulars ; 
 when he came to think how his life might have been 
 shaped had he been born not in Massachusetts but in 
 Chihuahua, had he won not the prettiest girl in Salem 
 but the most beautiful woman in Santa Maria de la 
 Canada for his wife. Now the most beautiful woman 
 in Santa Maria was Josefa, daughter of the old Mexican 
 in whose house he lived. 
 
 Possibly, then, Rand s enjoyment of the awakening 
 life in the village that evening was less wholesome than 
 keen. It was keen, most certainly. Santa Maria was 
 a mere mite of a village, but it was perfect as a type. 
 Low adobe houses straggled around three sides of the 
 treeless plaza ; on the fourth side was the church. Back 
 of the houses lay corrales and gardens ; and back of these 
 again the cultivated fields, crossed and recrossed by 
 acequias through which the water came that made 
 fruitful the land. And back of all, towering up grandly, 
 in blue-black masses against the evening sky, the mount 
 ains. Hand had seen fifty villages like this since he 
 came into Mexico ; during the two months that he 
 had been quartered there he had seen this very village 
 under precisely these conditions more than fifty times, 
 but his enjoyment of it all was as fresh and full as 
 though that night it all were new to him. But with 
 his enjoyment was blended now a deeper feeling than
 
 132 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 that which, in the beginning he had known. When he 
 came to it at first, he had loved this simple, placid life 
 with slumberous surroundings purely for itself, for its 
 beauty, for its restf ulness ; and these, truly, were cause 
 enough for love. But now, half consciously, half un 
 consciously, his love was less for the life at large than 
 for the single figure that had come to be to him its 
 center and its type. Standing there before the door 
 way, in the waning light of day, it was of her, rather 
 than of the village and the villagers before him, that 
 he thought. 
 
 As he stood thus dreamily, Josefa came out from 
 the house and stood beside him for a moment, while 
 she told him that his supper was ready. He started as 
 he heard her voice, and as he turned to enter their eyes 
 met full : in his there was a look of longing, of sadness, 
 of doubt ; in hers there was a dangerous light, half of 
 defiance, half of strong love confessed. He paused by 
 the doorway that she might pass in before him. As 
 she passed, her warm hand brushed lightly against his. 
 
 That Rand should take up his quarters in a Mexi 
 can house, instead of in camp, was the outcome of his 
 whim for identifying himself with the Mexican peo 
 ple ; with the further and more practical reason that 
 it gave him opportunities for studying Spanish which 
 could be had in no other way. He had imagined that 
 his desire in this direction would be easily gratified, 
 but as he tried to gratify it in one village after another, 
 as his work advanced and his camp moved forward, 
 and failed always, his views concerning household life 
 in Mexico underwent some modifications. Here was a
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 133 
 
 people, he found, that would not sell the right of en 
 trance into its homes. So he had pretty much aban 
 doned his purpose when, coming to Santa Maria, he fell 
 in with old Pepe, Josefa s father. 
 
 Pepe, it must be confessed, was a sad old scamp. 
 At all times a very perceptible odor of mescal hung 
 about him, and frequently the effects of this potent 
 liquor were visible in the tangled condition of his legs ; 
 though it is a notable fact that, save that it finally sent 
 him into a sound sleep, mescal had no effect whatever 
 upon his rascally old brain. Between his love of drunk 
 enness and his love of gambling Pepe had a hard time 
 of it, for the demands of these passions for ready money 
 were so constant and so imperative that little was left 
 on which himself and his daughter could live. Things 
 had been somewhat better while Josefa s mother was 
 alive ; but she had been dead for a half-dozen years now, 
 and in this time Pepe had been driving as rapidly as 
 anybody can do anything in Mexico to the dogs. He 
 had sold his cattle one by one, he had sold some of his 
 ground and mortgaged the rest and he had sold him 
 self. It was this last sale that struck bitterness into 
 Pope s soul. The sale had not been accomplished at a 
 single stroke. It had come about little by little, ten 
 dollars worth of him going at one time, five dollars 
 worth at another as gambling necessities, or the need 
 for preparation for some especially grand fiesta required 
 until now he found himself bonded for near two 
 hundred dollars ; and he knew perfectly well that un 
 less the blessed saints worked a miracle in his behalf 
 he would be a bondsman for all the rest of his days. 
 He also knew, in a general sort of way, that he was
 
 134 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 not precisely one of those shining examples of virtue 
 such as the blessed saints are in the habit of selecting 
 to work miracles upon. Therefore his case seemed to 
 be about hopeless. 
 
 When this respectable Mexican heard of Rand s 
 quest, he thought with much satisfaction that the saints 
 really were lending him a helping hand ; for the fact 
 that all Americanos possess inconceivably great wealth 
 was well known to him, and he saw clearly an oppor 
 tunity for making money to an extent that quite took 
 his breath away. He could not, of course, hope to pay 
 oft his bond and be a free man again ; but he certainly 
 could get his hand on an amount of hard cash that 
 would assure to him a grand time during the festival 
 of the Corpus Christi, now only a month away. He 
 might even glorious thought ! go down to the great 
 city of Chihuahua and lie drunk there for a whole 
 week ! 
 
 Therefore Pepe s heart was as lead within him 
 when Rand, by no means prepossessed by his appear 
 ance and address, firmly declined his offer of the free 
 dom of his home. But Rand at last yielded so far as 
 to consent to see the house and seeing that it was far 
 more habitable than he had been led to suppose by the 
 appearance of its proprietor, and moreover seeing Jo- 
 sefa, he filled Pepe s heart with joy again by accepting 
 his offer at once. Pepe, who was a shrewd old scoun 
 drel, saw the involuntary look of admiration that Rand 
 cast upon Josefa, and in his mind he began to evolve 
 a plan. Perhaps he might be a free man again, after 
 all! 
 
 Jose"fa had no knowledge of this plan, but, had she
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 135 
 
 been made acquainted with it, she could not have played 
 more directly into her father s hands. For there was 
 for her a rare attraction in this Americano, who was so 
 unlike the men of her own race ; in whom, her instinct 
 told her, was a power for passionate love that equaled, 
 if, indeed, it did not exceed, her own. But as time 
 passed on, and the love that she knew knew better 
 than Rand himself existed, was not declared, her pride 
 was piqued, and her curiosity was aroused. AVhat man 
 ner of man was this, she thought, who, with no lack of 
 opportunity, failed to make plain the feeling that was 
 stirring in his heart 2 Under the sun of Mexico never 
 had such man been before ! Therefore was she per 
 plexed, and her own heart was troubled and the more 
 went out to him. And the whole strength of her be 
 ing was bent upon gaining a return for her love. 
 
 Rand was not so dull but that he saw at least a 
 part of this ; and because he saw it, and because he 
 knew how weak he had become, he forced himself to 
 fight against it and to be strong. He called to his 
 aid the steadfast honesty and the love of honor for 
 honor s sake that belonged to him by right of his 
 Saxon blood ; and with these he fought the weakness 
 that his Latin blood had brought him. But his weak 
 ness had many strong allies. The strangeness of his 
 life, that was all the stranger because it seemed so fa 
 miliar to him ; the absence of the bracing moral atmos 
 phere, out of which even in the roughest of his front 
 ier life in the States he had never lived ; a climate 
 that filled him with a fuller, richer sense of life than 
 he had ever known : all these forces were allies to his 
 weakness ; all were united to arouse that portion of
 
 136 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 his nature which had slumbered ever since he was a 
 boy. 
 
 And more than all else, Josefa wrought upon him 
 strangely and potently. Her dark eyes, alight with fire 
 and tenderness ; her clear, olive-brown skin, tinged 
 ruddily with her southern blood; her tall, supple, 
 rounded form wherein were grace and strength, and a 
 vigorous vitality these characteristics made up a type 
 that was new to him, yet that he felt to be as old as his 
 own being, and a very part of himself. Half uncon 
 sciously, he would watch her come and go about the 
 house ; and misty memories would rise up in his mind, 
 as though all that he now saw and felt he had seen and 
 felt in some other existence in a time long past. It 
 was like living out a dream, or dreaming vividly of 
 that which he had lived. 
 
 For a man constituted as he was, a curious mixture 
 of adverse elements, a dual being in whom were united, 
 not combined, the instincts of two civilizations which 
 must remain irreconcilable to the end of time, the issue 
 of such a conflict as had arisen within his breast was, to 
 a great extent, a matter beyond his own control. His 
 will-power, played upon by antagonistic forces which 
 counterbalanced and neutralized each other, was reduced 
 well-nigh to a negative quantity. A turn of chance 
 would decide the result. 
 
 And the turn of chance came that night in Santa 
 Maria with the touch of Josefa s hand. Her touch 
 thrilled him. A flush came upon his face. There was 
 a ringing in his ears. There seemed to come a fever 
 into his brain.
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 137 
 
 She turned as she passed him, and again their eyes 
 met. From his, in the moment, the look of sadness, of 
 doubt, had vanished ; but the look of longing, grown 
 passionate, remained. In hers there was a look of tri 
 umph in which also were fear and a great tenderness : 
 for she knew that she had conquered at last. 
 
 Possibly Pepe had seen this encounter he had keen 
 eyes, this old villain. Presently he rolled a cigar rito 
 deftly, lighted it, and went forth upon the plaza, closing 
 the door behind him as he passed. Kight had fallen, 
 and Josefa had lighted the kerosene-lamp. Rand leaned 
 back in his seat, and slowly filled his pipe and began to 
 smoke. The puffs came fast at first, then slowly and 
 irregularly, then not at all. He was watching Josefa 
 as she moved about the room, with free, graceful steps, 
 placing the house in order for the night. She did not 
 look at him, for she knew that his eyes were fastened 
 upon her. She grew a little pale, and her breath came 
 quickly. 
 
 He looked at her thus for a long while. He could 
 not think coherently. His mind was in such strange 
 confusion that continuity of thought was impossible. 
 His only clear perceptions were of Josefa s presence 
 and of his consciousness that with the touch of her hand 
 she had confessed her love for him, and that his eyes 
 had told her as plainly as in words that her love was 
 returned. He sat in a sort of trance, motionless, save 
 that his eyes moved as they followed her about the 
 room. There was a fascination upon him that his will, 
 had he exerted it, was powerless to break. But he did 
 not in the least degree exert his will : he was dully con 
 scious of the desire to sit thus silently looking at her
 
 138 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 always in a vague way he felt that ages before he had 
 gazed at her thus; that he was living over again a life 
 that was buried in the depths of the past. 
 
 Josefa drew nearer to him, making a feint of placing 
 straight a picture of San Jose that hung against the 
 wall, and paused by his side. He saw that she trem 
 bled. She did not look at him. 
 
 " The Sefior is very sad and silent to-night," she said. 
 Her voice was broken. The sound dispelled the charm 
 that held him still. Their eyes met. In a moment he 
 had clasped her in his arms. 
 
 " I love you, Josefa ! " 
 
 For answer she gave him her lips. 
 
 Then the door opened suddenly, and Pepe entered. 
 Rand thrust Josefa from him, and quicker than thought 
 covered Pepe with his revolver. 
 
 " Do not shoot, Sefior," said Pepe, calmly. " Come 
 out with me ; I have some words to speak." 
 
 Still holding his revolver ready for prompt service, 
 Hand followed Pepe out into the night. 
 
 " Put away your pistol, Sefior. It is my right, but 
 I shall not kill you. You are safe." Then for a little 
 time Pepe was silent. In the dim starlight Rand re 
 garded him doubtingly. 
 
 " I am a poor man," he went on, slowly. " I have 
 lost all that I possessed. Worse yet, I am a bond-serv 
 ant until the money that I owe be paid. Will you pay 
 that money for me, Sefior ? I beg of you, I pray you 
 to pay it. And I offer you a rich return. Pay it and 
 Josefa shall be yours." 
 
 Rand shuddered. He felt as men feel who are bar 
 gaining with the devil for their own souls. For a time
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 139 
 
 he was silent. "When at last he spoke, it was as men 
 speak who have come close enough to the devil to make 
 bargaining possible. 
 
 " Yes, I will pay the debt," he said. 
 
 Poverty is common enough, but squalor is rare, in 
 Mexico. Cleanliness and neatness are two strong Mexi 
 can virtues that, finding practical expression, make the 
 meanest jacales pleasant to look upon. This rule is the 
 more sharply emphasized by the fact that here and there 
 through the land are found not merely single houses, 
 but whole villages where utter squalor reigns ; little 
 communities which in some unaccountable way have 
 lost every vestige of self-respect. Los Muertos so 
 called because there had been a bloody massacre there 
 by Indians in the long-past time was one of the excep 
 tions ; and so wretched, so forlorn was it, that no great 
 stretch of the imagination was required to believe that 
 it was hopelessly under the spell of its evil name. 
 
 1 et the site of the village was very beautiful. Here 
 four canons met and, merging, made a delectable little 
 cup-like valley dotted here and there with low, rocky 
 hills, between which grew great cottonwoods and pe 
 cans, and having broad sweeps of gently undulating 
 land, yellow with fields of barley that rippled in the 
 winds. Along the edges of the dry water-course 
 tapped at a higher level to supply the acequias which 
 brought water to the fields of grain were matted 
 masses of cactus in rich red and yellow bloom, and wide 
 coverts made up of little shrubs and tangles of mes- 
 quite ; and standing sentinel above these lowly things 
 were many palms. Rising solemnly around and over
 
 140 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 all were the grand mountains, grave and worshipful. 
 And in the fall of day the sun through the canon 
 leading westward sent long glinting rajs of golden 
 light across the golden beauty of the barley-fields and 
 into and under the waving branches of the trees. There 
 are many places beautiful as this in the fair Mexican 
 land. 
 
 Los Muertos was no more than a hamlet ; a dozen 
 little adobe houses clustered irregularly about an open 
 space that was less a plaza than a bit of waste land 
 where foraging pigs and dogs maintained an armed neu 
 trality, and where sad-hearted burros strayed. Standing 
 a little apart was a ruinous chapel, wherein a priest 
 held service at long intervals yet often enough to sat 
 isfy the community s not excessive spiritual needs. Or 
 dinarily, feast-days and Sundays were celebrated in 
 gambling and drinking booths, set up expressly for the 
 observance of these rites ; and by evening there usually 
 was a fight or two, and now and then a man was killed. 
 Not much excitement attended these incidental murders. 
 In some odd corner a hole was dug for the dead man s 
 burial, and then things went on as before. There were 
 few men in Los Muertos whose death could be anything 
 but a benefit to the survivors. 
 
 A dozen rods or so away from the village, on a bluff 
 above the river-bed, stood what was left of the great 
 house of which the smaller houses once had been the de 
 pendenciesfor Los Muertos, in its better days, had been 
 a thriving hacienda, and the village had been inhabited 
 by the work-people of the estate. Now the land was 
 cut up into small holdings, and the owner of the great 
 house if it had an owner had suffered it to fall into
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 decay. Only a room or two of all the building re 
 mained measurably weather-proof. Elsewhere the roof 
 had fallen in, and over the fragments of the fallen roof 
 the unprotected walls were crumbling down. The \valls 
 of the corral had fallen, also, in places, and in the gaps 
 had been heaped piles of mesquite-brush and cactus. 
 In some of the deserted, roofless rooms, and over the 
 broken walls, cactus plants were growing rankly, 
 their vigorous life marking with greater emphasis 
 the wreck and desolation in the midst of which they 
 grew. 
 
 Across the valley, from the canon on the north to 
 ward the canon on the south, curving around the bases 
 of the little hills, ran the course of the railway ; marked 
 by the line of cuts and fills that every day was a little 
 farther advanced. Upon the mountain-side, that the 
 rare luxury of a spring of sweet water might be to the . 
 full enjoyed, were the white tents of the contractor and 
 engineer*; and clustered around these the queer abodes 
 wicker huts and shelters of palm thatch and sleeping- 
 places under trees of the Mexican workers on the 
 grade. In the Mexican part of the camp bits of bright- 
 colored clothing hung around the bushy shelters; women 
 stood beside little fires cooking not unsavory messes in 
 little earthen pots, or boiling clothes in old powder- 
 cans ; half-naked children ranged about in amicable 
 companionship with pigs and dogs, and hobbled burros 
 went sadly and solemnly from place to place with a 
 motion fit to be likened only to that of automatic kan 
 garoos and the whole made a picture very good for 
 eyes appreciative of the picturesque to dwell upon. 
 
 But liand, who was in charge of the work, did not
 
 142 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 live in the camp. He had taken up his quarters in the 
 ruinous hacienda; and with him was Josefa. Those 
 who had known him only before he came into Mexico 
 would not have known him now. In the year that had 
 passed the whole expression and tone and manner of 
 the man had changed. His briskness and erectness 
 were gone, and in their stead he had acquired a slouch 
 ing slowness. Grim taciturnity had taken the place of 
 his habit of frank, cheery speech. His eyes, which had 
 been wont to look straight into other men s eyes, were 
 cast downward or raised only in quick, furtive glances ; 
 and in his eyes, and over all his face and form, there 
 was an unlifting weight of melancholy. Jim Post, axe 
 man, expressed the sense of the corps in the premises 
 tersely and with precision : 
 
 " Looks as if he felt hisself atween hell and high 
 water all the time ! " 
 
 And, in truth, the life that Band had led in the half 
 year since he had struck the bargain with Pepe in Santa 
 Maria had been the life that Jim Post s rough thrust of 
 speech described. The very act of going over the 
 precipice had aroused him when it was too late to a 
 partial realization of what he had done ; and as time 
 passed on, the deadening of his soul that he had hoped 
 for did not come. His two natures remained in open 
 war, and the more that he sought to crush the one with 
 the other the more steadily the fight went on. His 
 wife s letters, loving, tender, came down to him and 
 were thorns in his flesh giving him keenest agony. She 
 knew, she could not fail to know, that a change of some 
 sort had come over him ; but no suspicion of what the 
 change really was could for a moment enter her faith-
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 143 
 
 fill heart. She feared that his life was too rough, his 
 work too hard for him, and she begged him to cancel 
 his engagement and come home. She told him of the 
 joy it would be to her to have him with her once again ; 
 she told him of her quiet home life ; she told him of 
 their boy and all this gentle lovingness and trustful 
 ness brought infinite bitterness to his soul. Sometimes 
 for days after her letters came he would suffer them to 
 remain unopened, dreading the pain that reading them 
 would give ; sometimes he would open them the mo 
 ment that they arrived, so that the pain might sooner 
 come and go. His answering letters filled her with a 
 strange dread and grief. At times he would write only 
 a few cold words, telling dryly of his work ; and then 
 again he would write with despairing tenderness, as a 
 condemned criminal might write on the eve of his execu 
 tion ; and yet again he would write, darkly, mysterious 
 ly, in bitter self-reproach of his own unworthiness of 
 her pure love. The strangeness of his moods struck 
 into her warm and steadfast heart a deadly chill. 
 
 Josefa s instinct told her that these letters which 
 came to liand were in sharp opposition to her love for 
 him. Little by little, questioning him shrewdly, she 
 learned the truth and hated with a fierce intensity of 
 jealous hate this " Mary " (for she caught the name and 
 held it rankling in her heart) who stood between her 
 and the fullness of love that should be hers ; and when, 
 after a fresh letter had come, lie turned from her cold 
 ly, her jealous hate included him also. More than once 
 she had stood over him as he slept with knife in hand 
 and arm upraised to strike and had not struck because 
 before the knife could fall the hate in her heart had
 
 144 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 changed to love again. For, after all, she thought, the 
 other woman might claim him, but she, Josefa, pos 
 sessed him. If this possession should be threatened, 
 then, indeed, the time would come to act ; even at her 
 own cost ! 
 
 Rand did not know that he was living almost in the 
 shadow of death ; but, had he known it, his desire would 
 have been only that death might come quickly. For he 
 knew despairingly that he had made his venture, and 
 that he had lost. The ease of life that he had hoped 
 for when he broke out from the civilization that he was 
 born to, and entered the civilization upon which he had 
 a claim by hereditary right, had not come. It had 
 seemed so easy to him, back there in Santa Maria, to throw 
 off the few remaining bonds that held him to the North 
 and to become of the South utterly ; so easy that he half 
 thought the bonds had fallen away of themselves and 
 would not need to be broken at all. But his attempt to 
 break them had shown him how vain the effort was. 
 What he thought was a snapping irrevocable had been 
 but yielding, as a bow yields ; and, ever since, by a con 
 stant strain, as a bent bow draws against the string, he 
 had been drawn backward toward the life that he had 
 thought forever to leave behind. His very weakness 
 held him from yielding to this strain. He longed to 
 return, but lacked strength to break the bonds that he 
 had bound himself with. Yet he knew that no great 
 access of energy was needed to enable him to be free ; 
 and he hoped, as weak men are wont to hope, for the 
 action of some force from without that would arouse 
 him thoroughly, give him full command of his ino.ral 
 strength, and so help him to break away.
 
 THE FLOWER OP DEATH. 145 
 
 And, at last, the shock that he hoped for in his 
 weakness came. It was a telegram three days old, 
 for the end of the wire still was fifty miles away to 
 the north telling him that his boy was dead, and his 
 wife so ill that he must come to her at once if he 
 would see her again alive. 
 
 " I must leave you, Josef a. I go from here into 
 the IS orth, to my home." 
 
 She started violently, and then her form grew rigid. 
 There came into her eyes a curious expression that was 
 new to him : a mingling, as it seemed, of hate and love. 
 Without speaking, she waited for his further words. 
 
 " You have loved me greatly, Josefa, far more than 
 I have deserved ; now love me yet more by forgetting 
 that you ever have loved me at all. You will go back 
 to your father in Santa Maria, and you will be the bet 
 ter because I am gone." 
 
 She did not seem to hear him. Her great black 
 eyes opened wide. Presently a blaze of hate shot into 
 them. 
 
 " You are going to to that woman ? " she demanded. 
 
 " I am going to my wife. She is dying God help 
 me ! she may now be dead." 
 
 " Then I declare that you shall not go ! You are 
 mine mine, I say. She shall not have you. I would 
 sooner that you should die." And then breaking sud 
 denly from hate to tenderness, she flung herself upon 
 him and went on, while her whole body quivered with 
 her sobbing : " For you are my heart, my life ; you are 
 everything to me ; you are all that I have in all the 
 world to love." Then, flinging from him, and glaring 
 at him with rageful eyes : " I hate her, and I hate you 
 10
 
 146 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 for loving her. Dare to go a step toward her ! Dare 
 to leave me! and I will kill you as I would a dog! 
 She has no right to you now. You have come to me 
 and you are mine. You can not leave me. You shall 
 not leave me. You shall die first ah ! my heart, tell 
 me that you will not go away. Tell me again that you 
 love me. Give me one little kiss. For I am all yours, 
 and you are all to me." 
 
 Rand paled and trembled. The magnificent splen 
 dor of her beauty overwhelmed him as her noble figure 
 towered exalted by her hate, or drooped with an en 
 treating graciousness in her boundless love. That he 
 did not yield to her should be accounted unto him a 
 victory that went far toward atoning for the sin of his 
 first defeat. 
 
 Slowly he turned away from her ; slowly passed 
 through the doorway to where his horse stood tethered ; 
 slowly mounted then, beating his horse s flanks with 
 his great spurs, dashed at a tremendous gallop across 
 the valley toward the camp of the engineers. 
 
 Josefa knew that his determination was fixed ; that 
 he had gone to make hasty preparations for his journey ; 
 that he would leave her never to return. For this her 
 heart cast all love out of it, and was filled with a bitter, 
 jealous hate. She sat down quietly that she might 
 make her plans for killing him. Yet the more that 
 her mind dwelt upon what had passed and what yet 
 was to come, the more did she feel that mere killing 
 would not satisfy her. Because of her hate of the 
 woman who was taking him from her she required a 
 more exquisite, a more complete revenge. That Rand s 
 wife had any rights in the premises never once oc-
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 curred to Josefa, any more than did the thought that 
 she had done this wife a grievous wrong ; for a Mexican 
 woman of Josef a s class thoroughly believes that great 
 love is a broad and ample justification of all that it may 
 cause. Therefore she hoped for, and presently saw her 
 way clear to, a revenge that would strike both her lover 
 and this other woman who had stolen from her his 
 love. 
 
 From before the time of the Spanish conquest there 
 has grown in Mexico a plant that in the ancient tongue 
 was called tlapatl in the south, toloatzin in the north 
 names which the softening influence of the mellow 
 Spanish speech has rounded into toloache. Through all 
 these ages, even until this present day, this plant has 
 been used by Mexican women when faithlessness in 
 love has bred jealousy, and jealousy, in turn, has bred 
 a longing for revenge. From its flowers and leaves 
 they make a decoction a little bitter, yet not so bitter 
 but that coffee will disguise it and who drinks of this 
 decoction surely goes mad. A terrible madness, begin 
 ning with failing sight and dizziness ; with throbbing 
 pains through all the brain ; going on with delirium 
 and strange perversions of sight ; with visions which 
 would be laughable but for the dread horror of their 
 cause ; with shooting, burning pains in throat and 
 heart ; with partial loss of power to breathe, and crush 
 ing sense of suffocation. And if the dose is so well 
 gauged that death does not ensue, the pains at last pass 
 away and the end is a violent or a melancholy mad 
 ness that lasts for months, for years, or through all the 
 remainder of the victim s life. Well have the Span-
 
 148 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 iards named this hideons plant laflor de muerto the 
 flower of death. 
 
 It was the thought of toloache that the devil put 
 into Josefa s mind. She could not but shudder as the 
 thought came to her. She remembered old Pedro, 
 in Santa Maria, who wandered about the village more 
 like a wild beast than a man. That her lover, this 
 beautiful Americano, should become like that horrified 
 her. 
 
 No, she mused, she could not do it. Better that 
 she should die herself. But if she did die ? "Would it 
 not be what he wanted ? Would it not be what that 
 other woman wanted ? For her death would but 
 smooth the way for his return to her. "With this 
 thought jealous rage came into Josefa s heart again. 
 Ah ! it would be a fine thing for this wife of his to 
 long and long for him, and when at last he came if 
 ever he found his way to her to have a madman in 
 her arms ! And he need not have been so cruel ; surely 
 he might have consented to stay in Mexico. That other 
 woman could not possibly love him as she loved him. 
 No one could love him as she loved him and Josefa 
 rocked herself backward and forward as she sat upon 
 the clay floor, and her body shook with the mighty 
 beating of her heart. 
 
 " Since he Avill go, since she will have him, let them 
 take what must come ! " she said at last between her 
 teeth. Then she rose from the floor, threw her shawl 
 over her head, and passed out. "With long, swinging 
 steps, easy, graceful, the perfect motion of a perfect 
 form, she walked past the village, and on toward the 
 mountains beyond. Rain was beginning to fall, but
 
 THE FLOWER OP DEATH. 149 
 
 Josefa did not heed the rain. Presently she had en 
 tered the southern canon. 
 
 Tliis southern canon was so narrow, and so high 
 were the mountain walls which made its sides, that 
 there was dusk in its depths save at the very peak of 
 noon. A mile from its mouth it widened a little. 
 Here, from the flanks of the Sierra, at right angles, 
 came out a bastion of rock, its jagged crest dimly out 
 lined through the rain against the gray sky. This 
 rocky wall far overhung its base, and so was made a 
 deep, dark nook into which the sunlight never came. 
 No spring of running water showed itself, but the rock 
 was damp, and so also was the earth at its base. A 
 thick tangle of running vines spread over the wet earth 
 and hung upon the rock above. In the darkest depth 
 of this gloomy place was a great mass of coarse green 
 growth a repulsive, evil plant that sent forth a faint, 
 offensive odor, and that, as shown by its luxuriant 
 growth, had concentrated in it a vast amount of vig 
 orous loathsome life. From among its thick leaves 
 sprang long trumpet -shaped flowers, pale -white and 
 nearly beautiful, yet with their beauty wholly marred 
 by their coarse strength and odor and sliminess of look. 
 This was the toloaclie of which Josefa had come in 
 quest. 
 
 For a moment she paused, pressing her hand upon 
 her heart ; then, firmly, she pushed her way through 
 the thicket of vines and gathered sufficient for her 
 needs of leaves and flowers into a corner of her shawl. 
 With her load well hidden, she walked rapidly through 
 the gloom of the canon gloomier now, for with the 
 gray shadows of the rain were joined the darker shad-
 
 150 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ows of falling day and so across the open fields and 
 through the village to the old house. 
 
 As she entered the door, she noticed that the rain 
 had opened in the ruinous walls yet another crack, into 
 which had begun to settle one of the heavy rafters that 
 upheld the thick clay roof. At any other time this sign, 
 most ominous in an adobe house, would have alarmed 
 her greatly. There is nothing that a Mexican dreads 
 more than the fall of his roof. And with reason, for 
 if death does not come at once, mercifully, from the 
 crushing weight of the huge rafters, it comes more 
 slowly and more terribly by burial alive beneath the 
 mass of clay. But Josef a, in her present mood, cared 
 little whether the roof held firm or fell. She lighted a 
 fire under a shed in the corral and be^an the making of 
 
 O 
 
 the coffee. Beside the coffee, in a like earthen vessel, 
 was the more deadly drink. She was very quiet over 
 it all : for she was resolved that when her revenge was 
 worked, when no good could come to her rival from 
 her death, she would die. This resolution comforted 
 her. She felt that if she were willing to pay her life 
 for what she did she had a right to do it. Yet in her 
 inmost soul she knew that this was not true reasoning, 
 since her life would have no more value to her when 
 her love was gone. 
 
 After a while she heard the clatter of a horse s hoofs 
 coming up the stony road along the bluff, and then Rand 
 brought his horse into the corral. Pie had left her, 
 meaning not to come back again, but the need for put 
 ting his work in shape to be handled by his subordinate 
 had forced his return. For a moment Josefa looked up 
 at him questioningly, as the hope leaped into her heart
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 151 
 
 that he had come back to her in very truth. But his 
 sad, cold, answering look showed her that her hope was 
 vain. So she went on quietly with her preparations, 
 while he lighted a lamp inside the house and settled 
 himself at his work. 
 
 Already the decisive step that he had taken had told 
 upon his moral tone. Pie was beginning to be a man 
 again ; and a feeling not only of horror, but of disgust, 
 was coming over him as he began to realize what his 
 life for the past six months had been. This feeling was 
 intensified as he looked about him at the dwelling in 
 which, for a good part of the time, he had been content 
 to live. It was a hole not fit, even, to be the abiding- 
 place of brutes. The room had been one of the store 
 rooms of the old hacienda, and was windowless. The 
 floor was sunk a couple of feet below the level of the 
 ground outside, and once three steps of clay had led up 
 to the doorway, but these steps now were worn to a 
 broken slope. Shoved into a corner was a pile of 
 refuse, the long-past sweepings of the clay floor ; not 
 recent sweepings, for the floor was foul beyond all 
 words. Over everything the dirty cots and bedding, 
 the draggled table strewn with unwashed dishes, among 
 which lay a musty brush and comb, the mildewed, 
 greasy camp-stools, the rusty Sibley stove was an air 
 of squalid foulness incomparably repulsive. In one 
 corner lay a jumble of ill-smelling saddles and saddle 
 cloths, from amid which, as Rand looked at them, a rat 
 frisked out. One open doorway, doorless, led into an 
 adjoining room, the roof of which already had fallen 
 in and lay a rubbish-heap upon the floor. Another 
 doorway, at the rear, led directly into the corral so
 
 152 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 that chickens and pigs came in freely, and brought yet 
 more uncleanness. Of a truth, Rand thought, as his 
 eyes were opened and he perceived the loathsomeness 
 of his surroundings, he had indeed come to feed upon 
 husks and live among swine. 
 
 While he sat writing, Josefa brought him food, and 
 with it coffee. There was a strange look in her eyes 
 that puzzled him ; even as he had been puzzled by her 
 silence since his return. Placing the coifee upon the 
 table, but not within reach of his hand, she looked 
 down upon him curiously. In her eyes shone a deep, 
 glowing light, yet over them a shadow seemed to rest 
 and veil their meaning. Slowly she asked : 
 
 " Then all is ready, and you go ? And when ? " 
 
 " Now, to-night." 
 
 " And you leave me forever ? " 
 
 " My poor Josefa, yes." 
 
 " Ah, well, it is a long journey that you go upon. 
 You need refreshment. Drink," and she placed the 
 coffee by his side. 
 
 Her tone and manner amazed him. As he raised 
 the cup he turned and looked at her. 
 
 " Drink," she said again ; while a faint smile hov 
 ered on her full, red lips ; while a deeper shadow gath 
 ered in the strange duskiness of her eyes. 
 
 She stood before him in the glory of her perfect 
 womanhood. There was a royal splendor in her form 
 and pose. Her beauty was overpowering. For a mo 
 ment he could not resist the feeling of intense admira 
 tion that swept into his heart. Involuntarily some sign 
 of this feeling shone in his eyes. She saw it in an 
 instant, and the shadow passed from her eyes and left
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 153 
 
 them bright with the radiance of love. She struck the 
 cup from his hand and fell upon her knees beside him, 
 clasping him close in her soft, strong arms. 
 
 " It is all a lie ! You will not go ! You do love me ! 
 Ah, why have you been so cruel?" and with these 
 quick sentences came a flow of the sweet love-names in 
 which Spanish is so rich and English is so poor. 
 
 Hand gently unclasped her arms. " No, it is not a 
 lie, my poor little one," he said. " I must go. This is 
 the very truth. Better for you, better for me, it would 
 have been had I never come. But now is the end." 
 There was a grave firmness in his tone that struck dead 
 all hope. 
 
 " Yes, now is the end ! " echoed Josefa, slowly. 
 " See," she added, " I give you another cup of coft ee. 
 Drink it and then go." 
 
 Josef a s voice had not a tremor in it as she spoke, 
 nor did her hand tremble as she gave him the cup. 
 She stood rigid as a figure carved from stone until he 
 had drained the last drop. Outside the rain was falling 
 as it falls only among the mountains of Mexico. From 
 the southern cation came the sound of the roaring of a 
 mighty wind. 
 
 " Yes," Josefa repeated, " now is the end ! " 
 
 She seated herself, as Mexican women are wont to 
 sit, in a huddled bunch upon the floor, her back against 
 the wall. She regarded Rand fixedly, with glittering 
 eyes, while he went on with his writing. There was no 
 sound save the rushing of the rain and the wind s moan 
 ing. 
 
 At the end of an hour Rand paused in his work and 
 pressed his hand upon his forehead. Jos6fa leaned
 
 154: STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 forward eagerly. He continued his writing, but un 
 easily passing his hand across his eyes, resting his 
 head upon his hand, pressing his hand upon his heart, 
 stopping now and then to hold his body erect while he 
 drew r in a deep breath. He turned at last and said : " I 
 thirst, Josefa ; give me water." 
 
 " I fear that I am falling into a fever," he said, as 
 he gave her back the earthen cup empty. " I have a 
 dizzy feeling in my head, and my hands are hot and 
 dry, and there is pain about my heart." 
 
 Josefa nodded. " I also have a pain about my 
 heart," she said but more to herself than to him. 
 
 He tried to write again, but presently pushed away 
 the paper from before him. He rose from the table, 
 staggered, and nearly fell ; then steadied himself by an 
 arm outstretched against the wall. 
 
 " How oddly things dance about ! It is very 
 strange ! " he murmured. He breathed deeply and 
 laboriously. A spasm of pain distorted his face, and 
 he pressed his hand upon his heart and then upon his 
 throat. " Give me more water, my throat is burning," 
 he said but he spoke in English, and Josefa did not 
 move. She was sitting erect, watching him her mus 
 cles tense, her hands clinched, her teeth set fast, her 
 eyes ablaze with a fierce light. Her revenge had come, 
 and it had brought her a savage joy. 
 
 He staggered to the corner of the room where the 
 olla rested in its forked stick, and drank a long draught 
 of the cool water. " Ah ! it hurts me so to swallow," 
 he said piteously ; but still in English, so that on Josefa 
 the pitifulness of his words was lost. 
 
 After drinking he stood, with the cup in his hand,
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 155 
 
 leaning against the wall. In a few moments he began 
 to move the cup slowly, and then more rapidly, from 
 rside to side, a vacant look upon his face. Presently 
 this gave way to an expression of interest. 
 
 " It is like a juggler s trick. All six of the cups are 
 in the air at once. See how cleverly I catch them ! 
 And now here are the rats come to look at the per 
 formance. But you must sit quite still, rats ; and the 
 short rats must have the front seats. It would be very 
 unfair to give the long rats front seats when they can 
 see perfectly well over the short rats 1 shoulders. ~No ! 
 I will not hold the rod steady. If you can t get a sight 
 when the rod is moving then you are not fit to run a 
 level. Anyhow, I am not the rod-man, I am the engi 
 neer in charge of this corps ; and if I choose to wiggle 
 the rod I have a right to do it. Why, you stupid Mexi 
 can, I am pumping. Of course you don t know what 
 pumping is, for you haven t a pump in your whole 
 country. But this is the way it s done, you see. And 
 oh ! how fresh and sweet the water is ! Give me more 
 of it -more, there is fire in my throat and oh ! the 
 pain ! the pain ! " and he broke into a moan. 
 
 Of all this Josefa did not understand a word. But 
 Rand s tone and gestures made clear to her how surely 
 the toloache was doing its work and horror was be 
 ginning to possess her as she saw what she had done : 
 for the very hate that was in her was love in its most 
 powerful form. This man was everything in the world 
 to her and she had brought upon him what was worse 
 than death. And the pain that he suffered : she had 
 not counted upon that. His moaning, drawn from him 
 by his agony, was like a knife in her heart. "When
 
 156 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the spasm had passed he spoke again, but now in 
 Spanish : 
 
 " Josefa, my little one, where art thou ? " Josefa s 
 heart bounded, and she sprang to her feet and moved 
 toward him and stopped, chilled and woe-struck, as 
 she saw him moving his hands as one searching in the 
 dark ; saw that his eyes, in which the love-light that 
 she knew so well had come again, were turned on empty 
 space. 
 
 " Come to me, my Pepita," he went on. " Come to 
 me, my little heart. Yes, thou art very beautiful and 
 thy beauty is that of which I have dreamed all my life 
 long. Let me kiss thee on thine eyelids, so. Dost thou 
 know, Pepa, that the moment I saw thee that day 
 when thy father led me to his house thine eyes seemed 
 to look down into and stir the depths of my heart ? I 
 think that it was because of thine eyes that I came to love 
 thee so deeply. For I do love thee ; love thee as I 
 never thought that I could love. Give me a kiss, my 
 Pepa, my Chepita, a little kiss, and say that thou also 
 hast love for me. Ah ! nestle close to me in my arms, 
 and give thy love for mine. For I love thee Help ! 
 help ! Josefa ? I am in torture ; my heart is wrenching 
 me to pieces ; my throat is on fire ; I can not breathe. 
 Help me ! I am dying ! " And so exquisite was the 
 pain that Rand s whole body writhed convulsively, and 
 foam gathered upon liis lips. 
 
 With a cry of anguish not less keen than his, Josefa 
 caught him in her arms. Had she possessed ten thou 
 sand lives she would have given them all, then, that her 
 devil s work might have been undone. But notliing 
 could undo that work now.
 
 THE FLOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 As the pain ebbed again a great weakness came upon 
 him. But for her supporting arms he would have 
 fallen. Half leading him, half carrying him, she placed 
 him upon one of the cots, and knelt upon the floor by 
 his side. 
 
 The wind moaned hollowly, and the rain fell upon 
 the clay roof with a muffled, thunderous sound ; but 
 Josefa heard only Rand s wearily drawn breath and 
 sobs, and the wild beating of her own heart. 
 
 Resting upon the cot in some measure eased his 
 pain. For a long while he spoke no more. From time 
 to time his legs and arms twitched spasmodically, and 
 his body trembled with the irregular throbbing of his 
 heart. The pupils of his eyes were horribly dilated. 
 There was a convulsive motion of the muscles of his 
 throat. 
 
 Josefa had ceased to think. A numbness had fallen 
 upon her mind that mercifully shut out thought. For 
 more than an hour she remained thus, bending over 
 him, in a sort of stupor. She was aroused by a pat 
 tering upon the floor, and, turning, saw a tiny stream 
 of water trickling down from the roof. Her eyes fol 
 lowed along the beam by the side of which the Avater 
 fell. It was the same beam that she had noticed that 
 evening as she entered the house. In the interval the 
 crack in the wall had widened, and the beam had settled 
 yet more deeply. As she looked she saw the water vis 
 ibly eating away the clay ; she fancied that she could 
 see the beam slowly sinking and she knew that she 
 was in the awful presence of death. 
 
 But death had nothing in it of fear for Josefa now; 
 and the torturinc; sorrow that had entered her heart had 
 
 o
 
 158 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 driven out her longing for revenge. Her scheme, be 
 got of jealous hate, for sending her lover back to his 
 wife a madman, had lost its charm for her as she had 
 seen the racking pain that its execution had brought 
 upon his dear body his body that had been her life, 
 her god. Rather than that he should live on, now, 
 though his sharp pain should pass away, better death 
 and she thought of old Pedro at Santa Maria, and shud 
 dered. For herself, death could not come too soon. 
 
 " Mary, I have come at last ; come back to you and 
 the boy." 
 
 Josefa started at the sound of Rand s voice, still 
 more at the sound of this hated name. She knew that 
 even in his madness his love no longer was hers. She 
 looked at the beam. The water was meltine; away the 
 
 o / 
 
 clay beneath it still more rapidly. This time it was not 
 fancy that made her believe that she saw it move. Yet 
 she gazed at it as it slowly sank beneath the crushing 
 weight of the clay above, calmly, sternly. For her there 
 was no more of hope, of sweetness, in life ; only in 
 death could she have rest. Death already had laid his 
 hand upon her heart. 
 
 " Will you forgive me, Mary ? God knows I do not 
 deserve your forgiveness nor your love. But yet be 
 merciful, and take me to your heart again ! " 
 
 A gush of water burst in, and the crack in the wall 
 became a wide gap into which the beam dropped. The 
 wall tottered. There was a sound of grinding, rending 
 wood, as the light canes above the rafters, on which the 
 clay rested, were wrenched and broken. Masses of clay 
 fell upon the floor. Josefa s body remained motionless, 
 rigid ; her eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the wreck,
 
 THE FLOWER OP DEATH. 159 
 
 and in them was a look of lonely longing, of harsh de 
 spair. Half unconsciously, in her bitter searching for 
 some faint sign of sympathy in her desolate strait, she 
 clasped liand s hand in hers. As he felt the touch his 
 face brightened. 
 
 " Ah ! you do forgive me, Mary ! I swear to you 
 that for the sin which I have wrought, against you and 
 before God, the atonement shall go on through all the 
 coming years. In all my life to come, only for you 
 
 Slowly the wall fell outward. With a crash the 
 roof came down !
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 
 I. 
 
 IT was one of those warm, murky nights which come 
 in the City of Mexico at the season when the rains be 
 gin. A bank of heavy clouds in which faint flashes of 
 lightning gleamed hung low over the hills of Tepeyac 
 where is the shrine of the blessed Virgin of Guada- 
 lupe and now and then an eddy of wind would suck 
 away a scrap of this cloud-bank, whirl it over the city, 
 and there empty it suddenly in a gush and tumult of 
 thunderous rain. The watchmen swore great mouth- 
 filling Spanish oaths as these drenching down-pours 
 burst out from the black sky. The braver of them be 
 took themselves to the shelter of deep doorways. The 
 more timorous staid at their posts and accepted their 
 duckings with a solemn resignation preferring the cer 
 tain wet wrath of heaven to the possible scorching wrath 
 of the Conde de Revillagigedo : that devil of a Viceroy 
 whose whole life seemed to be devoted to ferreting out, 
 and thereafter punishing in a quaint but most stinging 
 fashion, the lightest misdeeds of honest men. A pretty 
 pass things had come to, muttered these pluvial martyrs, 
 when a watchman might not settle himself on a drenching 
 night for forty winks in a friendly doorway without the 
 chance of being aroused at his twentieth wink by a per-
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 
 
 sonal kicking by the Viceroyal foot, and Heaven only 
 knew what to follow in the way of extraordinary expia 
 tion the next day ! Better, a thousand times better, the 
 happy time when the viceroys of his Catholic Majesty 
 in New Spain had kept their beds o nights, and had 
 been content to govern without attempting to rule ! 
 
 Between the showers soft waves of warm air came 
 gently from out the languid bosom of the night, tearing 
 aside the less dense clouds to the southward, and so reveal 
 ing a wan point of light where a gibbous moon just showed 
 above the rounded crest of Ajusco. Then strange shad 
 ows would move through the streets in the long reaches 
 between the lamps whereof the yellow flames were 
 faint and fitful as their untrimmed wicks burned low 
 and strange, murmurous noises were born of the soughing 
 of the wind that well might be the sighings of souls set 
 free from earth but which in heaven had found no home. 
 
 Seeing these whirling shadows and hearing these 
 sobbing murmurs, the watchmen crossed themselves and 
 looked now and again over their shoulders fearfully. 
 For, truly, it was on nights such as this that the blessed 
 saints forgot for a while to guard the city, and the dark 
 powers of evil had full sway. At any moment, as the 
 watchmen knew, might come dashing around the corner 
 the Vaca do Lumbre ; that devilish, fire-breathing cow 
 which came out from the potrero of San Sebastian and 
 went galloping through the streets, wrapped in an un 
 holy halo of hell-fire and belching forth smoke and 
 sparks and living flames, until the crowing of the cocks 
 sent her scampering back to the infernal pit where she 
 belonged. Or La Llorona, The Weeper, might be 
 abroad, shrieking for her lost children : and whoso was 
 11
 
 162 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 luckless enough to cross her path died at the touch of 
 her icy breath in chill and biting pain. Or, worst of all, 
 the terrible Don Juan Manuel, sinner above all sinners, 
 might come along quietly wrapped in his cloak and 
 looking as respectable as the Viceroy himself and ask^ 
 as any man might ask : " What is the hour of the night ? " 
 Nor would the watchman answering him, as any watch 
 man might answer, " It is two of the clock," or what 
 ever the hour might be, know that he was dealing not 
 with a living mortal but with a damned soul, until he 
 heard Don Juan Manuel s reply, " Fortunate art thou 
 above all men, for thou knowest precisely the hour of 
 thy death " and then the knowledge would come too 
 late to be of any practical value ! In the morning, on 
 the very spot where Don Juan Manuel had met him, 
 that watchman or it might be a man not a watchman 
 would be found dead ; and on his dead face would be a 
 look of horror fit to freeze one s blood at thought of 
 what his dying eyes had seen. 
 
 Hardy indeed were the screnos who at that time 
 kept the night-watch of the City of Mexico : braving 
 supernatural visitations, from the dread penalties of 
 which even a prompt appeal to the protecting grace of 
 the blessed saints might not always save them ; braving 
 the visitations of a far too prying and inquisitive Yice- 
 roy, from whose award of penalty for keeping lax 
 watch there was no salvation of any kind at all ! 
 
 II. 
 
 BUT one man there was that night of the city 
 watch who took no thought of the drenching rain, who
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 1G3 
 
 felt no fear of the strange movements of tlie stealthy 
 shadows, and in whose sorrow-burdened heart was a 
 dull rage against his evil destiny that made him careless 
 of the saving grace of heaven and defiant of the blight 
 ing powers of hell. "With the sweet fountain of his 
 life embittered at its very source, what did he care for 
 any further ill that Fate might have in store for him ? 
 
 Yet less than six hours had passed since this sorrowful 
 Pancho Brazo had believed himself to be the very happi 
 est man in the whole city of Mexico ; had believed that 
 the happiest home in that whole city was his own home : 
 the tiny house of two rooms wherein he dwelt with his 
 beautiful wife Belita, in the Callejon de los Pajaritos 
 the Little Street of the Little Birds. 
 
 It was a marriage made in heaven, the neighbors 
 
 o / o 
 
 said, when this brisk Pancho, the sereno, married the 
 lovely Belita, daughter of old Rafael the cargador. 
 Belita was known to be as good and as modest as she was 
 beautiful ; and this was saying much, for she was so very 
 beautiful that strangers who saw her for the first time 
 usually drew a long breath as they gazed upon her ; and 
 some had been known to pinch themselves, to make 
 sure that what they saw was not the wonderful creation 
 of a dream. As for Pancho a most gallant young fel 
 low for whom half the women in the quarter where he 
 lived went sighing there was not a better man in all 
 the city watch, nor one more certain soon to be raised 
 to the commanding rank of sergeant in just reward of 
 faithfulness and zeal. It was known, moreover, that 
 because of his love for Belita he had become a very 
 miser. Even before his marriage he had saved a won 
 derful store of dollars, of which every single one had
 
 164 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 been laid away in her name : for the dearest wish of 
 his heart was to be able, when his promotion carne and 
 he should be a person of some consequence in the com 
 munity, to buy for her a little house with a garden 
 around it that should be altogether their very own. 
 Within the small kingdom that he thus hoped to win 
 for her she would be, he told her, wholly a queen. 
 
 Therefore, the wedding was a most happy one ; at 
 tended by many of Pancho s comrades of the city watch, 
 and by many respectable caryadores and aguadvres, 
 with their wives, the friends of old Rafael. And after 
 the marriage ceremony, in the parish church of San 
 Jose, there was a great feast at the Fonda de las Damas 
 whereat pulgue and good wishes were poured out un 
 stintedly ; and whereat, also, good-natured jokes were 
 cracked which made the beautiful Belita blush entranc- 
 ingly to the very tips of her lovely little ears. 
 
 It is but just to add that in all the gossip that at 
 tended upon this wedding Chucha Guerra was the only 
 person who said a single spiteful word. Chucha, to be 
 sure, said not only one but many spiteful words ; but 
 people only smiled when they heard them, for it was 
 well known throughout the quarter that Chucha long 
 had hoped that she, not Belita, would be Pancho s 
 bride. And it was said, also, in extenuation of Chucha s 
 bitterness, that perhaps Pancho had not treated her very 
 well. 
 
 The home in the Little Street of the Little Birds, 
 whereto these married lovers went to dwell, small 
 though it was, was as full of happiness as though it had 
 been the whole of the Yiceroyal Palace over on the 
 Plaza Mayor. In a modest way it also was elegant. A
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 165 
 
 bed, and four rush-bottomed chairs, and a table, were 
 Belita s handsome marriage portion ; from her aunt 
 the wife of the rich dealer in charcoal came the beau 
 tiful picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe in its gilded 
 frame ; she herself had bought the surprising array of 
 toy pots and pans wherewith the wall facing the front 
 door most tastefully was adorned. It was a pleasure to 
 the passers-by to look in at this front door and so to 
 see how excellent was everything within. It was the 
 tidiest house in all the quarter ; and smells came from 
 it at cooking-time fit to stir up unruly desires in the 
 stomach of the blessed St. Anthony ! 
 
 Belita s heart was set not less strongly than was 
 Pancho s upon realizing the golden hope of owning the 
 house with a garden, and therein being a very queen. 
 They had already chosen their future kingdom a little 
 house just beyond the Gate of Belen, on the calzada 
 that led out to the church of La Piedad. Of a Sunday 
 they would go together down past the Salto del Agua 
 and the Arcos de Belen, and so through the Garita 
 and along the causeway until they came to this blissful 
 and beautiful dwelling that they were highly resolved 
 should be their home. This also was a house of two 
 rooms only ; but it stood in the midst of a garden that 
 was nearly forty varas square a garden of fat, black 
 soil that would grow the most ravishing radishes and 
 lettuces, and that had in its midst an apricot-tree, and 
 beside its adobe wall a rare cluster of pomegranates. 
 Separating this estate from the causeway was a wide 
 acequia, whence could be had freely all the water that 
 the garden would require ; and in the aceguia grew 
 calla-lilies beautiful to behold.
 
 1G6 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 It was true that the little house was in a most ruin 
 ous condition ; that the garden wall was falling in a 
 dozen places ; that the acequia, save where the lilies 
 grew, was choked with weeds ; but precisely because 
 their kingdom thus w T as ragged and out of elbows and 
 down at heel did they rejoice. In its ruinous condition 
 no one was likely to buy it ; and its rich owner who 
 had taken it for a bad debt, and who did not care a but 
 ton whether or not a buyer for it were found declined 
 to throw good money after bad by making repairs 
 merely on the chance that when it was put in order it 
 might be sold. Therefore had Pancho and Belita the 
 well-grounded hope that no purchaser would appear be 
 fore their store of dollars reached the modest figure 
 that would suffice to make it their own. As they 
 stood on the calzada, Sunday after Sunday, with hands 
 clasped, in rapturous contemplation of this most precious 
 piece of property they planned, and planned again, how 
 they would restore and beautify it when it should belong 
 wholly and absolutely to them alone. 
 
 So the weeks and the months flitted by cheerily in 
 the house in the Little Street of the Little Birds. The 
 hoard of dollars steadily grew larger ; Pancho s speedy 
 promotion to be a sergeant had been as good as prom 
 ised to him ; the happy future that they longed for was 
 very near at hand ; and through the time that they 
 waited for yet greater happiness to come to them the 
 lives of these fortunate young people were gladdened 
 constantly by the sweet and sustaining comfort of a 
 very perfect love.
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 1G7 
 
 III. 
 
 BUT as Panclio stood watch that murky June night 
 while the blustering torrents which swept out from 
 the cloud-bank above the hills of Tepeyac drenched him 
 to the skin, and the soft warm wind was full of mur 
 murous breathings as of lost souls, and the shadows cast 
 by the pale moonlight were as animate monsters there 
 was no room for dread of any supernatural danger with 
 in his sorrow-laden heart. All his thought was concen 
 trated upon a very terrible danger of an earthly sort 
 that menaced him ; a danger whereof the verity had 
 been proved to him beyond a peradventure, and that 
 must bring him throughout the remainder of his days 
 the open scorn of his enemies and the half -contemptuous 
 pity of his friends. 
 
 It was to Chucha that Panclio owed^ his knowledge 
 of the calamity that had overtaken him in the midst of 
 his happiness and that in an instant had turned the sweet 
 ness of his life to gall. She was a handsome girl, this 
 Chucha ; but hers was so shrewish a temper as Panclio 
 quickly discovered in the days when he had made a 
 little love to her that no man could be found brave 
 enough, for all her good looks, to take the hazard of 
 making her his wife ; which fact, as time and the pass 
 ing away of lovers impressed it upon her, made her 
 nature yet sourer and gave a keener edge to her sharp 
 tongue. 
 
 It was this Chucha, then, who had stopped him 
 that very evening on his way from his home to the 
 watch-house of his quarter, and who without wasting a
 
 168 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 word in greeting had said harshly : " And thou art fool 
 enough, Pancho Brazo, to think that through these long 
 nights whilst thou art absent thy beautiful Belita remains 
 alone ! " 
 
 It was as though a knife had been thrust into his 
 heart when Pancho heard these words. He turned pale 
 and staggered back until he found support against a 
 wall. Then the blood that had retreated for a moment 
 to his heart surged forth again through his veins hotly 
 and he answered : " Thou liest ! " 
 
 Chucha smiled contemptuously. " Ah, these men ! " 
 she said. " How sure they always are of the faithful 
 ness of their own wives ! How sure they always are of 
 all other wives that beauty and faithlessness never fail 
 to go hand in hand ! " 
 
 Pancho grasped her arm so strongly that she gave a 
 little cry of pain. " Prove the truth of thy wicked 
 words, or I will kill thee ! " he said. 
 
 " What matter if thou dost kill me ? " she answered. 
 " Long ago thou didst kill my love. But the proof that 
 thou desirest is easy to give thee. Come with me." 
 
 Pancho followed her along the street, and so into 
 the room that she inhabited in a house not a stone s cast 
 from his own. This room was on the ground floor, and 
 the window that opened upon the street was protected 
 after the Mexican fashion by a heavy grating of iron. 
 Having drawn close the inside wooden shutters, yet not 
 so close but that there remained a crack ample to spy 
 through, Chucha beckoned him to the window. " Stand 
 here and watch," she said. "Presently thou wilt see 
 all that thou needest to confirm my words." 
 
 Had not the whole matter been sprung upon him
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 1(59 
 
 with a suddenness that gave him no time for reflection, 
 Pancho might have thought twice before consenting 
 thus to act the spy upon his own wife and especially 
 under Chucha s eyes. As he placed himself so that he 
 could look out through the crack in the shutters his 
 conscience twinged him because of the part that he was 
 playing ; yet but lightly, for dread and rage still filled 
 his heart. In a moment he heard the door behind him 
 open ; and as he turned quickly he saw Chucha, bearing 
 a bundle on her arm, just leaving the room. He had 
 not expected from her such consideration. It would 
 have been more in keeping with what he believed to be 
 her character had she remained to exult over him when 
 the proof that she had promised should be forthcoming 
 and he should be compelled to admit that her words 
 were true. 
 
 Dusk had fallen upon the city, but not darkness. 
 Even at a short distance, while figures easily were dis 
 tinguished, faces were blurred and not recognizable. 
 For ten minutes Pancho stood at his post and watched 
 fruitlessly. As he thus waited, inactive, his anger 
 cooled and his reason slowly returned to him. Then 
 shame of his traitorous spying took hold upon him. It 
 was a cruel wrong that lie was doing his wife, he felt, 
 thus to doubt her on no surer ground than that of the 
 lying Chucha s word ; it was both absurd and wicked to 
 doubt Belita on any ground at all and as these honor 
 able thoughts framed themselves in his mind he turned 
 to abandon his place at the window, gravely angry with 
 himself because he had yielded to Chucha s evil wishes 
 so easily and so far. 
 
 But in the very moment that he turned from his
 
 170 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPA1X. 
 
 post of observation he saw that which irresistibly drew his 
 eyes back again to the crack in the shutters ; that made 
 a great lump come up into his throat, and that sent 
 through his heart a chill and biting pain. At the door 
 of his own house, over there across the street, stood a 
 shadowy figure wrapped in a long cloak ; that it was 
 the figure of a man, of a gentleman, was unmistakable 
 because of the broad hat surmounted by a waving 
 plume. 
 
 The man paused for a moment and seemed to gaze 
 f urti vely up and down the street. Then, apparently sat 
 isfied that the coast was clear, he tapped thrice lightly 
 against the door. The door was not opened ; but from 
 the position of his head slightly bent, and closely ap 
 proached to the key-hole it was evident that he was 
 carrying on a conversation with whoever was on the other 
 side : and the only person who possibly could be on the 
 other side of that door, as the miserable Pancho but too 
 well knew, was his own wife ! The conversation was a 
 very short one ; and then, greatly to Pancho s astonish 
 ment for he had expected that the affair would have a 
 widely different ending the man stepped back, blew a 
 kiss from the tips of his fingers toward the door, and so 
 came away. He walked briskly down the street, on its 
 opposite side, directly past the window behind which 
 Pancho stood. His head was bowed a little, so that the 
 brim of his hat concealed his face. He was a small 
 man, wearing a long, gray cloak, and a brown hat in 
 which was a green plume. 
 
 Pancho made but two bounds from the window to 
 the door. His only thought was of hot pursuit and 
 bloody vengeance. He raised the latch, but the door
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 171 
 
 would not open it was locked ! The iron grating of 
 the window was as strong as the grating of a jail. He 
 let loose a tornado of curses as he realized the trick 
 that Clmcha had put upon him in leaving him thus a 
 prisoner, and in his raving rage he beat against the 
 door with his feet and fists and made no more im 
 pression against its solid timbers than he would have 
 made by beating against a wall of stone. At last, his 
 rage having a little spent itself in his furious violence, 
 he resigned himself to awaiting Chucha s return. What 
 he would do, the moment that he was set free, was 
 perfectly clear to him : he would walk across the street 
 and kill his wife. Later, perhaps, he might be fortu 
 nate enough to find her lover and kill him also. 
 
 After what seemed to him to be a very long while, 
 the door opened and Clmcha entered. 
 
 " Well," she asked, " what hast thou seen ? " 
 
 Pancho was silent. 
 
 " Did her lover come the little gentleman of the 
 court, with a brown hat and a green feather ? " 
 
 " Then thou also didst see him ? " 
 
 "I? I have seen nothing nothing, that is, to 
 night, P>ut I have seen much on other nights it is 
 an old affair, thou stupid one. Tell me what thou didst 
 see ? " 
 
 When he had told her, stumbling in his words and 
 freighting them with a load of heavy curses, she an 
 swered slowly and reflectively : " Yes, it sometimes 
 happens in this way. lie comes ; says a word or two 
 to her through the closed door ; blows a kiss of fare 
 well toward her, and then away he goes. I do not 
 understand it, but so it is. These gentlemen of the
 
 172 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 court have customs of their own. But it is seldom 
 that he thus leaves her. Usually the door opens when 
 he taps. It is far in the night when he departs. 
 
 For answer, Pancho ground his teeth. 
 
 " Thou poor Pancho ! " she continued, and in her 
 tone there was a touch of very genuine tenderness. " It 
 is cruel that such a wife as this shouldst have been given 
 thee, when thou mightst have had one who would have 
 loved thee truly and faithfully all thy life long. Even 
 yet, Pancho " She stopped short and looked at him. 
 There could be no mistaking the meaning that was in 
 Chucha s eyes. 
 
 As she moved a step toward him he turned abruptly 
 from her and placed his hand upon the latch. " Talk 
 not to me of faithful love of woman ! " he cried. " Since 
 thou hast proved to me that Belita is false, I know that 
 not one woman in all the world is true. Now I am go 
 ing over there to kill her. Be thankful that first I do 
 not kill thee. Death is what thou deservest because of 
 thy black heart ! " He spoke very calmly ; but it was 
 the calmness of a glowing rage. 
 
 Chucha also spoke calmly. " It is well enough to 
 kill Belita," she said; "but if thou shouldst kill her 
 now, her lover will escape thy vengeance. Let her live 
 on to lure him back again, so that thy work may be 
 complete. Wait until another night shall bring him to 
 her door ; and then, when he has entered, follow thou 
 and kill them both ! " 
 
 Pancho stood for some instants silent and irresolute. 
 Then, as he turned toward the door again, he said, slow 
 ly, but with a bitter earnestness : " Thou daughter of 
 the devil, I shall take thy counsel ! "
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 1Y3 
 
 She stepped quickly in front of liim. " Wilt thou 
 not kiss me, Pancho only one little kiss before thou 
 goest ? " 
 
 He thrust her aside savagely. " To hell with thee, 
 where thou belongest and may I never set eyes on thee 
 again until my meeting with thee there shall be a part 
 of my punishment for the sin that, because of thee, 1 
 shall do ! " He tore the door open, and so was gone. 
 
 IY. 
 
 ISTo wonder was it, then, as Pancho stood his watch in 
 the deserted streets that strange June night so full of 
 evil and of dread, that Heaven s grace seemed hopelessly 
 far away from him ; that he was defiant of the powers 
 of darkness because already they had done their worst. 
 Welcome to him, he thought, would be the icy breath of 
 La Llorona bringing the chill pain of death ; welcome 
 even would be the gaunt specter of Don Juan Manuel, 
 killing with that nameless horror whereof only awful 
 hints were given in wide-open and distraught dead eyes. 
 
 Yet in truth because the natural body of man cher 
 ishes the life that is in it even while that life longs only 
 to be quit of its load of earthly flesh a shiver ran 
 through Pancho s frame as a voice sounded suddenly in 
 his ears, and, turning quickly, he saw a man standing at 
 his side. Whence this man had conic he could not tell. 
 Save a low growl of thunder that had followed close 
 upon a livid Hash in the cloud-bank above the hills of Te- 
 peyac, he had heard no sound until this voice demanded : 
 " What is the hour of the night ? " At the same instant 
 there came faintly through the warm, moist air the mid-
 
 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 night cliiming of the clock upon the Palace ; and with 
 this, in yet fainter tones, the cliiming of the clock in the 
 distant Calle de Reloj. 
 
 Pancho s fear, born of his body, lasted only for a 
 moment. Then his strong spirit, made desperate by its 
 burden of hopeless sorrow, asserted its full strength. 
 Drawing himself up as though on parade, he answered 
 firmly : " It is midnight, Don Juan Manuel when thou, 
 with others like thee of the damned, art loosed from 
 hell ! Xow thou seest that I fear not to tell thee the 
 hour of my death. Kill me quickly ; but know that for 
 once thou hast failed in thy devil-sent mission because 
 for me life is all sorrow and death is joy ! " 
 
 That which Pancho expected instantly that strange 
 sensation, whatever it may be, w r hich marks the change 
 when mortals put on immortality did not come to him. 
 ]STor did Don Juan Manuel (there was no room for 
 doubting that this was Don Juan Manuel) immediately 
 make answer to his desperate deliverance. In the pause 
 that followed there was a brighter flash of lightning in 
 the sky directly above them, followed by a crash of 
 thunder that shook the ground beneath their feet. A 
 few great drops of rain fell : heralding the advance of 
 the deluge that was sweeping toward them with a hiss 
 ing sound, as though winged serpents battled in the 
 upper reaches of the night. Don Juan Manuel pulled 
 down over his brow the broad brim of his plumed hat, 
 and buried his face still more deeply in the mufflings of 
 his cloak. His head was bowed a little, and his form 
 relaxed, as though he pondered some deep thought. 
 When the gush of rain burst upon them he gave no sign 
 of heeding it, save to draw a long breath, as though of
 
 A MEXICAN NIGIIT. 175 
 
 satisfaction : a not unnatural feeling, Panclio thought, 
 in the case of one corning from the blazing region where 
 lie belonged and half expected to see the rain-drops 
 leap away from him in steam. 
 
 At last Don Juan Manuel raised his head and spoke. 
 " My son," he said and then a great crash of thunder 
 drowned his words. As the peal died away in rumbling 
 reverberations among the clouds he went on, as calmly 
 as though no interruption had occurred " I am not 
 wholly a thing of evil. Remember the love that was in 
 my heart for the nephew whom I was constrained to 
 kill. Remember the penance that I did, whereby was 
 partly purged my soul. There still is left to me the 
 power to sympathize in human sorrow. Tell me of this 
 sharp grief of thine that, in the very bloom and morn 
 ing of thy life, makes thee cry longingly for death." 
 
 There was another fierce gleam of lightning and 
 furious crash of thunder as Don Juan Manuel ended 
 this strange address. The rain poured down as though 
 whole oceans had been caught up and loosed above 
 them in the deep bosom of the inky sky. Beneath 
 their feet the solid earth trembled. The very elements 
 seemed to be dissolving into space before a mighty and 
 a roaring wind. 
 
 The fury and the wonder and the horror of it all 
 half turned Pancho s brain. He laughed aloud. " Truly, 
 Senor Devil Don Juan Manuel," he cried, " I will tell 
 thee, and gladly. Why should I not? It is but telling 
 thee a little sooner the story that thou wilt hear when I 
 go down, as soon I must, red-handed to join thee in 
 thy home in hell. Thou seemest, in thy way, to be a 
 kindly devil. Listen, then, and know once more for
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 many such tales must thou have heard from the souls of 
 men in torment midst thy endless fires what crimes 
 are done when faith is turned to faithlessness and 
 righteous hate avenges outraged love." 
 
 And then his soul racked with agony as his grief 
 grew yet more poignant by taking firmer shape in 
 words, in the crash of dashing rain and volleying 
 thunder, beneath a sky that seemed aflame with all the 
 fires of hell Pancho told to Don Juan Manuel the 
 whole of his miserable story, from the joy of its begin 
 ning to the bitter, deadly sorrow of its despairing end. 
 
 Not one detail did he spare himself. All the glad 
 hopes which had filled his soul were set forth : of his 
 promotion to be a sergeant ; of the little house with the 
 garden ; of his life of happiness in that little kingdom 
 where Belita would be queen. And then he told of 
 the black woe that had come to him in Chucha s 
 spoken words ; in what from Chucha s window, with 
 his own eyes, he had seen. 
 
 Had he been Chucha s lover ? Don Juan inter 
 rupted. Yes, in a way, he answered^ and told shortly 
 what his light love-making had been, and how she had 
 sought, in the very midst of his sorrow, to win his love 
 again by her bold looks and words. 
 
 And then he added, in words which showed how 
 fiercely in his heart burned the strong fire of deadly 
 hate, that Belita and, if luck served him, her lover 
 also would die that coming night by his avenging 
 hand. "And so it will be, Sefior Devil Don Juan 
 Manuel," he cried in bitterness of spirit, " that because 
 of the sin to which this wicked woman drives me I am 
 doomed to join thee presently in hell, and to dwell with
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 177 
 
 thee there forever among the damned ! " And as lie 
 thus spoke, Pancho buried his face within his hands and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 Another vast roar of thunder went hurtling through 
 the heavens ; and as Pancho started and raised his head 
 again, a strange thrill of dread and wonder went through 
 him : he was utterly alone ! Up and down the whole 
 length of the street, bright as day with the constant 
 flashing of the lightning, was only emptiness. The 
 devil had called home his own : Don Juan Manuel had 
 vanished into thin air. 
 
 V. 
 
 SLOWLY the savage storm died away into the black 
 cloud-bank above the hills of Tepeyac, and thence was 
 carried northward beyond the mountain girdle of the 
 valley before the soft south wind. Over in the east 
 the brightening sky brought into sharp relief the dark 
 outlines of the great volcanoes ; the sharp pinnacle of 
 Popocatepetl and the shrouded figure of Ixtaccihuatl 
 the dead White Woman wrapped in eternal snow. The 
 wind from the southward freshened, and a brisk life 
 came into it. A richer, stronger light came into the 
 pale sky beyond the mountains. The shadows below 
 grew thin and opalescent. At last the sun sprang with 
 a bound above the crests of the volcanoes, and over the 
 whole beautiful valley shone the sparkling, resplendent 
 glory of a new-born tropical day. 
 
 Just before this brilliant burst of sunlight came 
 worn and weary with the long strain of tense excite 
 ment Pancho had lost track of his troubles for a mo- 
 12
 
 178 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ment, as he leaned against a doorway, in the forgetful- 
 ness of sleep. It was only for a moment, literally, that 
 his slumber lasted ; but with the sense of waking ca.me 
 uncertainty as to how long he had slept and then the 
 hope that perhaps the bitter sorrow and the unholy 
 prodigies of the past night were but the unsubstantial 
 creations of a dream. Yet it did not seem to him that 
 this solution could be possible. The pain of his sorrow 
 pressed upon him too heavily, the events of the past 
 night were too clearly defined in his memory, for either 
 the one or the other to be unreal. But he could not 
 be certain. The whole world seemed to him to be very 
 vague and shadowy and far away. Before his eyes 
 danced little points of light. His head was swimming. 
 In his ears were odd, buzzing noises, and the tinkling 
 as of many little bells. 
 
 Presently the relief came up. "With his wits still 
 hopelessly askew, he fell in with the other men going 
 off duty in its rear. The rhythmic beat of the foot 
 steps, with which his own kept time, made in his mind 
 a cadenced measure that resolved the tinkling in his 
 ears into the slow and mournful ringing of a single 
 bell. Then he realized that a bell truly was ringing ; 
 and heard a voice that seemed to come from a long 
 way off, but that he knew was the voice of the man 
 next him in the ranks say that it was the Penitents 
 Bell of Santo Domingo, tolling while the convicts to be 
 sent in the galleon to the Filipinas were formed for 
 their dismal march to Acapulco, whence they would put 
 to sea. 
 
 Still with his mind in curious confusion, he entered 
 the watch-house and stood in the line that was formed
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 179 
 
 in the patio to answer to the roll-call before being dis 
 missed. With a dull surprise, he perceived that the 
 Commandant of the City Watch and the Captain of his 
 quarter stood beside the lieutenant on duty, and that 
 with these dignitaries there was also an Alcalde of the 
 court. The presence of the Captain at that early hour 
 of the day was astonishing ; the presence of the Com 
 mandant and the Alcalde was nothing short of a prodigy. 
 
 The roll was called, but the men were not dismissed. 
 The Commandant, the Captain, and the Alcalde whis 
 pered together. Their conversation seemed to be of 
 an agreeable nature, for as they whispered they smiled. 
 Presently the lieutenant faced toward the line of men 
 and gave the order : " dumber Five, attention ! Two 
 paces to the front, march ! " 
 
 This was Pancho s number. Mechanically he recog 
 nized it ; stepped two paces to the front ; came to a 
 halt, and saluted. In a confused way he concluded that 
 trouble was in store for him. Undoubtedly, lie thought, 
 he had slumbered long that morning on his post ; some 
 one had reported him ; now he was to be punished. But 
 his dread of punishment was forgotten for a moment 
 as came to him again the hope that perhaps the whole 
 series of torments of the past night was but a dream. 
 And again, as he tried to grasp it, did this hope vanish 
 away. The memory of what he had seen from Chucha s 
 window was far too vivid a memory to be based only 
 upon the unsubstantial fabric whereof dreams are made. 
 He knew that the small man wearing a gray cloak and 
 a brown hat in which was a green plume, the man who 
 had tapped at Belita s door, was not a vision but a re 
 ality. Therefore his sorrow closed over him again, and
 
 180 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 he waited stolidly for the coming reprimand the first 
 reprimand that ever he had received. 
 
 But it was not in a tone of reprimand that the Com 
 mandant addressed him, and most extraordinary were 
 the terms and titles which this great personage em 
 ployed. " Sefior Don Francisco Brazo," he said, 
 " knowledge of your faithful service has come to the 
 ears of his Excellency the Viceroy. Your deserts 
 
 But Pancho was so dizzied by hearing himself styled 
 " Sefior Don," and by the use toward him on the part 
 of this great dignitary of the formal and stately " you," 
 that for some moments the Commandant s words fell on 
 his ears only as empty sounds. Their sense grew clear 
 again only in time for him to hear the last of them : 
 which were freighted with an import so wonderful as 
 fairly to take away his breath. 
 
 " his desire to reward you. Therefore I am 
 charged to present you with this commission that makes 
 you a Captain in the Palace Guards. I felicitate you, 
 Captain Brazo, because I myself know that you deserve 
 your good luck." And then the Commandant actually 
 the Commandant stepped forward to where Pancho 
 stood and shook him by the hand ! 
 
 " You have my good wishes also, comrade," said 
 Pancho s late captain and thereupon embraced him, 
 while the patio rang with the vivas of the watchmen 
 standing in line. 
 
 "You will report at noon to-day at the Palace 
 guard-room, Captain Brazo," said the Commandant. 
 " Until that hour you are relieved from duty." 
 
 " One moment, Captain Brazo." It was the Al 
 calde who spoke. " I also have something for you
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 181 
 
 tliat his Excellency sends. Here is the deed that 
 makes you the owner of a certain property & little 
 house with a garden around it on the Calzada de la 
 Piedad. The property is somewhat out of repair. His 
 Excellency, who desires that the officers of his Palace 
 Guards shall be well housed, sends you this purse that 
 he trusts you will employ in the reparation of the 
 house and grounds." 
 
 Pancho had made no answer to the Commandant. 
 Neither did he make answer to the Alcalde. He stood 
 as one dazed with no certain feeling in his troubled 
 
 o 
 
 soul save a bitter sorrow because what should have been 
 the crowning of his happiness had come only to be the 
 crowning of his hopeless grief. Verily, Dead Sea 
 fruit was this which was given him. What good was 
 there in his astonishing promotion, and in the still 
 more astonishing gift of the little house, when his 
 greater rank would but set more tongues to wagging 
 about his dishonor, and when the home that he had 
 longed for must now and always be cold and desolate ? 
 
 As he turned to leave the watch-house, going he 
 knew not where, he pressed his hand to his forehead as 
 one whose head is swimming ; and in his walk he stag 
 gered so heavily that he would have fallen had not the 
 Alcalde stepped forward quickly and grasped him by 
 the arm. 
 
 " Lean upon me, Seflor Captain, and let us walk to 
 gether. A turn in the morning air will refresh and 
 strengthen you. Moreover, still another of his Excel 
 lency s orders remains to be executed before you will be 
 free to go to your good wife, the beautiful Dona Belita, 
 to tell her the good news."
 
 182 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 For answer, Pancho only groaned aloud. In his sor 
 row, the thought did not occur to him how strange it 
 was that this Alcalde, whom he never before had laid 
 eyes upon, should know that his wife was beautiful and 
 should know also her name ! 
 
 The Alcalde stepped out at a good pace, and, as the 
 exercise of brisk walking set Pancho s blood astir again 
 in his veins, and as the cool morning air refreshed his 
 feverish body, he found that there were fewer cobwebs 
 in his brain. But as his mind grew clearer his sorrow 
 became more searching. He wondered what was this 
 other order of the Viceroy s wliich remained to be exe 
 cuted, and whither the Alcalde was leading him yet 
 cared little : being only thankful for any delay that 
 gave him a respite from returning to what had been 
 his home. 
 
 Together they walked on to the Plaza Mayor ; passed 
 the Parian and the cathedral, and so northward to the 
 Plazuela de Santo Domingo. Around the outer edges of 
 this Plazuela a great crowd was gathered, chattering 
 noisily ; and above the noise of talking sounded now 
 and then the tapping of drums. At a sign from the 
 Alcalde two guards, who seemed to have been in wait 
 ing for him beside the chapel of the Espiritu Santo, 
 made a way through the crowd along which he and 
 Pancho passed to the open Plazuela beyond. Here the 
 convicts for the Filipinas were assembled, surrounded 
 by a strong detachment of guards. A little apart from 
 the convicts stood a group of officers ; in the midst of 
 which, to judge from the respectful manner in which 
 they left an open space around him, was one officer of 
 very high rank.
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 183 
 
 As Panclio realized where the Alcalde had brought 
 him, the thought flashed through his mind that all that 
 had passed at the watch-house had been only a dismal 
 comedy, devised by the Viceroy in order to make more 
 stinging the punishment that he was to receive for sleep 
 ing while on watch ; that now, in truth, he really was to 
 be punished by being sent over-seas to the Filipinas for 
 the remainder of his miserable days. In all this there 
 was nothing in the least degree improbable ; rather 
 was it entirely in keeping with the Viceroy s manners 
 and ways. The extraordinary eccentricities of the 
 Conde de lievillagigedo were as notorious as was the 
 knowledge of the marvelous celeritv with which he 
 
 O *J 
 
 contrived to become acquainted with the doings of the 
 humblest of his subjects, and the still more marvelous 
 celerity with which always in some strange yet ap 
 propriate mariner of his own devising he rewarded 
 merit or punished crime. For a moment Pancho was 
 staggered by the thought of a life of exile ; and then 
 his sorrowful heart almost rejoiced at the prospect of 
 it. In truth, as he perceived, excepting only death, no 
 better deliverance could have come to him. 
 
 These thoughts went through his mind so quickly 
 that they were ended, and he had come to his desperate 
 conclusion, before he had crossed the open space be 
 tween the group in the center of the Plazuela and the 
 surrounding crowd. His firm expectation was that he 
 would be led to where the convicts were standing and 
 assigned to a place in their ranks. Instead of this, the 
 Alcalde halted him at a little distance from the group of 
 officers ; waved his hand, as though giving a signal, and 
 at the same moment said : " The Senor Captain will see
 
 184 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 something interesting if he will keep his eyes upon that 
 door." 
 
 Pancho felt his head beginning to buzz again with 
 this evident beginning of another in the series of prodi 
 gies that were crowding upon him that day. With a 
 feeling of dull wonder he fixed his eyes upon the door 
 toward which the Alcalde pointed a door in a house 
 on the other side of the Plazuela, from which the crowd 
 was kept back by a double line of soldiers in expecta 
 tion that presently the door would open and that some 
 great personage, perhaps the Viceroy himself, wculd 
 come forth. 
 
 But what actually did happen was quite different 
 from that which Pancho expected, and was far more 
 surprising. At a word of command, given by the officer 
 of the escort, a man stepped out from the ranks of the 
 convicts and went toward the door. Immediately behind 
 him walked a soldier with a cocked musket. He was a 
 small man, wearing a long gray cloak and a brown hat 
 with a green plume. Being come to the door, the man 
 tapped upon it lightly three times ; then leaned forward, 
 and seemed to speak a few words to some one within ; 
 then stepped back, blew toward it a kiss from the tips 
 of his fingers, and turned away the soldier with the 
 cocked musket all the while standing by with his finger 
 on the trigger of his piece. 
 
 At the first sight that Pancho had of this man he 
 gave a cry of rage, and would have bounded forward 
 but for the Alcalde s restraining grasp. While the 
 scene at the door went on, his struggles were so violent 
 that the officer of the escort had to aid the Alcalde in 
 holding him fast.
 
 A MEXICAN NIGHT. 185 
 
 " Be calm, Seiior Captain," said the Alcalde, coolly. 
 " Your desire to get close to that little gentleman is only 
 natural, and it shall be gratified. But it is not neces 
 sary for you to go to him ; he shall be brought to you. 
 See, he is coming now." 
 
 Pancho ceased his struggles, for he saw that the man 
 really was coming toward him. His head was bowed, 
 
 / O 
 
 so that the brim of his hat hid his face. He moved 
 slowly, and with an evident reluctance that required to 
 overcome it an occasional word from the soldier with 
 the cocked musket, who still marched close behind him. 
 In front of Pancho and the Alcalde he halted, his head 
 still bowed. In a pleasant voice the Alcalde said to him : 
 The musket is loaded. It certainly will go off un 
 less the Sen or obliges Captain Brazo by looking him 
 in the face ! " 
 
 Slowly the bowed head was raised. In a tone of ab 
 solute wonder and amazement Pancho uttered but one 
 single word : 
 
 " Chucha ! " 
 
 At that instant a hand was laid gently upon his 
 shoulder, and a voice that thrilled through every fiber 
 of his being as he recognized it said to him : " Xow 
 thou secst, Pancho, of what poor stuif was made the 
 rage of jealousy that turned to hate thy love for a good 
 woman ; that would have urged thee on, but that by 
 God s good grace I chanced to meet with thee, to mur 
 der ! Thank God and his blessed saints that he who 
 came to thee in the midst of the storm last night was 
 the Conde de Revillagigedo not, as thou didst imagine 
 in thy foolish and superstitious fancy, the specter of 
 Don Juan Manuel ! "
 
 186 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 " March ! " cried the officer of the escort : and the 
 convicts, herded in by their guard of soldiers, started on 
 their long journey westward to Acapulco, where the 
 galleon lay ready to bear them away forever far down 
 the reaches of the western sea. 
 
 " March ! " said the Viceroy to Paiicho. " Go home 
 to thy wife, the beautiful Belita. Tell her of thy good 
 fortune, which is also hers ; but fail not to tell her, too, 
 and humbly, of thy sinful doubting of her faithfulness. 
 Fear not that she will refuse to pardon thee for the 
 saints in heaven are not more long-suffering in forgive 
 ness than is a good woman who loves with a pure and 
 constant love."
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 
 
 FOR a hundred years the Christian Spaniards had 
 wrought evil in Christ s name. From their stronghold 
 in the town of the Holy Faith their cruel power had 
 spread out over all the valley-lands, constraining the 
 Pueblo Indians, in the fear of death, to grievous toil 
 in the mines, and to a yet more grievous service in 
 the worship of the Spanish gods. And the Pueblos, in 
 whose breasts hope scarce longer had a home, almost 
 had ceased to beg from their own god deliverance. 
 That was a most cruel and wicked time. 
 
 And it was in that time that marvelous treasure 
 flowed from a certain mine up in the Sangre de Cristo 
 Mountains that was called, because it belonged to the 
 Fathers whose monastery was at Santa Clara, la in.ina, 
 de los Padres. Of all the many rich mines in this sil 
 ver-strewn range, the Mine of the Fathers was incom 
 parably the richest. From it came wealth so great that 
 even the avarice of those who fattened upon its kingly 
 revenue was almost sated. And yet, as its shafts sank 
 deeper, and as its galleries penetrated yet farther into 
 the bowels of the mountain, richer and richer grew its 
 yield. So over all the realm of Xew Spain, and thence 
 across seas even to the old Spanish country, the fame 
 of la mined dc los Padres went abroad.
 
 188 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 But, with the story of its wondrous product of glit 
 tering silver, never a word was told of the bitter 
 misery of those who toiled in its dark depths driven 
 more harshly than ever beasts were driven, crushed 
 down by toil to cruel and painful death, that the treas 
 ure might be wrung from the rock and brought with 
 in the reach of man. Nor was there any sign in the 
 triumphant tidings sent homeward of the thousands of 
 converts to the Christian faith at what cost of death to 
 hundreds these thousands, through terror of death, had 
 been won to the service of the Christian God ; at 
 what cost of rigid, ruthless mastership this service was 
 maintained. 
 
 So at last, in that direful summer of the year 1680, 
 the wind that the Spaniards had sown for a century 
 came up a whirlwind of flame and blood, sweeping over 
 and devastating all the land. Out from a clear sky 
 came the storm. In a moment was upon them, in its 
 terrible might and majesty, the pursuing wrath of God. 
 Almost to a man the dwellers in the outpost towns 
 Taos, Santa Clara, San Yldefonso, Santa Cruz were 
 slain. At last even Santa Fe itself was abandoned, 
 and the conquered masters fled pitifully southward for 
 refuge from their conquering slaves. So was a great 
 wrong punished ; so at last was justice done to the 
 Pueblos, when the God who is God of both pagan and 
 Christian in his pity gave them his strength. 
 
 Long years passed by before the Spaniards again 
 made good their hold upon the land ; and when at last 
 their strength in possession was restored, and the new 
 dwellers in the monastery at Santa Clara sought to re 
 open the Mine of the Fathers, out of which those
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 189 
 
 before them had drawn so great a revenue, no trace of 
 the mine could they anywhere find 1 That the maps 
 and plans of it which had been in the monastery 
 should be gone was no surprising matter ; but strange 
 it was that the very mine itself should have vanished 
 from the earth ! Seeking it diligently, but finding it 
 not, they came to know that the Pueblos, remembering 
 the horror of their toil in former times, had destroyed 
 the trail leading up to it among the mountains ; with 
 infinite labor had filled in the great main shaft, and 
 had taken aAvay all traces of the \vorkings from around 
 about the shaft s mouth. And, knowing this, they 
 sought to wrest the secret from them. Some were put 
 to the torture, some were slain outright, that the living 
 might be driven by dread of a like fate to tell where 
 the mine w r as hid. But neither biting pain nor fear of 
 death sufficed to shake their stern resolve. Bravely, 
 grimly, in painful life and in dying agony, they held 
 the secret locked within their breasts. 
 
 So the years drifted by and were marshaled into 
 centuries ; the power of the Spaniards waned to a 
 shadow and vanished ; a new race came in and possessed 
 what, in times of old, had been their possessions ; and 
 while, through these fleeting years and slow-moving 
 centuries, through all this wreck and change, the fame 
 of la mina de los Padres lived on as a legend, the mine 
 itself never was known of men. 
 
 In the legend of it that survived, twas said that 
 upon him who should find it again would fall the curse 
 of the Pueblos god. 
 
 There is no more beautiful sight in all the fair
 
 190 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 land that once was the realm of New Spain than the 
 view at sunset from Santa Clara looking westward, 
 down the valley of the Rio Grande. The town a 
 score or so of brown adobe houses, clustered around 
 the old church and the now partly-ruined monastery 
 stands upon a little promontory, the last low wave of 
 the foot-hills of the Sangre de Cristo range. The 
 mountain ramparts which tower on each side of the 
 valley go down in grand perspective toward the west, 
 their peaks standing out blue-gray against the brighter 
 blue-gray of the evening sky. And off toward the 
 dying sun the sky takes a violet tint, and then a rose, 
 and then a soft, rich red, and then a glowing crimson that 
 is flecked and spangled with a great glory of flaming 
 gold. Yet is the setting sun not seen, for, cutting off 
 sight of it completely, the great castellated mountain 
 of San Yldefonso raises the level lines of its broad 
 battlements darkly, sharply against the dazzle of light 
 and color beyond. Leading downward, as though it 
 were a glittering highway to this lordly castle s gates, 
 the Rio Grande flows smoothly between its low banks : 
 the red and golden gleamings of the evening sky re 
 flected on its rapid current. Each night there is fresh 
 joy in beholding anew this magnificent resplendency, 
 this perfect picture fresh from the hand of God. 
 
 Techita, sitting in a nook in the bluff below the 
 walls of the old monastery, loved greatly to look upon 
 this God-given picture ; to watch its glory grow as 
 the sun dropped down beyond the mountain of San 
 1 kief onso and thence sent up rich colorings over all 
 the western sky ; to watch its glory wane as the sun 
 sank yet lower behind the far mountains beyond, and
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 191 
 
 the color-music slowly died away. And then, when 
 the edge of night was come, and gray darkness was 
 shutting in the west, and in the east only faint, soft 
 colorings remained, it was her w T ont to go gently into 
 the shadowy church, and there, before the old picture 
 of the sweet Santa Clara, make her pure offering of 
 thankfulness in prayer. 
 
 Nor would Techita s thankfulness be lessened, as 
 she walked slowly away from the church in the twi 
 light, by catching sight of Juan standing by the door 
 way of his little home in a corner of the old monastery, 
 and by seeing, even in the half darkness, the love-light 
 shining in his eyes. Yet with her gladness that Juan 
 loved her would come troublous doubts into Techita s 
 heart. For, down in this old Mexican town, these two 
 were living over the story that is as old as human life 
 itself, and that ever is sorrowfully new the story of a 
 hopeless love. 
 
 A stranger coming to Santa Clara at least a 
 stranger from the barbarous northern country would 
 have perceived no outward difference in the estates of 
 old Pablo, Techita s father, and of Techita s lover, Juan. 
 Such a stranger, supposing that he had taken the trouble 
 to think anything about them at all, would have " sized 
 them up," after the abrupt, uncivil manner of Ameri 
 canos generally, simply as a pair of poverty-stricken 
 Mexicans ; and he might have gone a step farther, and 
 wondered how on earth they managed to keep body and 
 soul together, anyway. But, so far as old Pablo was 
 concerned, this estimate would have been very far 
 astray. In point of fact, old Pablo was a rich man. 
 Half a mile of the best land along the river was his ;
 
 192 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 his also was the great flock of goats that every night at 
 milking-time came trooping homeward to the corral; 
 his also was the great herd of cattle that pastured on 
 the mesa negra^ half a dozen leagues away to the 
 north ; and in his granaries was a vast store of barley 
 and beans and corn. 
 
 And Juan had neither flocks nor herds nor lands ! 
 All his earthly possessions were the few household 
 things in the little home that the Padre, pitying him, 
 had suffered him to make for himself in a corner of the 
 old monastery. All his wealth was his strong young 
 body and stout heart and ready hands. 
 
 Of a truth, this handsome Juan had been born into 
 the world under an unlucky star. While he was yet 
 a boy, the dreadful mruelas had swept down upon 
 Santa Clara, and in a month s time his father and his 
 mother, together with half the little town, were hud 
 dled into hastily dug graves. And he was still a boy 
 when the old aunt who had cared for him died also, and 
 left him to make his fight for life alone. Then it was 
 that the good Padre had found for him a home in an 
 odd corner of the partly ruined monastery, long since 
 deserted of its old-time tenants and falling slowly into 
 a complete decay. Here, for a dozen years and more, 
 he had made shift to live, helping the Padre in the 
 offices of the church, herding goats in the fallow season 
 of the year, and in the growing season working in the 
 fields. The Padre, whose heart was tender, greatly 
 loved the lonely boy ; and by the Padre s care he had 
 become a prodigy of learning. Actually, he could read ! 
 And, still more wonderful, he could sign his name and 
 make about it, too, as brave a maze of flourishes as any
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 193 
 
 Mexican in all the land ! But for all his headful of 
 knowledge, Juan was the poorest of the poor. 
 
 No wonder, then, that his love for Techita was 
 hopeless. Pablo was a shrewd old fellow, with a keen 
 eye for all his look of sleepiness for money-holding ; 
 and that his daughter (who also was his only child, 
 for Pablito and Pablito s mother had died together in 
 a single day in that dismal small-pox time) should marry 
 a rich man was the dearest purpose of his heart. Dur 
 ing the past year or two, since Techita had begun to 
 blossom into womanhood, the gossips of the little town 
 had affirmed that the solemn old Don Jose, who owned 
 the great hacienda at Abiqni, was the husband for 
 Techita whom old Pablo had in mind. But there were 
 those who said saying it beneath the breath, for Seiior 
 Don Pablo was one whom it was not well to offend 
 that to put such a fate upon Techita would be a crime. 
 And others, still bolder, declared that Juan and Techita, 
 the handsomest couple in all the valley s length, were 
 sent thus together into the world by the good God that 
 they might be man and wife. But these whisperings 
 never came to old Pablo s ears ; and, had they come, he 
 would have laughed at them as old women s foolish 
 ness so right it seemed to him that his daughter 
 should wed her wealth with greater wealth ; so absurd 
 would have seemed to him the suggestion that she 
 should wed with such a one as this goat-herding, field- 
 working Juan. 
 
 Therefore it was that Techita, knowing well and 
 
 dreading much her father s will concerning her, felt her 
 
 heart troubled within her by knowing of the love that 
 
 Juan had for her ; by knowing that her own love was 
 
 13
 
 194: STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 given to Juan in return. And often, as she knelt in 
 the church as the daylight passed away, she prayed that 
 the gentle Santa Clara would soften her father s heart, 
 so that happiness might come to her and to her lover. 
 But the time went on, and no change came to open the 
 way whereon she longed to go ; and each passing month 
 now, as she grew rapidly into womanhood, made the 
 time more near for her to be the wife of Don Jose. 
 
 Thus matters stood when all the valley was filled 
 with a sullen alarm and w r onder by the incoming once 
 again of the hated Americanos from the North this 
 time not as an army (against which, as at the time of 
 their first coming, could be had at least the hot satis 
 faction of fighting), but as the builders of a railroad : 
 a devilish and hurtful contrivance, concerning which 
 nothing was certain, save that it certainly was a thing 
 of evil to be dreaded and abhorred. And when, the 
 railroad being builded, all manner of evil America 
 nos cut-throats, desperadoes, the advance-guard of 
 rascality that pours into each newly opened region of 
 the West came down upon them, destroying the pleas 
 ant peacefulness of their quiet land, their hatred of 
 their old-time enemies grew yet more bitter and in 
 tense ; the more intense because, instinctively, they 
 knew their own powerlessness to stay the incoming 
 stream. 
 
 The wave that surged down upon them was a mighty 
 one ; for, now that the railroad had opened the way to 
 it, the ancient fame of the treasure-laden Sangre de 
 Cristo was remembered, and everywhere the mountains 
 were dotted with prospectors camps. Once more the 
 legend of the Mine of the Fathers was revived, and
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 195 
 
 in many a camp hearts beat quicker and breath came 
 shorter as the story of its marvelous riches was told 
 anew. Again it was sought for with not less eagerness 
 and with more skill than it had been sought for two 
 hundred years before ; and again was the search fruit 
 less. One after another they who sought for it gave 
 up their search as hopeless, or were satisfied with mak 
 ing lesser strikes, until only one man remained to carry 
 on the quest. But this man stuck grimly to the pur 
 pose that had brought him southward from the 
 States. 
 
 Dick Irving was a person who did what he made 
 up his mind to do. Up in Pueblo the Colorado town 
 in the Arkansas Valley he had come across a trooper 
 of Price s old command, who had fought his way down 
 from Taos to Santa Fe in 18-iT; and who, the fight 
 ing ended, had married a Mexican wife and had settled 
 himself for life in the land that he had helped to win. 
 There are not a few of these bits of army drift scat 
 tered over the country north of Santa Fe. And this 
 old soldier told so glowing a story of la mina de los 
 Padres that Irving forthwith sold out his interest in 
 the " Rattling Meg," up at Lcadville, and in a week s 
 time was down in the Sangre de Cristo with his pro 
 specting outfit, and at work. 
 
 u I ll find that mine or I ll die for it ! " he told his 
 Leadville partner before he left for the south ; and he 
 added, his hand resting easily on the butt of his re 
 volver : " If any man is ahead of me, by - - I ll 
 shoot him and jump his claim ! " 
 
 In matters of this nature Dick Irving was a man 
 who kept his word.
 
 196 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Tecliita sat in lier nook under the edge of the bluff 
 and watched the sun go down, and very, very heavy 
 was her heart. At last the stroke that she had dreaded 
 for so long had fallen : her father had told her that the 
 time had come when she must be the wife of Don Jose. 
 Nor would he so much as listen to her entreaties that 
 this might not be. Breaking in upon her words, he 
 had said : " It is my will " and so had left her, desolate 
 of hope. 
 
 That night there was no beauty for her in the sun 
 set ; and when the glory was gone out of the sky and 
 she went slowly through the dimness of twilight into 
 the darkness of the church, bitter sorrow was upon her 
 and her eyes were weary with their weight of tears. 
 She knelt before the picture of the saint, as was her 
 habit, but from her lips there came no prayer. What 
 was the good of praying ? she thought. Had she not 
 prayed again and again with all the faith and strength 
 that was in her that she might be spared that which 
 now r had come ? The saint was far away in heaven 
 too far to heed the pleadings of a poor, lonely child on 
 earth. Ah ! would that she were safe in heaven, too ! 
 
 And then, still kneeling upon the clay floor before 
 the picture of the saint, she fell into a dreary reverie, 
 thinking of the lifetime of happiness for which she had 
 hoped, of the lifetime of sorrow that now she must 
 endure. Yet, w r hile she knelt thus, looking the while 
 sadly, steadfastly upon the saint s sweet face, shining 
 out from the surrounding darkness as a gleam from the 
 sunset s after-glow struck full upon it through the little 
 window beneath the roof, she seemed to see a look of 
 loving pity come into the gentle eyes, to see upon the
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 197 
 
 tender lips a pitying smile ; and the hope came to her 
 that the saint, forgiving her for doubting her saintly 
 power to comfort and to aid, even yet, through the sav 
 ing strength of heavenly grace, would turn her mourn 
 ing into joy. So there came into her troubled soul a 
 little thrill of happiness. 
 
 " Techa ! " 
 
 A quiver went over her, and for a moment her heart 
 stopped beating, as the thought fell upon her that, in 
 very truth, the saint had spoken and then she knew 
 that the voice sounding low in the darkness was the 
 voice of Juan. 
 
 Techa, art thou here ? I must speak with thee. I 
 have to tell thee of a great joy." 
 
 She made a little sound in answer, while rushing in 
 upon her came the glad hope that the promise given 
 her by the saint s pitying glance and smile was coming 
 true. 
 
 " My Techa, listen ! The good God has had pity 
 for our sorrow, and the bar between us is broken down. 
 A great wonder has happened that has made me richer 
 than thy father by a thousand-fold ! By God s grace 
 I have found again the w r ondcrful mine in the mount 
 ains that belonged to the Fathers back in the long-past 
 time. I am rich, rich even beyond thought ; and richer 
 than all, because now thou also wilt be mine ! " 
 
 Then Juan told the story of the good fortune that 
 had come to him. One corner of his dwelling-place in 
 the old monastery the corner in which was the little 
 triangular fireplace long had been in a ruinous state 
 that promised at any time a fall. That day the fall had 
 come, and from the broken wall had dropped out a roll
 
 198 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 of tough hide, in which were wrapped securely the 
 lost plans of the ancient mine. Thus had they been 
 hidden by hands soon still in death, on that August 
 day, two hundred years before, when the Pueblos rose 
 in revolt against their Spanish task -masters : the visible 
 agents of the avenging wrath of God. 
 
 Yellow with age were the plans, pale the once black 
 drafting, but still the plotting was distinct and clear : 
 showing the site of the monastery ; showing the long- 
 lost trail leading up beyond the arroyo of San Pedro 
 into the mountains ; showing the mine itself, a league 
 or more away, at the trail s end. To one knowing the 
 country well, as Juan did, everything was clear. Over 
 the mountain-side, high up above the canon wherein 
 the mine was sunk, he had driven his goats a hundred 
 times. There was no uncertainty about his discovery ; 
 la mina de los Padres was found, and was his ! 
 
 "With a quickly beating heart Techita listened to this 
 wonderful story of good fortune, and as she listened a 
 great gladness filled her soul. It was only the wealth 
 of Don Jose, she knew, that had made him seem pleas 
 ant in her father s eyes ; Juan, with his incomparably 
 greater wealth, need have no fears now that his suit 
 would be rejected. Happiness enveloped her, for now 
 at last her happiness was sure. In perfect thankfulness 
 she knelt again before the sweet Santa Clara s picture, 
 drawing Juan also on his knees beside her ; and there, 
 with grateful thoughts, for their hearts were all too full 
 for words, they gave praise silently for the blessing of 
 mercy which, through Santa Clara s intercession, had 
 come to them from the merciful and loving God. 
 
 Yet, even as she thus knelt, fear and misgiving came
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 199 
 
 into Techita s soul. Mingled with her Spanish blood 
 \vas the blood of the Pueblo race, of the pagans whom 
 her Christian ancestors had treated so cruelly in the 
 time of old ; and together with her Christian faith was, 
 i f not faith, at least a fearful reverence for the Pueblos 
 god. In dread she remembered now, in the under-cur 
 rent of thought below her thoughts of thankfulness and 
 praise, the direful prophecy that upon whomsoever 
 should find again the Mine of the Fathers the curse of 
 the Pueblos god would fall. 
 
 Standing outside the door of the church, the young 
 moon, just risen over the mountains in the east, shining 
 faintly down upon them, Techita falteringly told her 
 fears; and Juan, full of gladness now that his long 
 sorrow was at an end, laughed lightly and bade her fear 
 no more. 
 
 " We are good Christians, my Techa," he said, " and 
 our valiant God and his brave saints watch over us. 
 What need we fear from this false god, who for ages 
 has been dead and gone ? " 
 
 But as thus irreverently he spoke, there fell upon 
 him also a strange sense of dread ; for he also had 
 Pueblo faith deep down in his heart, because of the 
 Pueblo blood which flowed in his veins. By an effort 
 he stirred himself and drove the dread away. In the 
 faint light Techita did not mark the change that for a 
 moment came over his face as he ceased to speak, and 
 so had comfort from his cheerful words. It was indeed 
 true, she thought, that the blessed saints were brave de 
 fenders against all evil powers ; and she was well assured 
 now that one of the saints at least this gracious Santa 
 Clara had promised to them her potent aid. There-
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 fore had she a firm foundation whereon to rest her faith 
 and hope. Yet, as she walked slowly homeward, vague 
 forebodings of sorrow forced themselves upon her ; 
 nor could she, with all her faith in Santa Clara s help 
 fulness, with all her bright hopes of the happiness that 
 was to corne, wholly drive these dark thoughts away. 
 
 Dick Irving was puzzled. He believed, and with 
 good reason, that what he did not know about prospect 
 ing was not worth the finding out. And yet it was a 
 point in prospecting that was puzzling him now, and, 
 to use his own words, puzzling him the worst kind. 
 
 The knotty question that was too much for him was 
 where a piece of " float " came from that he had found 
 in the arroyo of San Pedro. When he had found that 
 particular piece of loose rock, it had made his heart 
 jump and his mouth water. In the course of his ex 
 tended experience in prospecting, he never had come 
 across anything that for richness came anywhere near 
 it ; it was richer than the best of the Leadville carbon 
 ates, richer than the best of the ruby silver down in the 
 Gunnison. On a rough calculation, he concluded that 
 the vein where it came from would mill-run not less 
 than a thousand ounces. If the vein had any body to 
 it, that meant more millions than he could think of at 
 once without shivering. 
 
 But the trouble was that the beginning of his pro 
 digious find was also the end of it. The bit of float 
 was like the footprint on Robinson Crusoe s island ; 
 there it was, solitary not a sign to tell whence it came 
 or to what it belonged. He had spent nearly a month 
 in the arroyo, turning over carefully every stone and
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 201 
 
 running his knowing eyes jealously along every crevice 
 in its rocky walls. Not another scrap of the float 
 could he find. And now his mad was getting up. His 
 reputation as a prospector was at stake. More than 
 this, he knew that close at hand, on the flanks of one 
 of the two mountains which towered above him, was 
 a mine which to find was to make his everlasting for 
 tune ; which to miss was to miss the great chance of his 
 life and the pleasing conviction was growing upon 
 him more strongly every day that he was going to 
 miss it. 
 
 He knew, of course, that almost his only chance was 
 to follow up the float ; and that was the reason why he 
 had put in such thorough work upon the arroyo. When 
 this failed him he took to the mountains themselves. 
 It was a desperate chance, but it was the only chance 
 left to him. He put in another barren month in this 
 fashion, and then lie Avas about ready to own himself 
 beaten ; to own that for once he had walked all around 
 and all over the mine that lie was looking for without 
 being able to make even a good guess as to where it 
 was. Once, indeed, for a moment he had felt hopeful. 
 In a little canon, hard to enter because of a great wall 
 formed across its mouth by jagged masses of rock which 
 had fallen from the cliffs above, he came upon some 
 surface rock that was identical with the bit of float that 
 he had found. The ledge was oddly broken about its 
 middle by a heap of gray, weather-worn fragments of 
 stone. He never had come upon a formation like this, 
 and had he been a geologist he would have found a 
 good deal in it to interest him. Being simply a pro- 
 gpector, he examined the ledge purely with an eye to
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 business ; and from this point of view it was eminently 
 unsatisfactory. There were, to be sure, traces of min 
 eral, but not the least suggestion of the inexhaustible 
 wealth that he knew must be in the rock to which his 
 specimen belonged. Therefore he kicked the ledge 
 contemptuously, swore at his own ill luck and stupidity 
 with the mellow fluency that can be acquired only by 
 long residence in mining camps, and so turned sullenly 
 away. 
 
 It would have strengthened Dick Irving s fast-less 
 ening faith in his own instinct as a prospector, however, 
 had he known that it was the art of man and not a 
 freak of Nature that was leading him astray ; had he 
 known that at the very moment when he was cursing 
 his own stupidity la mina de los Padres was beneath 
 his feet ! Had he but tossed aside the piece of rock 
 whereon he stood, he would have found wasted by 
 rust, but still recognizable an old hammer-head from 
 which the handle long since had mouldered away ; and 
 so would have had proof enough that he had found 
 the rich prize that he had sworn to find when he came 
 down into the South. 
 
 On the evening of the day after that on which Juan 
 had told Techita of his great discovery, he came to her 
 again in the church to tell her that all had gone well 
 with him in his search in the mountains, and that in 
 very truth he had found the long-lost mine. In glad 
 proof of his words he showed her a rusty hammer-head 
 that he had pulled out from beneath a rock in the 
 mouth of the filled-in shaft the very hammer-head 
 that Dick Irving, for all his cleverness, had failed to find.
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 203 
 
 " God has been very good to us, my Techa," he 
 said, as they stood again beneath the picture of the gen 
 tle Santa Clara in the soft darkness that was stealing 
 down upon the dying day. " His mercy has come to 
 us in our sorrow, and, through the entreaty of the dear 
 saint, he has given us comfort in hope. All is well 
 with us now. Thy father would indeed have refused 
 thee to the goat-herd Juan, but to Sefior Don Juan, the 
 owner of the Mine of the Fathers, he will not say no. 
 I shall have thee for my very own, my Techita ; and 
 for all our lives long, in our love and happiness, we will 
 praise thankfully and worship reverently this sweet saint 
 who has taken from us our sorrow, and given us in its 
 stead great joy. 
 
 And see, my little one," he added, lightly, after 
 they had stood for a little space with hands clasped 
 closely and eyes turned gratefully upon the saint s face 
 see ! I have found the mine, and yet the curse has 
 not fallen ! There was only folly in thy fears, my 
 little heart. The blessed saints are strong to stay and 
 to save them who have faith in their holy goodness ; 
 strong to drive back the evil power of this false god, 
 whom long ago they conquered and threw down/ 
 
 But again, as he spoke these daring v/ords, Juan 
 felt a shudder of dread go through him. For all the 
 bravery of his manliness the thought would come : 
 What if, in defiance of the power for good of the blessed 
 saints, the power for evil of the Pueblos god even yet 
 lived on ? 
 
 Upon Tcchita s heart lay heavily this same dread ; 
 nor was it greatly lightened by Juan s cheerfulness. 
 Almost was she persuaded by her great love for him to
 
 204 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 bid him give up the treasure that he had found ; to suf 
 fer herself, a sacrifice for her love s sake, to be wed in 
 accordance with her father s will. Better even this 
 great misery, she thought, than that harm should come 
 to her lover. 
 
 Thinking these doubting thoughts, she stood irreso 
 lute, her eyes turned questioningly upon Santa Clara s 
 face ; and again, in the soft, faint light that shone upon 
 it, the sweet face seemed to smile upon her a promise 
 of protection that bade her trust and hope. Therefore 
 she hushed the doubts which were in her heart, and 
 
 jb 
 
 listened welcomingly to Juan s glad promises of the joy 
 which was to be. And in making these promises Juan 
 also forgot the fears which had beset him, and felt only 
 a brave elation in the certainty of the happiness that 
 had come to them from the good God. So, in the pale 
 moonlight, they parted again, having in the brightness 
 of their future a full and joyous faith. 
 
 Yet, in despite of this faith, through the long dark 
 ness of the night Techita, waking, was oppressed by 
 dread ; and in her sleep there came to her fearful 
 dreams. And in waking and in sleeping the thought 
 that possessed her was that out of the very fullness of her 
 happiness a desolating, irremediable sorrow was to come. 
 
 Nor did the brightness of the sunshine, when at last 
 day came again, chase away her dark forebodings. A 
 great heaviness lay upon her soul ; a dreary belief 
 weighed upon her that the sorrow which was surely 
 coming was very near at hand. Nor could she doubt 
 that, whatever this sorrow was to be, it must come to 
 her through Juan. As she knew, Juan had gone once 
 more into the mountains, along the way that ho had
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 205 
 
 told her of, to the old mine. Had lie been in the vil 
 lage, or working in the near-by fields, she would have 
 braved her father s displeasure and gone to him so 
 keen was her deep consciousness that a malignant power 
 was loosed to do him harm. 
 
 Slowly the day wore on, each hour in passing adding 
 to her restlessness and nervous dread. And at last, 
 when the still time of noon was come, and all the town 
 was hushed in sleep, she no longer could restrain the im 
 pulse that was upon her to go to him ; to brave with him 
 whatever was the danger; to defend him living; to lie 
 down and die beside him should he be dead. Out from 
 the silent house, out from the sleeping village, up the 
 rock-strewn arroijo of San Pedro, Techita walked firm 
 ly ; in her heart a great daring born of her greater love. 
 
 That day also Dick Irving went up into the mount 
 ains. He acknowledged to himself savagely that he 
 had about got to the end of his rope, and that this 
 would be the last day of his foolery. For once he 
 would have to own up that he had tackled a job that 
 was too big for him ; and he was the more uglv over it 
 
 o o / 
 
 because the piece of float that he had in his pocket made 
 him believe absolutely that all that was told of la mina, 
 de los Padres was true. He knew that the mine was 
 somewhere up beyond the arroyo of San Pedro ; and 
 knowing this, and knowing how all his skillful search 
 for it had ended in failure, he gritted his teeth together 
 
 / O O 
 
 in sullen rage. 
 
 He thought himself more than half a fool for mak 
 ing this last expedition, for his faith that it would end 
 in anything but another failure was very weak indeed.
 
 206 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 But he was a conscientious man as a prospector, that 
 is and he was not quite satisfied to go North again 
 without having one more look at the ledge of rocks 
 in the little canon. This was the one place in the 
 mountains where he had struck rock identical with 
 his specimen ; and while he had convinced himself by 
 his first exploration that there was no mineral in the 
 ledge comparable for richness with that in the float, his 
 absolute failure in all other directions made him desir 
 ous of having yet another look here. Moreover, his 
 careful study of the locality had shown him that, all 
 things considered, the canon was the most likely place 
 from which the bit of float could have come. But for 
 the mass of rocks in the canon s mouth, he would have 
 been quite certain that it was from there that his speci 
 men had started. And this wall of rocks across the 
 mouth of the canon bothered him. In all the years 
 that he had been prospecting he never had seen any 
 thing like it. If such a thing had not been impossible 
 upon its face, he would have believed that the rocks had 
 been broken loose deliberately and thrown down from 
 the cliffs above not by Nature but by man. The more 
 that his mind had dwelt upon the oddity of this barrier, 
 and upon the equal oddity of the mass of broken rocks 
 in the line of the ledge, the more was his interest 
 aroused. There was something queer about the place 
 that attracted him, and he was determined to see it 
 again. Of course, as he said to himself, with a good 
 deal of hard swearing at his general brainlessness, there 
 was nothing to be found there, and he only was going 
 on a fool s errand. But, all the same, with the dogged 
 perseverance that was characteristic of him, he pulled
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES, 207 
 
 himself together for the tough tramp up the arroyo and 
 the mountain-side beyond. 
 
 It was a tough tramp, and no mistake ; and, as he 
 had not any heart worth speaking of in what lie was 
 doing, he went slowly and made many halts. This was 
 not his usual way of working, but he was low in his 
 mind and was thinking gloomy thoughts which quite 
 took the customary spring out of his toes and heels. 
 There is but little satisfaction to a man in knowing that 
 
 O 
 
 he has had his hand very nearly on great good fortune 
 for two months and more, and yet is losing it, after all. 
 Dick Irving, whose nature was not a gentle one, was in 
 a state of glowing rage as he reflected that this was just 
 about where he was rage at his luck, at himself, at all 
 the world. About the one thing that could have given 
 him any comfort just then would have been a fight. He 
 was fairly aching to balance his own misfortunes by 
 taking them out on somebody else s hide. 
 
 Suddenly he was aroused, by the deepening shadows 
 in the arroyo, to the fact that the end of the day was 
 not far off. As he had intended camping for the night 
 in the canon, this fact did not disconcert him, but it 
 made him very considerably quicken his steps. Yet, 
 for all his haste, the sun was near setting when he 
 climbed the mass of stones lying in a great ridge across 
 the canon s mouth. Fortunately for his purposes, the 
 canon faced westward, and all within it was a blaze of 
 mellow light from the level rays of the setting sun. 
 
 As he climbed the barrier he heard a clicking noise, 
 
 C^ 7 
 
 that made him start as though he had received a blow ; 
 and as he cautiously peered over the barrier s crest he 
 saw a sight that sent the blood with a rush to his heart,
 
 208 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and then fiercely tingling through all his veins. For 
 the sound that he heard was the click of a pick against 
 rock, and the sight that he saw was a man, not a hun 
 dred yards away from him, at work on the very ledge 
 itself ! If here truly was the lost mine, then was he too 
 late ; another set of stakes was in ahead of his ! 
 
 Luckily, the other man had not heard him scram 
 bling over the rocks, and so, for the present, at least, he 
 was master of the situation. Getting into a good posi 
 tion for observation, and crouching so that he could see, 
 yet could not be seen, he carefully studied the ground. 
 Evidently the man had been at work for many hours, 
 and had worked hard. The loose rocks which had lain 
 in the break in the ledge were rolled away in all direc 
 tions Dick could not but feel instinctive respect for 
 the set of muscles that had dealt successfully with the 
 tough lifting and hauling that this piece of work in 
 volved and the earth that had washed in between the 
 stones had been carefully shoveled away. This was 
 about all that had been accomplished. But it was 
 enough. For there, clearly defined in the line of the 
 ledge, was the square-cut mouth of the old shaft. La 
 mina de los Padres, lost for two hundred years, again 
 was found ! 
 
 As Dick Irving realized the situation, the rage that 
 had been upon him all day culminated. He was in a 
 white heat of passion and as tranquil as a morning in 
 June. There was just one thing to be done, and he 
 meant to do it. 
 
 " Only a Greaser, anyway," he muttered. " The 
 
 idea," he added, disdainfully, " of a d d Greaser 
 
 owning the Mine of the Fathers ! " In the excess of
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 209 
 
 contemptuous disgust that this thought caused him he 
 spat upon the ground. 
 
 Over the sights of his revolver he measured the dis 
 tance carefully with his eye, and with commendable 
 coolness decided that it was too great for certainty. As 
 the business had to be done, he did not want to make a 
 mess of it ; moreover, as he prudently reflected, around 
 the shoulder of the canon there mii>iit be another man. 
 
 O 
 
 "With these judicious thoughts in mind, he worked his 
 way softly across the wall of rocks keeping well in the 
 shelter of the great fragments and down on its inner 
 side. Once within the canon, there was no difficulty in 
 slipping from rock to rock, until he stopped at last be 
 hind two great bowlders, and through the rift between 
 them covered his man at a distance of less than a dozen 
 yards. 
 
 Juan had stopped in his work, and stood leaning on 
 the handle of his pick. Over him and around him 
 shone a blaze of rich red light, the last rays of the setting 
 sun. His face had a weary look, and his strained mus 
 cles were relaxed ; but stronger than his look of weari 
 ness was his look of joy, and even the pose of his tired 
 body was elate. For the great triumph of his life was 
 won : at last he knew himself a victor over Fate. In 
 his happiness he spoke his thought aloud : " My Techa ! 
 the joy-time of our life has come ! " 
 
 And even as he spoke these words the sharp crack 
 of Dick Irving s revolver rattled and pealed and roared 
 between the rocky walls of the canon and Juan sank 
 down across the newly opened shaft of the Mine of the 
 Fathers with a bullet through his heart. At that in 
 stant the sun dropped below the level of the wall of 
 14
 
 210 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 rocks, and all the lower portion of the cafion was left 
 in dusk duskier because in the upper portion the light 
 still shone full and clear. 
 
 Through the canon, mingling with the echoes of the 
 pistol-shot, yet rising above them, shrilly, wailingly, 
 sounded a cry of mortal agony ; a cry despairing, deso 
 late, charged with the burden of a lifetime of bitter 
 woe ; a cry that made Dick Irving s weather-hardened 
 face turn pale, and that sent a chill into the very depths 
 of his tough heart ; and while he wondered, doubting, 
 trembling, whence came this woful sound, Techita had 
 sprung down from the crest of the ridge of rocks and 
 was standing by her dead lover s side. 
 
 Her figure, seen in the gloom of the canon and 
 through the powder-smoke that lingered in the rift 
 between the bowlders, loomed tall and indistinct against 
 the darkness of the rocks beyond. He could not see 
 her form ; he could not see her face wrenched with 
 the agony that comes when love dies suddenly before 
 despair. Raising her hand heavenward, like the proph 
 etess of old, her voice hushed to the deep, solemn tone 
 of one who stands upon the very border of Time, and 
 sees out clearly into the awful mysteries of Eternity, 
 she spoke : " The curse has fallen the curse of the 
 Pueblos god ! " 
 
 Dick Irving was satisfied with the good stroke of 
 business that he had done, and his finer feelings rebelled 
 against doing any more business of that sort just then. 
 On the other hand, his sturdy common sense told him 
 that there was only one course that he could rationally 
 pursue ; that he had gone too far for drawing back to 
 be possible.
 
 LA MINA DE LOS PADRES. 211 
 
 " As nasty a job as ever I got into," he said to him 
 self, standing beside the shaft, as he drew two fresh 
 cartridges from his belt and dropped them into the 
 emptied chambers of his revolver. Then, presently, in 
 a burst of righteous indignation : " Confound her ! It 
 ain t my fault, anyway. Why couldn t she have had 
 the sense to say she \vas a woman 2 " And then, as his 
 nerves grew steadier, he added more cheerfully: " "Well, 
 after all, it s nothing but a pair of Greasers and it 
 was a lucky whack for me that I got here to-day, and 
 in time to save the mine ! " 
 
 Slowly the glory of the sunset spread across the 
 west. Rising against the red and golden splendor, the 
 battlements of San Yldefonso stood sharply lined ; high 
 into the gray -blue sky shot red and golden rays ; over 
 the broad waters of the Rio Grande played red and 
 golden lights ; all heaven and all the earth beneath 
 seemed blended in a red and golden symphony. Then, 
 slowly, all this splendor passed away, until nothing 
 was left of it save, in the far east, over the distant 
 mountains, a littly rosy cloud. 
 
 In the still church, where hung the picture of the 
 sweet Santa Clara, was loneliness ; in the still canon, 
 high up on the mountain, was death. Over all the 
 earth, darkening the silent church, darkening the silent 
 canon, had come gray night. 
 
 The Lucky Whack Mining Company, as Dick Irv 
 ing declares and he ought to know, for he is president 
 of it, and lives East in a style that proves that he has 
 lots of pay-dirt somewhere is a rattling success. Daily 
 output, two thousand ounces and millions in sight.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN that old, old time when the viceroys of King 
 Philip ruled the province of New Spain, certain holy 
 men Franciscan Brothers vowed to God s service 
 went far into the savage wilderness of the North and 
 spent their lives willingly that the souls of the Indians 
 there dwelling might be brought to a knowledge of 
 Christian grace and so be saved. Thus there came to be 
 in that remote, wild region many little mission stations, 
 where two or three Brothers dwelling together in such 
 rude shelters as could be contrived by unskilled hands 
 preached constantly to the savages the saving mercy 
 and the infinite loving - kindness vouchsafed to them 
 who hearkened with a confident conviction to the liv 
 ing Word of God ; and of these fortalices of the faith 
 Christian, whence paganism most resolutely was as 
 sailed, Santa Maria de los Angeles was one. 
 
 In the course of years, as the leaven of righteous 
 ness worked itself (yet never very thoroughly) into the 
 heathen lump, there came to be around the little chapel 
 a cluster of adobe houses ; and with water drawn 
 through acequias from the stream on the bank whereof 
 the chapel stood in which stream the first of all the
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 213 
 
 Christian converts were baptized some part of the 
 arid land was fertilized ; and on the far-reaching plain, 
 and the slopes of the hillsides round about, meagerly 
 pastured a few scant flocks and herds. 
 
 Everywhere in this sunny, easy-going land time 
 moves slowly. Over the town, if town it could be 
 called, of Saint Mary of the Angels, time scarcely 
 moved at all. Therefore it was that when the Ameri 
 can-built railroad, coming down from the North, reached 
 Santa Maria and passed it, the whole of the town still 
 was only the chapel and the half-dozen or so of adobe 
 houses which the Brothers had builded there three cent 
 uries and more before. And in these many years the 
 only change that had come to pass was that the chapel 
 in which mass now was said but once a year, M hen a 
 priest came from afar to hold service on the day of 
 Our Lady had fallen almost into ruin; and that all 
 memory of the good Brothers, and of their holy teach 
 ings, was buried in a forgotten past. Of another such 
 barren and deserted vineyard as Santa Maria had be 
 come a Franciscan chronicler hath written : " AV T here 
 aforetime our Brothers planted the seed of God s love 
 and mercy now only is a devil s garden overgrown 
 with a forest of the damnable doctrines of paganism 
 and choked by the weeds of natural human sin." 
 
 In point of fact, when the superintendent appointed 
 John Hardy station-master at Santa Maria, he consid 
 ered it necessary to preface the appointment with an 
 apology. 
 
 " I may as well tell you. Hardy," he said, " that 
 Santa Maria s about the hardest station on the whole 
 line. Such a crowd of Greaser toughs as have got to-
 
 214: STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 gether there I ve never come across in one lump before. 
 There s not many of em ; but there isn t a man in the 
 lot that s lit for anything but to be shot off-hand. All 
 the men are horse-thieves or smugglers or both, with a 
 fair sprinkling of murderers ; and all the women well, 
 I guess we won t talk about the women. I hate to put 
 you there, and that s a fact; but unless I can get a 
 decent man there the Company s property will all go to 
 the devil. There s a watering-station at Santa Maria, 
 you know, and something s all wrong with it. Bar- 
 wood, who s in charge, is a tough if ever there was 
 one. But I wouldn t mind how tough he was if he d 
 only run his pump right; but he don t. We only 
 water four engines a day there, as a steady thing, and 
 pumping two days in the week ought to keep his tank 
 full easy. But he requisitions enough fire-wood to keep 
 his pump going all the time. I want you to go to work 
 and find out what his game is. He s a bad inan, for 
 sure ; but I guess you can manage to down him. You 
 know how to shoot ? " 
 
 " I ve been living around in New Mexico and Ari 
 zona and Texas for the last two or three years," Hardy 
 answered, with the modest indirectness in such matters 
 that usually characterizes a good man on the frontier. 
 
 " I guess you ll do, then. I hope there won t be any 
 shooting ; but, if it comes, just you take care of yourself 
 and the Company will back you up in it. I declare, I 
 hate to put you at Santa Maria, I do indeed. I don t 
 
 mind telling you that I m sick of this d d country 
 
 myself, and I m going to pull out of it pretty soon and 
 go where there s white men. Now, I tell you what I ll 
 do : I ll take you along. I ve got things pretty well
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 215 
 
 fixed for myself, and I guess I can fix things so as to 
 rope you in too so just you be ready to put your hat 
 on when I start. While I m here, though, I ve got to 
 
 do the square thing by the Company which is a d d 
 
 sight more than the Company s done by me so just 
 you take hold at Santa Maria and get things in shape 
 there. Comfort yourself with thinking that you won t 
 have more than two months of it ; and then we ll light 
 out together and get into God s country once more 
 and after that I guess you won t ketch me taking any 
 more Greaser in mine ! I don t know what brought 
 you down into these parts; but I know /came because 
 
 I was a d -n fool ! I m not any too proud of myself, 
 
 but I do think that I m a cussed sight too good for 
 Mexico ; and, unless I m badly out, so are you. I guess 
 you re not the kind, any more than I am, that was 
 made for rustling on the frontier." 
 
 II. 
 
 JOHN HARDY certainly was not made for the front 
 ier ; though, to do him justice, he had the " sand " that 
 enabled him to hold his own there pretty well. But 
 then for the past three years he had been very much in 
 doubt as to whether he had been made for anything use 
 ful at all. Fortune had not treated this young man well, 
 and the instrument that Fortune had used to his injury 
 was a woman. 
 
 Hardy was a fair specimen of the hard-working 
 American. In the coal-mining town in the Wyoming 
 Valley, where he was born, he had gone to work when 
 he was sixteen in the Company s store as " boy " ; and in
 
 216 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the course of half a dozen years lie had won his way 
 to a responsible place at the books. He was a steady, 
 resolute young fellow, who did not meddle with any 
 body s business, and who insisted that nobody should 
 meddle with his. He found it necessary to mash sev 
 eral heads in his quiet, decisive way before his atti 
 tude toward the community in which he lived was un 
 derstood ; but when, by this simple and direct method 
 well understood in a mining town, where the or 
 deal of combat was a recognized social institution he 
 had made his position clear and himself respected, he was 
 let alone. Thus he fairly established himself as a good 
 citizen who could maintain his own rights and who re 
 spected the rights of others ; and as a good business man 
 who could make his way in the world. And then, when 
 he was twenty-three years old, he began his misfortunes 
 by falling in love. 
 
 Hardy did not think that there was anything unfor 
 tunate about it. He did think, though being a modest 
 young fellow that Mary "Wade was a great deal too 
 good for him. Her people lived in Wilkesbarre, and 
 she came down to take charge of the primary depart 
 ment of the public school. A good deal of doubt was 
 expressed among the towns-folk as to her ability to man 
 age that primary department ; but, according to Squire 
 Rambo who was chairman of the School Board, and 
 who also was a mine superintendent she did manage it 
 very successfully. 
 
 " She ain t much to look at for strong," said Squire 
 Rambo, " but she s just a little blue-eyed breaker to go, 
 and don t you forget it ! Me and the other trustees 
 sized her up right from the start. Why, as t that pri-
 
 SAIXT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 217 
 
 mary department she s just she s just sot on it ; reg - 
 larly makes every one o them little devils pertend he s 
 a lamb, an live up t his pertensions. An she s that 
 gentle an sweet with em, when they give her half a 
 chance, that when she ain t act ally lickin em they re 
 all in love with her. She s a wonder, she is ! Com 
 pressed air ain t nothin to her ! " 
 
 Yet there were uncharitable people who said that, 
 inasmuch as the new teacher was Squire Rambo s wife s 
 cousin, and boarded at his house, his views concerning 
 her were not strictly impartial ; and who hinted, also, 
 that better results would be produced in the school were 
 the transitions on the part of the teacher in the manage 
 ment of her charges from effusive affection to severe 
 castigation less sudden and less frequent. 
 
 That the children whom Mary AVade alternately 
 petted and whipped entertained any great amount of 
 love for her may be questioned ; but there was no room 
 for questioning the fact that most of the young men of 
 the town fell in love with her on sight. As a whole, 
 this outburst of tender passion received no great amount 
 of encouragement. When, in individual cases, it came 
 to the logical climax of a proposal in form it was deci 
 sively checked. According to the gossip of the town, 
 Hardy was the only lover of them all whom Mary really 
 favored ; and yet he was the very last of them all who 
 gave her the chance to act in his case finally. 
 
 He went at his love-making in the same quiet way 
 that he went at his fighting ; and with the same tre 
 mendous energy and the same fixed determination to 
 win. His method Avas so very quiet, indeed, that several 
 months passed before Mary at all realized its underlying
 
 218 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 earnestness and force. His attitude toward her, as she 
 believed, was friendly rather than lover-like ; and she 
 found his brotherliness, as she called it, a welcome re 
 lief from the very aggressive love-making of the numer 
 ous young miners whose picks and hearts were laid as 
 votive offerings at her feet. She grew to be confiden 
 tial with him, telling him some of the funny incidents 
 of her various courtships ; and over these they laughed 
 together, comfortably. She fell into the habit, also, of 
 telling him about her worries with the school-children, 
 and of counting upon his advice and sympathy. When 
 the spring opened, they took walks together through 
 the meadows and in the woods on Sunday afternoons 
 professedly that she might teach him what little she 
 knew about botany. 
 
 As the spring wore away and summer drew near, 
 they talked less and less about botany during these 
 walks, and more about themselves. He told her, as a 
 great secret, of his hopes and plans for the future. His 
 ambition was not a very vaulting one ; he meant to 
 work his way up until he was superintendent of the 
 Company s store, with a salary of three thousand dollars 
 a year. This was quite enough for two people to live 
 on comfortably, he said. Mary felt a queer little pang 
 of something like jealousy as she wondered who the 
 second one of these two people would be ; but she only 
 answered that on three thousand dollars a year two 
 people would be able to live very comfortably indeed. 
 
 It was on this occasion that she came very near tell 
 ing him a certain secret of her own ; but before she 
 quite had nerved herself to this undertaking their talk 
 had slipped off in another direction, and her oppor-
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 219 
 
 trinity was lost. It did not come again ; perhaps she 
 did not try very vigorously to make it come. Down 
 in the depths of her heart lay the conviction though 
 she persistently refused to recognize it that with the 
 telling of her secret her idyl of a brotherly and a sis 
 terly friendship would come suddenly to an end. She 
 was not behaving well, this blue-eyed school-mistress ; 
 and she did not improve her moral standing in the 
 case, especially after that talk about two people living 
 on three thousand dollars a year, by continuing her 
 friendship with Hardy on its highly factitious brotherly 
 and sisterly basis. For the fact of the matter was that 
 through all the time of her philandering with Hardy 
 she was engaged to be married to another man. 
 
 The spring days went by quickly, and in spite of 
 her twinges of conscience, which she did her best to 
 ignore Mary found them very delightful. The more 
 that Hardy s character was made plain to her it was 
 a simple, sturdy character, easy to understand the 
 more she liked him and respected him. He was a 
 man all the way through ; and for her, with her lack 
 of will-power, and her tendency to shirk responsibility, 
 there was a restful comfort in his steadfastness and 
 manly strength. She fairly acknowledged to herself 
 that had she met him before she met the lover to whom 
 her word was pledged she gladly would have married 
 him. But, while admitting this much, she still refused 
 to face the fact that he was seriously in love with her ; 
 still pretended to herself that his affection for her was 
 of the brotherly sort that would continue when she was 
 married. She applied the logic of analogy to the .situ 
 ation, reasoning that since her marriage would not
 
 220 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 change her feeling toward him it would not change his 
 feeling toward her. 
 
 Of course, a dream so hopelessly at odds with the 
 realities of life as this dream was could not last. One 
 Sunday afternoon in June the school would close that 
 week, and then she would go back to Wilksbarre for 
 the summer there came to them the shock of waking. 
 That day they had made no pretense of botanizing 
 They had walked a mile or so across the meadow-lands 
 to a wood growing on a part of the mountain-side that 
 as yet was unprof aned by coal-pits ancl breakers ; and 
 where, high up above the valley, a ledge of rock jutted 
 out in a great terrace. Here they had settled them 
 selves in a nook where the rock formed a natural seat," 
 that became a luxurious lounging-place when cushioned 
 with sweet-fern and covered with Mary s shawl. They 
 themselves had discovered this place, and they regarded 
 it as peculiarly their own. 
 
 The day was a very perfect one. The sky was a pale 
 turquoise blue, unflecked by a single cloud save that off 
 to the eastward a soft, delicious haze hung lightly above 
 the distant mountain-crests. Out of the southeast a 
 warm wind was blowing, gently, languorously. A flood 
 of warm spring sunshine fell on the thick forest growth 
 about them, and, filtering through the network of leaves 
 and branches, flecked the brown rocks and browner 
 earth with patches of golden light. Far below them, 
 winding through the green meadows, the Susquehan- 
 na gleamed like a broad band of silver that grew 
 narrower and less and less silvery until it was lost in 
 the distance in a faint streak of gray. The only sounds 
 which came to them were the soft sighings of the gentle
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 221 
 
 wind among the trees ; a chattering now and then of 
 squirrels ; the low throbbing of a pump at some distant 
 mine. Mary had brought a volume of poems with her, 
 Dr. Holland s "Bitter -Sweet," and Hardy had been 
 reading from it aloud. 
 
 u What a wonderful poet he is ! " she said, as Hardy 
 laid down the book. " Isn t it wonderful how he tells 
 things just as they really are ? Now about that cider : 
 it s as true as true can be ! When the Squire got in a 
 barrel last fall, and I went down cellar to look at it, it 
 was working all frothing at the bung-hole just as 
 lie says it does in the poem. I ve read a great deal of 
 poetry, but I never saw that fact about cider working 
 brought out that way before. Did you ? " 
 
 " JX" o," Hardy answered, " I never did. What a lot 
 of it they had sixteen barrels ! Must have kept it for 
 sale, I guess." There was a strain of effort in his tone 
 as he spoke. Obviously the subject did not interest 
 him not even in its commercial aspect. Mary vent 
 ured one or two commendatory remarks upon the poet 
 and the poem, to which he did not even in this per 
 functory fashion reply. Then she too was silent. But 
 the silence w r as not of that easy sort that comes when 
 two people do not speak because each understands and 
 follows the other s thought. It was an unrestful silence, 
 that had in it the feeling of the stillness which pre 
 cedes a storm. The steady beating of the distant pump 
 seemed to come nearer and to grow more clear. Mary 
 felt a shiver run through her, although the air was soft 
 and warm. 
 
 She would not turn toward him, but she knew that 
 his brown eyes were fixed upon her, and that in them
 
 222 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 was a look of eagerness almost of command. Until 
 now she had succeeded, after a fashion, in hiding from 
 herself what she instinctively knew all the while was 
 the truth. Now the truth was forced home to her, so 
 strongly that evasion of it was impossible : that this 
 love which she refused to recognize, or recognized and 
 called brotherly, was of the masterful sort that only 
 possession would satisfy. She grew very pale ; her 
 breath came and went irregularly ; she trembled a 
 little the throbbing of the distant pump filled her ears 
 with a dull, suffocating sound that in some confused 
 way made itself a part of the beating of her own heart. 
 It seemed to her that for years they thus sat silent. At 
 last, very simply, Hardy spoke : 
 
 " Will you marry me, Mary ? " 
 
 She started violently. In a moment she began to 
 cry. Hardy drew toward her, but she motioned him 
 away. 
 
 " O John, please I m so very sorry ! I I ought 
 to have told you. Haven t I told you ? I m I m en 
 gaged to be married, John." Then she fell to crying 
 again. 
 
 After a while, without raising her head, she went 
 on : " Won t you forgive me, John ? Indeed, I m sorry. 
 Please forgive me ! " 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "Have you nothing to say to comfort me?" she 
 asked at last, looking up to him with her pretty blue 
 eyes full of tears. When she saw his face a thrill of 
 fright went through her, his look was so hard and stern. 
 
 " Nothing," he answered ; and added : " We had 
 better go home now, I think."
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 223 
 
 c. 
 
 You are very cruel," she said ; but she put her 
 hand upon the rocky ledge above her head and slowly 
 raised herself to her feet. There was a curious rattling 
 sound that caused her to turn her head quickly. She 
 gave a cry of terror. Close beside her hand was a rattle 
 snake, ready coiled to spring. It had come out on the 
 warm rock to sun itself, and had been there, no doubt, 
 all the while close beside them. Hardy, as the sound 
 caused him to turn sharply, perceived her peril. Like 
 a flash, he caught her in his arms and snatched her 
 away. At the same instant the snake sprang, striking 
 so strongly that missing her hand it slid over the 
 edge of the rock and disappeared among the fallen 
 leaves and undergrowth in the depth below. 
 
 Mary lay weak, almost fainting, in Hardy s arms. 
 He carried her to a spring near by, and there with the 
 cold water bathed her wrists and temples. As she 
 rested in his arms he had a curious feeling that the 
 body that he thus held was a corpse. Presently the 
 cold water revived her. She stood upright and said 
 that she felt strong enough to walk. With his arm 
 supporting her, they went together slowly down the 
 mountain-side. Thick clouds were rising rapidly be 
 fore a chill wind that had begun to blow out of the 
 northeast. The sun was hidden. The valley was cold 
 and gray. Over all nature had come a desolate 
 change. 
 
 By the time that they reached the level land below, 
 she was strong enough to walk alone. During their 
 descent neither of them had spoken. In silence they 
 went on until they came to Squire liarnbo s house, and 
 in silence he turned to leave her.
 
 224 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 " You are not going away like that without a 
 word \ " she said. 
 
 " What is there to say ? " he asked. 
 
 " That you forgive me. Oh, tell me that you for 
 give me, John ! I m so very, very sorry. Indeed I am. 
 You will forgive me, won t you, dear John ? " 
 
 Hardy looked at her keenly, and the expression upon 
 his face was not a pleasant one. Then he spoke ; slowly 
 and steadily at first, but with a vehemence that increased 
 as his rage increased by giving vent to it : 
 
 " You have spoiled my life for me, Mary," he said, 
 " and without any reason at all. The harm that you 
 have done me would not have been done if you had 
 told me three months ago what you have told me to- 
 .day. And now that the harm is done, done needlessly, 
 wickedly, you want me to forgive you for doing it ! 
 "Well, I tell you plainly, I ll see you damned first ! Is 
 that plain enough for you ? Do you want anything 
 plainer than that ? You can faint if you want to " 
 Mary suddenly had turned very white, and almost had 
 fallen as she stepped back and leaned against the door- 
 jamb for support " for it s a matter to faint over. A 
 man has only one life, and the woman who spoils it for 
 him as you have spoiled my life for me has a good deal 
 to answer for. Yes, faint if you want to it s the best 
 thing you can do. 
 
 " Good-by ! I m going away. I m going out of this 
 altogether, so that I ll never lay eyes on you again 
 and I wish to God I d never laid eyes on you at all ! 
 But, remember, you have brought a curse on my life, 
 and I leave a curse on yours. Sooner or later you will 
 feel the weight of it, mark my words ! "
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 225 
 
 Hardy s quiet, almost stolid, nature was stirred to its 
 depths with rage. A great wrong had been put upon 
 him, and he resented it with the reckless fury natural 
 to a man of his temperament when once he fairly loses 
 himself in a passionate outburst of unbridled wrath. 
 Mary cowered before him white, trembling, stunned. 
 
 So he parted from her and that very night he left 
 the town. 
 
 III. 
 
 Tins, then, was the turn of fortune that had driven 
 Hardy down to the Southwestern frontier and that had 
 made him a wanderer there. 
 
 Being cast out into the wilderness, life had no good 
 in it for him and he valued it lightly ; and so was 
 ready to take the risks which, after all, in that rough 
 region led most surely to safety. He was more than 
 ready to light anybody, and he was rather surprised 
 after engaging in a few passages at arms, in which he 
 came out on top by finding how few people wanted to 
 fight him. At first there was a strong probability that 
 he would go to the bad, and that his end would be a 
 sudden one at the hands of a vigilance committee or a 
 sheriff s posse. But gradually, as he rallied from the 
 shock that his moral nature had sustained, his old habits 
 of steadiness and self-control returned to him, and the 
 dangerous corner was safely turned. He did honest 
 work and he worked hard; but he found that he could 
 not work long in any one place nor at any one thing. 
 He tried ranching for a while, and got the hang of 
 Spanish from the Mexican herdsmen ; he ran a store in 
 a little town ; he picked up telegraphy and took charge
 
 226 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 of a railway station ; he drove a stage ; he managed an 
 express-office only by keeping his mind stirred by fre 
 quent change could he save himself from falling into a 
 brooding melancholy over the past. 
 
 Yet, as time wore on, much of the bitterness that 
 had filled his heart slowly died out of it. His rage 
 against the woman who had befooled him of his love, 
 when she had no like love to give him in return, by de 
 grees abated until it well-nigh ceased to have existence. 
 One day, coming upon some sentimental verses in an old 
 newspaper, he was surprised by finding that he was 
 thinking tenderly of Mary and of the time when she 
 had taken these very verses out of her pocket-book and 
 had read them to him, one of those Sunday afternoons 
 back in the past. And then the memory of her as 
 he had left her cowering, fainting, withered, in the 
 doorway of the Rambo house came strongly upon him 
 and sent a thrill of shame and sorrow through his heart. 
 For the first time it occurred to him that what, until 
 that moment, he had regarded as only a strong but jus 
 tifiable expression of his righteous wrath had been in 
 truth an outburst of unqualified brutality. He com 
 forted himself by the reflection that it had been a bad 
 business all the way through ; that, if he had done 
 wrong, there certainly had been a good deal in the situ 
 ation to justify his wrong-doing. There was enough of 
 truth in this view of the matter to make his defensive 
 position a tenable one, and he hung on to it. He had 
 not yet forgiven the wrong that had been done him ; 
 but he had passed a long way beyond the stage in which 
 his only feeling was a bitter anger that made him long 
 for revenge. Now and then he found himself wonder-
 
 SAINT MARY OF TEE ANGELS. 227 
 
 ing what had happened to Mary in the two years that 
 had drained so heavily for him since he left her. "Very 
 
 OO v t/ 
 
 likelv they had gone fast enough for her. By this time, 
 no doubt, she had been a year or so married, lie did 
 not like to think of this probability. He preferred to 
 think that some accident had intervened and that the 
 marriage had fallen through. And then, sometimes, 
 he would wonder what would happen should a turn of 
 chance bring them together again. 
 
 Thus another year went by, during which time the 
 tonic to soul and body that he found in his hard work 
 and in his rough life tended still more to restore his 
 moral equilibrium. But his heart-wound was not as 
 yet entirely healed, and his only desire was to continue 
 his aimless existence until a fuller forgetfulness should 
 come. And this was his state when, drifting down to 
 the border in search of a fresh job, he accepted the 
 offered berth of station-master at Santa Maria de los 
 Angeles. That the berth was a rough one, and that 
 there was a chance for fighting connected with it, he 
 considered to be its strongest attractions. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE superintendent was going down the line on a 
 special, and he took Hardy along. They had a clear 
 track, and made the run of fifty miles to Santa Maria in 
 a triile over two hours. The last five miles was all 
 down-grade, from a high divide to the point where the 
 track crossed the broad valley of the little river on a 
 long trestle. At the southern end of the trestle was the 
 tank. The pump was down below, beside the stream,
 
 228 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and hidden by the high bank. Three or four hundred 
 yards farther down the line was the station a little 
 frame building painted dark brown. It looked hope 
 lessly out of place, and desperately hot and uncomfort 
 able under the blazing Mexican sun. Away to the left, 
 on the bluff above the stream, was the town a cluster 
 of shabby adobe houses, built irregularly about the old 
 chapel. It was a dusty, dirty, dreary-looking place, 
 without a shrub or tree for shelter against the fierce 
 heat of the sun. The only visible signs of life were a 
 few naked children bathing in the river and some ill- 
 favored dogs drowsing beside the houses in narrow 
 strips of shade. 
 
 A great plain covered with cactus growth and 
 studded with pita palms stretched away toward the dis 
 tant mountains in the east the very realization of arid 
 desolateness. Across this plain, a yellow, dusty streak, 
 went the trail leading to the mines. An American 
 company had bought these mines, and in a desultory 
 fashion was working them. It was for the encourage 
 ment of the American company it needed encourage 
 ment badly that the station of Santa Maria had been 
 established. 
 
 Hardy was not as much discouraged by the looks of 
 his prospective home as a man fresh from the States 
 would have been. He had lived in some pretty hard 
 places during the past three years, and he had come to 
 know that in towns quite as ill-looking as Santa Maria 
 was there were possibilities of comparative comfort. Like 
 all men who have become familiar with the Southwest, 
 the sight of water cheered him for running water is a 
 mighty solace in a hot land. The refreshing wonders
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 229 
 
 which water can work were shown at Santa Maria by a 
 delectably green expanse of a dozen acres or so stretch 
 ing along the lower slopes of the hillsides beyond the 
 townthe cultivated ground that drew its life from a 
 great acequia fed from the river. It did Hardy s heart 
 good to see this bit of green. 
 
 The engine slowed up as it neared the bottom of 
 the long down-grade, and stopped beside the tank. 
 The gauge showed that the tank was full, but the 
 pump was at work. In a moment the pump stopped, 
 and then a man came out from the engine-house and 
 climbed up the steep bank. When he got on level 
 ground he walked toward them in a slouching fashion 
 that was in keeping with his surly manner when he 
 got near enough to speak. He was a tall man, 
 heavily and strongly built. His black hair and beard, 
 his dark eyes and dark skin, gave him the look of a 
 Mexican. 
 
 " What the devil he began, and then stopped as 
 lie saw the superintendent. 
 
 " What are you running that pump for when your 
 tank is full ( " the superintendent asked, sharply. 
 
 " I ain t runnin it. I ts stopped. I ve just filled 
 her. If I d run after she was full there d be water 
 under the escape, wouldn t there? Well, there ain t 
 any. Look for yourself." 
 
 It struck Hardy that the man was very eager to 
 make this point in his own favor. If the same thought 
 struck the superintendent, he kept it to himself. 
 
 " All right," he said. " But you burn a lot of 
 wood, all the same." And then he added with a touch 
 of that odd formalism that leads certain classes of
 
 230 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Americans to refer to each other as " gentlemen," and 
 to adopt on occasion ceremonious forms of address by 
 no means in keeping with their normal speech : " Mr. 
 William Barwood, let me make you acquainted with 
 Mr. John Hardy. Mr. Hardy is the gentleman who 
 is going to take charge of the station, you know. I 
 want you to do what you can to make things pleasant 
 for him." 
 
 Barwood looked sharply at Hardy for a moment ; 
 then, dropping his eyes, he shambled up to him and 
 held out his hand. 
 
 " Shake," he said. 
 
 Hardy shook. 
 
 There was a gratifying friendliness in this demon 
 stration ; but it did not prevent Hardy from entertain 
 ing the possibly unreasonable notion that what this man 
 really wanted to do was to stick a knife into him. 
 
 " As for makin things pleasant for Mr. Hardy," 
 Barwood answered, " or for anybody else in this hell 
 hole, I can t say that the prospect s promisin . But I ll 
 do what I can for him to make it a little less stinkin . 
 S pose we go up to th station an I ll turn things over 
 to him though besides twelve blank tickets and th 
 way-book and a kerosene-lamp I guess there ain t any 
 thing in partic lar t turn. 
 
 " You ll bunk in the station, Mr. Hardy, I s pose. 
 I did at first. Xow, I ve got a house over in th town. 
 You can feed with us if you want to an I guess my 
 wife won t be sorry to have somebody t talk to. She 
 can t get th talkin hang of th language, she says 
 but I guess her real trouble is she won t try. I got a 
 teacher, you see, an I learned good enough t talk all
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 231 
 
 I wanted in six months. You speak th language, I 
 s pose ? " 
 
 " I can worry along," Hardy answered. 
 
 "Oh, you ll be all right, then at least as right as 
 anybody can be in such a hole as Santa Maria. I don t 
 know where I d find a white man s dog, let alone a 
 white man, that Vd stay here if he wasn t paid to. 
 Come along t th. station now, an we ll attend t th 
 transfer. An then we ll go over t th house an have 
 somethin t eat. I can t promise you much, but it ll 
 be th best that s t be had about here." Turning to 
 one of the group of boys collected about the locomo 
 tive, he added : u Hello, there, you Jose, anda a la Se- 
 norci y dele yo tenyo el Senor Supermtendcnte y otro 
 cdballero para la comida" 
 
 The superintendent declined this hospitable offer. 
 He was going farther down the line, he said, and could 
 not stop. 
 
 Hardy rapidly was arriving at the conclusion that in 
 sizing this man up he had made a mistake. From the 
 standpoint of the frontier his manners were the em 
 bodiment of politeness. He was frank and he was hos 
 pitable. It was a pleasant surprise, moreover, to find 
 that there was an American woman in the outfit. Ex 
 cepting casual talks with she Greasers, who did not 
 count, Hardy scarcely had said a dozen words to a 
 woman during the whole of the past three years. Alto 
 gether he found the prospect of a bearable existence in 
 Santa Maria enlarging in a very satisfactory manner. 
 Unless some row broke out about the waste of wood at 
 the pump, which he was beginning to think was not 
 likely, there was no reason why he should not be fairly
 
 232 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 comfortable in this little Mexican town. The presence of 
 an abnormal number of hard characters did not bother 
 him. Having that lofty contempt for Greaser toughs 
 that characterizes the frontier American, he was not at 
 all afraid that he could not hold his own. All that he 
 would have to guard against were knife-thrusts in the 
 back and shots in the dark. He had been successful at 
 various times in the past in taking precautions against 
 annoyances of this nature, and he felt reasonably confi 
 dent that he could continue to take adequate precau 
 tions against them in the future. 
 
 The locomotive watered at the tank and came on to 
 the station. When the transfer of valuable property 
 was completed, the superintendent entered his car, and 
 the special pulled out for the southward. Hardy and 
 Barwood watched it sliding away down the track, the 
 steam rising faintly in the hot air, and a long trail of 
 black smoke hanging almost motionless above the lines 
 of rails. 
 
 " I ll go over t th house an see about dinner," Bar 
 wood said. " I guess my wife understood what Jose 
 told her; but she ain t sharp about th language, an 
 maybe she didn t. There ll be nothin t do till th 4.10 
 passes, so you can fix yourself. You ve got blankets, I 
 see, an you ll find a cot in th inside room. There s a 
 basin there, too, an I ll send one o these lazy devils 
 down t th tank t bring you a bucket of water. I ll 
 come back for you in half an hour or so, or send one of 
 th boys over. It ll be a little less like hell for hotness 
 in here if you ll open that back door. I don t believe 
 you ve ever been in a hotter place an Santa Maria; I 
 never have. But there s one good thing about it, it s
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 233 
 
 always cool at niglit gets cool right away after th 
 sun sets, when th wind begins t blow clown from th 
 hills." 
 
 Barwood walked off through the hot sunshine. 
 Hardy carried his roll of blankets, and the battered 
 black oilcloth bag that held the remainder of his per 
 sonal belongings, into the inner room ; opened the back 
 door, and tried to fancy that the waves of heat which 
 slowly drifted in at one door and out at the other made 
 an atmosphere a trifle less baking than that of the solid 
 heat outside. Pie seated himself on a rickety chair and 
 lighted a pipe. Presently a boy brought the promised 
 bucket of water. It was lukewarm ; but washing even 
 in lukewarm water was refreshing. In the course of 
 half an hour the boy came again and said that dinner 
 was ready. Hardy closed and locked the doors arid fol 
 lowed him. The ground was hot beneath his feet. 
 The weight of the hot air through which he walked op 
 pressed him. Over the broad stretch of cactus-covered 
 plain the rays of heat reflected from the ground rose 
 shimmering. 
 
 The boy led the way to an addbe house that stood 
 beside the partly ruined chape*!. It had been the priest s 
 house in the time when a priest had ministered regularly 
 in Santa Maria, and stood upon the very site of the little 
 hut in which the first of the Mission Fathers had dwelt 
 three centuries and more before. It was larger and in 
 better repair than the houses near by, and it possessed 
 the further dignity of a small window set high up in 
 the side wall and protected by wooden bars. As he 
 passed beneath this window Hardy distinctly heard 
 these words :
 
 234: STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 " an if you open your fool mouth an let out a 
 
 single word, I ll knife you ! " 
 
 This curious utterance fell upon his ears so suddenly 
 that he had turned the corner of the house before he 
 fairly had grasped the meaning of it. " Por aqvi, Se- 
 nor" said the boy, pointing to the open door. The 
 sound of his footsteps must have been heard inside, for 
 as he reached the doorway Bar wood met him. 
 
 " Hot enough for you comin across ? Dinner s 
 ready. My wife s just cleanin herself. Here she is 
 now. Mr. Hardy, let me make you acquainted 
 
 " What th h 1 s th matter with you now ? " 
 
 This abrupt break in Mr. Barwood s formal intro 
 duction, and still more abrupt transition to his customary 
 vigorous colloquial manner, were not without cause ; for 
 the woman advancing toward them from the inside room 
 whom Hardy, coming from the glaring sunshine into 
 the scantily lighted house, saw but dimly gave a cry of 
 fright or surprise, and then, pressing her hands upon her 
 breast, sank down into a chair. 
 
 In a moment Hardy saw clearly, but he did not rec 
 ognize her. Then she looked up at him and spoke : 
 
 " Don t you know me, John ? " 
 
 Her eyes had not changed, nor had her voice ; 
 though the tone of sorrow in it was strange to him. It 
 was Mary Wade. 
 
 " Mary ! You ! " was all that he could say. 
 
 " Well, there don t seem t be no very drivin need 
 of my introducin you," Barwood struck in. " Knowed 
 each other back in th States, I s pose. Like enough 
 you re the man Mary told me she shook just afore she 
 come West. I didn t pay much attention t th matter
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 235 
 
 when she told me about it, for I got her, all th same ; an 
 I sha n t pay much attention to it now, for I ve got her 
 still. An I won t say which of us has th most t be 
 thankful for, either. Mary, when you think you ve 
 looked like a stuck pig long enough, just get up, will 
 you, an let s have dinner. 
 
 Hardy felt the blood come up into his face, and his 
 hands closed into fists ; but a look from Mary made him 
 restrain his strong desire to knock Barwood down and 
 then kick him. 
 
 "It it was such a surprise, "Will," she said, speak 
 ing in a humble tone that increased Hardy s pugnacity. 
 " I never expected to see Mr. Hardy out here, you 
 know, and his coming in suddenly that way upset me. 
 I m all right now " she was very white, and she rose 
 slowly and with difficulty. " We ll have dinner right 
 away. I m sorry I kept you waiting." She walked, a 
 little unsteadily, to the stove that stood in one corner of 
 the room, and thence brought the dinner to the table. 
 
 " It s not much of a dinner, Mr. Hardy," she said, 
 with an obvious effort to make talk, " not like what we 
 used to have at home ; there s not much of anything 
 down here that seems like home. Have you heard 
 from home lately ? " 
 
 The shock of this meeting had been more severe to 
 Hardy, even, than it had been to Mary. Save that his 
 rough life had roughened him a little, she saw him un 
 changed. But the change that Hardy saw in her was a 
 pitiable one. All her freshness and look of youth had 
 gone from her. She was pale and thin and worn. He 
 had thought of her always as the very embodiment of 
 neatness, but now her dress was careless and her beau-
 
 236 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 tiful gold-brown hair was knotted anyhow upon her 
 head. Seeing her thus, Hardy found added to the 
 moral wrench given him by this sudden rousing of a 
 sorrow that he had believed was dead, the keen pain 
 that came of knowing that only through bitter trials of 
 flesh and spirit could she have been so changed. And 
 there was great pathos to him in her dwelling so strongly 
 on that word " home." It was with difficulty that he 
 could control himself sufficiently to speak. But he per 
 ceived that she was right in forcing commonplace talk, 
 and he tried to help her. Barwood maintained an ugly 
 silence. 
 
 " It isn t much like the "Wyoming Valley down here, 
 and that s a fact," Hardy said, trying to speak with 
 heartiness. "But I ve been around in these parts so 
 long now in New Mexico and Arizona, you know 
 that I ve got pretty w r ell used to it. And I ve got to 
 liking the Mexicans, too. They re lazy and dirty, and 
 a good many of em are hard cases, I know ; but there s 
 something pleasant about them, for all. You ought to 
 learn the language. It makes all the difference in get 
 ting along with them when you know the language. 
 Your husband tells me that he got a teacher. Now, 
 why don t you get a teacher too ? " 
 
 " Yes," Mary answered, speaking slowly. " My 
 husband did get a teacher " She stopped suddenly, 
 as Barwood shot a look at her across the table. Hardy 
 did not see this by-play. Then she went on : " "Well, 
 there s a good deal in what you say, and maybe I ll try. 
 But I m not good for much at study nowadays, I m 
 afraid. I don t believe that even Squire Kambo would 
 think that I was fit to be a school-mistress now, Mr.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 237 
 
 Hardy." She tried to smile as she said this, but her 
 lips quivered. 
 
 " What good beans these are ! " Hardy was rather 
 desperate " they re as good as the Mexicans cook them, 
 Frijoles are about the best thing the Mexicans turn out, 
 according to my mind. You oughtn t to call yourself 
 stupid when you can cook beans so well, Ma Mrs. 
 Barwood." 
 
 "She didn t cook em, Barwood interposed. " One 
 of our a Mexican friend of ours sent em in to us. 
 Mary s not a bad cook, but only a Mexican can cook 
 beans as good as these. Take some more." 
 
 " I m glad, anyway, Mrs. Barwood, that you ve got 
 some Mexican friends," Hardy went on. " It must 
 make things ever so much pieasanter for you, even if 
 you don t speak the language. Their sending things in 
 this way is just like the Mexicans. They certainly are 
 a good-natured lot, just as I was saying." 
 
 Mary was about to reply, when another look from 
 her husband Hardy saw it this time made her re 
 main silent. There was an awkward pause. 
 
 Hardy was sitting with his back to the open door. 
 Mary sat facing it. Suddenly he saw that she was 
 growing pale. At the same moment he heard a foot 
 step, and then some one called the voice was very 
 sweet and soft " Guillermo ! " 
 
 Hardy turned involuntarily, and the sight of the 
 woman whom he saw standing in the doorway fairly 
 took away his breath. She was one of those magnifi 
 cent creatures who not infrequently are met with among 
 the common people of Mexico : a typical descendant of 
 the sturdy Spaniards of the sixteenth century (very dif-
 
 238 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ferent from the degenerate race that peoples Spain to 
 day) and of the softer race whom the Spaniards con 
 quered in Mexico. She was tall, vigorous, stately ; but 
 her strong, free action of body and limb was full of 
 grace, and her stately air was softened by a seducing 
 tenderness. As she stood there in the doorway partly 
 in shadow and partly in sunlight the large, beautiful 
 lines of her figure standing out sharply against the glar 
 ing background of the sun-bathed adobe wall of the old 
 church, one bare arm half raised, her body partly turned 
 as she started back on seeing a stranger, she seemed to 
 Hardy less a real Avoman than a woman in a bewilder 
 ing dream. 
 
 The vision lasted only for a moment. " Go now, 
 Juana," Barwood said in Spanish ; and added : " Later." 
 
 When Hardy turned again Mary s face no longer 
 was white ; it was as red as fire. She rose from the table 
 hastily and went into the inner room. Barwood and 
 Hardy finished their meal in silence. As they got up 
 from the table Barwood said, with rather a forced air 
 of ease : " Try a cigar rito ? They re pretty good 
 ones." 
 
 " No, I m obliged. I guess I ll stick to a pipe," 
 Hardy answered. 
 
 " Yes, I s pose that s th way you feel now. I used 
 t feel that way about cigarritos myself. But now that 
 I ve fairly got into th way of em I don t care much t 
 smoke anythin else. It s a good plan when you re in a 
 foreign country t try t do what s done by th folks that 
 live there. I can t go all th Mexican ways, but I try t 
 take in as many of em as I can." 
 
 " Yes," Hardy answered, dryly, " so I see."
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 239 
 
 Barwood gave him a sliarp look, and for a moment 
 seemed disposed to give him a sharp answer ; but he 
 thought better of it. 
 
 " I m comin over t tli station after a while, an then 
 we can have a talk an settle things. Things is pretty 
 much as I left em at th station when I moved out, and 
 I guess you ll find what you want. Cut if there s any 
 thing you want that ain t there, let me know ; it s likely 
 I won t have it either but I might. "We don t go in 
 much for style down here, an you ll have t get along 
 th best you can." 
 
 Hardy was puzzled by this fresh display of friendli 
 ness. It bothered him a little, too, for the thing that 
 he most wanted to do just then was to get Barwood off 
 somewhere and mash him into a jelly and then shoot 
 him. It was annoying to find this generous intention 
 checked in the way that Barwood was checking it. No 
 body feels like thrashing a man, still less like sending a 
 bullet through him, when he really seems to be trying, 
 according to his lights, to be amiable. Hardy only could 
 hope that this ill-timed display of good-will would dis 
 appear Avhen they were alone together. As he lighted 
 his pipe and turned to leave the house, Mary came into 
 the room again. She had regained her composure, and 
 when she spoke it was in a quiet, even voice. 
 
 " Will tells me that you are going to board with us, 
 Mr. Hardy. You ll find it pretty poor board, I m 
 afraid ; but I don t feel as bad about it as I would if I 
 didn t know that it ll be better than anybody else here 
 can give you at least, I mean, it ll be more like what 
 vou re used to getting in the States." There was a 
 
 / O O 
 
 touch of apology in her tone, and a half -deprecating
 
 240 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 look toward her husband as she made this correction. 
 " We have supper at six." 
 
 She came closer to him as she spoke, and as her hus 
 band turned to pick up a box of matches from the table 
 she pressed a scrap of crumpled paper into his hand 
 When he opened this paper he read : " Don t have 
 words with him. It will only make things worse for 
 me." 
 
 Y. 
 
 HARDY walked back through the blazing heat to the 
 station and after taking a look at his revolver to see 
 that it was in good working order and that all the cham 
 bers were loaded settled himself with a pipe to await 
 Barwood s coming. 
 
 This was the time of day when the sun was most 
 powerful and when all nature seemed to be crushed 
 into stillness by the heavy weight of heat. Not a sign 
 of animal life anywhere was to be seen. The doors of the 
 adobe houses were shut tight, and within them, in cool 
 ness and darkness, their owners lay slumbering. The 
 very dogs had betaken themselves to such shelter from 
 the sun as they could find in the chaparral or beneath the 
 bluff, and were slumbering too. The pine boards of the 
 station sent out a resinous smell. The iron of the railway 
 was blistering hot. Not a breath of air stirred. Over 
 the great plain hung a shimmering haze made up of the 
 direct and reflected rays of heat. But there was prom 
 ise of coolness later on, for over on the foot-hills little 
 whirlwinds of dust, remolinos, already were beginning 
 to form the advance-guard of the fresh, cool wind that 
 would sweep down from the mountains when the set-
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 241 
 
 ting of the sun should bring to an end the long, hot 
 day. 
 
 Hardy did not notice the heat. He was thinking of 
 Mary, and a great sorrow for her had taken possession 
 of his heart. Misery she certainly had brought into his 
 life ; but nothing in comparison with the misery that 
 had come into her own. It was bad enough, he thought, 
 that she should have been married to Barwood at his 
 best whatever that might have been but that she 
 should be tied to Barwood now seemed altogether hor 
 rible. As the picture of the Mexican girl standing in 
 the doorway came before his mind, he ground out a 
 curse between his teeth. And the worst of it was that 
 lie did not see what he could do unless he shot Bar- 
 wood off-hand to make her case better. She was right, 
 he perceived, in warning him not to fall to wrangling 
 with her husband. This was a matter in which half 
 way measures would be worse than useless. Between 
 the extremes of killing Barwood and of keeping up a 
 show of friendly relations with him there was no safe 
 course. Much as there was tempting about the more 
 radical of these lines of conduct, he decided that for 
 the present Mary s interests would be best served by 
 not adopting it. For some reason that he did not at 
 all understand, Barwood evidently was disposed to avoid 
 a rupture with him ; all that was necessary, therefore, 
 was that he should hold himself well in hand and not 
 make one until he could make one that would be de 
 cisive and final. The wisdom of present temporizing 
 was enforced, further, by the fact that until he could see 
 Mary alone and talk freely with her he could not arrange 
 any certain plan for her relief. Yes, he must wait. 
 16
 
 242 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 "While he was working the matter over in his mind 
 he sat on the one chair that the station possessed, tip 
 ping back on its hind-legs, his hands clasped behind his 
 head, smoking slowly. In an absent, half-seeing way 
 his eyes ranged over the group of adobe houses, the 
 great sunny plain beyond, the gray-blue mountains which 
 formed the horizon on the east. It was odd, he thought, 
 that all his wanderings should have ended in bringing 
 him to the very woman whom he had tried to get 
 farthest away from. He traced back in his mind the 
 chain of accidents, very trifling most of them, which 
 had moved him from place to place in Arizona and New 
 Mexico, and which finally had led him to this little 
 town of Santa Maria, where Mary was. Was there 
 such a thing as Fate ? he thought. 
 
 After a while he saw Barwood come out of one of 
 the adobe houses not his own and walk toward the 
 station. Hardy moved his chair to the other door. 
 He did not want Barwood to know that he had seen 
 him come out of that other house. 
 
 " Hot enough for you ? " Barwood asked as he en 
 tered the station 
 
 " Yes, I guess it ll do for the present," Hardy an 
 swered. 
 
 " How about things ? Can I do any thin t settle 
 you?" 
 
 " No, things are all right. I ll get along ; much 
 obliged." 
 
 Barwood seated himself on an empty nail-keg the 
 one other piece of furniture, excepting the table on 
 which was placed the telegraph instrument, that the sta 
 tion possessed and rolled a cigarrito. He did this
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 243 
 
 deftly, and Hardy noticed that tlie thumb and forefinger 
 of his right hand were as yellow from smoke as a Mexi 
 can s. He drew a paper box of double-headed wax 
 matches from his pocket, struck one, lighted his ciyar- 
 rito, carefully returned the unused end of the match to 
 the box, and then smoked for a while in silence. At 
 last he said, looking away from Hardy as he spoke, and 
 shifting his legs a little uneasily : " I guess, Mr. Hardy, 
 you an me d better have a talk." 
 
 " Yes," Hardy answered, " maybe we had." 
 
 "About about Mary, you know. Mary tells me 
 that you really are the man she shook, back in the 
 States. I sized it up that way, you know, on sight. I 
 guess she played it pretty low down on you." 
 
 " Xever mind about that. It s all over. It was 
 over three years ago. I \vas a good deal of a fool my 
 self about that time. I ought to have begun by asking 
 her if she was free." 
 
 " Excuse me, she ought to have begun by tellin you 
 that she had another man on her string. I d better tell 
 you just how things between me and Mary begun. You 
 see, I was fireman to th hoistm -engine out at Sugar 
 Xotch at Wilkesbarre, you know an Mary was livin 
 with her step-mother an just beginnin t teach school. 
 I guess she had a mean time of it at home. Her father 
 was dead, an from what I saw of her step-mother I 
 didn t take much stock in her. She was a tough one, 
 an no mistake. So Mary was more n glad t take up 
 with me. I guess she did love me I loved her, I know. 
 So I told her I d go West an make some money ; an 
 just then she got that teachin job down in your town, 
 an was able t get away from her step-mother. So
 
 244 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 things sort of suited all round. So I come out to Fort 
 "Worth an got a pretty good job as engineer I d 
 learned pretty well how to run an engine an things in 
 gen ral looked promisin . 
 
 " Well, Mary kep writin reg lar, tellin me she was 
 all right, an makin fun of th boys bein in love with 
 her. She used t write a good deal about you, sayin 
 you was like a brother to her. Then her letters begun 
 t get sort of queer ; an then, all of a sudden, I got 
 one askin me if I d marry her right off if she d come 
 out t me. I struck my boss for more pay, an got it, an 
 wrote back I would, an glad to. So out she come, an 
 we got married. She looked mis rable, an said she d 
 been sick. Somehow she wasn t like herself, an we 
 didn t get along very well. She sort of moped, like as 
 if she had th toothache ; an was kind of high-strung an 
 offish, as if I wasn t good enough for her. Things got 
 sort of worse an worse, an now an then I d go off 
 with th boys an try t forget what a cussed mean time 
 I was havin at home. She didn t like that, an was 
 downright ugly when I d come home a little sewed up. 
 At last she told me I was a drunken brute an she was 
 sorry she d married me, specially as she could a got a 
 better man. She meant you, I guess. Well, we didn t 
 have a pleasant time that day, for I just got mad an 
 talked square up to her. After that things was a good 
 deal worse. I took t goin with th boys more n ever, 
 an pretty soon I found myself fired out of my job. 
 Mary said she d been expectin it ; an I told her that th 
 one most t blame for t was herself an that was just 
 th everlastin truth. 
 
 " Well, we pulled out of Fort Worth, an I braced
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 245 
 
 up an I got another job down in San Anton that was. 
 Then it was pretty much th same thing over again. 
 Then we went up to Waco, an then across to Harrison, 
 an then down t Palestine, an to Houston, an to Galves- 
 ton. I had good jobs in ev ry one of them towns, an I 
 got fired out of em all. An at last I got this job here. 
 
 I guess you can see for yourself what a d n mean job 
 
 this looks like, an can guess it must a been pretty cold 
 weather for me when I agreed t take it. But in some 
 
 o 
 
 ways that maybe we ll talk about later it s turned out 
 better than I sized it up to. For one thing, there ain t 
 any boys here for me t tear around with, an when I 
 get set up on mescal there ain t anybody t report me 
 an it don t make no difference t anybody, either, s 
 long as I keep my tank full. 
 
 " Xow, that s th whole business. I wanted t talk 
 things out square with you, an I ve done it. Maybe, 
 now you know what kind of a life Mary s led me, you re 
 not as sorry as you was that when we both was snappin 
 at her she hung fire with you an went off with me. 
 
 " What I want t say now is : I m ready to try t 
 make things as good as I can for you here, but I want 
 you t play square with me. If I happen to get set 
 up sometimes, don t you run yourself into a shooting- 
 match for that s what it ll come to, an d n quick, 
 
 too by reportin me ; an don t you believe th whole 
 of th pack of lies about me that Mary s loaded up with, 
 an is goin t fire off at you as soon as she gets th 
 chance. Let s fix things to run along easy this way ; an 
 after a while, when I know you better, maybe I can 
 show you some things about Santa Maria that ll make 
 you think tain t as bad as it looks. It ain t always in
 
 246 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 th best-looking places that there s th most money t be 
 made. What do you say ? Is it a go ? " 
 
 Hardy s pipe was out. He lighted it and smoked 
 for a while before answering. 
 
 " I don t see that you and I need have any row in 
 particular," he said at last. " I won t make any prom 
 ises until I look around a little and see how things are. 
 But you needn t worry about my reporting you so long 
 as you keep your tank full, and don t let anything get 
 wrong with the pump. If you don t do your work I ll 
 report you, dead sure ; and if you come around after 
 shooting-matches, I ll give you all you want, and some 
 to spare. About the size of it is, that unless you make 
 a row there won t be one. Does that suit you ? " 
 
 " Y-e-e-e-s," Barwood answered, " that s fair enough 
 t start with. I guess you an me ll get along unless 
 Mary won t let us. I ll do my part, anyway. !N"ow, I 
 must go down t th pump. Th 4.10, th freight, 11 be 
 along pretty soon. There s some bullion comin down t 
 day from San Gabriel, but it don t go up on th freight. 
 It goes up in th express-car to-night. This bit of 
 shafting goes on th freight. Here s the way-book. 
 An just tell Sanders, will you, t tell Ward t send down 
 my spare connectin -rod. Tell him there ll be th devil 
 t pay here at th pump some day if he don t send it." 
 
 Hardy stood at the door of the station and watched 
 Barwood as he walked up the track to the tank, and so 
 beyond it down into the valley of the stream. Presently 
 the steady throbbing of the pump sounded through the 
 hot stillness. Hardy s mind was so full of other things 
 that it did not occur to him that since the tank was full 
 there was no reason for keeping the pump going. He
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 247 
 
 seated himself again on the rickety chair and smoked 
 slowly. What Barwood had told him and he did not 
 doubt that in a general way Barwood had spoken the 
 truth enabled him to see pretty clearly what had hap 
 pened : how Mary, stung by anger, and no doubt also 
 stirred by the thought that she had not treated her first 
 lover fairly, had urged the hasty marriage as a sort of 
 reparation, and in the hope that such decisive action 
 would bring her calmness and rest And he could see 
 how the same weakness of nature that had brought her 
 into such false relations with himself, and that had hur 
 ried her into this atonement, had prevented her from 
 accepting as final the finality that she herself had 
 brought about. Barwood certainly had a good deal to 
 answer for ; but Hardy was forced to the conviction 
 that Mary was largely responsible for the condition that 
 Barwood was reduced to, and, consequently, for her own 
 unhappiness. It was curious, he thought, that this 
 woman should have succeeded through sheer folly in 
 wrecking the lives of two men. 
 
 Yet even in the face of the fact that Mary had mainly 
 herself to blame for the evil fate that had overtaken 
 her, his pity for her was most keenly aroused. In his 
 otherwise frank talk Barwood had not touched upon 
 the Mexican girl the crudest wrong that Mary had 
 suffered. Hardy had refrained from forcing the talk 
 in this direction, for he doubted his ability, should this 
 subject be touched upon, to control his rage and he 
 was firmly determined to stave off a crisis until he 
 could act decisively for Mary s good. That a crisis 
 must come, and must come soon, he fully realized. The 
 situation was altogether too volcanic to be lasting ; and
 
 248 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the chances seemed to be strongly in favor of its find 
 ing an appropriately energetic culmination. That there 
 would be some shooting in it struck Hardy as highly 
 probable, and he found this probability soothing. He 
 let his hand- drop to his hip pocket and wondered who 
 would come out on top. He was inclined to believe 
 that it would be himself. 
 
 The arrival of the up train cut short his reverie. A 
 little while after it had gone up the line, two wagons 
 loaded with bars of bullion from the mine at San Ga 
 briel, came slowly across the plain along the dusty 
 trail to the station. The teamsters leisurely unhar 
 nessed their mules, drove them down to the stream 
 for water, hobbled them, and then, in the same leisurely 
 fashion, set about preparing their own supper and mak 
 ing themselves comfortable for the night. The head of 
 the outfit was an American, who walked into the sta 
 tion and smoked a friendly pipe with the new station- 
 master while this work was going on. 
 
 " Glad to see somebody here who looks like a white 
 man," he said. " What s gone with Barwood ? Fired 
 out?" 
 
 " !N"o, he s still at the pump. I ve got the station^ 
 and general charge." 
 
 " Pity the company didn t bounce him clean. He s 
 a bad lot." 
 
 " What s the matter with him ? " 
 
 " Well, if you ve got general charge, and are going 
 to stay here, you ll find out all about him before long, 
 so I needn t tell you. But keep your eye open, and 
 look out specially for his Greaser friends. They all 
 stand in with him, and he stands in with them. He s
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 249 
 
 got the Alcalde s sister for a sort of extra wife, I b lieve, 
 and things are pretty rotten generally. Don t you trust 
 any of em ; and keep your gun where you can get at it 
 easy all the time. Just come from the States ? " 
 
 " Xo at least only from Texas." 
 
 " Oh, that all ? I was in hopes you was fresh from 
 the States and had some news. A man gets sort of 
 homesick for news from the States down in these un 
 godly parts. I m a Pennsylvania!! myself, born in Lan 
 caster. What part are you from ? " 
 
 " I m a Pennsylvania!!, too born in Wilkesbarre." 
 
 " The h 1 you say ! Why, d n it, shake ! That s 
 too good for anything. Drink, won t you ? " and the 
 teamster energetically shook Hardy s hand, and then 
 extracted the beer-bottle that protruded conspicuously 
 from his coat pocket, and tendered it with a hearty 
 good-will. " It s only mescal" he said, apologetically^ 
 " You can t buy anything fit to drink down here with 
 out paying more n your life s worth for it. But for 
 mescal this ain t bad." And, to do him justice, w r hen his 
 turn at the bottle came, he backed his opinion in an emi 
 nently practical way. 
 
 " So you re a Wilkesbarre man, eh ? Barwood comes 
 from there, too. Did you know him at home ? " 
 
 " !N"o ; I only lived in "Wilkesbarre while I was a 
 boy. I lived down the river a way. I never laid eyes 
 on Barwood until I saw him here to-day." 
 
 " Well, I reckon you haven t missed much. I don t 
 mind telling you now I find we come from the same 
 
 good old State, you and me that he s about the d dst 
 
 dirtiest dog that ever I ve come across. He s rung in 
 with the Greasers, and I guess counts hisself more
 
 250 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Greaser now than white man : if he don t he ought to, 
 for that s what he is. Maybe you don t know that this 
 is about the worst smugglin hole there is on the whole 
 frontier ? Well, it is. Barwood s gone into smugglin 
 deep. He and the Alcalde boss things between em, I 
 reckon, and do a big business. They re in the horse 
 and cattle line, too runnin off stock from one side of 
 the river and sellin it on the other, you know. And 
 unless I m a good deal further out than I m apt to "be, 
 that party that raided the Las Animas ranch last month 
 when old Don Manuel Salazar and one of his sons 
 was killed in cold blood, and all the stock stampeded, 
 and everything about the place worth stealin cleaned 
 ou t came right from here, and Barwood was along 
 with it. 
 
 " Now you know about how things stand and what 
 you ve got to look out for. I judge you to be, from 
 your looks, a man that can take pretty good care of his- 
 self ; and I just tell you that to keep up your end in 
 this hell-hole of a Santa Maria you need to be that kind ! 
 Don t you take no chances at all. Keep your gun ready, 
 and keep your eyes all around you all the time. And 
 the best thing you can do is to give up your job. 
 There s not enough money in running this station to 
 pay for the all-day and all-night oneasiness that you ve 
 taken a contrac for to say nothin of findin yourself 
 some mornin laid out stiff, with knife-holes all over you, 
 and most of your head blown off. You re a white man, 
 
 and you come from Pennsylvania, and you re a d d 
 
 sight too good to be killed off by Greasers. So just you 
 take my advice, and quit." 
 
 " Well, I don t calculate on being here long," Hardy
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE AXGELS. 251 
 
 answered. " I took the job for a month, though, and I 
 guess I ll manage to stick it out. I ve lived around in 
 some hard places in my time, and I ve managed so far, 
 you see, to keep my hair. I m much obliged to you, all 
 the same, for what you ve told me. Sometimes you can 
 manage better when you know just how things stand. 
 What s your mine up at San Gabriel amount to ? How 
 does your ore mill-run ? And what sort of a streak 
 have you got \ " 
 
 And then they drifted off into mining talk, and the 
 teamster expatiated with a pardonable pride upon the 
 brilliant prospects which seemed to be rather at odds 
 with the present condition of the San Gabriel mine. 
 
 At six o clock Hardy locked up the station and 
 walked over to Barwood s house to supper. Half 
 laughing at himself while he did it, he made as much of 
 a toilet as the circumstances of the case would permit. 
 His resources were limited, but he felt rather pleased 
 with the result. His trousers were outside of his boots, 
 instead of being tucked into them; he wore a coat; a 
 black silk handkerchief was knotted under the rolling 
 collar of his flannel shirt; his hands and face were as 
 clean as soap and water could make them, and his crisp, 
 black hair was brushed to a degree of preternatural 
 smoothness. And there came over him, as he thus 
 groomed himself that he might be pleasing in Mary s 
 eyes, something of the old-time feeling that had pos 
 sessed him as he made himself ready, in his Sunday best, 
 for those Sunday walks during that happy summer that 
 seemed now so very, very long ago. How bright, how 
 fresh she had looked, he thought ; how free she had 
 been from sorrow and from care. And then the sharp
 
 252 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 contrast between her carelessly glad past life and the 
 life that she now was living here among smugglers, 
 thieves, murderers, very likely, with even her right of 
 ownership in her scoundrel of a husband openly defied 
 struck him with the force of a physical blow. For a 
 moment the purpose came into his mind of bringing on 
 the shooting-match with Barwood right away, and so in 
 some sort righting this great wrong. He gave a long 
 sigh as his reason reasserted itself, and compelled him 
 to admit that he must wait. 
 
 The cool winds had begun to come down from the 
 mountains, and Santa Maria was aroused from its hot 
 lethargy. As Hardy walked through the town, the 
 doors of the adobe houses stood open ; men lounged, 
 smoking in the doorways hard cases they looked for 
 the most part ; women were bending over little fires, 
 preparing the evening meal ; children frisked about and 
 encouraged the fights among the dogs ; herds of goats 
 came up slowly from the river, to be penned for the 
 night in the corrales, wagging their heads sagely, as the 
 custom of goats is. There was an air of calm, of pas 
 toral simplicity about the town, that Hardy was keen 
 witted enough to recognize was in rather droll contrast 
 with its real character. 
 
 He found Barwood seated in front of his house, on 
 a chair tipped back against the wall, smoking one of 
 his favorite cigarritos. 
 
 " Take a seat an set down," he said, pointing to a 
 soap box standing on end on the other side of the door 
 way. " Supper ll be ready in a minute or two, I guess. 
 This is th time o day that Santa Maria s fit t live in 
 at least, as fit t live in as such a hole can be at any
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 253 
 
 time. I see th San Gabriel outfit s got down. When 
 you send their stuff off on th night train, make em 
 load it theirselves ; an be devilish careful that th re 
 ceipt you give em an th way-bill agree. They re a 
 careless lot, an like as not they ll have a receipt made 
 out for more bars than theyv e sent down. It ud be 
 just like em. There s Mary callin . Let s go in." 
 
 Hardy noticed, as he entered the room, that it had a 
 neater air than at dinner-time. The change in Mary s 
 appearance was still more striking. She had put on a 
 print gown, fresh and cool-looking ; there was a bow of 
 blue ribbon at her neck and another in her beautiful 
 hair arranged in the pretty way that he remembered 
 so well ; her eyes had lost their tired look, and shone 
 brightly, and in her cheeks was a delicate color. She 
 was almost her old self again. As Hardy caught sight 
 of her he could not repress a start of surprise. If he 
 had felt an hour before only that his love for her was 
 not dead, he felt now that it was most vigorously alive. 
 She came forward and shook hands with him. There 
 was something very thrilling in the touch of her warm 
 hand. 
 
 " I m so glad you ve come, Mr. Hardy," she said. 
 " It seems quite like old times." 
 
 " I m sorry you didn t let me know we was havin a 
 party," Barwood struck in before Hardy could answer, 
 u I d a put on a dress suit an had my hair curled. 
 You both look so fine that I don t know whether I d 
 better set to table with you. Maybe I d better go an 
 get somethin t eat where the folks ain t so all-ilred 
 dressed up. I guess I wouldn t have t go a great way 
 t find a welcome, neither."
 
 254 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 The tone in which this was said, and the under, 
 meaning of the words which Hardy did not under 
 stand for a moment heightened the color on Mary s 
 cheeks and drove the light from her eyes. 
 
 " I I am sorry, "Will," she said. u I didn t know 
 you d mind. You used to like me in this dress. Don t 
 you remember ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did, but it was a good while ago," Barwood 
 answered, dryly. " But I ll eat my supper all th same, 
 even if I ain t dressed up in store-clothes. Set down, 
 Mr. Hardy. Don t mind my way of makin fun. "We 
 don t go in much for fixin up down here, an seein 
 you and Mary specially Mary slingin so much style 
 sort of got away with me. Looks as if Mary d got up a 
 reg lar party supper, too, which is a way of celebratin 
 this joyous occasion that I tie too, for sure. So let s sail 
 in an have a good time." 
 
 But the celebration of the joyous occasion was not a 
 success. Mary had been doing her best all the after 
 noon to foster a foolish fancy that she was back in the 
 Wyoming Valley, and that Hardy was coming to supper 
 with her at Squire Rambo s, as he used to come in the old 
 times. She had made a sponge cake he had always liked 
 sponge cake and had stewed some tunas, with a fla 
 voring of lemon-juice, to take the place of his favorite 
 apple-sauce. And over her cooking, and the thought 
 of who the cooking was for, she had grown so light- 
 hearted that the darkness of the present for a little space 
 was conquered by the light of the past. All this light 
 went out as her husband spoke ; his threat to go for his 
 supper where he would find a welcome brought the 
 darkness of the present down upon her again like a pall.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE AXGELS. 255 
 
 As Hardy, less quickly, comprehended the mean 
 ing of this threat and the prodigious insolence of it, his 
 hands clinched and he set his teeth hard. For him also 
 the past had come again with sight of Mary, fresh and 
 beautiful, looking as she had looked when he gave her 
 the love that now he knew never had been recalled. 
 The sudden forcing home upon him by her husband s 
 words of what her present state was ; the outrageous 
 insult that those words almost openly conveyed, very 
 nearly mastered his power of self-control. He did con 
 trol himself ; but, the relief in violence that he so ea 
 gerly longed for being impossible, he fell into a sullen 
 rage. 
 
 Having precipitated this condition of affairs, Bar- 
 wood got over his grumpiness and was extraordinarily 
 cheerful. But for Mary and Hardy the supper was a 
 meal of wormwood, and over it seemed to hang visibly 
 the shadow of death. Hardy was determined to force 
 a crisis quickly ; Mary only felt vaguely that a crisis 
 soon must come. And in the same way the one knew 
 and the other instinctively felt that when it did come 
 death certainly would come with it. It was not in hu 
 man nature that conditions such as those in which they 
 were living could work out to anything but a tragedy. 
 
 At last the supper was ended. Barwood cheerfully 
 asked Hardy to stay and smoke a pipe ; but he an 
 swered that he was tired, and would go over to the sta 
 tion and turn in at once, so as to get some solid sleep 
 before the night train came up the line. 
 
 As they rose from the table Mary said quickly, the 
 sound of her voice being lost in the scraping of the 
 chairs upon the clay floor : " I must speak to you."
 
 25G STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 He nodded to show that lie understood, and then he 
 went away. 
 
 Hardy was in far too excited a state of mind and 
 body to carry out his avowed intention of turning in 
 and sleeping until the night train should arrive. He 
 opened both doors at the station, and the window of the 
 little inner room, so that the cool night wind might 
 range freely through the building and carry off the 
 heat accumulated in the pine boards. While this pro 
 cess was going on he brought the chair outside on the 
 platform and seated himself there. 
 
 It was not surprising that he could not sleep. In 
 the past few hours he had lived over again in his 
 thoughts the portion of his life that had stirred him 
 most deeply ; he had found himself being drawn into 
 an entanglement out of which he saw no clear way save 
 that of killing the man who was the main cause of it ; 
 and he had been startled by the quickening in his heart 
 of a love that he had thought was dead forever. 
 
 The revival of his love for Mary was a genuine sur 
 prise to Hardy ; but he was not disposed to resent it, 
 nor to crush it down. On the contrary, he gave it every 
 encouragement. He had a better right to her, he ar 
 gued, than that possessed by her brute of a husband. 
 If, as seemed extremely probable, he should end by 
 shooting Barwood, then everything would go smoothly 
 and he would be able to comfort himself with the re 
 flection that he had saved a sheriff or a vigilance com 
 mittee the trouble of a hanging-match. If Barwood 
 should succeed in getting away without being shot, then 
 he thought of Mary s delicate, fair skin and red little 
 mouth well, then he would have her just the same
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 257 
 
 And he would deserve to have her, for he would be 
 true to her and tender, and would do his best to make 
 her forget the bitter sorrow that she had endured. He 
 felt that from the standpoint of public sentiment on the 
 frontier he had abstract right and justice on his side 
 and he meant to go in and win. 
 
 They would go back to the States, of course ; not to 
 Pennsylvania, but to some live place in the West, where 
 he could earn a good living right away, and in eight or 
 ten years could make a comfortable fortune. He had 
 not cared until now to make money, but in the course 
 of his wandering, aimless life he had found out where 
 and how in the West money could be made quickly by 
 an energetic man. "Now he would sail in and make it. 
 When he got his pile they would go to Europe. Mary 
 always had wanted to go to Europe and if any of the 
 queens they met were better dressed than she was he d 
 know the reason why ! In a contemptuous way he re 
 called his old-time plan for keeping her shut up all her 
 life in the Wyoming Valley. 
 
 And then his thoughts drifted off into the time when 
 this plan was formed, and one picture after another of 
 Mary as he remembered her in those days formed itself 
 in his mind. How he did love her then he thought 
 but how much more he loved her now ! 
 
 As he sat there in the cool darkness, thinking these 
 pleasant thoughts, the time slipped away rapidly. 
 Toward ten o clock a soft, silvery haze began to loom 
 up in the east ; and a little later the full moon rose 
 above the mountains, and flooded with a brilliant light 
 the great, desolate plain. The shadow of the building 
 fell over him a shadow so sharp and strong that at a 
 17
 
 258 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 distance of fifty feet his darkly clad form would have 
 been invisible ; and to his eyes, looking out from this 
 covert, the effect was that of an atmosphere of liquid 
 radiance. He was not ordinarily an imaginative man, 
 but in his present excited and exalted frame of mind 
 this outburst of splendor seemed to him emblematic of 
 the way in which from his own life a melancholy dark 
 ness had been banished by the great light of love. He 
 accepted the good omen gladly, and his thoughts be 
 came still more sanguine and more bold. 
 
 A sound of footsteps and low voices startled him 
 from his reverie. Two men were walking up the track 
 toward the station, coming from the direction of the tank. 
 Their wide-brimmed hats cast deep shadows over their 
 faces, but the voice of one of the men he recognized as 
 that of Barwood. They were speaking in Spanish, and, 
 before he could distinguish their words, he inferred 
 from the tone of their voices that they were engaged in 
 some sort of argument. As they drew near to the sta 
 tion he saw Barwood place his hand restrainingly on his 
 companion s arm. The man turned impatiently. 
 
 " It is better to kill him now," he said, " and so be 
 rid of him. A dead dog can not bark." 
 
 " Patience, Senor Alcalde. If we kill him this first 
 night we shall cause much talk, and until our great pro 
 ject is accomplished we do not want to be talked about. 
 And I tell you again that if we can persuade him to 
 join us he will be most useful. There is no need for 
 haste. Let us wait a little and see what will come. He 
 is in our hands ; should he not do what we require of 
 him " Barwood drew his hand quickly across his 
 throat, and added : " It will not take long."
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 259 
 
 Hardy sat rigid in the shadow, his finger on the trig 
 ger of his self-acting revolver. One single step forward 
 on the part of the two men would have been certain 
 death to both of them. They were not sixty feet dis 
 tant ; their forms stood out sharply in the brilliant 
 moonlight ; a prettier shot could not reasonably have 
 been desired. For a moment the Mexican stood irreso 
 lute. Then, yielding to Barwood s practical reasoning, 
 lie turned slowly, and the two walked away toward the 
 town. As he turned a shiver went over him ; perhaps, 
 in some curious way, his body knew how near it had 
 been to returning to the dust out of which it came. 
 
 Hardy s tense muscles relaxed slowly, and the hand 
 that held the pistol hung down straight by his side. 
 His first strong feeling was that of disappointment. 
 Had the men advanced, he would have been amply jus 
 tified in shooting them, arid there was no doubt but that 
 he would have made a clean job of it. So good a chance 
 was not likely to come again. His luck had gone back 
 on him, he thought. However, this much good had 
 come out of the encounter : he knew now certainly 
 what to look for from the other side. He had not, it 
 is true, seriously doubted Barwood s amiable intentions 
 toward him, but it was comforting to have heard them 
 so clearly stated from his own lips. ISTow they were on 
 even terms, so far as intentions went ; and he had a little 
 the best of the situation, in that he knew something of 
 Barwood s plans. 
 
 The dry, cool night wind played over him sooth 
 ingly. After so much excitement came the languor of 
 reaction. Presently he dropped off into an easy, refresh 
 ing sleep, that lasted until he was roused by the whistlo
 
 260 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 of the coming train. "When lie had attended to the 
 shipping of the bullion, and the train had gone on again, 
 he brought his cot out on the platform and slept there 
 comfortably until morning. He had expected to spend 
 the night in the station, with the doors locked and the 
 windows barred ; but, from what he had heard, he 
 knew that for the present he was not in danger, and so 
 could indulge safely in the luxury of fresh air. He 
 awoke thoroughly refreshed, and as he came up to 
 breakfast from a bath in the river he enjoyed the pleas 
 ant sensation of feeling fully able to hold his own against 
 anybody. 
 
 Barwood, already seated at the breakfast-table, obvi 
 ously was the worse for loss of sleep. His eyes were 
 red and heavy, and the mescal that he had taken to 
 brace him up had done little more than dispose him to 
 snap and snarl on small provocation. He had been 
 venting his ill-humor on Mary apparently, for she had a 
 nervous, frightened look, and seemed to have been cry 
 ing. His salutation to Hardy was an inarticulate grunt. 
 Mary tried to say good-morning cheerfully, but there 
 was a quiver in her voice that went to Hardy s heart. 
 His eyes must have shown her how much he felt for 
 her, for hers filled with tears ; and then a delicate color 
 came into her pale face. She poured out his coffee 
 from the tin pot standing on the stove ; and as she stood 
 beside him for a moment while she placed the cup on 
 the table, her hand, very lightly, pressed against his arm. 
 There was something appealing in this touch : it was an 
 avowal of her need for protection and of her trust in 
 his shielding strength. 
 
 Hardy ate his breakfast in silence. He could not
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 261 
 
 trust his voice in talking commonplace talk with Mary ; 
 and he could not trust his temper in talking with her 
 husband at all. Fortunately, Barwood kept silence too. 
 Even in his present mood of sullenness he still seemed 
 to desire to maintain peace. lie waited at the table 
 until Hardy had finished his breakfast, and then said, 
 sulkily : " Well, we d better be movin , I s pose." 
 
 Hardy accepted the situation and left the house at 
 once. But a quick glance as he went out assured Mary 
 that in some way he would compass the meeting that 
 they both desired. 
 
 At the station there was no work to occupy him. 
 The down passenger train was not due for two hours ; 
 the down freight not for an hour or two later, and the 
 up freight was not due until afternoon. Hardy natu 
 rally \vas an energetic man, and this dull, enforced idle 
 ness oppressed him. He brought the chair out on the 
 platform, in the shade of the building for the heat al 
 ready was potent and sought consolation in his pipe. 
 In the course of half an hour he saw smoke rising from 
 the valley, beyond the tank, and a few minutes later 
 heard the regular strokes of the pump. He paid no 
 attention to the sound at first save that he found its 
 rhythmic monotony soothing but after a while the 
 thought occurred to him that as only five engines had 
 watered at the tank since the previous morning, when 
 it certainly had been full, there was no need for wast 
 ing wood by starting the pump so soon again ; and then 
 he became thoroughly aroused, for this w r aste of w r ood 
 was the kernel of the matter which the superintendent 
 had sent him to Santa Maria to investigate. 
 
 He got on his feet briskly, plumped the chair inside-
 
 262 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the station, shut and locked the doors, and walked quickly 
 up the track to the tank. The gauge showed fourteen 
 feet of w r ater just about what he had expected to find. 
 Obviously, there was no need of pumping for at least 
 two days. On the other hand, Barwood s confessed dis 
 position to let mescal get the better of him now and 
 then gave a valid reason though not exactly a reason 
 that the Company would recognize for not permitting 
 his water to get low. In keeping his tank full he was 
 only making a prudent allowance for the factor of error ; 
 that is to say, providing three days of leeway in which 
 he might get drunk with impunity. While Hardy was 
 thinking the matter over, irresolute as to whether he 
 should or should not go down and order the pumping 
 stopped, he perceived that there was no sound of water 
 running into the tank ; and then, looking closely, he 
 saw that the gauge was not moving. As the pumping 
 still went on, it was evident that there must be a break 
 in the pipe. This, of course, was a matter to be at 
 tended to at once. 
 
 From the tank the pipe was carried on tall posts to 
 a rocky hillock, and thence, raised a little above the 
 ground, through a tangle of mesquite shrub down the 
 steep bank to the pump. Half-way down the bank 
 emerging from the mesquite bushes, was the acequia 
 that fed the plantation below the town. Through this 
 acequia the water was running merrily ; he could see 
 the glint of it in the sun. 
 
 Hardy followed the line of pipe into the bushes 
 with some difficulty, for the way which had been cleared 
 when the pipe was laid was now so obstructed by mes 
 quite branches and long spines of cactus and other
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 263 
 
 thorny growths as to make walking botli difficult and 
 painful. He wondered a good deal over this condition 
 of affairs, for common sense dictated the necessity of 
 keeping a clear way along the pipe and these obstruc 
 tions obviously had been put in place purposely. But 
 liis wonder ceased when he succeeded, at the sacri 
 fice of the integrity of both his clothes and his skin, 
 in forcing his way to the point where the line of the 
 awquia was crossed and here also the mystery of the 
 pumping was effectually dispelled. The pipe was not 
 broken, but carefully unscrewed at one of its joints, and 
 from the opening thus made the water was discharging 
 at the full power of the pump into the acequia. A 
 monkey-wrench screwed fast to the sleeve of the joint 
 made the repair of the break possible in a moment. A 
 well-beaten path went along the bank of the acequia for 
 a hundred yards, and then dipped downward through 
 the bushes in the direction of the engine-house, 
 
 As Hardy made these interesting discoveries, he 
 whistled to himself softly. The case was perfectly clear. 
 Barwood was using the Company s pump and the Com 
 pany s firewood to supply his Mexican friends with 
 water for irrigation; and he was doing it so cleverly 
 that the chances of his being discovered were only about 
 one in a thousand. However, the odd one tenth of one 
 per cent had gone against him at last, and his little 
 game was spoiled. Hardy had lived long enough in hot, 
 dry lands to appreciate fully the benefit that Barwood 
 was conferring on the community at the Company s ex 
 pense and how strong in consequence must be his hold 
 on the popular good-will. And he further perceived 
 that about the surest and quickest way to get a knife or
 
 264: STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 a bullet in himself would be to report liis discovery to 
 the superintendent, and so to cause the shutting do\vn 
 of these highly irregular water-works. That he must 
 make such a report was inevitable, but, as he reflected, 
 it need not necessarily be made at once. The Company s 
 interests would not suffer seriously by reason of his 
 withholding his action for a few days, and in the mean 
 time his knowledge gave him a power over Barwood that 
 in various ways he might use to excellent advantage. 
 
 As he stood beside the broken pipe, revolving these 
 thoughts in his mind, a sudden, curious, creeping thrill 
 w r ent through him, chilling him in the midst of the hot 
 sunshine, and causing his heart for a moment to stand 
 still. Almost in panic he turned hastily away. It was 
 over in a moment, and he laughed at himself as he 
 forced his way back along the line of the pipe through 
 the thorns. 
 
 Hardy was in a state of high satisfaction. He had 
 accomplished already the purpose for which he had been 
 sent to Santa Maria, and he felt that he now had a pow 
 erful lever with which to work in accomplishing the still 
 stronger purpose that had formed in his heart since his 
 arrival there. He returned to the station, and when he 
 had washed the blood from his scratched hands he set 
 tled himself to smoking in a very comfortable frame of 
 mind. Both for the Company and for himself he had 
 done an excellent morning s work. 
 
 At dinner Barwood was in a less cantankerous mood. 
 Either he had worked off the effects of his early morn 
 ing mescal, or else, which was more probable, he had 
 distilled within himself more of the milk of human 
 kindness from additional libations. He even was jocose
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 2G5 
 
 in a heavy way, chaffing Hardy clumsily about his fail 
 ure in love-making ; and bringing a flame of scarlet to 
 Mary s face by telling her that now she knew that 
 sweethearts were like chickens and curses, and came 
 home to roost. Hardy found these pleasantries so gall 
 ing that, as the only way of avoiding a collision, he de 
 clared that it was too hot to eat, and so left the table and 
 the house. His host looked at him suspiciously as he 
 made this abrupt move and he had better ground for 
 suspicion than he imagined ; for, while Barwood was 
 w ashing his face and hands outside the door before din 
 ner, Hardy had secured Mary s promise to meet him an 
 hour later in the valley of the stream, beneath the bluff. 
 
 Hardy had thought the matter over carefully, and 
 had decided that this hot time in the early afternoon 
 was the period in the whole range of the twenty -four 
 hours when they would be most secure. Every human 
 being at that time almost certainly would be asleep a 
 general somnolence that by no means could be counted 
 upon at night in so irregular a community and even 
 should some accidentally-awake person see Mary, water- 
 jar in hand, going down or ascending the path that led 
 to the river, suspicion would not be aroused. At the 
 most, her action would attract no more attention than 
 would be embodied in a terse comment upon the 
 American-like folly displayed in going for water dur 
 ing the hours which all rigl it-thinking Mexicans hold 
 sacred to the deep slumber that is begot of heat. 
 
 While Hardy waited at the station impatiently for 
 the hour to pass, he was surprised by hearing again the 
 sound of the pump. He had counted upon Barwood s 
 acquired Mexican habits to place him among the sleep-
 
 266 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ers, and for a moment lie found this evidence that Bar- 
 wood was awake decidedly disconcerting. After all, 
 though , he reflected, whether Barwood was asleep or at 
 work in the engine-house, the practical result was the 
 same ; and, on the whole, small though the chance 
 would be of his waking up from his siesta, the chance 
 of his leaving his engine was even smaller. And hav 
 ing arrived at this conviction he dismissed the matter 
 from his mind, and gave his thoughts free rein concern 
 ing the strange meeting that he was about to have with 
 the woman who once had filled his whole life, and 
 whom he now had found again in so desperate a case 
 that his reawakened love had added to it the tenderness 
 of a great pity and the fierceness of a concentrated rage. 
 
 YI. 
 
 HARDY S nature never had been a gentle one, and 
 there certainly had been nothing softening in the ex 
 periences which had come to him during his three 
 years of life on the frontier ; being now stirred to its 
 very depths, a burning passion had been aroused in 
 him in which every turbulent element in his being was 
 involved. As he strode backward and forward through 
 the length of the two small rooms, he closed and 
 opened his hands, his breath came hot and short, his 
 eyes shone dangerously, on his face was a dark flush. 
 He remembered the touch of Mary s hand on his shoul 
 der that morning. Had Barwood happened to come 
 into the station just then, he certainly would have shot 
 him on sight. 
 
 At last the hour of waiting was ended. Hardy
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 267 
 
 shivered a little as he returned his watch to his pocket 
 during the final minutes he had held it in his hand 
 and went out into the quivering heat. In all the time 
 that he had known her, in the old days, he had not 
 even kissed her, he thought as he walked along. 
 
 A little below the point at which the railroad crossed 
 it, the river bent sharply, and beyond this turn was 
 the bluff on which stood the town. Hardy walked 
 toward the railroad bridge, but on the side of the en- 
 bankment farthest from the engine-house and tank. In 
 case any wakeful person chanced to see him, the natural 
 inference would be that he was on his way to join Bar- 
 wood at the pump the steady beating of which sounded 
 regularly through the hot air. A footpath, the shortest 
 way between Barwood s house and the pump, ran along 
 the valley, parallel with the stream, through thickets of 
 nopales and mesquite, and, following this, Hardy came 
 in a few minutes to the spot where he had bidden Mary 
 meet him. She was waiting for him in the path. As 
 he caught sight of her a look of eagerness on her face 
 as she heard the sound of his footsteps, the sunlight 
 sparkling in her hair, her round white arm showing, as 
 she shaded her eyes from the sun his heart gave a 
 bound. He did not trust himself to speak. For a 
 moment a dizziness came over him, and he put his hard 
 to his forehead as though in pain. 
 
 Nourished by the near-by water, the mesquite bushes 
 hereabouts were grown to be little trees, which formed 
 a grove, screening the face of the bluff. A faintly 
 marked path, worn by the goats, led crookedly through 
 this grove to a narrow open space, above which rose 
 the bluff, trending outward. He drew her along this
 
 268 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 path, and seated her on a fallen stone in the shadowy 
 nook formed by the rocky overhang. Here they were 
 hidden completely ; but above the bushes they could see 
 down the valley, and out across the great sun-beaten 
 plain, that far away rose in long slopes to the flanks of 
 the gray-blue mountains which girded it in. A slow 
 current of air dry, hot, stimulating set up the valley. 
 The only sound that broke the almost palpable stillness 
 was the low throbbing of the pump. To them both, 
 this sound brought back vividly the memory of that 
 Sunday afternoon in the Wyoming Valley, three years 
 before. 
 
 Hardy seated himself beside her and drew her to 
 ward him. 
 
 " O John you musn t," she said, speaking in a 
 low, frightened voice. But she made no effort to loose 
 herself from his grasp. 
 
 He did not answer, but he settled her head against 
 his shoulder and drew her still more closely to him. 
 The flush on his face had deepened. 
 
 Suddenly she gave a short, quick sob, and her head 
 drooped forward until it rested on his breast. Then 
 she began to cry ; softly, as a hurt child cries while being 
 comfoited. 
 
 " It all lias been so very dreadful," she moaned. 
 " Your your curse came true, John." 
 
 He did not answer for a moment, but his arm clasped 
 her less closely and more tenderly, while the flush on 
 his face slowly faded, and left him very pale. " My 
 poor little girl," he said. " Tell me all that has hap 
 pened. I can help you, you know and I mean to 
 do it."
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 2(59 
 
 And then slowly, bit by bit, she told him the same 
 story that Barwood had told him but from the point 
 of view not of the wrong-doer, but of the wronged. It 
 did not seem to her that she had in anywise contributed 
 to her own sorrow ; and, without the mitigating facts of 
 her own moodiness and coldness, the case that she made 
 out against Barwood was a black one indeed. 
 
 " And it is worse here in Santa Maria than it has 
 been at all, John," she went on. " Will was wild and 
 cruel, and got drunk in those other places ; but here 
 he is mixed up with these dreadful Mexicans in all 
 sorts of wicked things which make me shiver to think 
 about. There is smuggling going on all the time, and 
 they all are robbers, and I know that he was with them 
 when that ranch was raided and those poor men were 
 killed." Mary shuddered violently. " Oh, it is horri 
 ble, horrible ! " 
 
 " And this Mexican woman ? " 
 
 Mary s face grew crimson, and then pale. She tried 
 to draw away from him, trembling. Then, in a voice 
 scarcely above a whisper, she said : " That that is the 
 very M r orst of all." 
 
 For a little time they both were silent. The flush 
 had come back to Hardy s face and his hold upon her 
 had tightened. She could feel the strong beating of 
 his heart. His voice was unsteady, and had a strange 
 sound in it when he spoke. 
 
 " Mary, will you let me take you out of all this ? " 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked, in a troubled, 
 frightened tone. 
 
 " I mean, will you come away with me from this 
 brute and let me take care of you? Don t push me
 
 270 STORIES .OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 away. Don t answer yet" lie held her closely, and 
 spoke rapidly in order to check her rising words. 
 " You know how I loved you in the old times, Mary. 
 You were everything in life to me. And now I love 
 you more, greatly more, than even I did then. This 
 man has no right to you ; he has thrown away his right 
 to you he has thrown it away, I tell you ! Think of 
 what his life has been of what it is now of the insult 
 he has put upon you here in your own home. He has 
 no right to you, Mary. And I have a right to you be 
 cause I love you so. I will take such good care of you, 
 Mary ; I will spend all my life in making you happy 
 once more in trying to make you forget how unhappy 
 you have been. Don t don t go away from me, Mary 
 what have I done to make you angry ? Don t you 
 understand that I love you that I must have you ? 
 Don t you" 
 
 She broke away from him and sprang to her feet. 
 She was far from being a majestic woman under ordi 
 nary circumstances, but there certainly was an air of 
 majesty about her now. Hardy stood up, facing 
 her. 
 
 " How dare you ? " she panted. " Because my hus 
 band is because my husband has hurt me so, is that 
 any reason why you should hurt me still more ? You 
 are as bad as he is. You are worse than he is. Isn t 
 there such a thing as one single honorable man in the 
 world ? " Then the heroic tones died out of her voice, 
 and her commanding pose changed to a look of fear 
 and weakness. " O John, John ! " she said, I thought 
 that I could trust you. I thought that you really would 
 help me. I never oh, my God ! I never thought of
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 271 
 
 anything like this." She sank down on the stone again, 
 and buried her face in her hands and began to cry. 
 
 Hardy felt, and looked a little, like a dog that had 
 received a deserved beating Mary s piteous appeal, 
 even more than her indignant protest, had made him 
 realize how bitterly cruel he had been ; how, if he had 
 deliberately set himself to make the horror of her life 
 greater he could not have done it more effectually. Of 
 course she would not trust him any more ; he could not 
 blame her ; and so his purpose an honest and manly 
 purpose now to help her could do no good. For a 
 long while he stood in silence, looking away from her 
 out over the plain, chewing the cud of most bitter 
 thoughts. 
 
 At last Mary spoke : " John, tell me that you didn t 
 mean it. I m sure you didn t. I m so very, very un 
 happy, John. And unless you help me I don t see any 
 hope at all. Tell me that you didn t mean it, John." 
 
 There was an infinite pathos in her words ; a de 
 spairing pathos for that she still should appeal to him 
 for help showed how desperate her plight must be. 
 But for him there was comfort in this appeal, since it 
 made clear the way for his atonement. " I can tell you 
 from the very core of my heart that I don t mean it 
 now, Mary," he said. " Please God, I really will be an 
 honest friend to you now, and I will get you out of this 
 honestly, and home safely to the States. I guess I must 
 have been crazy, Mary ; but I m not crazy any longer, 
 and you can trust me right straight through." 
 
 Mary looked up at him gladly. " Those are the 
 best words I ve heard in three years," she said. "O 
 John, you nearly killed me a little while ago ; but you
 
 272 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPADT. 
 
 must have been crazy, just as you said ; and now you 
 are giving me hope that is worth living for. Somehow, 
 all alone as I ve been, I haven t had the strength to try 
 to break away and get home. I ve been afraid. I 
 guess I haven t much of what they call backbone. But 
 I have your strength now, John ; and things will all 
 come right, I m sure. You ll get me home safe, won t 
 you, John ? " 
 
 She came close to him eagerly, and took his hand. 
 As a father might have done, he put his arm around 
 her and drew her head upon his breast. 
 
 " But you must be very careful, John," she went on. 
 " Will is such a masterful sort of a man ! If he finds 
 out anything, I know that he ll kill us." 
 
 Hardy smiled confidently. " I guess if there s any 
 killing going around I won t get left," lie said. " I 
 don t want to kill your husband, of course, but if it s 
 got to be done I ll do it all the same." 
 
 " Bat maybe not while he s got the drop on 
 you!" 
 
 Hardy turned quickly. Barwood was standing in 
 the path not ten feet away, holding aside the mesqnite 
 branches with his left hand, while in his right hand, lev 
 eled at Hardy s head, was a cocked revolver. 
 
 " It may be your ante ; but I ve got the cards," he 
 said, coolly. 
 
 Had Hardy been a tenderfoot, he would have made 
 an effort to draw his pistol and would have been shot 
 instantly. Having had the benefit of three years ex 
 perience of Southwestern manners and customs, he stood 
 perfectly still and awaited developments. 
 
 Mary had screamed when she heard her husband s
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 2T3 
 
 voice, and saw him standing before her grimly threaten 
 ing ; and then she had sunk cowering down, with her 
 face bent close to her knees, and her hands pressed tight 
 ly to her ears to deaden the sound of the pistol-shot. 
 To her surprise, this sound did not come. Slowly she 
 raised her head. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Hardy," Barwood said, " if you ll give 
 me your word of honor that you ll be on th square as I 
 promise you I ll be with you, we won t have any shoot- 
 in just at present. Is it a go ? " 
 
 " Yes," Hardy answered. 
 
 " No monkey tricks, on your word of honor ? " 
 Barwood said, letting his revolver fall slowly. 
 
 " On my word of honor." 
 
 " All right, then. Maybe one of us ll have t be used 
 as th beginnin of an American graveyard in these 
 parts before we get through with each other, but th per- 
 cession needn t start just yet. Here, you fool Mary, go 
 back t th house." 
 
 Hardy quivered as this order was given, but Mary 
 used to orders thus tersely worded rose quietly to obey 
 it. She stood for a moment looking at the two men as 
 they confronted each other. 
 
 " Oh, what have I done, what have I done," she 
 moaned, " that I should be the cause of such dreadful 
 things ? " 
 
 " What have yon done ?" Barwood answered. ""Well, 
 I ll tell you what you ve done. From first t last in all 
 you ve had t say or do with me an Hardy here, you ve 
 made an everlastin infernal fool of yourself an of us 
 too. Fust of all, you said you d marry me ; an I went 
 off in good faith t make a comfortable home for you. 
 18
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 An then what did you do ? Why, you coaxed Hardy 
 along into fallin in love with you ! An then, instead 
 of shakin me an marryin him which would a been 
 tough on me, but at least would a had sense in it 
 for th fool that you are you shook him an married 
 
 me ! An then, when you d made my life so d n 
 
 mean t me that I took t knockin around with th boys, 
 just t try t forget how miserable I was, up you goes on 
 your ear an says that I m a drunken brute, an that you 
 was a martyr. An now, after you ve been rowin me 
 off an on for six months an more because I ve got a 
 Mexican lady friend who s not all moods an stuck-up- 
 ness, an who s got a heart in her body, I can t go to my 
 work an come back agen without findin you an an 
 other man in th thick of a huggin -match ! There s no 
 consistency anywheres about you. There s nothin about 
 you, good or bad, for a man t take hold of an tie to. 
 You re just a fool a ferlorn, useless fool ! " 
 
 Barwood delivered this extended opinion in a tone 
 of sincere conviction and utter contempt. He was so 
 deeply moved that he even forgot to interpolate into his 
 discourse his customary larding of heavy, mouth-filling 
 oaths. Hardy listened with a white face ; and he was 
 the more stirred to resentment, perhaps, by an uneasy 
 consciousness that Barwood was cutting terribly close 
 to the truth. Mary scarcely grasped the sense of a 
 single word. She was too stunned and shaken to un 
 derstand anything just then. She waited with the stolid 
 bearing beneath abuse that had become habitual with 
 her until her husband had finished ; and then, walking 
 in a dazed, uncertain way that made Hardy long to go 
 to her support, she went slowly along the path.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 275 
 
 As tlie mesquite bushes closed behind her, Barwood 
 said, briskly : " Now, Hardy, you an me ll talk this 
 matter right out now, an get that graveyard business 
 settled onct for all." 
 
 VII. 
 
 BARWOOD seated himself on the stone from which 
 Mary had just risen, and, as he began to speak, he 
 slowly rolled a cigarrito in his brown fingers. Hardy 
 leaned against the bluff, and, half turning away as he 
 listened, looked out over the fringe of mesquite bushes 
 and the great cactus-covered sunny plain to the far 
 mountains. 
 
 " I s pose you ll allow," Barwood began, " that 
 when I caught you huggin my wife that way, I d a 
 perf ec right t shoot you without any talk about it ? " 
 
 Hardy half turned and nodded. It was better, he 
 decided, to let Barwood think what he pleased than to 
 complicate matters by an explanation that he neither 
 would understand nor believe. 
 
 " Very good, that s somethin we can begin with 
 agreein to. "Well, it s just th truth that I would a 
 shot you if I d thought Mary was worth it. But I don t. 
 You ve just heard rne say what I think about her, an 
 I needn t say t all over again. Th short of it is that 
 she s done me nothin but bad turns ever sence I mar 
 ried her, and I m sick of havin her around. She s not 
 worth shootin anybody for, an that s just th ever- 
 lastin truth. Now you strike me as bein a pretty 
 stiff sort of a man, th kind that s got sand an is good 
 t tie to. I reckon me an you could make a team, if
 
 276 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 only onct we could fix things so s we d pull together. 
 That s what I m after now. You ve got eyes in your 
 head, an I guess t say nothin of what I s pose Mary s 
 told you you ve sized things up here at Santa Maria 
 pretty true. You got down pretty d n quick, I no 
 ticed, t my little game about th pump." 
 
 Hardy started. 
 
 "Yes, I seed you this morain . You was sharp, 
 but you had a close call, all the same. I was watchin 
 you, an I had my gun all ready, an I d more n half a 
 mind t let it go off, too but I didnt t, "Well, you 
 ketched on t that little matter n short order, an th 
 way you tumbled to t showed you t be one of th wide 
 awake kind. That s th kind I like an it s th kind 
 that has a chance t make somethin out of livin here. 
 I guess you credit me with too much hard sense t think 
 I d stay in Santa Maria long just for th fun of runnin 
 
 that d n pump ? Not much ! An I m not here for my 
 
 health, neither. Now, I m goin t talk right out t you, 
 man t man for th way things stand between me an 
 you we ve got t have a fight or a settlement. An I 
 just tell you now that if t comes to a fight, an you lay 
 me out, you won t make nothin by it. My Greaser 
 friends know what I m doin and are lookin out after 
 me. If I m hurt you ll never get out of here alive. 
 There s not so much sleepiness about this town as there 
 seems t be. We gave you this chance t talk t Mary I 
 knowed you both wanted it, an u d take it fast enough 
 cause I allowed it u d sort of bring things right down 
 t th hard pan, quick an comfortable. An so t has, 
 you see. But there ain t a man in Santa Maria who 
 ain t been listenin all day, an w r ho ain t listenin right
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 277 
 
 now, for th sound of a gun goin off. They ll know 
 quick enough what it means if they hear it ; an I 
 tell you again, that if you should happen t hurt me 
 you d be as dead inside of ten minutes as George Wash 
 ington." 
 
 o 
 
 Hardy was not a nervous man, but a shudder went 
 over him as lie thought of the eyes which had watched 
 him all that day from the closed, silent houses ; of the 
 alert peril that had beset him in the midst of what had 
 seemed to him such slumberous security. And this shud 
 der went down into the inner fiber of his heart as he 
 remembered the curious creeping thrill that had gone 
 through him as he stood covered, as he now knew, by 
 Barwood s revolver beside the broken pipe. By the 
 open danger that now menaced him he was not seriously 
 disturbed. He knew about it, and to a certain extent 
 could guard against it. But there was something eerie, 
 devilish, in the thought of this deadly malevolence which 
 had lurked beside him undiscovered in the very fullness 
 and brilliance of day. 
 
 Barwood chuckled. " I reckon you allowed you had 
 a full hand, an didn t happen t think we might have 
 some extry aces under th table," he said. " "Well, we 
 had An we ve got em there yet. 
 
 " An now you ve truly sized up th game, I can talk 
 business. It s genuine business, too. You see, I m at 
 th head of what I call an importin outfit. It s not 
 exac ly reg lar in th way it works ; but it s good for th 
 country, an it s pretty middlin good for ourselves. An 
 it s a sort of a moral institootion, too, cause it takes 
 away th temptation of stealiri from th Greaser custom 
 house officers. Saves f "
 
 278 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 " You mean you re smuggling? " 
 
 " Why, yes," Barwood answered, with a fine frank 
 ness, " it is called smugglin sometimes but I think 
 callin it importin sounds better. We re in th cattle 
 business, too ; an that s a very payin branch of th con 
 cern. An in a gen ral sort of way we re on th make 
 all round. I don t want to brag about myself, but it s 
 only fair t say that for a business that hasn t been run- 
 nin long we re doin mos uncommon well. I can t 
 prove t t you from th books, cause we don t keep 
 none ; but I can prove t t you from th dollars them 
 we ve got stacked up in th old church. I guess holdin 
 all them dollars is about th best use that church ever 
 was put to. It s tli first time I ve ever knowed a church 
 t be of real practical account t anybody. Would you 
 like t take a look at em ? " 
 
 Hardy turned around and looked at Barwood squarely. 
 " What are you driving at, anyway ? " he asked. 
 
 " Drivin at ! Can t you see ? I want you t come 
 into th concern an be a pardner." 
 
 " Be a h 1 ! " Hardy burst out. 
 
 " Drive slow. Don t git mad about it," Barwood 
 went on, coolly. " Gettiri mad s no way t manage a 
 business transaction. Now, I m talkin horse-sense. 
 You re th sort of man I ve been lookin for, an if 
 you ll chip in you won t be sorry for t. Tain t many 
 folks I d make th offer to. But unless I m a good way 
 up th wrong tree, you ve got th nerve t rustle things, 
 and ain t th kind in a tight place t go back on your 
 friends. Some of these Greasers are pretty good, but I 
 never squarely can tell when they won t slip up on me ; 
 an I want somebody around who has sand an can be
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 279 
 
 depended on. You re that kind, an that s th reason I 
 want you. 
 
 " Now, that s my side. Your side is that I let you 
 into a first-rate thing, where there s money t be made 
 quick, an lots of it. It s a rattlin good chance for 
 you. What do you say ? "Will you ante ? " 
 
 " I ll see you an the business d d first ! " Hardy 
 
 answered, promptly. 
 
 " Don t be so sure about that. I haven t given you 
 all th points yet. There s some more reasons why 
 you d better come in, an th biggest one is, now that 
 I ve talked in this free an friendly way with you, I 
 can t afford t have you stay out. I didn t intend t 
 talk this way unless I really had to ; but I guess you re 
 sharp enough t see that, after what I ve told you, either 
 you ve got t come in, or I ve got t use you as a sort 
 of starter for that American graveyard we was talkin 
 about awhile ago. You know a little too much about 
 our game for t t be quite healthy for you unless you 
 take a hand yourself. Do you ketch on ? " 
 
 " I sruess I d about as lief be shot now as have it 
 
 f~> 
 
 done later by a file of Mexican soldiers ; to say nothing 
 of it s being a good deal better than being hung by a 
 sheriff if I happened to get caught on the other side of 
 the line." 
 
 " There s something in that," Barwood answered, in 
 a tone of serious thoughtfulness. " Them little chances 
 sometimes come in our business, an we ve got t take 
 em. But what you ought t look at is that they re 
 nothin but chances an this other shootin that I m 
 talkin about is th deadest sort of a dead sure thing." 
 
 " Well, then, bring it along you ve got my answer."
 
 280 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Hardy spoke with entire unconcern, and with obvious 
 sincerity. 
 
 " I knowed you had sand ! " Barwood said, in a 
 tone of admiring approval. " You re the man I want. 
 It ll go agin my grain powerful t put you in that 
 graveyard an that s th everlastin truth. If it s got 
 t be done, I ll do it, of course ; but I truly don t want 
 to. Now, look here, Hardy, there s money for you in 
 this deal, if you ll come in ; an you know what ll hap 
 pen t you if you stay out now what do you say if I ll 
 chuck in Mary to boot ? " 
 
 Hardy faced around on Barwood sharply. " What 
 do you mean ? " he asked. 
 
 " Just plump an clear what I say. If you d had as 
 much of her as I ve had, or if you d th sense t reason 
 out from what I ve told you about th way she s used 
 me, how more n wuthless she is, you wouldn t want 
 her. But when it was a matter of women I never 
 knowed a man yet as wasn t a fool, an I s pose you re 
 like all th rest. It s plain you do want her powerful. 
 Well, if you ll make this deal with me you can have 
 her. Tell me, is it a go, now ? " 
 
 Hardy turned very pale and leaned against the rock 
 heavily. He was genuinely horrified. He put his hand 
 to his throat. Once or twice he made an effort to speak, 
 but the words would not come. Although supported 
 by the rock, his body swayed a little At last, in a 
 voice pitched very low, as though to give him more 
 control over it, he said, slowly : 
 
 " You mean that you will get divorced, and that I 
 that I may marry her ? " 
 
 " Well, I can t say that I d thought of quite such
 
 SAIXT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 281 
 
 fancy fixin s as all that," Barwood answered. " But it s 
 a matter of no particular diff rence t me how yon go 
 about it. I guess Mary d like it that way ; she always 
 did go in for style." And then he added, sharply, and 
 with a tone of suspicion in his voice : " But we can t 
 have no foolin round after such Fifth Avenue trim- 
 min s as divorces now. T get a divorce you d have 
 t go t th States for t, an just at present that ain t 
 
 by a d n sight what we re goin t do. Oh, come, 
 
 Hardy, what s th good of makin an infernal fussy 
 fool of yourself this way ? Just tell me, will, or 
 will not, my throwiu Mary in for boot make you 
 trade 2 " 
 
 Hardy s loathing for Barwood was intense, but he 
 could not afford to show it. If he refused this offer 
 squarely, he knew that he would not live the day out, 
 and with his death Mary s chance of escape would die 
 too. What little will-power she ever had possessed her 
 husband long ago had crushed out of her. Unless de 
 liverance came to her from outside herself and he 
 alone could bring it to her -she surely was lost. By a 
 great effort he steadied himself so that his voice should 
 not betray his anger and disgust. 
 
 " Give me a little time to think," he said. 
 
 " Now, that begins t sound as if you meant t talk 
 sense," Barwood answered. " Yes, you can think 
 tilings over a bit; that s only fair. But you mustn t 
 fool away much time on it. I ll give you till ten 
 o clock t -night t make up your mind in. IIow ll that 
 do ? If you settle t corne in, you ll understand then 
 why I couldn t give you longer. An if you don t come 
 in well, if you don t come in, I don t think that un-
 
 282 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 derstandin or not understandin 11 make any partic lar 
 diff rence to you." 
 
 As Barwood gave this answer, in a tone that em 
 phasized the sinister significance of his words, the sound 
 of a locomotive whistle was heard faintly. 
 
 " I may as well mention," Barwood added, " that 
 I ve got some of my Greasers in that busted old adobe 
 house clost by th station. I m goin up with you now 
 t meet th train, an if you try t come t over us by 
 givin us away t th freight outfit, it ll be my onpleas- 
 ant duty t start th shootin right off, an scoop in th 
 train-hands along with it which wouldn t be exactly a 
 square deal for them, for it s none of their funeral, any 
 way. 
 
 " We d better be movin now. I don t think you re 
 likely t try any monkey tricks with me ; but I guess 
 I ll let you \valk ahead, all th same." 
 
 Hardy pulled himself together and walked in front 
 of Barwood through the bushes, and thence along the 
 narrow path to the break in the bluff, up which the 
 path ascended to the village. Having reached the level 
 land above, they walked together, side by side, to the 
 station. The freight train was in sight, half a mile 
 down the line. 
 
 " Just t show you that I m not bluftin an that I 
 really have th drop on you," Barwood said, pleasantly, 
 as they passed the partly ruined house, "you may as 
 well take a look at my friends hefre. They won t mind 
 it an seein em 11 make you understand that t w r on t 
 do you no good t try t rope in th boys on th train." 
 
 The roof of the adobe house had fallen in and part 
 of the rear wall had crumbled down ; but the front and
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 283 
 
 side walls remained, and the heavy door still was in 
 place. Having whistled softly, Barwood pushed the 
 door open, and, by a gesture invited Hardy to look in 
 side. Within the house fifteen or twenty men were 
 standing or sitting. All wore revolvers, and a dozen 
 "Winchester rifles stood in a row against the wall. The 
 Alcalde, who seemed to be in command of these very 
 irregular forces, stepped forward as Barwood opened 
 the door. 
 
 "Will the gentleman join us ? " he asked in Spanish. 
 
 " The gentleman seems well disposed," Barwood an 
 swered ; but as yet he does not speak positively. I 
 have the pleasure of showing him these gentlemen, our 
 friends, in order to convince him that to ask assistance 
 from the Americans now coining on the train will not 
 be wise. You, Sefior Alcalde, will oblige me by ac 
 companying us to the station ; and you, gentlemen, will 
 understand what to do should any trouble arise." 
 
 And then he added, in English : " But I guess there 
 won t be any rumpus; eh, Hardy? You d only get 
 left if you tried it on, you see." 
 
 Hardy was forced to admit to himself, as with Bar- 
 Avood and the Alcalde he mounted the station platform 
 just as the train came to a halt, that an appeal for help 
 would be worse than useless. It would do him no 
 good, and it almost certainly would result in the killing 
 of every man in the freight crew. 
 
 There was nothing to throw off or take on at the 
 station, and in a couple of minutes the train pulled out 
 and ran slowly down the grade to the tank. For a mo 
 ment, as it started, Hardy thought of breaking away 
 from Barwood s side, jumping on the engine and throw-
 
 284: STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ing the valve wide open trusting to the sudden start 
 at full speed to snap the coupling with the train and 
 so taking the chances of getting off. Barwood seemed 
 to understand this thought, and checked it. 
 
 " You d better not try any monkey tricks," he said, 
 quietly. " You d only get hurt ; t say nothin of get- 
 tin th boys on th train into trouble. My Greasers are 
 a fightin lot, an won t stand any foolishness just now 
 an I won t, neither." 
 
 So the train moved away, and Hardy watched it as 
 it slid along the rails, much as a man floating on a spar 
 in mid-ocean would watch a passing vessel that he could 
 not hail without at once bringing death to himself and 
 to all on board. As he realized the devilish ingenuity 
 with which Barwood had laid his plans, and perceived 
 how completely, so far, he had been a puppet in Bar- 
 wood s hands, a chill went down into his heart. But 
 the chill was only momentary. Instantly a healthy re 
 action of hot anger set in, and with it came renewed 
 confidence in himself. He was in a tight place a very 
 tight place, certainly ; but he had been in tight places a 
 good many times before, and always had managed to 
 get himself out of them. It would not be his fault if 
 he did not down Barwood and his gang of Greasers 
 yet. 
 
 The engine took in water at the tank, and then, 
 puffing vigorously, slowly ascended the long grade. 
 They watched it in silence until the train had shrunk 
 to a mere speck and the puffing of the engine no longer 
 could be heard. 
 
 " I don t want you to think, Hardy, that I don t be 
 lieve you re not going to play fair," Barwood said, as
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 285 
 
 they turned about and faced each other, " but it ll save 
 you from beiii lonesome if my friend Don Pedro here 
 an one or t\vo of th boys sort of set around air keep 
 you company. I know you wouldn t do it on purpose, 
 but if you was left by yourself you might kind of acci 
 dentally get t foolin with that telegraph-key, you 
 know, in a way that wouldn t be just altogether whole 
 some ; so it s safer for all hands that you sha irt have 
 th chance. Don Pedro is a very pleasant gentleman, 
 an you ll find him ready t tell you all about th busi 
 ness goin into th fine points oft as I hadn t time to. 
 I d like t stay an keep you company myself, but I ve 
 got a good deal t do just now, an. can t. We ve got 
 quite a piece of work on hand for t -night, that I ll tell 
 you all about a little later when you ve made up your 
 mind, as I know you re goin to, t come into the con 
 cern. Just you think about what I ve been tellin you, 
 an about what Don Pedro will tell you, too, about what 
 a good business tis, an don t you throw away th best 
 chance for makin a big strike you ve ever had offered 
 t you. An though I really don t like t speak about 
 it, don t forget what I was sayin about that American 
 graveyard ; an don t you forget " here Barwood came 
 close to Hardy and lowered his voice " what I said 
 about Mary : if you ll come in, she s yours." 
 
 Hardy made no reply. Barwood accepted his silence 
 in good part, nodded pleasantly, and walked off toward 
 the town. The Alcalde went with him, and at the 
 ruined house they stopped for a few minutes in con 
 sultation. Then the Alcalde and two men returned and 
 walked away down the line of the railroad, two more 
 men came over and joined Don Pedro at the station,
 
 286 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 and the rest straggled off toward the town in Barwood s 
 wake. 
 
 Hardy walked into the station and seated himself 
 heside the table on which was the telegraph instrument. 
 Don Pedro followed after him closely, and the two men 
 placed themselves just outside the door. 
 
 " It will be more commodious for the Sefior if he 
 will seat himself where he will have the pleasure of the 
 fresh air," said Don Pedro, politely. 
 
 " Thanks, Scfior, I am very well here," Hardy an 
 swered. 
 
 " But the Sefior will pardon me ? but the Seilor s 
 hand might inadvertently touch the little machine. It 
 is better for him here." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Hardy, " I comprehend," and he moved 
 his chair. 
 
 " And since the Sefior, who is among friends, can 
 have no use for it, I am sure that he will give me his 
 pistol to take care of for him ? " 
 
 Hardy was disposed to argue this request ; but, as 
 he hesitated, the men in the doorway moved forward 
 into the room and ranged up beside him. Under these 
 circumstances argument was out of place. With a very 
 bad grace he yielded. Don Pedro waved his hand po 
 litely, and declared in courteous tones that he owed the 
 Sefior a thousand thanks. 
 
 He was a red-faced, dirty, villainous-looking dog, 
 this Don Pedro, but his voice was gentle and low, his 
 language was conspicuously elegant, and his manners 
 were above reproach. In the event of his finding it 
 necessary to commit a murder, he was quite the sort of 
 man to apologize to his victim in well-chosen words,
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 287 
 
 and with a certain amount of sincerity. Being natu 
 rally a loquacious personage, he made several attempts 
 to draw Hardy into conversation, but without suc 
 cess. 
 
 " The Senor, no doubt, lias much upon his mind," 
 lie said at last. a He wishes to meditate upon the good 
 fortune that we oiler him. lie is quite right, and I 
 shall disturb him no more. He will join me in smok 
 ing?" Hardy shook his head. " !No ? Ah, then, he 
 will pardon me if I smoke alone." 
 
 Saying which, Don Pedro unrolled a cigarrito, 
 brushed away a part of the tobacco, re-rolled it firmly, 
 lighted it with a double-headed match, and then settled 
 himself as comfortably as the circumstances of the case 
 would permit on a seat improvised from a nail-keg, 
 and apparently gave himself up wholly to the pure 
 happiness of smoking. 
 
 That l)on Pedro s abstraction was more apparent 
 than real was shown by the fact that he had been care 
 ful to seat himself between Hardy and the telegraph 
 instrument. And Hardy noticed also that when the 
 men outside lit their cigarritos&& they presently did, 
 of course the little ceremony of unwrapping, re wrap 
 ping, and lighting was performed in turn, so that one 
 of them watched him constantly, alert and with free 
 hands. They all seemed to think that a single touch 
 upon the key of the telegraph would suffice to give the 
 alarm ; and they all evidently had a wholesome respect 
 for Hardy s strength and courage, and were determined 
 to guard against the possibility of his taking them by 
 surprise. As he perceived how sharply they watched 
 him, the saying current on the border that one Ameri-
 
 288 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 can can whip three Mexicans came into his mind ; and 
 he smiled grimly as he thought that these three Mexi 
 cans certainly were conducting themselves as though 
 they believed that the saying was true. But for the cer 
 tainty that the sound of shooting would bring all the 
 men in the town about his ears, he would have given 
 them a chance unarmed though he was to settle the 
 matter by a practical experiment ; and he rather flat 
 tered himself that the saying would be confirmed by 
 the result. Probably he was over-confident, for the 
 Mexicans were so keenly alive to his smallest move 
 ment that any demonstration of hostility on his part 
 would have been nipped in the bud. Even when he 
 put his hand in his pocket for his pipe, they all three 
 forgetting for the moment that they had taken his pistol 
 from him were on their feet in an instant, and had 
 him covered with their revolvers. lie threw up his 
 hands promptly and explained his intentions, and with 
 rather a sheepish look they sat down again. But while 
 lie could not help laughing to himself, he perceived that 
 the odds against him were even heavier than he had 
 taken them to be. For the first time in his life he ad 
 mitted the thought that perhaps he had got into a ecrape 
 that he could not get out of. 
 
 Hardy smoked gloomily. The outlook, so far as he 
 himself was concerned, did not greatly trouble him. He 
 had not found life so pleasant that the near prospect of 
 parting with it occasioned him regret. But the thought 
 of what the loss of his life \vould mean to Mary filled 
 him with a keen misery. He could see no hope for her 
 at all. There was no one to help her. She could not 
 help herself. He doubted even if she had a sufficient
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 289 
 
 strength of purpose to seek in death the one desperate 
 chance of escape left open to her. Unless her husband 
 should be shot or hung of which, of course, there was 
 a fairly hopeful probability her present wretched ex 
 istence might drag on for years and years. Of course, 
 she would die of it, or be driven mad by it, at last ; but 
 what grinding agony would be hers until, in death or 
 madness, she found her release ! 
 
 Slowly the time wore away. The day was nearly 
 ended, and little puffs of cool wind broke through the 
 hot, dense air, and brought with them a delectable re 
 freshment. Gradually these puffs gathered force and 
 increased in frequency, becoming a strong, fresh breeze 
 as the sun dropped down behind the mountains and twi 
 light settled upon the earth. Hardy, who had eaten 
 nothing since breakfast-time, grew desperately hungry ; 
 and his Mexican guards sniffed longingly at the relish 
 ing smells which came down to them on the wind from 
 the many outdoor cookings going on about the town. 
 But they showed no disposition to surrender to the crav 
 ings of the flesh. Evidently they had their orders and 
 meant to obey them. As the twilight deepened into 
 dusk they came closer to him. 
 
 " Only a little while longer, Sefior," Don Pedro said, 
 cheerfully, as this change was made. 
 
 Hardy wondered what was going to happen at the 
 end of the little Avhile, but he did not speak. The dead 
 silence in which they sat was broken only by the clatter 
 of the telegraph, as from time to time a message went 
 over the line. There was something harrowing in this 
 sound. It made help seem so near, while in reality 
 help was so hopelessly far away. The dispatches going 
 19
 
 290 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 through were on Company s service trair. orders and 
 the like. Hardy listened to them idly, repeating in his 
 mind the words as they were built up from the inter 
 mittent sounds. For a while there was silence. The 
 room was quite dark now, save that for a little space 
 within each doorway there shone a faint, hazy light 
 from the stars. It must be about eight o clock, Hardy 
 thought ; in two hours more Barwood would demand 
 his answer. "Well, he was ready to give it. The moon 
 would be rising about that time the last moonrise that 
 he ever would see. It was odd to stop off short this 
 way, right in the middle of one s life. It was like buy 
 ing a through ticket to Chicago and being fired off the 
 train at a way-station somewhere out on the plains. It 
 didn t seem like a fair deal. Here the noise of the tele 
 graph broke in once more upon his thoughts. An order 
 was going through to the north-bound passenger train 
 that would pass Santa Maria between three and four 
 o clock the following morning : 
 
 "Side-track at Los Angelitos for the down " then 
 the ticking stopped. 
 
 Hardy listened for the sound to begin again. Five 
 minutes passed, and still the dispatch was left unfinished. 
 Five minutes more, and only silence. At the end of 
 fifteen minutes the time had seemed a full hour he 
 drew a long breath as the truth of the situation forced 
 itself home on him : they had cut the wires ! 
 
 YIIL 
 
 HARDY realized that his case was desperate. About 
 all that was left for him to do, he concluded, was to die
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 291 
 
 game. lie remembered once having seen a rat let out 
 of a trap in the midst of a group of terriers. Now he 
 knew what the feelings of the rat must have been. It 
 was rather late in the day to be sorry for that rat, but 
 he was sorry for it, very. 
 
 While he meditated in this dismal fashion he heard 
 the distant sound of horses galloping. As the sound 
 grew louder he perceived that it came from two direc 
 tions ; then he heard clearly the splashing of hoofs in 
 the water as a horse crossed the river at the ford and 
 entered the town from the north, and a few moments 
 later a man on horseback passed close by the station, 
 coming up the track from the south. Don Pedro rose 
 and stretched himself. 
 
 " Glory to God ! " he said, fervently. " We now 
 can have something to eat." 
 
 But almost half an hour passed before Don Pedro 
 was permitted to realize this piously expressed longing. 
 Then the sound of footsteps and voices was heard, and 
 Barwood, carrying a lantern, entered the station, fol 
 lowed by a couple of Mexicans. With the arrival of 
 this relief, Don Pedro and the other two watchers were 
 off like shots to their suppers. Barwood put down his 
 lantern, lighted the kerosene-lamp on the table, and 
 seated himself beside it. He was clad in full ranchero 
 costume : tight-fitting trousers, girded with a red sash, 
 and adorned with rows of silver buttons down the out 
 side of the legs; short jacket; wide-brimmed sombrero ; 
 yellow boots, and great spurs. In this dress, the illu 
 sion being assisted by his dark hair and beard and black 
 eyes, he looked so thoroughly Mexican that until he 
 spoke Hardy did not recognize him.
 
 292 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 "Nice rig, ain t it?" he said, with a grin. "An 
 it s as useful as it s pretty. For tli little game that I m 
 goin t play t -uight I don t specially care t have any 
 of my friends recognize me an I rather guess they 
 won t. As a Mexican I should say that I was solid." 
 He chuckled a little, and then went on : " My friends 
 here don t understand English, so we can speak right 
 out, free an comfortable. What sort of a time have 
 you an Don Pedro been havin ? Did he talk matters 
 over with you any ? " 
 
 " No," Hardy answered, shortly, " he didn t." 
 
 " Well, I dun-know as t makes much difference. 
 I ve given you th main fac s, an that s all you need t 
 make up your mind on. Have you got down t bed 
 rock yet, or are you still scratchin around in th gravel ? 
 Times s pretty near up, you know." 
 
 " I guess I ve got down to about as much bed-rock 
 as I m likely to get to." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " You can begin your shooting whenever you d n 
 
 please." 
 
 " Whoa ! Steady ! Now, who s been sayin any 
 thing t you about shootin ? That mildewed fool of a 
 Don Pedro, I s pose. An well, yes, come to think of 
 it, I b lieve I did kinder hint about somethin of that 
 sort myself. But that s only in case you won t come in, 
 you know an I think you re comin all right. Now, 
 just you listen t me. This afternoon I couldn t speak 
 out as free as I wanted to. It would a been takin mos 
 too many chances if I d talked out before th up train 
 had passed, an while th telegraph was workin you ve 
 caught on, I guess, t th telegraph bein busted ? "
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 203 
 
 Hardy nodded. 
 
 " Yes, I thought you had, for you re one of th quick 
 kind. Well, then, you see I really can talk right out t 
 you, for nothin you can do now can do no hurt. You 
 can t mend th wires, for th cuts are a pretty long ways 
 off, both sides ; an if you tried t walk off anywhere 
 well, if you tried t walk off, I s posQ some of that fool 
 talk you say Don Pedro s been givin you about shootin 
 would come true. Yes, I really s pose t would. 
 
 " Xow, maybe you ve sized things up so s t know 
 that just for a little thing like droppin on you in case 
 we have to do it, that is I wouldn t bother t dress up 
 in Mexican fashion, an none on us would tackle such a 
 risky game as cuttin th telegraph wires. An so may 
 be you ve got hold of th idea that there s somethin up 
 that s really worth talkin about, eh ? " 
 
 Hardy had not reached any such conclusion, and 
 Barwood s words took him by surprise. In common 
 with most men, he regarded the taking of his life as 
 the most important event that possibly could happen 
 forgetting that this is one of the cases in which the dif 
 ference between the personal and impersonal stand 
 points marks also a difference between importance and 
 triviality. He had regarded, therefore, the cutting of 
 the wires, and Barwood s assumption of Mexican dress 
 by way of disguise, as natural measures of prudence 
 which so grave a matter as his prospective murder 
 abundantly justified. Indeed, he had accepted the cut 
 ting of the wires as a sure sign that his murder had 
 been irrevocably decided upon. But this present 
 ment of the case from the standpoint of an impartial 
 outsider, while it was sufficiently convincing and some-
 
 294 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 what humiliating, was not enlightening. He looked 
 puzzled. 
 
 " So you haven t tumbled to it ? " Barwood went on. 
 " Well, all I can say is, you re not quite as quick as I 
 thought you was. Yes siree, we ve got somethin on 
 hand for t -night that really is worth talkin about. 
 It s a joy, it is. Why, man, there s two hundred 
 thousand dollars in coined silver on th up train t -night, 
 an we mean t have it ! Now, how does that strike 
 you?" 
 
 Hardy looked steadily at Barwood and made no an 
 swer. He was strongly disposed to believe that Bar- 
 wood was lying. 
 
 " It s th everlastin truth," Barwood went on, per 
 ceiving the look of doubt on Hardy s face, and answer 
 ing it. " It s just th solid, everlastin truth. "We ve been 
 layin for this haul for th past two months wa itin for 
 enough of th stuff t come along in one lump t make it 
 worth while t strike for t. Now it s comin , an we re 
 goin t get in our work." 
 
 " How are you going about it ? " Hardy asked. 
 
 " Well, we ve sort of fixed things down to the Bar 
 ranca Grande. I forgot, you don t know nothin about 
 th Barranca Grande, or where t is. It s a big barranca, 
 six or seven kilometres down th line. It s a hundred 
 feet deep, I guess, in th middle, an there s a wooden 
 trestle acrost it about four hundred feet long. As soon 
 as Number Two went acrost this afternoon some of th 
 boys got t work at that trestle an tain t in near as 
 good order now as twas when they begun. Th com 
 pany s been promisin an promisin th Government for 
 th last six months they d put in th permanent bridge
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 295 
 
 over that barranca I guess they ll go t work an do 
 t now." 
 
 " You mean that you ve cut that trestle so that the 
 passenger train will go down into the barranca f " 
 Hardy s heart stopped beating as he asked this ques 
 tion, and even his lips became white. But he kept his 
 voice steady, and in the dim light Barwood did not see 
 the paleness of his face. 
 
 " In a gen ral sort of way that s about the size of 
 it," Barwood answered. " At first, we was just goin t 
 hold up th train an go through th express car. I d 
 rather a done it that way, too. But I settled that that 
 way would be too risky. You see, th trouble is, I can t 
 
 more n half trust these d n Greasers. If th folks 
 
 on th train tried t stand us off, it s more n likely th 
 Greasers u d just drop th whole business an skip out. 
 
 They re curs, d n curs, that s what Greasers is for 
 
 th mos part. So that s why we settled t do th job 
 this way. I can t say I just altogether like it, but I 
 guess it s sure. With things all in a heap in th bottom 
 of th barranca, an th cars afire, more n likely, an no 
 body much in any kind of shape for fightin well, I 
 guess even Greasers can manage a job like that without 
 gettin skeert an runnin away. An th haul is a daisy 
 one ! Think of it ! Two hundred thousand dollars at 
 one whack ! It s more n we could make in smugglin 
 and stock-stealin in ten years ! " 
 
 In his excitement Barwood paced up and down the 
 room, emphasizing his words with short jerks of his 
 head and eager movements of his hands. * 
 
 " An now that you know the whole business, 
 Hardy," he went on, " will you or will you not come
 
 296 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 in ? I think it s pretty d n liberal in me t give you 
 
 th chance ; but th fact of th matter is I never can 
 more n half trust these Greasers, an in a job of this 
 size I want somebody along as I know I can tie to. 
 There ll be about twenty of us in th job, an that ll 
 make ten thousand dollars apiece when we come t 
 divide up. Ten thousand dollars for one night s work 
 strikes me as bein about th everlastin est biggest wages 
 I ve ever knowed a man to earn. Tell me, is it a go ? " 
 
 In the indignation aroused by Barwood s cool pre 
 sentment of this devilish project, and in his eager de 
 sire to prevent it, Hardy had lost sight completely of 
 his own present danger and utter helplessness. His 
 mind was working so actively, indeed, to find a means 
 whereby he could upset this plan for train-wrecking, 
 robbery, and murder that he did not hear Barwood s 
 question in conclusion, and did not reply to it. Evi 
 dently taking his silence for hesitation, Barwood con 
 tinued : 
 
 " Of course, I m bound t tell you onct more 
 though sech talk ain t pleasant atween friends that if 
 you don t come in, things is about up with you. An 
 perhaps, I d better remind you of what I was savin 
 about Mary. What you see in Mary, the Lord only 
 knows it s more n I do !. But since you do see some- 
 thin in her, I tell you again I ll chuck her into th bar 
 gain, along with that ten thousand dollars that is waitin 
 for you now in th express car that at this minute is 
 a-comin up th road. Don t be bashful on my account. 
 I m pretty well fixed, I guess, t get along without her. 
 An don t you forget that the money chance I m givin 
 you ain t th kind that comes twict in any man s life-
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 297 
 
 time accordin t my experience it s mighty d n sel 
 dom it comes onct. 
 
 " ]S T ow, I m goin over t see tliat my Greasers have 
 got things straight in their fool heads about what 
 they ve got to do. They re a dumb lot. The Alcalde s 
 th best of em he s down t th trestle now, bossin 
 things but even he s more n half a fool when he s 
 sober, an a good deal more n half crazy when he s 
 drunk. Lord ! what a relief it ll be t have you around 
 t help t look after em ! 
 
 " I ll be back in a little while, an when I come I 
 expect t find you gettin your hat on ready t start. It s 
 taken you sort of sudden, I see, an that s the reason I m 
 not hurryin you for an answer. But don t you forget 
 what it is you re choosin atween : it s havin Mary an 
 
 ten thousand dollars, or goin by a d n short cut to 
 
 kingdom come ! " 
 
 "With this valedictory Barwood departed, the two 
 Mexicans remaining on guard just outside the door. 
 In a moment he came back again. 
 
 " I forgot you aint had any supper," he said. 
 " I ll send some over t you you must be hungrier n 
 th devil." As he turned away he added with a grin : 
 " An I ll fix things so s you won t be lonely while 
 you re eatin it, either." 
 
 As he passed the two Mexicans Hardy heard him 
 say: "The Sefior is composing his mind to join us. 
 He s all right." He added something in a lower voice, 
 of which Hardy caught only the words " Sefiora " and 
 " keep out of the way." Then the sound of his foot 
 steps died away as he walked toward the town. One 
 of the Mexicans turned with a friendly nod toward
 
 298 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the prisoner. " The Sefior is very wise to join us," he 
 said. 
 
 IX. 
 
 IT was evident that a climax was approaching rap 
 idly. Hardy s excitement was intense, but he did not 
 lose his coolness. His nerves were strung to the high 
 est pitch, but he had them absolutely under control. 
 For the accomplishment of such a piece of work as he 
 perceived was cut out for him this was not a bad state 
 to be in. His mind was in admirable condition to plan, 
 and his bodily strength to execute was increased pro 
 digiously. The fact that his situation already was des 
 perate, made him absolutely indifferent to danger. The 
 thought of the tremendous responsibility that rested 
 upon him for he alone could prevent, if prevention 
 were possible, this imminent wholesale murder gave 
 him a firm foundation of moral purpose and high re 
 solve. Under these conditions, a strong, simple nature, 
 such as Hardy s was, rises readily to the plane of the 
 heroic. 
 
 Before the sound of Barwood s footsteps had quite 
 died away he had conceived the outlines of the only 
 practicable plan for succor that the circumstances of 
 the case allowed. The best thing to be done, of course, 
 was to get to the first station on the other side of the 
 cut in the wires, and telegraph a warning to the ad 
 vancing train. But this he had rejected as impossible. 
 Supposing that he should be successful in breaking 
 away from his guards the first point to be gained in 
 any event it was clear from what Barwood had said 
 about the work of destroying the trestle still being in
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 299 
 
 progress that he could not hope to go down the line of 
 the railroad without being discovered. That there was 
 a trail parallel with the railroad was probable, but he 
 did not know where to find it ; and to try to work his 
 way through the chaparral in the darkness an under 
 taking of great difficulty, even in broad daylight was 
 not even worth considering. His plan, therefore, was 
 to go up the track, away from the scene of the intended 
 wreck, to the first station beyond the cut in the wires, 
 and thence telegraph for assistance. This was not a sure 
 thing, like the other ; but there was ground for strong 
 hope that a force of men could be collected at the north 
 ern terminus and could be run down by a fast engine 
 to the Barranca Grande in time to scatter, or possibly 
 capture, the wreckers, and give warning to the north 
 bound train. The next station north, Las Palomas, was 
 fifteen miles away. Three hours would be the shortest 
 time in which he could make this distance on foot ; and 
 three hours would be a perilously large amount of time 
 to take from the six hours intervening before the ar 
 rival of the up train at the broken trestle and he still 
 had to make his escape from his guards. 
 
 It was strong evidence in favor of Hardy s coolness 
 that he decided not to begin operations until he had 
 eaten the supper that Barwood had promised to send 
 over to him. His excitement kept him from feeling 
 hungry, notwithstanding his long fast, but he knew that 
 he needed the strength that food would give. A fight 
 for life with two Mexicans, followed by a fifteen-mile 
 dash on foot along so trying a course as a railway track, 
 made a combination of arduous difficulties that he wisely 
 decided had better not be assailed on an empty stomach.
 
 300 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 In the mean time, since his only chance of getting clear 
 of his guards lay in taking them by surprise and so 
 mastering them, he set himself to developing with them 
 something in the nature of friendly relations. Fortu 
 nately, Barwood s too-assured statement that the Senor 
 was composing his mind to take part in the robbery 
 made them quite ready to meet his amicable advances. 
 They talked freely of the projected wreck, and with 
 great satisfaction of their anticipated dollars. They 
 even thus exhibiting an amiable national character 
 istic went so far as to express their sorrow for the 
 passengers and train-hands destined to be wounded or 
 killed. " Poor little ones ! It is very sad ! " they said. 
 
 While this . pleasing conversation went on, Hardy 
 was startled by hearing what seemed to be the sound 
 of an approaching train. He raised his head and list 
 ened. One of the Mexicans noticed his motion and at 
 the same time heard the noise. " Be not alarmed, 
 Senor," he said reassuringly ; " it is only the little car 
 on which the Alcalde returns." A couple of minutes 
 later a hand-car, with two men working the brake, ap 
 peared for a moment, as it passed through the ray of 
 light that the lamp in the station shed across the track 
 through the open door. The car stopped, and the men 
 started toward the town ; calling back in answer to in 
 quiries, that the work at the trestle was completed, and 
 that everything was all right. Hardy s heart gave a 
 bound as he saw the hand-car ; if he could get away on 
 that he could make the run to Las Palomas inside of 
 two hours, and the salvation of the train would be as 
 sured. 
 
 " Here comes your supper, Senor," said one of the
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE AXGELS. 301 
 
 men. " Ramon and I will retire. The Sefior will not 
 be disturbed at his feast." The men laughed a little, 
 and to Hardy s surprise walked away through the dark 
 ness a considerable distance down the platform. And 
 then, to his far greater surprise, through the doorway 
 came Mary. 
 
 Hardy started forward. " You ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 Mary s face grew red ; and then, in the moment 
 that they stood in silence, very pale. 
 
 " "Will made me come," she said, speaking slowly, 
 and with a sort of despairing solemnity. " He told me 
 that the train was to be wrecked to-night. He told me 
 that you had agreed to help in it if if oh, John, I 
 can t 
 
 She swayed from side to side, and seemed about to 
 fall. Hardy put out his arms to support her, but she 
 steadied herself, and motioned him away with a posi 
 tive fierceness. " Don t touch me," she said, " don t 
 dare to touch ! He told me, John he dared to tell me 
 that you had agreed to help if if he would give you 
 me ! " 
 
 There was heroic grandeur in the tone of disdain 
 in which Mary uttered these words. But in a moment 
 this gave place to heart-breaking sorrow and entreaty, 
 as she added, " Oh, John ! John ! for God s sake tell 
 me that he lied or else kill me ! One or the other, 
 John, one or the other " she broke off into a moan. 
 
 It was not difficult for Hardy to see how Barwood 
 permitting his hopes to mould his convictions, and 
 being quite incapable of understanding the revolt that 
 it would stir up in Mary s soul had been led into this 
 false move.
 
 302 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 He answered her with an intense earnestness : 
 " Mary, I swear to you before heaven that it is a most 
 damnable lie ! " 
 
 For a moment she made no reply. Then she held 
 out her hands to him. " Forgive me, John," she said. 
 " I ought not to have believed that it even might be 
 true. But after after what you said to-day, and after 
 all that I have seen and known in these past two years 
 oh, you don t know it is enough to make me lose 
 faith in everything. Thank God, though, it isn t true. 
 Oh, thank God for that ! " 
 
 She came close to him, and seemed to gather strength 
 as he put his arm about her. As he drew her to him, 
 soothing her, he heard the sound of a smothered laugh 
 in the darkness outside. Then he remembered Bar- 
 wood s whispered words as he went away, and connected 
 with them the withdrawal of the men when Mary ap 
 peared. Pie felt that he had an account to settle with 
 those two Mexicans and he hoped that he would be 
 able to settle it very soon. Certainly, if the train was 
 to be saved he had no time to lose. 
 
 " Mary," he said, " I want you to go into the inner 
 room and shut the door. You won t be afraid alone in 
 the dark in there for a little while, will you ? And, 
 Mary, suppose you suppose you say your prayers in 
 there. That sort of thing is not much in my line ; but 
 there s a good deal to pray for to-night, and I guess it 
 won t do any harm." 
 
 " Yes, John," she answered. She spoke in a tone 
 of simple obedience, as a child might have spoken. He 
 led her to the doorway, gently pushed her inside, and 
 closed the door after her.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 303 
 
 She had brought a basket of food. He opened it, 
 but he found eating hard work. He forced himself to 
 swallow some bread and meat. Then, from a bottle of 
 mescal that Barwood thoughtfully had put into the 
 basket, he drank a good half-tumblerful at a draught. 
 He felt the bracing effect of this potent liquor imme 
 diately. He was ready for his work. 
 
 X. 
 
 IN one corner of the room was an iron tamping-bar 
 belonging to the section gang. He put this within easy 
 reach of his hand. Then he went to the door and 
 called " Friends ! " The two Mexicans came toward 
 him. 
 
 " The SefLor Barwood has sent me some -mescal. 
 Let us drink that all shall go well to-night." 
 
 The men grinned. He held out to the one called 
 Ramon the bottle and to the other the glass. Ramon 
 raised the bottle to pour ; the other man held the glass 
 carefully. This was Hardy s moment for action. In 
 an instant the iron bar had risen like a Hash and had 
 fallen with a dull, crushing sound on Ramon s neck. 
 He dropped like a log. The other man let the cnp fall 
 and started back, fumbling for his pistol. But before 
 he had it free the bar had risen and had fallen again, and 
 he, too, went down. It was not as clean a stroke as the 
 first one. The man groaned and made an effort to rise. 
 Hardy sprang on his breast and settled his hands tightly 
 on his throat. For a moment he struggled convulsively ; 
 then he grew quiet. Presently his arms fell limply by 
 his side and all his muscles relaxed. To make the mat-
 
 304 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 ter sure, Hardy retained his grasp for a couple of min 
 utes more. Then, drawing a long breath, he let go his 
 hold and stood upright. He looked at Ramon. There 
 was nothing to fear from that quarter. Ramon was 
 lying just where he had fallen. From the ugly way in 
 which his head was askew with his shoulders it was 
 evident that his neck was broken. Beside him, lying 
 unbroken and still half full, was the bottle of mescal. 
 
 Hardy felt faint and a little sick. He picked up 
 the bottle of mescal and took another drink. This 
 steadied him. When he had taken their pistols and 
 cartridge-belts he dragged the two men out from the 
 room to the platform far enough from the doorway in 
 the darkness to be out of range of Mary s eyes. Then 
 he opened the door of the inner room and called to her. 
 She was on her knees. 
 
 " You must be strong and brave, Mary," he said. 
 " Our one chance of saving our own lives and of saving 
 the train from being wrecked is to get to Las Palomas 
 on the hand-car. Come." 
 
 " But how can we, John ? The men won t let us 
 go." 
 
 " The men won t bother us." he answered, grimly. 
 " At least, not the ones left here to watch us. They are 
 not keeping very good watch just now." 
 
 " John," she asked, in a low, horrified voice, " have 
 you murdered them ? " 
 
 " Never mind about the men," he said, speaking 
 quickly. " Any court of justice in the land even a 
 Mexican court of justice would have hung them. 
 What we have to think about now is ourselves; or, if 
 you don t care for yourself, think of the passengers on
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 305 
 
 that train. Come, Mary ; for God s sake, come ! Every 
 second that we lose here may make ns too late." 
 
 He caught her by the wrist and dragged her through 
 the outer room, across the platform, and down to where 
 the hand-car was standing on the track. He saw her 
 give a shuddering glance around, and heard her sigh of 
 relief. The skirt of her dress was touching one of the 
 dead men as she gave this sigh, but the merciful dark 
 ness hid from her the sight that she had expected, and 
 had so dreaded to see. Five minutes later she would 
 not thus have been spared, for above the mountains al 
 ready shone the glowing light of the rising moon. 
 
 " Remember," he whispered, " we are working to 
 save innocent lives, which surely will be lost if we fail. 
 Don t speak out loud. Use every bit of strength that 
 you have. You understand how to work the car ? It s 
 like pumping ; you work one end of the brake and I 
 work the other. If you find yourself getting used up, 
 you must sit down and rest, while I work the car alone. 
 Now, before we start, drink this." He gave her a lit 
 tle mescal. She took it in entire obedience. 
 
 " I will try my best, John," she whispered. " I am 
 glad that you told me to pray." 
 
 " Stand out of the way of the brake. I m going to 
 push the car as far as the other side of the bridge. It 
 will make less noise. Stand steady here we go." 
 
 They lost time this way, but the noise made by the 
 car was very much lessened. If they could get across 
 the bridge before their departure was discovered they 
 would secure a fairly good start. If they could reach 
 in safety the top of the long grade beyond the bridge 
 up which their progress necessarily would be slow 
 20
 
 306 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 they would be certain of getting safe away. From the 
 top of the divide, as Hardy remembered, there was not 
 a check in the down-grade to Las Palomas, and a 
 straight track all the way. On this part of the run 
 if they ever got to it Mary would not have to 
 work at all. He alone, easily, could send the car along 
 at a rate of nearly twenty miles an hour. Once over 
 the divide, therefore, the rescue of the train would be 
 assured. 
 
 "If if anything should happen, Mary," Hardy 
 said as he started the car, bending over toward her, 
 "you ll remember that I did love you truly, won t you? 
 And you ll you ll forgive me for my wickedness and 
 cruelty to you this afternoon." 
 
 " Yes, John, dear ; indeed, yes. But please don t 
 speak to me again until it is time for me to go to work. 
 I m praying, John." 
 
 As the car slowly passed down the line beyond the 
 station platform Hardy saw the light of a lantern 
 swinging in the hand of some one coming across from 
 the town. The temptation to start the car rapidly 
 down the grade was strong, but he restrained himself. 
 Silence was more precious just then than speed. Then 
 lie suddenly realized that he had done a very stupid 
 thing in the way that he had disposed of the bodies of 
 the two Mexicans. All that he had thought of at the 
 moment was hiding them from Mary. In the dark 
 ness, of course, she had not seen them; but any one 
 going on the platform with a lantern would see them 
 at once to say nothing of the fact that in two or 
 three minutes more the moon would rise. But he was 
 a hundred yards away from the station by this time.
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 3Q7 
 
 The lantern was advancing rapidly. There was noth 
 ing for it but to keep on. 
 
 Hardy cursed his stupidity as he doggedly pushed 
 the car ahead of him slowly and softly. They passed 
 the tank, looming up like some strange huge creature 
 in the light that preceded the moonrise, and in a minute 
 later came to the bridge. Here was the greatest danger, 
 for, no matter how gently he pushed the car, the rumbling 
 of the wheels sounded loudly on the perfect stillness of 
 the night. As they left the embankment and went out 
 on the trestle, the moon came up above the mountains 
 with a bound, and a Hood of brilliant light burst over 
 all the land. At the same instant came from the station 
 the sound of shouts and cries. A moment later a dozen 
 shots were fired, as the noise of the car-wheels on the 
 bridge told the direction in which to look for them, 
 arid the moonlight striking on Mary s gown actually 
 showed their whereabouts. The balls went singing 
 through the air close above their heads. 
 
 Hardy set his teeth hard as he jumped on the car 
 and took his place at the brake. Mary grasped the 
 other end of the bar. 
 
 " Xow for it ! " he said. " Go ! " 
 
 Another volley of balls whistled by them and above 
 them as the car sprang forward ; and stray shots fol 
 lowed them until they were a quarter of a mile or so on 
 their way up the long grade. But it was wild shooting 
 at a moving mark, and did no harm. Mary was very 
 white, but she was putting strength into her \vork as 
 Hardy could tell by feeling the spring of the car for 
 ward as her end of the brakes went down. His own 
 arms swung up and down with the steadiness of the
 
 30S STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 walking-beam of a steam-engine, and with the same 
 strength and tirelessness. Between them they drove 
 the car up the steep incline as though they were work 
 ing it along a level grade. From the varying position 
 of the flashes as the rifles were discharged they could 
 tell that they were followed a little way. Then the 
 shooting stopped, and they knew that pursuit on horse 
 back was being organized. But they were cheered by 
 the knowledge that the first point of danger was safely 
 passed. 
 
 Hardy knew nothing of the trails, and so could not 
 tell whether the pursuit would be directly along the 
 track, or would be by a short cut to head them off. In 
 a pursuit along the track they would have a decided 
 advantage, for horses would stand a good chance of 
 stumbling on the cross-ties, and of breaking their own 
 legs and their riders necks at one or another of the 
 many little bridges. Riding beside the track practically 
 was impossible. The embankments rose directly from 
 the chaparral, and through the cuts the way was more 
 or less blocked by fragments of rock. Pursuit, there 
 fore, would be slow, and would give them the further 
 advantage that their pursuers Avould be clearly in sight 
 in which case Hardy thought that he would be able 
 to account for two or three of them before he was over 
 taken. On the other hand, if a trail ran parallel with 
 the track, as was highly probable, they were liable at 
 any moment, until they had crossed the crest of the 
 divide, to run into a volley of rifle-balls. 
 
 They could hear nothing but the clang of the brake 
 as it rose and fell, and the loud rattle of the wheels. 
 Mary stood up to her work in a way that filled Hardy
 
 SAINT MARY OF THE ANGELS. 309 
 
 with wonder. Her face was absolutely colorless ; her 
 eyes seemed to have grown larger, and sent out a strange 
 light ; her teeth were clinched ; her long golden-brown 
 hair had broken loose from its fastenings and lmn<j 
 
 o o 
 
 waving and shimmering around her like a glory ; her 
 light dress fluttered in the moonlight, stirred by the 
 rapid motion and the soft, strong current of the night 
 wind. He never before had thought of her save as 
 one whose weakness required protection ; but he saw 
 her now putting out strength, physical and moral, al 
 most as great as his own. When the balls went singing 
 over them she had not quailed. In this fierce struggle 
 of bodily endurance against time, with their lives for 
 the stake, and the saving of lives for their reward, she 
 was keeping even stroke with him at the brake, steadily, 
 strongly ; doini? work the like of which a woman had 
 
 O , O 
 
 never done before. lie beheld her transformed, glori 
 fied, a superb exaltation of weakness to heroic strength. 
 Never had he loved her as then. 
 
 As they swung along through the moonlight, in that 
 vast solitude of night, it seemed to Hardy that they 
 were a part of some wonderful tune partly played by 
 the steady beating of the brakes and the rhythmic rattle 
 of the wheels ; partly sung in the buzzing and humming 
 that was going on inside his own brain. Mary s white 
 face shone in the moonlight like polished marble ; the 
 moonlight danced and sparkled in her gold -brown, 
 swaying hair ; the strange light grew brighter and yet 
 brighter in her eyes. He felt no sense of bodily effort 
 in his work; he felt only in a vague, far-away fashion, 
 that he had any body at all. He was strongly conscious 
 only of the throbbing tune that he was a part of; of
 
 310 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 the wonderful light that came from her eyes into his 
 and thence, sinking down into his heart, made his whole 
 being go out to hers in a perfect ecstasy and passion of 
 love. 
 
 XL 
 
 a volley, but a single rifle-shot and Mary, the 
 gleaming light fading from her eyes, loosed her hold 
 of the brake and, clutching at her breast, fell across the 
 car. Another shot grazed Hardy s head, and a third 
 lightly cut the flesh of his left arm. Before a fourth 
 was fired his own pistol cracked, and brought the en 
 gagement to an end. The attack had come from a man 
 standing on the edge of the low cut. When the ball 
 from Hardy s pistol struck him, he staggered for a mo 
 ment and then fell forward and downward on the track. 
 As he lay there, motionless, the moonlight struck full 
 upon his upturned face it was Barwood. Urged by 
 hate and anger, he had outridden all the rest, and had 
 headed them off at the last point where heading off was 
 possible. The car had stopped on the crest of the 
 divide. 
 
 Hardy stood for a moment with his pistol ready, in 
 expectation of further assault. But none came. Then 
 he turned to Mary, bending over her. 
 
 "You mustn t stop, John." Her words came 
 very faint and brokenly. "You must go on and 
 and save the train. You can save it now." 
 
 Her hand still was pressed against her breast. From 
 under where her hand rested a dark stain was spreading 
 that looked black in the moonlight. The tones of her
 
 SAINT MARY OP THE ANGELS. 3H 
 
 voice, and the gasps with which she spoke, showed what 
 bitter agony each word cost her. 
 
 u You must go on," she repeated. " But wait a 
 minute, John. It won t be longer than that. IS ot 
 longer than that." 
 
 Hardy groaned in utter misery of soul. lie took 
 her hand. Already it was chilled. The black stain on 
 her breast was spreading fast. In her cold hand she 
 held his hand closely, and so looked up at him. The 
 strange light was gone from her eyes now. In them 
 he saw another light, stronger for the moment than the 
 fast-gathering shadows of death, that told of a most 
 tender and perfect love. 
 
 u Take me with you, John. I would not like to 
 stay here all alone. Truly, I did love you, John." 
 
 Oh, my God ! Oh, my darling ! This is more 
 than I can bear ! " Hardy cried, brokenly. 
 
 "Kiss me, John. And then you must go on 
 and save them. Kiss me. Where are you, John ? I 
 can t see you Squire Eambo how dark 
 
 As Hardy kissed her cold white forehead a shiver 
 went over her. Her arms, for a moment half raised, 
 fell heavily. Over the tender light that shone from her 
 eyes a dull film came. Then all was still. 
 
 With her white dead face looking up at him ; with 
 her dead hand still clutched above the black stain on 
 her breast ; with her golden-brown hair swaying and 
 shimmering in the moonlight, Mary lay stretched out 
 upon the car at Hardy s feet, while he sped forward, 
 obeying her order, to complete the rescue that now was 
 assured.
 
 312 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Through that great loneliness of night, to cadenced 
 sound that seemed to beat a requiem, with such sorrow 
 in his heart as, by God s mercy, few men are forced 
 to bear, this desolate lover went onward with his 
 dead.
 
 IN the beautiful city of Monterey, close beside the 
 old Franciscan convent, there stands a single stately 
 palm, larger and more perfect in its growth than any 
 other palm that you will find in all the country for 
 miles around. It grows upon an odd corner of waste 
 land that very likely was the convent garden a couple 
 of hundred years or so ago and behind it, across the 
 broad sweep of the tree-clad valley, the blue Sierra 
 raises its jagged crest against the bluer sky. 
 
 Instinctively you know, as you look at this beautiful 
 palm with its waving, feathery branches reared high 
 toward heaven, and its deep-set roots drawing strength 
 from the ground that the good fathers long ago made 
 holy by their prayers that it has a story of some sort 
 to tell ; that a meaning attaches to its presence beside 
 the convent wall ; that it came there, back in the misty 
 past, by no mere idle chance. But among the gentle 
 folk of Monterey you will ask in vain for this solitary 
 palm s story. Culture and refinement somehow are at 
 war with the sweet traditions which modestly, along 
 quiet ways, come down to us from times of old. And 
 so, if you would know the story you must seek it among 
 the humble dwellers in the town : the cargadores, who
 
 314 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 carry heavy loads of other people s goods upon their 
 shoulders; the serenos, who watch over the safety of 
 the city in the still, dark hours of night ; the patient 
 lefiadores, who bring in wood, loaded upon yet more 
 patient burros, from the mountains near at hand, or other 
 of the children of toil : for all of these, knowing not of 
 books, and busying themselves not with the serious 
 thoughts and concerns which vex the souls of their bet 
 ters, are learned in legendary lore. In these simple, trust 
 ful minds, illuminating them with a light that brightens 
 the dark places of weary lives, the old stories live on 
 through the centuries ; passing from lip to heart, from 
 heart to lip, and so to heart again, yet gaining always a 
 more mellow beauty with the passing years. There 
 fore, it must be among the lowly folk of Monterey that 
 you search for the story of the stately palm ; and if 
 your search be well sped, you will hear told, in the 
 gracious Spanish of Mexico which is richer and 
 softer even than is the rich, soft Spanish of Spain 
 this legend af the Padre Jose. 
 
 Padre Jose was not bred to the Church from his 
 youth. He was the son of the gallant soldier Don 
 Diego de Yargas, and his profession was that of his 
 father the sword. When Don Diego was ordered up 
 into the rebellious northern country back in the year 
 1692 this was, before the father of the oldest man now 
 living was born Don Jose went also. And this al 
 though the day was named for the wedding, and the 
 Dona Ana de Onate, most beautiful of all the maidens 
 in the realm of !New Spain, was waiting to be his bride. 
 As all the world knows, there was hard fighting during
 
 THE LEGEND OP PADRE JOSE. 315 
 
 that campaign. For a dozen years the revolted Pueb 
 los had stood out against their Spanish masters, and 
 even Don Diego, with all his gallantry and with all his 
 soldierly skill, could not in a moment conquer them. 
 There were battles at Santa Cruz de la Canada, at San 
 Yldefonso, at Taos ; even under the very walls of Santa 
 Fe. But the campaign ended, and Don Diego drew his 
 forces southward again for rest while the winter lasted, 
 and yet the Spaniards were not conquerors. It was 
 about the blessed Christmas season the noc/ie buena 
 that the sad news came down to Dona Ana, in the city 
 of Mexico, that in one of these battles with the savages 
 her lover had been slain. And so, no joyfulness being 
 left to her in life, she entered the stern order of the 
 Capuchinas. Passing into and so beyond the grave- 
 as was that Order s wont she to the world was dead. 
 
 Through that new year, and through great part of the 
 next, Don Diego battled with the Pueblos ; and finally, 
 having subdued them, he came gallantly home ; and, a 
 strange thing ! with him came Don Jose, alive and 
 well ! Being taken prisoner in the fight on the mesa be 
 fore San Yldefonso, he had been carried off into the 
 mountains of the Sangre de Cristo and there held for near 
 two whole years. His was a dreary home-coming, for 
 his promised bride was wedded to the holy Church, and 
 so was lost to him utterly. There was no light of hope 
 left for him in the world at all. Terrible was Don 
 Jose s raging agony. At last, in his fierce despair, he 
 cursed the holy Church for severing him from his love. 
 But God was merciful to this sinner, and, instead of 
 consuming him in a moment in wrathful flame, sent to 
 him a messenger of peace. That night the blessed Saint
 
 316 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 Francis appeared to him in a vision and told him that 
 his dread sin would be pardoned and even, in the end, 
 rest from his tierce sorrow would be given him, if he 
 would devote his life to God s service in saving heathen 
 souls. Therefore, Don Jose entered the Order of the 
 Franciscans. Nor did he, as is the wont of those who 
 enter the religious life, change his name. As Jose, he 
 said, he had sinned ; and as Jose he would work out, in 
 deeds meet for repentance, his full forgiveness. And 
 as Jose is a name most holy, and most beloved in the 
 Church / there was none to cavil. 
 
 Because there were few heathen thereabouts, but 
 more because he felt that he could be stronger in his 
 faith and work if widely separated from his dead yet 
 living love, Padre Jose asked to be sent out from the 
 City of Mexico into some far corner of the land. And 
 so it fell out that he was sent to make his home in 
 the old Franciscan convent here in the city of Monte 
 rey Even in the first year of his service many were 
 the wandering souls that his love and gentleness and 
 great compassion brought safe to shelter in the good 
 care of God. 
 
 Yet for a long while there was only sorrow in the 
 heart of Padre Jose\ His good works gladdened 
 others, but himself they made not glad ; for always 
 rose up between him and happiness the memory of his 
 lost love. His was a gentle, clinging nature albeit a 
 most gallant one, as his brave deeds of arms time and 
 again had shown and the need for a personal love was 
 strong within him. There was a holy comfort in his 
 love of the good God, and in his love of working for 
 His dear sake ; but this touched only the spiritual side
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE. 
 
 of his nature, and left his human longing for something 
 real, that he might tend and cherish, and, if need be, 
 spend his life for, all unsatisfied. While this blank in 
 his being remained unfilled, there was nothing to check 
 the return of his love to the dear one who had passed 
 from him into the bosom of the Church ; of whom, even 
 to think, as he but too well knew, was deadly sin. So 
 his soul was wrenched and torn within him by this 
 ever-recurring conflict between his holy duty and his 
 human love. 
 
 Therefore it came to pass that the kind God, seeing 
 how loyally the Padre Jose strove to do his duty, and 
 how bitter hard that duty was to do, one day took pity 
 upon him and lightened his heavy load. 
 
 Beneath the hot sun that beats down so fiercely here 
 in the long summer time, making the air one quivering 
 cloud of scorching heat, Padre Jose came slowly across 
 the valley toward the town. He came from the little 
 chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe, over on the first of 
 the foot-hills ; and his heart was heavy, for few, and 
 careless of its meaning, were the Indians who had come 
 to his celebration of the mass. The distance from the 
 chapel to the convent is but a mile a trifling walk on 
 one of the cool, crisp, October-like days which serve 
 for winter here in Monterey. But beneath that sum 
 mer sun even a strong man would have grown faint and 
 weary if he had not fallen outright by the way. The 
 strength of Padre Jose was given so largely to the 
 service of God that but little remained for his own 
 needs ; and so, midway in his weary walk, coming to a 
 place where a tangle of mesquites cast a warm shadow
 
 318 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 that yet, in contrast with the fiery sunshine, was re 
 freshingly cool he thankfully cast himself down upon 
 the ground for rest. 
 
 Close beside where lie sat was a field just cleared for 
 planting, and along the newly made acequia the brown 
 water was moving slowly, and was giving great solace 
 to the thirsty land. It is thought by some that the 
 large field set about with palmas, on the slope below 
 the chapel of Guadalupe, is the very field beside which 
 Padre Jose rested that day. "Whether this be truth 
 as it well may be or only a fancy, we may not know ; 
 but it surely is true that while the Padre sat there rest 
 ing he saw lying in the dust of the wayside, where it 
 had been carelessly tossed when plucked up from the 
 ground, a little palm-tree scarce a span long a thin, 
 green shoot, rudely wrested from the place where it had 
 begun its innocent, joyous life, and thus cast forth to 
 die. At first the Padre, worn by the heat and by the 
 sorrow of his heart, thought not at all of this poor little 
 palm on which his eyes rested idly. And when, pres 
 ently, he perceived its presence, and understood its evil 
 plight, there came for it no compassion into his heart. 
 He even, for a little space, felt a cruel pleasure in watch 
 ing it lie shriveling there in the scorching sunshine, 
 while he sat resting in the shade so hard and bitter 
 was his mood. 
 
 But such wicked feelings as these could not long find 
 harbor in the Padre s breast. Soon a sense of great 
 shame, and of horror at his own sinfulness, came over 
 him ; and he rose up, praying that he might be for 
 given, and that he might, with God s good help, save 
 the little palm s life. Through the blistering sunshine
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE. 319 
 
 forgetful that his hood had fallen back from off his 
 tonsured head he carried the sorrowful little tree to 
 the ace quid, and plunged it into the refreshment of the 
 slow-moving brown water, and held it there tenderly 
 until the pitiful limpness vanished from the tiny leaves 
 and there was something of firmness in the pale-green 
 stem. And he felt that this mourning thing, now made 
 joyful, was offering its thanks to him. Then, in some 
 soft moss that he found beneath the grove of mesquites, 
 well wet, so that a grateful dampness might be had for 
 the rest of the hot walk, he enwrapped it lovingly, and 
 so set off once more for the town. Not until he sat rest 
 ing in his still, cool cell, the little palm, meanwhile, hav 
 ing been planted in the rich earth of the convent gar 
 den, and carefully shaded from the sun until its strength 
 should come again, did Padre Jose realize that in light 
 ening the troubles of this forsaken tree he had for a 
 
 o 
 
 brief space wholly ceased to feel the weight of his own. 
 And as he prayed there, in the shady stillness of his 
 cell, the thought came into his heart that God, in his 
 infinite goodness and mercy, had sent him this little 
 palm that he might have something to love. Being yet 
 upon his knees, he prayed from out the depths of his 
 simple, trustful soul that this good gift might indeed be 
 his, and that the little palm might live. 
 
 And the palm did live. From day to day, from 
 week to week, as Padre Jose tended it lovingly and 
 faithfully, praying the while for its well-being with the 
 same trusting faith that he was wont to pray for the 
 saving of heathen souls, it grew and flourished ; and it 
 rejoiced in the strength of its regained life with a visi 
 ble gladness that was reflected into and that gladdened
 
 320 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 his own sorrowing heart. When the weariness of his 
 labor rested heavily upon him ; when a dark despond 
 ency seized him and the thought weighed upon his soul 
 that his work among the heathen was in vain, and that 
 should he die no one would have been the better for his 
 life or would be the worse for his death then stealing 
 in upon this darkness of sorrow would come the sweet 
 consciousness that the palm lived, and loved him, and 
 depended upon him. And the other, the human love 
 that so wrenched and tormented him, and that could 
 not, in its very nature, be cast out of his being, was 
 tempered and chastened by this purer love. When, in 
 the early morning, and again in the evening s dusk, he 
 came to his palm and ministered to its wants giving it 
 draughts of sweet water, heaping rich earth about its 
 roots, pruning away its too-luxuriant leaves so that its 
 life might be concentrated and strengthened for a more 
 vigorous growth the memory of his early, passionate 
 love would come back to him, but comfortingly, being 
 purified. And as he went about his holy work by day, 
 the thought of the little tree that loved him and that 
 waited for his return at night, upheld and strengthened 
 him. 
 
 The palm, for its part, repaid the care that Padre 
 Jose gave it by growing as never palm grew before. 
 Its slim stem became thick and sturdy ; its gracious 
 leaves spread out in a feathery crest, and everywhere 
 upon it were the signs of a rich, abundant life. 
 
 So the months slipped silently away, and were lost 
 in the depths of the passing years, and the palm shot 
 up and became a strong, beautiful tree ; and because of 
 its existence there came to be, if not happiness, at least
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE. 321 
 
 a refreshing love that bred peace in the heart of Padre 
 Jose. And so was fulfilled the promise that God made 
 to him, speaking by the blessed St. Francis in the 
 vision. 
 
 Thus more than a score of years passed on. Through 
 all this time the Padre Jose gave of his strength freely in 
 his holy work, and many heathen souls were saved which, 
 but for his zealous labor, surely would have been lost. 
 His palm long since had outgrown the need for his care 
 for it, and now, in its turn, cared for him even as his 
 sturdy son, being come to man s estate, might have cared 
 for him had it pleased Heaven to satisfy his human love. 
 It was a noble tree now ; and against its foot he had made 
 a seat, where he would come in the early morning, and 
 again as the sun went down, for rest and comforting. 
 And the palm, swaying a little in the evening breeze, 
 would press its trunk against him lovingly, and soft 
 whisperings of its thankfulness for the life that he had 
 given it would come down to him from its rustling, 
 feathery leaves. When he was sad, thinking of the wea 
 riness of life and of all the sorrow that there was there 
 in, the palm-leaves rustled to him mournfully in echo of 
 the mourning that was in his heart. Yet, impercepti 
 bly, the tone of their murmurings would change, bring 
 ing into his heart more and more of brightness. 
 
 At other times, when the memory of his lost love 
 on earth would come back to him and fill him with a 
 dreary sadness, the palm would whisper of its own love 
 and faithfulness. It would tell of its bitter sorrow as 
 it lay in the scorching sunshine by the wayside where 
 lie found it cast out to die, and of its joy when his 
 hands gave it water to drink and shielded it in the cool, 
 21
 
 322 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 damp moss, and gave it, too, there in the convent gar 
 den, a safe refuge where it might rejoice in its new 
 found life. 
 
 Now it came to pass, at the end of many years, that 
 a pestilence fell upon the city a deadly fever that rose 
 up from the earth and that caused many to die ; such a 
 fever as never before was known, and, mercifully, never 
 since has been known here in Monterey. In every house 
 was the shadow of death. The fathers of the convent 
 were instant in good works among the sick ; and even, 
 that they might have more time to save the living, 
 they forbore for a season to say masses for the dead. 
 Only each morning and each night the towns-folk in 
 whom was left strength to walk, came to the church 
 of St. Francis, and there, together with the good 
 fathers, sent up their prayers that the pestilence might 
 be stayed. 
 
 And when the deaths grew many, and there was sore 
 need for yet more nurses for the sick, the convent of 
 the Capuchinas opened its doors, and the holy nuns 
 came forth and gave their aid. (The Holy Father gave 
 them grace and fullest absolution when, in the after- 
 years, their prayer for pardon went to Rome.) The 
 blessed presence and sweet gentleness of these saintly 
 nuns brought comfort into many a stricken house in 
 that most dreary time. But such was the division 
 of their work among the sick the Franciscanos and 
 the Capuchinas rarely met. 
 
 Faithful was Padre Jose in caring for the sick, and 
 in consoling, in the name of the blessed saints, those 
 whose sickness was even unto death. Almost his only
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOBS , 323 
 
 rest was the little space, morning and evening, when he 
 sat beneath his palm. And being, after his many years 
 of zealous labor, but a frail man, and going thus con 
 stantly into those places where the pestilence was at its 
 worst, the time came when he himself felt that the fever 
 had him in its hold ; and his heart was gladdened, for 
 he knew that now his rest would come. 
 
 Close upon the evening of the third day, feeling 
 then that his release was near, he asked that they would 
 carry him out beyond the convent walls into the garden, 
 and place him in the seat beneath his palm, and leave 
 him there. 
 
 Beautiful is the evening in Monterey. "When the 
 sun has sunk beyond the crest of the noble Mitras a 
 great burst of red and golden glory leaps up into the 
 gky and for a long time hangs quivering there above 
 the mountains. Clouds of gorgeous coloring float be 
 yond the Sierra and outline its somber, jagged ridge 
 against their rich splendor ; and through the clefts be 
 tween the peaks broad rays of light shoot out across the 
 valley, and bathe the farther mountains in a liquid 
 flame. And even more beautiful, or, perhaps, only 
 differently beautiful, is the time, a little after this, 
 when the glorious magnificence has vanished from 
 the sky, and in its place have come subdued, deli 
 cious colorings echoes of the splendor that has passed 
 away. 
 
 And Padre Jose, sitting beneath his palm, with the 
 fever quite gone from him for it had done its work 
 thanked God in his heart that this most perfect earthly 
 beauty should be his last sight of earth. It was a fit 
 prelude, as he whispered to the palm his head resting,
 
 324 STORIES OP OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 as for years lie had been wont as he sat there to rest it, 
 against the palm s loving trunk for the sight yet more 
 beautiful, being heavenly, that would be his so soon. 
 Dreamily he whispered his thankfulness for all that the 
 palm had been to him ; for all its constant tenderness 
 and love through these long years. Then the cool even 
 ing wind, which sweeps down from the mountains at 
 the end of the hot days and brings with it a most de 
 lectable refreshment, passed softly through the palm- 
 leaves, and made again the old, sweet story of the palm- 
 tree s gratitude and love. And, possessing none of the 
 selfishness that goes with, if, indeed, it be not the very 
 essence of all human love, the palm-tree murmured its 
 own joyfulness that the time had come when the one 
 whom it loved so truly would cease to be acquainted 
 with sorrow, and would know only the perfect happi 
 ness of an endless, holy peace. 
 
 Then the Padre whispered again, or it may be that 
 this thought was framed only in his heart, his longing 
 to see the Dona Anna yet once more before his eyes 
 forever closed to things of earth. And, lo ! as this 
 longing rested upon his soul, there came to the open 
 gate of the convent garden being led thither, surely, 
 by God s good grace a holy nun; and, looking on 
 her face, the Padre Jose knew that for the little time 
 of life yet left to him the love that he had lost was 
 found ! 
 
 So she sat beside him, beneath the palm, stroking his 
 cold hand lovingly ; yet with a love chastened by long 
 suffering: of love s lack, and now sanctified because it 
 
 O 
 
 welled out anew toward one upon whom rested visibly 
 the hand of death. Together they talked of the long
 
 THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE. 325 
 
 years which, in their severed lives, would have been 
 dead years but for the life that had come to each from 
 a living love of God ; and, as they talked, Padre Jose 
 came to know that in all this dreary time she had not 
 been afar from him, but near at hand, watching over 
 him as an angel might have watched, and rejoicing in 
 the fair perfection of his holy work. For she had 
 prayed that she might be sent to where he was ; and her 
 prayer had been granted through a firm confidence in 
 her loyal faith to the higher love which she had pro 
 fessed in binding herself by her Order s holy vows. 
 
 Slowly the splendor of the sky and mountains faded 
 into the mellow half-tints and subtle blendings of deli 
 cate colorings through which the gracious sunlight 
 passes before it is lost in the dark depths of night. As 
 she cherished it between her own warm hands the hand 
 of Padre Jose grew yet more cold ; and she knew how 
 little was left to him of life. 
 
 Presently, as the light grew fainter and fainter, and 
 as the spirit of Padre Jose grew less and less a thing of 
 earth, so near to heaven had it come, there sounded 
 through the stillness of the evening air the ringing of 
 the angelus : a low, tremulous ringing, for the ringer in 
 the tower was worn with much toil and watching, and 
 scarce had strength left in him to sound the call to 
 prayer. There was a wailing melancholy, yet a deep 
 tenderness in the faint ringing of this sweet bell, as 
 though it mourned yet with a great compassion, in 
 which was hope. 
 
 And as its dying tones vibrated softly through the 
 dusky air, there went a shivering rustle through the 
 branches of the deserted palm, there came a thrill of
 
 326 
 
 STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. 
 
 mortal agony into a lonely woman s heart for the 
 spirit of Padre Jose, leaving poor, earthly love behind 
 it, and leaving behind it harsh earthly toil and care, had 
 passed hence into the perfect love of heaven, into the 
 perfect and eternal rest. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 V
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 HUb. 
 
 ^W6\ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 RE 
 
 CD AUG 1 6 
 
 1976 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAYLORD 
 
 
 
 " NTCO.NU.S-A.
 
 3 1970 00287 6693 
 
 A 000 546 069 6