The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

A party of young people started that night for a ball at Miramar, the home of Don Polycarpo Quijas.  Many a caballero had asked the lady of his choice to ride on his saddle while he rode on the less comfortable aquera behind and guided his horse with arm as near her waist as he dared.  Doña Pomposa, with a small brood under her wing, started last of all in an American wagon.  The night was calm, the moon was high, the party very gay.

Abel Hudson and the newcomer, Don Tomas Garfias, sat on either side of Eulogia, and she amused herself at the expense of both.

“Don Tomas says that he is handsomer than the men of San Luis,” she said to Hudson.  “Do not you think he is right?  See what a beautiful curl his mustachios have, and what a droop his eyelids.  Holy Mary!—­how that yellow ribbon becomes his hair!  Ay, señor!  Why have you come to dazzle the eyes of the poor girls of San Luis Obispo?”

“Ah, señorita,” said the little dandy, “it will do their eyes good to see an elegant young man from the city.  And they should see my sister.  She would teach them how to dress and arrange their hair.”

“Bring her to teach us, señor, and for reward we will find her a tall and modest husband such as the girls of San Luis Obispo admire.  Don Abel, why do you not boast of your sisters?  Have you none, nor mother, nor father, nor brother?  I never hear you speak of them.  Maybe you grow alone out of the earth.”

Hudson’s gaze wandered to the canon they were approaching.  “I am alone, señorita; a lonely man in a strange land.”

“Is that the reason why you are such a traveller, señor?  Are you never afraid, in your long lonely rides over the mountains, of that dreadful bandit, John Power, who murders whole families for the sack of gold they have under the floor?  I hope you always carry plenty of pistols, señor.”

“True, dear señorita.  It is kind of you to put me on my guard.  I never had thought of this man.”

“This devil, you mean.  When last night I saw you come limping into the room—­”

“Ay, yi, yi, Dios!” “Maria!” “Dios de mi alma!” “Dios de mi vida!” “Cielo santo!”

A wheel had given way, and the party was scattered about the road.

No one was hurt, but loud were the lamentations.  No Californian had ever walked six miles, and the wheel was past repair.  But Abel Hudson came to the rescue.

“Leave it to me,” he said.  “I pledge myself to get you there,” and he went off in the direction of a ranch-house.

“Ay! the good American!  The good American!” cried the girls.  “Eulogia! how canst thou be so cold to him?  The handsome stranger with the kind heart!”

“His heart is like the Sacramento Valley, veined with gold instead of blood.”  “Holy Mary!” she cried some moments later, “what is he bringing?  The wagon of the country!”

Abel Hudson was standing erect on the low floor of a wagon drawn by two strong black mules.  The wagon was a clumsy affair,—­a large wooden frame covered with rawhide, and set upon a heavy axle.  The wheels were made of solid sections of trees, and the harness was of greenhide.  An Indian boy sat astride one of the mules.  On either side rode a vaquero, with his reata fastened to the axle-tree.

“This is the best I can do,” said Hudson.  “There is probably not another American wagon between San Luis and Miramar.  Do you think you can stand it?”

The girls shrugged their pretty shoulders.  The men swore into their mustachios.  Doña Pomposa groaned at the prospect of a long ride in a springless wagon.  But no one was willing to return, and when Eulogia jumped lightly in, all followed, and Hudson placed them as comfortably as possible, although they were obliged to sit on the floor.

The wagon jolted down the cañon, the mules plunging, the vaqueros shouting; but the moon glittered like a silvered snow peak, the wild green forest was about them, and even Eulogia grew a little sentimental as Abel Hudson’s blue eyes bent over hers and his curly head cut off Doña Pomposa’s view.

“Dear señorita,” he said, “thy tongue is very sharp, but thou hast a kind heart.  Hast thou no place in it for Abel Hudson?”

“In the sala, señor—­where many others are received—­with mamma and Aunt Anastacia sitting in the corner.”

He laughed.  “Thou wilt always jest!  But I would take all the rooms, and turn every one out, even to Doña Pomposa and Doña Anastacia!”

“And leave me alone with you!  God of my soul!  How I should yawn!”

“Oh, yes, Doña Coquetta, I am used to such pretty little speeches.  When you began to yawn I should ride away, and you would be glad to see me when I returned.”

“What would you bring me from the mountains, señor?”

He looked at her steadily.  “Gold, señorita.  I know of many rich veins.  I have a little cañon suspected by no one else, where I pick out a sack full of gold in a day.  Gold makes the life of a beloved wife very sweet, señorita.”

“In truth I should like the gold better than yourself, señor,” said Eulogia, frankly.  “For if you will have the truth—­Ay!  Holy heaven!  This is worse than the other!”

A lurch, splash, and the party with shrill cries sprang to their feet; the low cart was filling with water.  They had left the cañon and were crossing a slough; no one had remembered that it would be high tide.  The girls, without an instant’s hesitation, whipped their gowns up round their necks; but their feet were wet and their skirts draggled.  They made light of it, however, as they did of everything, and drove up to Miramar amidst high laughter and rattling jests.

Doña Luisa Quijas, a handsome shrewd-looking woman, magnificently dressed in yellow satin, the glare and sparkle of jewels on her neck, came out upon the corridor to meet them.

“What is this?  In a wagon of the country!  An accident?  Ay, Dios de mi vida, the slough!  Come in—­quick! quick!  I will give you dry clothes.  Trust these girls to take care of their gowns.  Mary!  What wet feet!  Quick! quick!  This way, or you will have red noses to-morrow,” and she led them down the corridor, past the windows through which they could see the dancers in the sala, and opened the door of her bedroom.

“There, my children, help yourselves,” and she pulled out the capacious drawers of her chest.  “All is at your service.”  She lifted out an armful of dry underclothing, then went to the door of an adjoining room and listened, her hand uplifted.

“Didst thou have to lock him up?” asked Doña Pomposa, as she drew on a pair of Doña Luisa’s silk stockings.

“Yes! yes!  And such a time, my friend!  Thou knowest that after I fooled him the last time he swore I never should have another ball.  But, Dios de mi alma!  I never was meant to be bothered with a husband, and have I not given him three children twenty times handsomer than himself?  Is not that enough?  By the soul of Saint Luis the Bishop, I will continue to promise, and then get absolution at the mission, but I will not perform!  Well, he was furious, my friend; he had spent a sack of gold on that ball, and he swore I never should have another.  So this time I invited my guests, and told him nothing.  At seven to-night I persuaded him into his room, and locked the door.  But, madre de Dios!  Diego had forgotten to screw down the window, and he got out.  I could not get him back, Pomposa, and his big nose was purple with rage.  He swore that he would turn every guest away from the door; he swore that he would be taking a bath on the corridor when they came up, and throw insults in their faces.  Ay, Pomposa!  I went down on my knees.  I thought I should not have my ball—­such cakes as I had made, and such salads!  But Diego saved me.  He went into Don Polycarpo’s room and cried ‘Fire!’ Of course the old man ran there, and then we locked him in.  Diego had screwed down the window first.  Dios de mi vida! but he is terrible, that man!  What have I done to be punished with him?”

“Thou art too handsome and too cruel, my Luisa.  But, in truth, he is an old wild-cat.  The saints be praised that he is safe for the night.  Did he swear?”

“Swear!  He has cursed the skin off his throat and is quiet now.  Come, my little ones, are you ready?  The caballeros are dry in Diego’s clothes by this time, and waiting for their waltzes;” and she drove them through the door into the sala with a triumphant smile on her dark sparkling face.

The rest of the party had been dancing for an hour, and all gathered about the girls to hear the story of the accident, which was told with many variations.  Eulogia as usual was craved for dances, but she capriciously divided her favours between Abel Hudson and Don Tomas Garfias.  During the intervals, when the musicians were silent and the girls played the guitar or threw cascarones at their admirers, she sat in the deep window-seat watching the ponderous waves of the Pacific hurl themselves against the cliffs, whilst Hudson pressed close to her side, disregarding the insistence of Garfias.  Finally, the little Don from the City of the Angels went into the dining room to get a glass of angelica, and Hudson caught at his chance.

“Señorita,” he exclaimed, interrupting one of her desultory remarks, “for a year I have loved you, and, for many reasons, I have not dared to tell you.  I must tell you now.  I have no reason to think you care more for me than for a dozen other men, but if you will marry me, señorita, I will build you a beautiful American house in San Luis Obispo, and you can then be with your friends when business calls me away.”

“And where will you live when you are away from me?” asked Eulogia, carelessly.  “In a cave in the mountains?  Be careful of the bandits.”

“Señorita,” he replied calmly, “I do not know what you mean by the things you say sometimes.  Perhaps you have the idea that I am another person—­John Power, or Pio Lenares, for instance.  Do you wish me to bring you a certificate to the effect that I am Abel Hudson?  I can do so, although I thought that Californians disdained the written form and trusted to each other’s honour, even to the selling of cattle and lands.”

“You are not a Californian.”

“Ah, señorita—­God! what is that?”

A tremendous knocking at the outer door sounded above the clear soprano of Graciosa La Cruz.

“A late guest, no doubt.  You are white like the wall.  I think the low ceilings are not so good for your health, señor, as the sharp air of the mountains.  Ay, Dios!” The last words came beneath her breath, and she forgot Abel Hudson.  The front doors had been thrown open, and a caballero in riding-boots and a dark scrape wound about his tall figure had entered the room and flung his sombrero and saddle-bags into a corner.  It was Pablo Ignestria.

“At your feet, señora,” he said to Doña Luisa, who held out both hands, welcome on her charming face.  “I am an uninvited guest, but when I arrived at San Luis and found that all the town had come to one of Doña Luisa’s famous balls, I rode on, hoping that for friendship’s sake she would open her hospitable doors to a wanderer, and let him dance off the stiffness of a long ride.”

“You are welcome, welcome, Pablo,” said Doña Luisa.  “Go to the dining room and get a glass of aguardiente; then come back and dance until dawn.”

Ignestria left the room with Diego Quijas, but returned in a few moments and walked directly over to Eulogia, ignoring the men who stood about her.

“Give me this dance,” he whispered eagerly.  “I have something to say to thee.  I have purposely come from Monterey to say it.”

Eulogia was looking at him with angry eyes, her brain on fire.  But curiosity triumphed, and she put her hand on his shoulder as the musicians swept their guitars with lithe fingers, scraped their violins, and began the waltz.

“Eulogia!” exclaimed Ignestria; “dost thou suspect why I have returned?”

“Why should I suspect what I have not thought about?”

“Ay, Eulogia!  Art thou as saucy as ever?  But I will tell thee, beloved one.  The poor girl who bore my name is dead, and I have come to beg an answer to my letter.  Ay, little one, I feel thy love.  Why couldst thou not have sent me one word?  I was so angry when passed week after week and no answer came, that in a fit of spleen I married the poor sick girl.  And what I suffered, Eulogia, after that mad act!  Long ago I told myself that I should have come back for my answer, that you had sworn you would write no letter; I should have let you have your little caprices, but I did not reason until—­”

“I answered your letter!” exclaimed Eulogia, furiously.  “You know that I answered it!  You only wished to humble me because I had sworn I would write to no man.  Traitor!  I hate you!  You were engaged to the girl all the time you were here.”

“Eulogia!  Believe!  Believe!”

“I would not believe you if you kissed the cross!  You said to yourself, ’That little coquette, I will teach her a lesson.  To think the little chit should fancy an elegant Montereño could fall in love with her!’ Ah! ha!  Oh, Dios!  I hate thee, thou false man-of-the-world!  Thou art the very picture of the men I have read about in the books of the Señor Dumas; and yet I was fooled by thy first love-word!  But I never loved you.  Never, never!  It was only a fancy—­because you were from Monterey.  I am glad you did not get my letter, for I hate you!  Mother of Christ!  I hate you!”

He whirled her into the dining room.  No one else was there.  He kissed her full on the mouth.

“Dost thou believe me now?” he asked.

She raised her little hand and struck him on the face, but the sting was not hotter than her lips had been.

“May the saints roll you in perdition!” she cried hoarsely.  “May they thrust burning coals into the eyes that lied to me!  May the devils bite off the fingers that made me shame myself!  God!  God!  I hate you!  I—­I, who have fooled so many men, to have been rolled in the dust by you!”

He drew back and regarded her sadly.

“I see that it is no use to try to convince you,” he said; “and I have no proof to show that I never received your letter.  But while the stars jewel the heavens, Eulogia, I shall love thee and believe that thou lovest me.”

He opened the door, and she swept past him into the sala.  Abel Hudson stepped forward to offer his arm, and for the moment Pablo forgot Eulogia.

“John Power!” he cried.

Hudson, with an oath, leaped backward, sprang upon the window-seat, and smashing the pane with his powerful hand disappeared before the startled men thought of stopping him.

“Catch him!  Catch him!” cried Ignestria, excitedly.  “It is John Power.  He stood me up a year ago.”

He whipped his pistol from the saddle-bags in the corner, and opening the door ran down the road, followed by the other men, shouting and firing their pistols into the air.  But they were too late.  Power had sprung upon Ignestria’s horse, and was far on his way.