Bred of the Desert by Charles Marcus Horton (the lemonade war series .txt) 📕

little before noon, in a tiny Mexican settlement. It was a squat hamlet, nestling comfortably among the hills, made up of a few adobes, a lone well, and a general store. The store was at the far end, and toward this his young master directed him.

As they rode on Pat noticed a queer commotion. Here and there a door closed violently, only to open again cautiously as they drew opposite, revealing sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes five pairs of black eyes, all ranged timidly one pair over another in the opening. Dogs skulked before their approach, snarling in strange savagery, while whole flocks of chickens, ruffling in dusty hollows, took frantically to wing at their coming, fleeing before them in unwonted disorder. And finally, as they moved past the well, a half-grown boy, only partly dressed, hurtled out of the side door of one house, raced across a yard to the front door of another house, and slammed the door shut behind him in a panic.

It was all very strange, and it made a deep impression upon him. Also it evidently impressed the men, for as they drew rein in front of the store, with its dust-dry shelves and haunting silence, all asked quick questions of the proprietor, a little wizened, gimlet-eyed Mexican who was leaning in the doorway. After glancing over their accoutrements with a nod of understanding, he answered, explaining the reason for the agitation.

It was all the result of a raid. Three days before a band of marauders had swept down from the north, ransacked pigstys and chicken-coops and corrals, and galloped off madly to the south. Yes, they had plundered the store also. Indian renegades–yes. He could not say from what reservation. Yes, they were armed, and in warpaint, and riding good horses–all of them. No, he could not say–about thirty in the band, perhaps. He–What? Yes, he had alfalfa and, if they wished, other things–beans and rice and canned goods. No, the renegades had not wholly cleaned out the store. Yes, he had matches. No, they had not– What? Vino? To be sure he had Vino! He would get–how many bottles?–right away! It was in the cellar, where he kept it cool, and reasonably safe from all marauders–including himself. With this slight witticism he disappeared into the store.

The men dismounted. They sat down upon the porch, and one of them, the large man, removed his hat, produced a blue bandana, and fell to mopping his red face. The day was warm, and the settlement, lying low under surrounding peaks, received none of the outside breezes. Also, it was inert now, wrapped in the quiet of a frightened people. There was no movement anywhere save that of ruffling hens in the dust of the trail, and the nearer switching of horses’ tails. Once this stillness was broken. Among the houses somewhere rose feminine lamentations, wailing sobs, the outburst cutting the quiet with a sharpness that caused the men to turn grave eyes in its direction. And now the keeper of the store reappeared, bearing three bottles of wine in his arms, and numerous supplies, which the men accepted and paid for. Then all led their horses back to the well, which was in a little clearing, and there prepared to make camp, throwing off saddle-bags and accoutrements and building a fire while they planned a real meal.

Pat was enjoying all this. The settlement had a faintly familiar look, and he half expected to see a swarthy Mexican, whip in hand, approach him with abusive tongue. Also, after weeks of far horizons and unending sweeps of desert, he found in this nearness of detail pleasurable relief. It was good to see something upright again without straining across miles of desolation, even as it was good to see adobes once more, with windows and doors, and smoke curling up out of chimneys. He felt a deep sense of security, of coziness, which he had been fast losing on the broad reaches, together with his sight for short distances. For his eyes had become affected since leaving the white corral beside the river, although with this he was aware of a peculiar gain. His sense of hearing now was most acute, and he could hear the least faint sounds–sounds which, before his taking to the open, he could not have heard. So he was enjoying it all, feeling real comfort, a kind of fitness, as if he belonged here and would better remain here for ever. Then, with a generous supply of alfalfa tossed to him, as to the other horses, he became convinced that he should remain in this little settlement for all time.

Along in the afternoon the storekeeper, accompanied by a native woman, who was tear-stained and weeping, crossed the settlement. At the moment the men, lounging about on blankets, were discussing ways and means for Stephen. He need not continue with them now, they informed him, unless he wanted to. Arrangements could be made here to get him to a railroad in some kind of vehicle, leading Pat behind. But it was up to him. They weren’t hurrying him away, by any means, yet it sure was up to him to get proper treatment for his arm, which showed slow signs of recovery.

Stephen was considering this when the two Mexicans approached. The proprietor of the store started to explain, when the little woman draped in a black mantilla interrupted him with further sobbing and a pointing finger–pointing back across the settlement.

“Caballeros,” she began, “you coom please wit’ me, I–I haf show you soomt’ing.” Then again she burst into weeping.

Startled, Stephen arose, and the others gained their feet. They set out across the settlement. They struck between some adobe houses, crossed some back yards, dodged under clothes-lines, and found themselves in a tiny graveyard. The woman brought them to a stop before a fresh mound of earth. Here she knelt in another outburst of tears, while the gimlet-eyed storekeeper explained.

It was a little boy twelve years old. The marauders had stolen his pig. He had bitterly denounced them, and one–evidently the leader–had shot him. It was too bad! But it was not all. In one of the houses, the large house they had passed in coming here, lay an old man, seventy-eight years of age, dying from a rifle-shot. Yes, the renegade Indians had shot him also. What had he done? He had defended his chickens against theft. It was too bad! It was all too bad! Could not there something be done? To live in peace, to live in strict accord with all known laws, such was the aim and such had been the conduct of these people. And then to have a band of cutthroats, murderers, thieves, descend upon their peace and quiet in this fashion! It was all too bad!

The rangers turned away from the scene. All save the woman set out across the settlement, returning to the camp in silence. Seated once more, they fell to discussing this situation. And discussing the tragedy, they reverted to Stephen and his own troubles, light in comparison. They themselves, they acknowledged, had their work all cut out for them. It was what they got their money for. But there was hardly any use, they pointed out, in Stephen’s accompanying them on this mission. Yet he could go if he wanted to. What did he say?

And Stephen, gazing off thoughtfully toward the tiny mound of fresh earth, and seeing the little woman prostrated with grief upon the grave, knew that Helen, herself bitter with loss, and no doubt needing Pat as much almost as this woman needed her own lost one, would have him do what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do, felt as if he must do, was to accompany these men, go with them, disabled though he was, and help as best he could to bring down retribution upon the renegades. And he made known his wishes to the others, finally, expressing them with a note of determination.

As they bridled and saddled, leaving all equipment not actually required, the proprietor of the store, his small eyes eager, stood close and frequently repeated his opinion that murder in even more gruesome form had been committed to the north. Then they set out, following the direction taken by the Indians, riding briskly, keyed up to energy through hope of encounter, although Stephen suffered not a little from the jolting of his arm. Dropping down from the hills, they swung out upon the mesa, and thence made into the south along a winding trail. Ordinarily they would have lingered to accept the strained hospitality of the settlement. But this was duty, duty large and grave, and, conscious of it all, they pressed forward in silence. The renegades’ tracks stood out clearly, and the rangers noted that some of the horses were shod, others only half shod, while the greater number were without shoes at all. This told of the marauders’ nondescript collection of mounts, and also acquainted them with the fact that many of the animals had been stolen. On through the afternoon they rode, making but little gain, since the tracks became no fresher. When darkness fell, though still in the open without protection of any kind save that offered by a slight rise of ground, they dismounted and prepared to make camp.

Throughout the afternoon Pat had felt something of the grim nature of this business. This not only because of the severe crowding which he had endured–though that had told him much–but because of the unwonted silence upon the men. So he had held himself keenly to the stride, rather liking its vigor after long days of walking, finding himself especially fit to meet it after his recent change of food. And although the sun had been swelteringly hot, yet the desert had been swept with counteracting breezes, and, with night finally descending, he had felt more than ever his fine mettle, and now, even though his master was painfully dismounting, he felt fit to run his legs off at the least suggestion.

This fitness remained with him. When his young master turned him loose at the end of a generous tether, he stepped eagerly away from the firelight and out into the light of a rising moon, not to graze, for he felt no desire to graze, having eaten his fill and more at noon, but to give vent to his high spirits in unusual rolling in the sands. This he quickly proceeded to do, kicking and thrashing about, and holding to it long after the men about the fire had ceased to come and go in preparing their meal, long after they had seated themselves in the cheerful glow, smoking and talking as was their habit.

The Professor noticed it. He looked at the man with the beard pointedly. “That Pat hoss he’s workin’ up another job o’ cleanin’ for you,” he observed. “Seemed in an awful hurry, too,” he added, then dropped his eyes innocently.

The other was punching new holes in his belt with an unwieldy jack-knife. He suddenly gave off twisting the point of the knife against the leather and lifted it menacingly in the direction of his tormentor.

“Look-a-here, Professor,” he retorted, “I ain’t feelin’ any too pert right now, and I’ll take a hop out o’ you if you don’t shet up!”

The Professor looked grieved. “What’s the matter of you?” he inquired.

“Never you mind!” The knife went back to the leather again. “Let that horse roll if he wants to! It ain’t any skin off your hands!”

Which was the key-note of all assembled save the Professor. All except him appeared tense and nervous and in no way inclined to joke. For a time after the lean man’s rebuke they engaged in casual talk, then one after another they