Bransford of Rainbow Range Part 26

Jeff turned down the river, past the broken _acequias_, to where a ma.s.sive spur of basaltic rock had turned the fury of the floods and spared a few fields. In this sheltered cove dwelt Don Francisco Escobar in true pastoral and patriarchal manner; his stalwart sons and daughters, with their sons and daughters in turn, in cl.u.s.tering _adobes_ around him: for neighbors, the allied family of Gonzales y Ortega.

A cheerful settlement, this of Los Banos, nestling at the foot of the friendly rampart, sheltered alike from flood and wind. South and west the close black Rim walled the horizon, the fantasy of Fray Cristobal closed in the narrow east: but northward, beyond the low sand-hills and the blue heat-haze, the high peaks of Organ, Guadalupe and Rainbow swam across the sleepy air, far and soft and dim.

In their fields the _gente_ of Gonzales y Ortega and of Escobar raised ample crops of alfalfa, wheat, corn, _frijoles_ and _chili_, with orchard, vineyard and garden. Their cows, sheep and goats grazed the foothills between river and Rim, watched by the young men or boys, penned nightly in the great corrals in the old Spanish fas.h.i.+on; as if the Moor still swooped and forayed. Their horses roamed the hills at will, only a few being kept in the alfalfa pasture. They ground their own grain, tanned their cow-hides at home. Mattress and pillow were wool of their raising, their blankets and cloth their own weave. There were granaries, a wine-press, a forge, a c.u.mbrous stone mill, a great _adobe_ oven like a monstrous bee-hive.

Once a year their oxen drew the great high-sided wagons up the sandy road to El Paso, and returned with the year's marketing--salt, axes, iron and steel, powder and lead, bolts of white domestic or _manta_ for sheets and s.h.i.+rtings, matches, tea, coffee, tobacco and sugar. Perhaps, if the saints had been kind, there were a few ribbons, trinkets or brightly colored prints of Joseph and Virgin and Child, St. John the Beloved, The Annunciation, The Children and Christ; perhaps an American rifle or a plow. But, for the most part, they held not with innovations; plowed, sowed and reaped as their fathers did, thres.h.i.+ng with oxen or goats.

The women sewed by hand, cooked on fireplaces; or, better still, in the open air under the trees, with few and simple utensils. The family ate from whitest and cleanest of sheepskins spread on the floor. But, the walls were snowy with whitewash, the earthen floors smooth and clean, the coa.r.s.e linen fresh and white. The scant furniture of the rooms--a pine bed, a chair or two, a mirror, a bra.s.s candlestick (with home-made candles), a cheap print on the wall, a great chest for clothes, blankets and simple treasures, the bright fire in the cozy fireplace--all combined to give an indescribable air of cheerfulness, of homely comfort and of rest. This quiet corner, where people still lived as simply as when Abraham went up from Ur of the Chaldees, in the spring-time of the world, held, for seeing eyes, an incommunicable charm.

When Jeff came at last to Casa Escobar, the cattle were already on the hills, the pigs and chickens far afield. Don Francisco, white-haired, erect, welcomed him eagerly, indeed, but with stately courtesy.

"Is it thou indeed, my son? Now, my old eyes are gladdened this day.

Enter, then, _amigo mio_, thrice-welcome--the house is thine in very truth. Nay, the young men shall care for thy horse."

He raised his voice. Three tall sons, Abran, Zen.o.bio, Donociano, came at the summons, gave Bransford grave greeting, and stood to await their father's commands. Fathers of families themselves, they presumed not to sit unbidden, to join in the conversation, or to loiter.

Breakfast was served presently, in high state, on the table reserved for honored guests. Savory venison, chili, fish, eggs, _tortillas_, _etole_, _enchiladas_, cream and steaming coffee--such was the fare. Don Francisco sat gravely by to bear him company, while a silently hovering damsel antic.i.p.ated every need.

Thence, when his host could urge no more upon him, to the deep shading cottonwoods. Wine was brought and the "makings" of x.x.xX cigarettes--corn-husks, handcut; a great jar of tobacco; and a brazier of mesquite embers. At a little distance women washed, wove or sewed; the young men made buckskin, fas.h.i.+oned quirts, whips, ropes, bridle-reins, tie-straps, hobbles, pack-sacks and _chaparejos_ of raw-hide; made cinches of horse-hair; wrought ox-yokes, plow-beams and other things needful for their simple husbandry.

Meanwhile, Don Francisco entertained his guest with grave and leisurely recital of the year's annals. Mateo, son of Sebastian, had slain a great bear in the Pa.s.s of All the Winds; Alicia, daughter of their eldest, was wed with young Roman de la O, of Canada Nogales, to the much healing of feud and ancient hatred; Diego, son of Eusebio, was proving a bold and fearless rider of wild horses, with reason, as behooved his father's son; he had carried away the _gallo_ at the _Fiesta de San Juan_, with the fleet dun colt "creased" from the wild bunch at Quemado; the herds had grown, the crops prospered, all sorrow pa.s.sed them by, through the intercession of the blessed saints.

The year's trophies were brought. He fingered with simple pride the great pelt of the silver-tip. Antlers there were and lion-skins, gleaming prisms of quartz, flint arrowheads and agates brought in by the shepherds, the costly Navajo blanket won by the fleet-limbed dun at Canada races.

Hither came presently another visitor--Florentino, breaker of wild horses, despite his fifty years; wizened and withered and small, merry and cheerful, singer of forgotten folk-songs; chanting, even as he came, the song of Macario Romero--Macario, riding joyous and light-hearted, spite of warning, omen and sign, love-lured to doom and death.

"'Concedame una licencia Voy a ir a ver a me Chata.'

"Dice Macario Romero, Parando en los estribos: 'Madre, pues, esto voy a ver, Si todos son mis amigos!'"

And so, listening, weary and outworn, Jeff fell asleep.

Observe now, how Nature insists upon averages. Mr. Jeff Bransford was, as has been seen, an energetic man; but outraged nerves will have their revenge. After making proper amends to his damaged eye, Jeff's remnant of energy kept up long enough to dispatch young Tomas Escobar y Mendoza to El Paso with a message to Hibler: which message enjoined Hibler at once to carry tidings to John Wesley Pringle, somewhere in Chihuahua, asking him kindly to set right what Arcadian times were out of joint, as he, Jeff, felt the climate of Old Mexico more favorable for his throat trouble than that of New Mexico; with a postscript asking Hibler for money by bearer. And young Tomas was instructed to buy, at Juarez, a complete outfit of clothing for Jeff, including a gun.

This done, the reaction set in--aided, perhaps, by the enervating la.s.situde of the hot baths and the sleepy atmosphere of that forgotten village. Jeff spent the better part of a week asleep, or half awake at best. He had pleasant dreams, too. One--perhaps the best dream of all--was that on their wedding trip they should follow again the devious line of his flight from Arcadia. That would need a prairie schooner--no, a prairie steamboat--a prairie yacht! He would tell her all the hideous details--show her the mine, the camp of the besiegers, the ambuscade on the road. And if he could have Ellinor meet Griffith and Gibson for a crowning touch!

After the strenuous violence of hand-strokes, here was a drowsy and peaceful time. The wine of that land was good, the shade pleasant, the Alician philosophy more delightful than of yore; he had all the accessories, but one, of an earthly paradise.

Man is ungrateful. Jeff was a man; neglectful of present bounties, his dreaming thoughts were all of the absent accessory and of a time when that absence should be no more, nor paradise be empty.

Life, like the Gryphon's cla.s.sical master, had taught him Laughter and Grief. He turned now the forgotten pages of the book of his years.

Enough black pages were there; as you will know well, having yourself searched old records before now, with tears. He cast up that long account--the wasted lendings, the outlawed debts, the dishonored promises, the talents of his stewards.h.i.+p, unprofitable and brought to naught; set down--how gladly!--the items on the credit side. So men have set the good upon one side and the evil on the other since Crusoe's day, and before; against the time when the Great Accountant, Whose values are not ours, shall strike a final balance.

Take that book at your elbow--yes, either one; it doesn't matter. Now turn to where the hero first discovers his frightful condition--long after it has become neighborhood property.... He bent his head in humility. He was not worthy of her!... Something like that? Those may not be the precise words; but he groaned. He always groans. By-the-way, how this man-saying must amuse womankind! Yes, and they actually say it too--real, live, flesh-and-blood men. Who was it said life was a poor imitation of literature? Happily, either these people are insincere or they reconsider the matter--else what should we do for families?

It is to be said that Jeff Bransford lacked this becoming delicacy. If he groaned he swore also; if he decided that Miss Ellinor Hoffman deserved a better man than he was, he also highly resolved that she should not have him.

"For, after all, you know," said Jeff to Alice:

"I'm sure he's nothing extra--a quiet man and plain, And modest--though there isn't much of which he could be vain.

And had I mind to chant his praise, this were the kindest line-- Somehow, she loves him dearly--this little love of mine!"

CHAPTER XVII

TWENTIETH CENTURY

"And there that hulking Prejudice Sat all across the road.

"I took my hat, I took my coat, My load I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus With an absent-minded air-- And I walked directly through him As if he wasn't there!"

--_An Obstacle_: CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON.

Johnny Dines rode with a pleasant jingle down the shady street of Los Banos de Santa Eulalia del Norte. His saddle was new, carven, wrought with silver; his bridle shone as the sun, his spurs as bright stars; he shed music from his feet. Jeff saw him turn to Casa Escobar: apple blossoms made a fragrant lane for him. He paused at Jeff's tree.

"_Alto alli!_" said Johnny. The words, as sharp command, can be managed in two brisk syllables. The sound is then: "_Altwai!_" It is a crisp and startling sound, and the sense of it in our idiom is: "Hands up!"

Jeff had been taking a late breakfast _al fresco_; he made glad room on his bench.

"Light, stranger, and look at your saddle! Pretty slick saddle, too.

Guess your playmates must 'a' went home talking to themselves last night."

"They're going to kill a maverick for you at Arcadia and give a barbecue," said Johnny. The cult of _nil admirari_ reaches its highest pitch of prosperity in the cow-countries, and Johnny knew that it was for him to broach tidings unasked.

"Oh, that reminds me--how's old Lars Porsena?" said Jeff, now free to question.

"Him? He's all right," said Johnny casually. "Goin' to marry one or more of the nurses. They're holdin' elimination contests now."

"Say, Johnny, when you go back, I wish you'd tell him I didn't do it.

Cross my heart and hope to die if I did!"

"Oh, he knows it wasn't you!" said Johnny.

Jeff shook his head doubtfully.

"Evidence was pretty strong--pretty strong! Who was it then?"

"Why, Lake himself--the old hog!"

"If Lake keeps on like this he's going to have people down on him," said Jeff. "Who did the holmesing--John Wesley?"