CHAPTER XIII
Rosario Gives Warning
Secretly, among those to be trusted, the word passed from mouth to mouth that the Americans in Las Rubertas were looked upon with ill-favor by Señor Spiser, that they could in no way look to him for protection, and that should any accident befall them the circumstances would not be investigated with too much thoroughness or the perpetrator of any mischief be prosecuted with great vigor.
This was enough for Las Rubertas. It understood Señor Spiser and his methods perfectly. Unwelcome strangers had often found it more convenient to move on.
The animosity of the women centered upon Nan, while the men could not forgive the intervention which had lost them the fight at the baile. They had no love for Riley, but they feared him, also they needed him, and at any rate he was mostly upon the road between Hopedale and Las Rubertas.
Therefore he was eliminated from their whispered conversation, but the names of Nan and Bob figured frequently. The latter's civility they mistook, as usual, for weakness, and Nan— Bah! she was a woman! They had no definite plans, but they prepared for San Juan's day with more zest than usual.
Tubs of soap-root for a general hair-washing were put to soak in the front yards. The afternoon of the 23rd brought wagonloads of guests from the outlying districts for every family. Crates of chickens, goats, and many kegs of home-made wine arrived.
Nan's dooryard was filled with the shrieking grandchildren of the Montejos, who stared and snickered as they passed, without a reprimand from their elders. Everywhere she felt the unfriendly atmosphere, and Mrs. Gallagher was as alert as a sheepdog with coyotes in the vicinity.
Bob saw her uneasiness and vaguely shared it as he sat with Nan for a time that evening listening to the guitars and wheezing accordions in the plaza, and to the sounds from the Montejo end of the dobe of drinking and much laughter, which was good-natured enough as yet.
"Nan," Bob asked suddenly and bluntly, "when are you going home?"
She answered as bluntly and with a touch of defiance, "I don't know."
They sat in silence for a time.
"Do you think, Nan"—he asked gently—"that you would be content here for long!—that the glamour would not wear off?"
"I love it—this life."
"They are tremendously uneasy about you—the family."
"So they've written. I'm threatened with a guardian if I don't go home. I've asked for a month's reprieve."
"And at the end of that time you'll go?"
"Or stay—for keeps."
"Oh, Nan!" That was all. He arose quickly and said good night, adding in a voice which sounded unnatural from the effort it cost him to speak: "Be careful to-morrow; they may all be drunk."
The celebration of San Juan's day began long before daylight, and the Montejos were out by lantern-light killing the goats under Nan's window; men, women, and children shrieking with laughter at the struggles of the dying animals.
By the time the sun rose, the drinking and feasting was well under way. At ten o'clock the songs and laughter were boisterous, but still good-natured. All the village and its guests in gala-day attire were flocking toward the plaza.
It was Nan's custom to ride each morning, but to-day she hesitated because of Bob's warning, and, too, she noted Mrs. Gallagher's vigilance. The woman knew nothing definite, but the Indian in her sensed danger and, when Nan's restlessness became too great she viewed her preparations to ride with unqualified disapproval.
"I'll not go far—truly I'll not. Not out of sight of Las Rubertas. Besides what could happen to me in broad daylight!"
"Many things have happened to Americans where the mesquite grows thick and there is no one to hear a shot!"
"Listen!"—a roar went up from the plaza—"they are having a glorious time, and too busy with their games and themselves to think of me. But I'll be back within the hour, just to relieve your mind."
Nan turned in the saddle and kissed her finger-tips lightly to her swarthy chaperon as she rode away.
She had been gone less than ten minutes when Rosario, running as for her life through Epiphanio Montejos's alfalfa field, looked with dismay in her eyes at the empty corral.
"The señorita!" Rosario wriggled through the window at the back of the dobe like an eel. "She is not here?"
Mrs. Gallagher waved her hand toward the plaza and Eosario began to cry.
"What you hear?" demanded Mrs. Gallagher.
"The Spain have lick the America!"
Mrs. Gallagher's face relaxed. Was that all? That was a small matter to cry about. She hunched her shoulders.
"I don't care."
"To-night they build big bonfire in the plaza to make glad. At first they talk they hamstring the señorita's horse." Mrs. Gallagher stopped rolling a cigarette and turned her head quickly.
"I listen by the crack to Ignacio Bojarques's talk. The señorita's saddle-blanket look good on his horse, he say; then they laugh.
"But no, they will not hamstring the horse; it will be more pleasant to make the señorita fast on her horse and turn him loose on the mesa, and tie the new señor on his horse and drive him across the river, which is high with the big rain above.
"Maybe he swim, maybe no. It will be mos' pleasant to see, Ignacio Bojarques, he say. The Mexican's boss of the American now, everybody say."
"You make no mistake?"
Rosario nodded, wisely: "I listen by the crack, señora. To-night when the bonfire is lighted and they are brave with the vino."
"You can find the strange señor?"
"Pronto! Muy pronto!" Rosario's eyes sparkled with resolution.
"Tell him to come here—quick."
Rosario slipped through the window as she had come, and Mrs. Gallagher watched her as, half crouching, she ran swiftly through Epiphanio Montejos's alfalfa, circling cautiously to get back to the village square without being noticed.
Of a sudden she saw the child raise herself and throw both hands aloft as though in warning, while screaming wildly she ran toward the plaza.