CHAPTER V
Flight
While Mrs. Gallagher reposed on guard on the couch outside her door, Nan tossed sleeplessly in the guest-chamber of the Esmeraldas ranch-house. The experience of the evening was a harsh one to a girl reared in ignorance of men of Spiser's type.
She thought that in some way she must have been to blame, too—lacking in reserve and dignity—else how could he have so misjudged her? And he had lied to her about his sister's coming—he had insulted her!
She felt cheapened, disgraced, to have figured in such an episode, and her cheeks burned again and again with shame.
It was some solace in her humiliation to know that Fritz Poth at least had not misunderstood her, else he would not have sent Mrs. Gallagher with such despatch for the very obvious reason of protection.
Nan remembered now that Fritz Poth had pointed Mrs. Gallagher out as a mongrel lady with an Apache mother, a Mexican father, and, somewhere in the States, an Irish husband named Gallagher. The mongrel lady looked a monument of safety to Nan in her present plight.
And Ben Evans—what must he think? She was conscious that she cared what he thought. Some way, some time, she told herself, she must find an opportunity to explain something of the circumstances.
She fell into a doze, and when she awakened Mrs. Gallagher was regarding her from the doorway while she deftly rolled a brown-paper cigarette.
"He's gone," vouchsafed that person briefly.
Nan sprang out with energy.
"And we must go, too—at once!"
Mrs. Gallagher shrugged a lean shoulder.
"Yes, he'll be back; but how we go?"
"I can ride."
"What?" Mrs. Gallagher made an expressive gesture. "All the horses are turned out; mine, too."
Nan raised the window-shade and stared at an empty corral.
"I will walk, then."
Mrs. Gallagher looked sceptically at Nan's small white feet.
"It is forty mile to Hopedale."
"It is less than that to El Oro."
Mrs. Gallagher looked doubtful.
"They are Mexican in El Oro and afraid of the Señor Spiser. They owe him money, or their father or their brother owe him money. He find out who give you a horse or let you stay all night, and he take their cow, horses, chickens—ever'thing. You have not live here long enough to understand, señorita."
"But the postmaster"
Mrs. Gallagher's face brightened.
"I forget him. Yes, he will help you."
She understood now that "O1d Man" MacNeil had been offering her his protection when he had told her that he was her nearest neighbor in case of "homesickness." And Fritz Poth with his sour looks, he too, in his way, had been trying to warn her. In the light of what had happened Nan seemed to herself to have been incredibly stupid.
"We will go to El Oro," she said decidedly, "and we must lose no time." Then, curiously, "And you, Mrs. Gallagher, are not afraid of Spiser like all the rest?"
An enigmatic expression crossed the woman's face.
"No; I am not afraid of the Señor Spiser. But for you—yes, I am afraid."
They were eating a hasty breakfast when Mrs. Gallagher arose and walked quickly to the window.
A cloud of dust told of some one coming off the mesa, and Nan paled, thinking Spiser might be already returning.
"He is on horseback—coming fast; it is Ben Evans."
Instantly Nan jumped to the conclusion that he had learned, or guessed, the truth and was coming to her aid. But her elation and relief were short, for he rode past the window without so much as a glance and stopped at the blacksmith-shop, near the men's bunk-house.
He was only on an errand, and on one no more romantic and chivalrous than a half-dozen forgotten horseshoes.
Nan could see his face; soberness and then irresolution crept over it as Mrs. Gallagher hastened outside and explained the situation to him. She seemed to be urging something with many vehement gestures. Was it possible, Nan asked herself, that he was hesitating?
He showed distress, indignation even; but there was nothing in his manner which conveyed the impression that he was burning with a knightly eagerness to rescue a fair maiden from the consequences of her indiscretion. He accompanied Mrs. Gallagher with no great alacrity, Nan thought, and her chin went a little higher in the air.
"I am sorry that it is necessary for us to bother you with our difficulties"
"The mujer here has told me"—he looked at her with troubled eyes—"but I don't just see how I can do what she asks."
"And what is that?"
"Run in her horse and one for you. They're waiting for me and if I—if I" he reddened as he hesitated.
"Yes?"
He blurted the truth helplessly.
"If I took time I'd lose my job, seeing as Spiser ordered them all turned out!"
Nan stared at him—speechless. She almost doubted her own ears. This towering, picturesque, six feet of manhood could not help a girl in her extremity because he might "lose his job!"
Again, Ben Evans, hero, fell from his pedestal with a crash.
His refusal seemed so inconsistent, so at variance with the chivalry and courage of his action in the Hopedale Opera-house that it bewildered her. She had not dreamed he would hesitate when he understood.
Spiser was right, she thought in quick and sweeping condemnation, when he had boasted that he was boss of the L.X. outfit and everything and everybody upon it.
Nan said coldly:
"I couldn't think, then, of permitting you to get a horse for me—of talking any such risk on my account. We shall make out somehow, I've no doubt." She turned into the house.
Ben suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that his reason for failing to respond which seemed so adequate and convincing to himself did not appear so to Nan.
"Wait a minute," he protested. "Don't start away from here afoot. You can't walk; it's too far, even to El Oro. I'll find a way to get word to some one that will come for you. Will you wait here until noon?"
Nan shook her head, but Mrs. Gallagher advised:
"It is better that way, señorita. It is too far for you to walk."
"We will wait, then," Nan unwillingly consented, "but"—acidly—"do not jeopardize your job."
Chilled, disappointed, she watched him ride away, her own predicament for the moment forgotten in the keen realization that in spite of his attractions Ben Evans was hopelessly plebeian.
As the hour approached twelve and the promised assistance did not arrive. Nan's uneasiness and impatience increased. She grew sceptical even of the sincerity of his intentions, but in this she wronged him, as she was glad to know when Mrs. Grallagher, doing sentinel duty from the pinnacle of the wood-pile, scrambled from her perch with the cheering news that some one was coming.
"A woman, I think; yes, an Americana leading two horses."
Nan's eyes were good but she herself could make out only two rapidly moving specks. Mrs. Gallagher was very positive, however, and a few minutes proved that she was right.
Nan did not immediately recognize the girl who rode up, flushed and breathless from the fast gallop and the effort of leading two unwilling horses.
Her hat was awry and her faded habit powdered with dust when she drew rein in the dooryard where Nan was waiting. She said without ceremony:
"Throw what you need in a sack that we can tie behind, and pile on as fast as you can. Spiser's liable to be back any minute. I thought I saw him drive out of a gulch as I dropped off the mesa."
Nan remembered her now. It was the girl who had ridden beside Ben Evans that first day in Hopedale. Fritz Poth had said her name was Blakely—Edith Blakely.
"But I don't care if he does come, now that I am not dependent upon him for the means of getting away," Nan replied defiantly.
Edith glanced nervously toward the mesa.
"But I don't want him to see me here—hurry, please!"
So Edith Blakely was afraid of the Hon. "Hank" Spiser? Nan pondered this wonderingly as she quickly did as she was bid. She noticed that it was not until they were out of the valley of the Esmeraldas and well along on a dim trail which branched from the main road, that the girl ceased to glance fearfully over her shoulder.
"I came as soon as I could," she said, "but dad wasn't home when I got the message from Ben and I had to get these horses off the range myself."
"You can't imagine what a tremendous favor you've done me," said Nan gratefully as they galloped rapidly side by side.
"It's nothing at all—just so long as Spiser doesn't find it out."
Again Nan wondered why she should care, hut did not ask because the girl was adding in a half-apologetic tone:
"You-all won't find much of a place, but ma said she'd have dinner ready, and we can fix you up somehow."
"You can believe," Nan replied grimly, "that I am not in a mood to be critical."
The dismal bay of hounds, the shrill yip of many mongrel kiyis, told them they were nearing the Blakely home, which was hidden in the tall torneo of the Longhorn bosque, less than a mile from the Rio Grande.
They came abruptly into a clearing where a log-house and yard were enclosed in a stockade of upright poles.
With the barking of the dogs, children of every age and size and stage of dress and undress came tumbling through the doors and from the windows, as Nan could see in spaces between the poles.
"Where's ma?" asked Edith as she unfastened the stockade gate and swung it open. "Isn't she home, Clytie?"
Clytie rested one bare foot on the instep of the other, and giggled.
"Nope. She went a couple of miles down the road to borry a little salt from them campers."
A look of weariness succeeded annoyance in Edith's face.
"Go inside," said Edith to Nan and Mrs. Gallagher, "I'll soon have dinner ready."
"Best yoah hat and take the rockin'-chair," said the long-legged Clytie hospitably to Nan as she lifted a dog by the scruff of its neck from the cushioned seat and threw it casually out the door.
Another dog was slumbering in the ashes of the fireplace, the chimney of which leaned like the tower of Pisa. Two pullets regarded Nan inquiringly from the top of a dismantled sewing-machine, while the floor was littered with the immortal works of Bertha M. Clay and the daubing of mud which had dropped in chunks from between the logs.
Nan was all but surrounded by tow-headed, barefooted Blakelys staring at her with all their pale-blue eyes as she sat down in the designated rocking-chair.
Leaning back to fan herself with her hat, the chair-legs came out of the rockers. The accident occasioned much merriment.
"Ma's goin' to fix that some time when she kin git around to it," Clytie clapped both hands over her mouth and giggled.
With the renewed barking of the dogs and the slamming of the stockade gate, the fascinated circle rushed pell-mell through the door to swarm over a lank, spiritless figure in a slat sunbonnet.
"Ma, where you been? I'm hungry!"
"Ma, ain't you ever goin' to git us anything to eat?"
"My lands, don't you children ever aim to give me a minute's peace or rest till I'm daid?"
"You ain't daid yet, ma, and it's past dinner-time!"
Mrs. Blakely untied her bonnet-strings and sauntered leisurely toward the house.
"Howdy!" She smiled amiably at Nan and sat down on the doorstep, to retwist a small knob of ginger-colored hair.
"Clytie, git ma a drink of water!"
"Regina, git ma a drink of water."
"Luna, git ma a drink of water."
"Carmencita, git ma a drink of water."
The request was passed down the line until it reached Undine, who finally came toddling with the water splashing in a gourd.
Edith's face clouded when she returned from putting the horses away to find her mother fanning herself languidly on the doorstep.
"We're nearly starved, ma," she said shortly.
"I reckon you be, honey, and I aimed to be back, but I fell in with kind of a gipsy feller down there at them campers and he tole all our fortunes."
"Never mind that now; we'd better start the fire."
Mrs. Blakely sighed resignedly.
"Clytie, git ma an urpernful of chips."
"Regina, git ma an urpernful of chips."
"Luna, git ma"
Edith started for the woodpile before the request reached Undine, but her mother called her back.
"Wait a minute, honey, till I tell you about yoah fortune."
Edith lingered impatiently.
"That gipsy feller said, Edie, that you stood in grave and immejit danger of losin' yoah beau. He said," she drawled solemnly, "that another girl, what was a stranger to you, was comin' between you, and you'd only git him out'n her clutches by strategum."
Edith tossed her head and went on her way for chips.
"You don't believe it, but I've warned you," declared Mrs. Blakely. "But Clytie, here"—she rambled on—"is goin' to ketch some rich feller and marry young. Not too young, though; honey, promise me that."
The shanghai-like Clytie looked a long way from matrimony as she leaned against the house endeavoring to interlace her toes.
"And me"—Mrs. Blakely beamed in anticipation—"I'm goin' to fall heir to a large fortune. Must be yoah pa's brother what cans aigs up in Wichita, Edie."
Mrs. Blakely rose slowly, in sections as it seemed, and followed Edith into the kitchen where the rattle of the stove told of preparations for the tardy dinner.
Bedlam broke loose with the waning of the temporary shyness of the little Blakelys. Some now beat upon the side of the house with clubs, jarring down the little that remained of the chinking. They yelled, they sang, they quarreled, and there was a sufficient number to keep at least one stiff fight going all the time.
They tried to bridle and ride the rooster, they threw handfuls of dust in each other's hair and rocks at each other's heads. The flies swarmed and the dogs contributed their share to the din.
The thought of spending the night in the squalor of this shiftless, Texas home filled Nan with apprehension. It was something for which to be thankful, she said to herself, with a faint smile, that the "prep" brother could not see her in her present surroundings.
And Bob! how he would chortle! No, on second thought, she did not believe that he would.
Mrs. Gallagher, squatting on her heels on the shady side of the house, was not nearly so indifferent to the discomforts of the Blakely home with its riotous little Blakelys, as she appeared, for she found an opportunity to say to Nan:
"I think it is better that we ride to Las Rubertas—seven miles—because here, señorita"—she rolled her eyes with something of droll humor in their depths—"there are too many niños. You will not sleep very well, perhaps."
"I am afraid it will be rather dreadful," Nan admitted. "But where would we go in Las Rubertas?"
"To the Doña Luiza Montejo; she will let us have one-half of her dobe. I know the Doña Luiza a long time."
"But shall we be welcome?" Nan asked doubtfully.
"Why not?" Mrs. Gallagher shrugged her shoulders; that was a small matter, it seemed.
"It shall be as you say," said Nan, for she already had read liking and loyalty in her strange protector's eyes.
A yell from the dooryard.
"Ma, I'm goin' to bust Undine's head in if you don't gimme somethin' to eat!" One of the Misses Blakely brandished a barrel-stave.
"Don't do nothin' like that," said Mrs. Blakely reprovingly; "'tain't ladylike and, besides, grub's piled." She called cordially to Nan: "Come and git it!"
The hungry horde sniffing outside the kitchen door made a rush for the chairs, benches and boxes ranged along the table.
"Where's your manners, children?" inquired Mrs. Blakely placidly, as they pushed and fought.
"Outdoors! ha! ha!"
The youthful wit was jerked from a chair and Mrs. Blakely nodded at Nan.
"Slide in thar, and," she urged humorously, "jest grab a root and pull."
A monument of pale soda-biscuits in the center of the table faded even as Nan looked, while eager hands, each gripping a fork, reached for the platter of salt pork swimming in its own grease.
Mrs. Blakely circulated with a huge, tin coffee-pot from which she poured a feeble beverage that might as easily have been tea as coffee.
"Charlie, my lamb," chided Mrs. Blakely in gentle forbearance, "don't put yoah knee on the table. If you-all kain't retch what you want, ast for it."
"Who'd hear me!" inquired Charles, and with some reason.
"Looks like yoah pa would git around to his meals on time once in a while!" Mrs. Blakely shuffled to the door. "Puts me behind so with my work when—here he is now, Frederick, aidge over and make a place for pa."
The uproar drowned the jangle of spurs, but shortly a man, lean and stooped from much riding, bent his head to come through the doorway.
Shrieks greeted him; it was obvious that Blakely was popular with his family.
He nodded to Nan with a pleasant though slightly inquiring look, and hung his hat upon a nail.
Nan saw that Edith was like her father. She had his earnest, dark eyes and her softer features were feminine duplicates of his; they were stamped, too, with something of the same uncomplaining patience. She was as unlike her vapid, weak-chinned mother as two persons well could be.
The red-haired baby in his home-made high-chair suddenly threw himself back and let out a yell. His mouth, which was a slit when closed, now looked quite square, and his feet beat a tattoo under the table.
"'Lasses! 'lasses! Want 'lasses!"
Mrs. Blakely looked at him fondly.
"Bless 'm heart 'm want 'lasses, 'm shall have 'la,sses! Clytie, git ma the sorghum."
The roaring infant did not subside until Edith took a huge glass sirup-jug from the cupboard and set it down beside him. Then laying her hand upon her father's shoulder she looked searchingly in his face and asked:
"What's gone wrong to-day, dad? What's happened!"
He hesitated a moment before replying.
"John Aker's house was blown up last night."
In the first silence of astonishment Nan saw Edith's face pale.
"Were they killed?"
Blakely shook his head.
"They all were gone for the night. A stick of dynamite under one corner did it; it's a wreck to-day."
Mrs. Blakely, who was barely visible through a cloud of smoke from burning pork, began to sniffle.
"We-all will be next, you mark my words!"
"Don't want to be blowed up, pa!" A chorus of minor wails started.
"Hush"—turning to Nan in explanation—"he was a neighbor of ours in Texas, and we wagoned here together. Spiser sent us both word not to settle, but we settled just the same and each of us got a little bunch of cattle together. For some reason he's offered to buy me out, at his own price, but he aims to scare John out of the country, and this is the start." Blakely's voice was bitter.
"Now, Charlie, why don't you take Spiser's offer up?" Mrs. Blakely advanced, pleadingly, with a long-handled spoon. "We-all have been here two year, and I'm gittin' restless. Let's hitch up the ol' white team and wagon it up into Arkansaw. I'm pinin' to travel," declared Mrs. Blakely plaintively, "to see the world agin—and Arkansaw!"
"I'm not," Blakely replied grimly. "I've had enough malaria to hold me for a while—and wagonin' too."
One does not start the water from a faucet with more ease than Mrs. Blakely turned on the tears.
"Now, Charlie"—she settled into her hips in an attitude of despair—"you'll go and git yoahself killed off, then I'll have to take in washin' or put the children in the poah-honse and go on the stage."
"Don't you put me in the poah-house, ma, or I'll baste Undine over the haid."
Mrs. Blakely turned wet eyes upon her offspring.
"Don't do no thin' like that, my lamb. Clytie, git ma a handkerchief."
"Regina, git ma"
"Undine, hand ma that urpern off the chair."
Mrs. Blakely buried her face in the apron and a sympathetic bellow arose—a bellow so loud that no one heard the rattle of wheels and the subsequent click of heels upon the hard-trodden dooryard.
It was not until Edith's startled stare caught their attention that the Blakely family were aware that the Hon. "Hank" Spiser was regarding them with a faint sneer upon his face from the doorway.
An ogre in their midst would have had much the same effect. He stared hardest at Nan, who made no motion to return his sweeping salutation.
"Ah—I am relieved to find you here and safe," he said.
"I am fortunate to be here—and safe," she replied with cold significance.
He said no more. It was enough to have learned, as he suspected, that she was sheltered by the Blakelys.
"I stopped"—he addressed Blakely—"to ask if you had decided to accept my offer?"
Blakely returned his gaze steadily, and shook his head.
"Not yet. There's no good reason why I should make a present of my stock to the L.X. Cattle Company."
"It's a fair offer—under the circumstances."
"A good offer—under the circumstances—but less than half their value."
"You may be glad to take it." His tone was a threat.
"Possibly," Blakely smiled. "When that time comes I'll let you know."
"This is final?"
"Final."
Spiser turned abruptly on his heel and walked away.