ROBERTO had yielded like a lamb in a leash, spreading his arms to the cross as if to embrace his bride. The fear of death was over him, the folly of resistance plain to his eyes. It was better to yield to a few minutes of humiliation than to lie stiff in the grave forever. Humiliation could be requited by brave deeds of reprisal and revenge, but not so death. The Yankee might lay defiling hands on the body of a Mexican gentleman for the little moment of his power, but he was only one Yankee in a country of Mexican gentlemen. Roberto swore by the sacred blood that he would feed this Yankee's heart to the fire.
Henderson stood a few moments as if waiting for somebody to step forward and test the sincerity of his edict, the bridle rein of Roberto's late mount in his hand. There was more fear of the Yankee sailor with three pistols in his belt than love of the patron's son among the men who served, free and bond, on Don Abrahan's estate. None came forward to cut the young master's shameful ropes and set him free.
They had big eyes for the man from the ship, as they spoke of him, who had sprung up into the estate of hero from his obscurity well in accord with their own romantic ideals. Heroic fire in the humble burst out of their own sad ranks of oppression in just that manner now and then, when a man would arm and mount, and ride and rob, a scourge to the rich, a benefactor to the poor. There was not one among them but wished Don Gabriel well of his adventure.
Henderson was a strange figure in their eyes, accustomed as they were to seeing him come and go among them in quite different garments. He was dressed in the manner of an American plainsman, in the clothing John Toberman had supplied him from his personal wardrobe. He wore a heavy gray wool shirt without coat, dark corduroy trousers folded into tall, broad-topped boots. His hat was an old one, brown and weather-beaten as an old eagle, the broad brim of it pliant and hard to keep back from falling like a blinder over the eyes. To prevent this, Henderson had pinned one side of it up with a thorn.
There was a suggestion of romance, of headlong intrepidity, in the turned-up hat brim that the peones appreciated. They talked of Don Gabriel's competent, heroic appearance, gathering in little groups, passing back and forth in suppressed excitement. Henderson turned to the mansion, where Helena Sprague waited at her barred window, the horse following in quiet confidence.
"Felipe! Felipe!" Roberto called, imperiously, impatiently. He knew that the mayordomo stood near, although he could not turn his head to see.
"Don Roberto, I am here."
"Cut these cursed ropes, send for guns!" Roberto commanded.
"You heard Don Gabriel's command"
"Don Yankee, Don Sailor! Here—quick! Bring a gun, I will show who is don!"
"It would be instant death to touch the rope, Don Roberto."
"It will be instant death when my hands are free if you refuse again, coward! Vincente! Carlos! Are you all dogs? is there no man here?"
Nobody answered. Henderson had reached the patio, where he stood beneath Helena's window, facing them with three pistols in his belt.
"Fernando! Jaime! Benito! Juan!" Roberto called, command in the inflection of each name. Silence.
"Man fears death, Don Roberto, because it is the end," Don Felipe said, standing back a little farther from the cross.
"Infidel! You's hall stand here before the sun goes down on this day! Is one Yankee to rule the world?"
It was well for his own peace, such as the future might bring it, that Roberto could not see the cloud that darkened over Felipe's face when the threat of this punishment was uttered. The little mayordomo drew himself up, head held high, a flush of insult in his pale face. He stood a moment, hands clenched as if he strangled hot words in them; turned and went toward his office, walking so fast that a murmur went through the crowd like a little wind through a field of maize as he passed.
It was that they were to see a tragedy, they said. Don Felipe was going for his knife.
"You are a brave and gallant gentleman, Don Gabriel," said Helena Sprague, her hand reaching toward him vainly, her face pressed to the bars.
Gabriel lifted his hand to his hat, eyes fixed on the crowd.
"Come away!" said Doña Carlota, scandalized, and shaken with fright. "It is wrong for you to talk to a brigand."
"I thank God you have burst your prison door, Don Gabriel," Helena said, pushing Doña Carlota back with impatient hand.
"Here is your horse, Miss Sprague. He has been abused, but not much hurt."
"He is yours, I give him to you."
"I have brought him for you to ride away, Helena. Felipe shall get me a crowbar, I'll tear down these bars or break in the door."
"You are generous and brave, but I have no place to flee to, Don—no place to hide from them, Gabriel."
"This is sinful, this will disgrace you forever!" Doña Carlota panted, tugging to draw her from the window.
"I have been told they have laid a charge of treason against you, Helena, and that Roberto, in the treachery of his mean soul"
"His jealous heart, Gabriel."
"Stole the evidence, a certain paper"
"That is why the governor came! The governor knows!"
"The evidence was delivered to the governor, I have been told. He has gone after soldiers to take you from Don Abrahan's house by force. You must leave here at once, go to the north—somewhere—out of their reach. Here is your horse—here, catch the rein—I will break in the door."
She caught the rein as he tossed it, her arm thrust between the bars.
"And you—and you, Gabriel?"
"I'll take a horse from the stable and go with you."
"No," she denied him softly, shaking her head. "We couldn't get away, I would only encumber you. Alone you can beat them, for you are resourceful and bold. I'd only hold you back, they'd murder you like they did John Toberman."
"They will murder you here, Helena."
"No, they'll only rob me, Gabriel. I can put that off—go away, Aunt Carlota! Leave me—go to your room and close the door!"
"The disgrace of this! a bandit!" Doña Carlota said.
Helena turned on her furiously, disappearing from the window, the bridle rein dropped to the ground. Henderson heard her, speaking in Spanish now, driving her tormentor from the room.
"I can delay the seizure of my property," Helena said, coming to the window again, her face flushed by the anger that had blasted Doña Carlota's courage like a wrinkled pea. "I can put them off a week, a month, by seeming about to yield to this one, a promise to that one. I can make them fight among themselves, as they are already started, over my estate. They will not dare to bring me to trial on this foolish charge of treason."
"I am afraid there are few things they will not dare against the helpless," said Gabriel, sorrowfully remembering John Toberman's last look.
"Don Abrahan will protect me if the governor presses the matter," she declared. "He is my distant relative, my condemnation would be his disgrace. He never will permit it, don't you see, Gabriel?"
"Have you any further news from Monterey?"
"No. I wasn't allowed to read the message they took from the man Roberto killed."
"I wish we knew whether the United States cruisers Toberman was expecting have arrived."
"It is plain you must go to Monterey, Gabriel, and find out. I will be safe, setting the wolves fighting over my property. Then, if the cruisers are there, or when they come, you will sail in one of them to San Pedro and march here with the marines and set me free."
"That's a long speculation, too great a gamble, Helena. You must go with me."
"I would be a stone around your neck, Gabriel. It is a long way, a woman's endurance is not equal to a man's. I would drag, my courage might fail. They would overtake us and bring us back, and you would suffer for us both. For that reason, and that reason only, I will not go."
"But here"
"I shall be safe, as I have told you, Gabriel. Get on your horse, let him know his new master's hand. So—how well he behaves! he knows his friend. There—come close to the window, Gabriel. In Monterey see these men, whose names are here. If the ships haven't come these men will know how to help you."
"And who will help you, Helena? No, it would be cowardly for me to go."
"You are outlawed here, they'll hunt you down. You must ride fast to Monterey."
"A little prying with a crowbar and these things would fall—see, they shake, they are loose in the sill. Helena, come with me."
"You know it is not because I do not trust you, Gabriel. I couldn't go unprepared, as a man can go. Before we could be ready, Don Abrahan might return, or Roberto"
"I'll stay here, then. I'll hide in the hills, I'll come down on them and take my toll for John Toberman's life. If they harm you, every man that conspires against you shall die!"
"There would be many friends on your side, but they would be the weak and the poor, Gabriel. It would be better for you to go."
But there was a plea in her eyes, a reluctant hope in her very words, that he would stay. She pressed her face between the bars, reaching out her hand.
"No, I'll not go to Monterey," he said decisively.
"Gabriel, Don Felipe went into his office a little while ago."
"I was watching him."
"He will be coming to set Roberto free in a minute. Go, Gabriel!—but a moment for my benediction."
She reached her hand to him, fluttering it like a frantic bird. Gabriel reined nearer, caught it, pressed it to his breast.
There was the sound of bare feet running. Liseta, who herded goats on the hills, stood panting at the corner of the patio.
"The soldiers, Don Gabriel!" she said, pointing toward the pueblo.
Helena started, looked across the vega where the barley fields were yellow.
"Gabriel! they are coming! You will be lost!"
"I will go to the hills," he whispered, leaning near.
"Nearer, Gabriel—for my benediction!"
Her face was pressed hard between the bars, her convulsive hand was now within his own. A little way to her lips, and that way so swiftly passed.
"Ah! what angel!" said Liseta.
Gabriel rode into the olive lane, thinking of a sanctuary in the gray hills, pausing a moment where the yellow road made its turn to the eastward to sweep through the pass. There he looked back to estimate the number of soldiers, noting that there were eight, led by an officer who rode a little way in advance. Don Abrahan was not with them. Henderson went on his way.
At that moment Don Felipe rode out from Don Abrahan's gate and came galloping after Henderson. When he reached the head of the olive lane he lifted his right hand in witness of his pacific intention. Gabriel stopped, waiting for him to come.
"Don Gabriel, I have come to ride with you wherever your road may go, if you will permit me," Felipe said.
Henderson made a quick survey of the mayordomo, suspicious of this amazing declaration. Felipe was armed with two pistols and a rifle; he carried a knife in his belt, provisions and cooking utensils at the cantle of his saddle. His preparations for a campaign in the wilds appeared to be complete, too complete, Gabriel thought, for such hasty decision.
"Don Felipe, I have been betrayed lately by one who came to me with the face and the words of a friend," he said.
"I have suffered insults and degradations here that my soul revolts to recall," Felipe declared, flinging out his hand. "When I refused to cut the rope, that unripe tyrant threatened me with the post and the lash. Threats are not idle on the tongue of that young oppressor. If I cannot go with you, then I must go alone."
Don Felipe's face was as earnest as the face of man could be. He spoke in the grave and resolute tone of one whose burden had grown too great, whose endurance was at an end. He rode on, saluting with outflung hand.
"Don Felipe, we will go together," Gabriel said, riding hard to overtake him. "But the risk is greater with me than it would be without me. The soldiers are coming"
"I saw them," said Felipe calmly.
"They will soon be on my trail."
"I know a way, Don Gabriel, that no soldier can follow," Felipe said in quiet confidence. "If I betray you, save a ball for me between the eyes."
"There will not be a doubt of it, Don Felipe," Henderson assured him, as he galloped at his side.