The whole party came into Stephens's room and settled themselves round the wall on the floor, much as they had done the night before. Stephens seated his prisoner on a stool in the middle, and taking the cacique's revolver from his belt laid it on the table. As he did so, he drew the attention of Tostado, who was next to him, to the two recently discharged chambers in the cylinder. "Those were the shots," said he.
"Maybe so, Don Estevan," answered the Indian suavely. "Doubtless you are right in what you say, as you always are. We know that your honour is very wise and very just. But before we do anything about it we want to know what Salvador has to say; we have not heard him yet."
"I do not want to conceal anything," said the cacique abruptly. "I saw them from the top of the hill that leads down from the mesas to La Boca. I went straight to the river to them. He was on foot driving my horse, trying to drive him into the river. I fired at him once, twice. He ran away and stopped. I took my horse and my daughter, and I brought them home. He ran after us, but he fell down. I saw him lying there the last thing from the hill. If he is dead, he is dead. I do not know any more."
His story was so straightforward and simple that it was convincing.
"Where did you say all this happened?" asked Stephens.
"On the river, down below La Boca a league," answered the Indian.
The chiefs began to question him about the details of the affair. He described to them the position of the fugitives when he overtook them, and the refusal of the terrified horse to enter the swollen river.
"Then Felipe was not riding your horse," observed Stephens, who was listening, for in deference to him they spoke in Spanish for the time being.
"No, he was on foot. He was driving the horse," was the reply of the cacique.
"I suppose your daughter was on the horse?" said Stephens.
"Yes, he was taking them both along," answered the Indian.
"How old is she?" asked the prospector. "She looks almost a woman grown."
The Indian reflected a little while. "She was a little child so high," he answered at last, "when there was the great war in the States," and he held his hand at a height to indicate a child of ten years old.
"She must be eighteen now, then," said Stephens.
"I suppose so. Yes, if you say so," admitted the Indian.
"Then she is not a child," said Stephens, "and she can marry him or anyone she likes. You have no right to prevent her. Understand that. This is a free country. By the law a woman is as free as a man; she may go where she likes and marry whom she likes. She is not a slave, and don't you think any such thing. No American can strike a woman; that is the deepest of shames."
He paused after this, for him, unusually long speech, which was intended quite as much for the benefit of the other Indians as the cacique. The American felt a little elated at the thought that single-handed he had been able to arrest their cacique in their midst, and he could not resist improving the occasion.
There was a minute's silence, and then Tostado fixed his keen black eyes on the American's face. "Listen to me, Señor Don Estevan," he said. "The Americans have their way; that is good for them. The Mexicans have their way; that is good for them. And the wild Indians,—the Utes, and the Comanches, and the Navajos too,—they have their own ways. And we, we have our laws. We don't change them. I know if one Indian kills another, then the law of the Americans is to judge him; but the rest of the things we manage among ourselves. The Government gives us that right. We have our own alcalde. We have our own customs. And when men and women do wrong together we beat them. Then they are afraid. That is why our women are so good. Not like the Mexicans. That is good for us. We do not want to change."
"But," cried Stephens, "if it is your custom to beat the women like dogs, you ought to change it. Everybody knows that that it is shameful."
"For the Americans," said the old Indian, with the air of a man making an extremely reasonable concession, "I do not say anything. Let them have their ways, and treat their women as seems good to them. So they are content; that is right. But we have our ways; we do not want to change; we are content to be as we are."
Stephens felt nonplused. It seemed to him that he was not much of a success as a missionary on the rights of women, and he felt, too, that in this discussion he had wandered from the main point. After all, he had arrested his man for the murder of Felipe, and not for beating his daughter, though his motive in doing so had been to rescue the helpless woman.
"You have heard Salvador's story," he said to the chiefs abruptly. "Suppose we go and hear that of the witness, if she is able to speak."
They assented at once, and Stephens, bidding Salvador himself remain where he was, led the way. On arriving at the house, they found the girl laid on some skins in an inner room. Stephens went into the room and knelt down beside her, the others remaining beyond the open door.
She opened her eyes, and perceiving who it was gave him a meaning look. "You have saved me once," she whispered; "can you save me again? She is making poison for me. I have seen"; and her eyes turned towards her step-mother, who was mixing something in a gourd at the end of the room.
Stephens gave a low whistle. "This is a queer business," he muttered to himself. "I wonder if the girl's telling lies. Maybe she's off her nut. Likely enough, after such a hammering. The old woman doesn't look such a bad lot. After all," he went on thinking, "perhaps I had better get her away. These folks can be pretty low-down when they try."
"Can you move?" said he to the girl. "Can you walk?"
"Yes," she answered; "I am quite strong. Only I am looking how to escape."
Neither fatigue, nor bodily pain, nor mental torture, had robbed her of her senses, or tamed her spirit. Since the blows which she had endured with such stoical courage had ceased, she had been collecting herself, conquering the pain, and trying to think. She had recognised a friend in the touch of Stephens's hand, and in the tones of his voice. She had made up her mind to appeal to him if possible for aid, and now here he was at her side.
"Can you take me away?" she whispered.
"All right," he answered. "I'll see what I can do."
"Probably," he mused, "they will say all sorts of ugly, low-down things about me for this, but I can't leave her here at the mercy of these woman-beaters, and that's all there is to it. If I can take two or three of the principal men along, I don't see why she shouldn't come to Santa Fé with us, if she's up to it; but I don't want any more confounded scandal than I can help."
He got up and went to the door and addressed Tostado. "She is able to get up, and to talk," he said. "It will be best to have her come over to my room there and hear what she has to say."
They assented. The American felt all through that though the chiefs did not directly oppose him, their feeling was against him. He led the way, and they followed reluctantly. Josefa, a blanket thrown over her, and drawn over her head so as to conceal her face all but the eyes, accompanied Stephens, but so stiffly and painfully did she walk from the effects of the violence she had suffered, that the idea of her being able to undertake a journey became out of the question.
They entered the American's room, and sat down as before, the girl sitting on the ground near the fireplace. She answered the questions put to her in a low but firm voice.
Her statement tallied exactly with the cacique's. She had seen her lover's blood flow, and the last she had seen of him as she looked back was his figure stretched on the sand. After hearing her evidence, Stephens felt no doubt that Felipe had been murdered.
"I must secure her somehow," he said to himself. "She'll be wanted as a witness. I suppose his confession alone won't be enough. And she certainly believes the cacique's wife'll kill her if I leave her there. She aint fit to go to Santa Fé, and it would be simply brutal to ask it of her. No, I'll have to try another plan. The only way to save her is to have them acknowledge that I have the right to protect her."
"Tostado," said he, addressing the fine old man whose wisdom and force of character made him by far the most influential of the chiefs, "you told me just now that you had your own customs that you did not want ever to change."
"Yes, señor," said he.
"Well, it is your custom, is it not, that an unmarried woman belongs to her father, and that he can give her to anyone he pleases?"
"Yes," said Tostado; "that is, he can give her to any man in the pueblo that is not of her family. But we should not allow him to give her to any man in another pueblo. We do not allow the women of Santiago to go away."
"Well," continued Stephens, "last night when I had blasted the ditch for you, you all came here and wanted me to stay with you always; and you said that everything you had was mine, and that whatever I asked you for you would give me. Is not that so?"
"Yes," said Tostado simply. "You speak the truth." A general murmur of assent confirmed his statement.
"Now," said Stephens, "I'm going to ask you for something, and I shall see whether Indians mean a thing when they say it. I ask you for the daughter of Salvador—for Josefa."
There was a general movement of surprise. The Indians talked eagerly to one another, but in their own language, so that they were unintelligible to the American. Presently Tostado spoke.
"How do you mean?" said he, addressing Stephens. "As your wife?"
"As wife, as servant, as anything I like," he answered. "You say now she belongs to Salvador. I want her to belong to me."
The Indians again conversed among themselves.
"But she's promised to Ignacio," said her father to the others. "The padre's coming to-morrow."
"That makes no odds," said one. "Ignacio doesn't want her now she has run off with Felipe."
"It doesn't make any difference if he does," said another. "He's a cowardly old creature; he won't do anything."
"Give him another daughter," said a third, "instead. One that won't run away," he added in an aside for the benefit of the rest. "Perhaps he will give you six cows if you warrant her to stop." The three cows of old Ignacio's bargain were no secret in the pueblo.
The general opinion seemed to be that after the affair of last night both Salvador and Ignacio would be well rid of Josefa on any terms.
"Besides," said the first speaker, with a meaning look towards the American, "if he really wants her, so much the better for you. He will be as good as your son-in-law. He will never give you up to the agent and the governor then. Much better do it at once."
Salvador rose from his seat, and going towards the fireplace took the girl by the shoulder.
"Come here," said he.
She winced at his touch, but she got up and obeyed him. He took her to the American. "Here she is," he said aloud before them all. "I give her to you. Keep her and do what you like with her. From now on she is not mine any longer but yours."
"Do you all agree to that," said Stephens, turning to the chiefs.
"Yes," was the reply. "Yes; it is good."
Stephens turned to the crowd who were peeping in at the door. "Tell Reyna I want her, some of you," said he.
In a minute the old squaw was fetched, and pushed, looking rather sheepish and surprised, into the middle of the room. While she was coming, Stephens had disappeared into the inner room and now came out again with some bags in his hands.
"Look here, Reyna," he began. "They have given Josefa to me. She belongs to me now. I want you to take care of her for me. I'll pay you for your trouble. Here is flour and meat and coffee and sugar for the present."
Reyna was taken aback, and looked shyly round at the company. The Indians at once confirmed what Stephens had told her. She took the bags from his hands, and made her way out again through the crowded doorway with a queer look on her puzzled face. She did not quite know what this unaccountable American was up to.
Stephens followed her with the girl. They entered the house of Reyna together.
"You will be quite safe here with her," he said in a kindly voice. "I'll see that you come to no harm."
The girl turned to him to thank him, but no words would come. She was fairly worn out with the strain of this last trying scene, added to her fatigue and cruel anxiety about Felipe's fate.
"Here, Reyna," said the prospector, noticing her condition, "this girl's about played out. You had better see to her at once," and turning on his heel he left the house, closing the door carefully behind him.
As soon as he was outside he looked closely at the group of young men. "Tito," he called.
Tito came to him, and they walked together a little apart from the rest. "Look here, Tito," began Stephens, "I've got a job for you. I know you are a friend of Felipe's. I want you to go and look for him. Take my little mule and put your saddle on him. Go over to the Rio Grande and look along near the river about a league below La Boca. If you find him dead, get a man from there to help you with the body. If he's only wounded, have him taken care of, or bring him back if you can. Tell him he need not be afraid now. Here's two dollars for expenses. Mind you get some corn for the mule at La Boca. Off with you as soon as you can."
Tito did not need telling twice. "I'll do just what you say, Don Estevan," he said, as he stowed the money in a little pouch on his belt, and away he flew like the wind.
The American returned to his own house. He found Tostado awaiting him at the door. The other chiefs had disappeared. Salvador's wife had come with food which she had prepared for her husband.
"It was time for breakfast, Don Estevan," explained Tostado, "and they have gone home. The woman has brought Salvador's here."
"He could have eaten with me for all that," said Stephens, "but we hadn't decided about who was to go to Santa Fé with me. Will you?"
"Well, I have no horse here, Don Estevan," said the old man. "After breakfast we will see about it."
"Very well," said Stephens in a grumbling tone. "I suppose we must wait their pleasure. It isn't much running off to breakfast there'd be if it was anything they wanted to do."
However, there was nothing to do but wait, and Stephens had plenty of time to do his own cooking in the interval. It was nearly an hour before the chiefs were reassembled—having, indeed, to be sent for by Stephens individually; but by persistence he got them together at last and proceeded to business.
"Now, friends," he began, "who is going with me to Santa Fé? Don't all speak at once," he added in English for his own benefit, smiling grimly as he saw the blank look on their faces as he renewed his unwelcome proposal.
"Will you go, Benito?" he said, determined to press them one by one.
The Indian instead of replying conversed rapidly with the others. They had hoped that the transfer of Josefa to Stephens might have modified the American's absurd passion for what he considered to be justice.
"Look here, Don Estevan," began Benito, "it is better to wait. To-morrow, when Tito gets back, then—"
"Oh, nonsense!" broke in Stephens impatiently, "Tito mayn't be back for a week, and it makes no odds about him anyhow."
"But," interrupted Ramon, another of the chiefs, "we have got no horses here. You have your own mare, and the mule for Salvador, but we have none. When Tito comes back with your other mule—"
"Oh, Tito be bothered!" said the American. "I tell you we don't want him."
Suddenly there was a shout outside. A Mexican rider came tearing up the village, and reined his reeking horse on to his haunches at Stephens's door. Flakes of bloody foam flew from the bit, and the horseman's rowels were red. He sprang into the room, covered with sweat and dust from the road.
"The Señorita Sanchez!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "the Señorita Sanchez has been carried off by the Navajos in the night." All present leapt to their feet.
"What!" cried Stephens, "Manuelita?" He stood aghast.
"Yes," repeated the Mexican; "the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez is in the hands of those villains."
"Of that Mahletonkwa!" the American exclaimed, seizing his rifle; "but how? and where are they?"
"Quien sabe?" said the Mexican, "esperate, Don Estevan; wait a moment, señor, till I tell you," for Stephens had caught up his saddle and was making for the door. "All we know is that she is gone; the tracks of the Navajos are all round the house and on the roof, and it is guessed that they entered so, in the night, while everybody was asleep, and carried her off."
"What idiots!" exclaimed Stephens. "Why didn't they keep a watch?"
"Who could have dreamed of such an attempt?" replied the Mexican. "The doors were fastened safe. No one thought of their getting over the roof. But it is proved that they must have done so; their moccasin tracks are there on the roof to show it. And they have fled with her to the westward; the tracks of their horses go all up the valley of the Agua Negra. They have got a long start. But Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés have raised a party; they have got all the men they could in San Remo and gone on their trail: they are hoping to overtake them."
"Can I catch up with them?" asked Stephens hoarsely. "By George! but I wish I had stayed down there last night; but how could I or anyone have imagined such a thing as this? Poor, poor girl!"
He forgot the cacique, his prisoner for having shot down Felipe; he forgot Josefa, lying there next door dependent on his protection; for the moment all these things vanished from his mind before this dreadful catastrophe.
"Yes," answered the Mexican, "you will be able to catch them—they have but an hour's start of you; you will, that is, if you can follow their trail, for you have a good mare. But what they want you to do—what I came here to say, what Don Nepomuceno begged me to urge on you—is to bring with you some of these Indians of the pueblo to assist him in following the trail of the Navajos. Our friends here of Santiago did good service as trailers for Coronel Christophero Carson during the war against the Navajos; Don Nepomuceno is sure they will follow you, too, against the Navajos if you will ask them."
Stephens paused and pondered a moment. His first impulse had been to mount at once and gallop straight in pursuit. But there was wisdom in Don Nepomuceno's counsel; most assuredly the Indians would be invaluable if they came, and clearly there was nothing else he could do that would be half so useful as to bring them. And with reflection came back the image of the helpless Josefa, and he instantly realised that if he could take the cacique along with him her position would become ever so much safer; for he could not be blind to the fact that as soon as he was gone she might yet be in danger supposing that the cacique remained behind. Yes, in every way it would be better to enlist the cacique for the pursuit; he decided to try and do so on the spot.
"This is a shocking thing that the Navajos have done," he said to the Indians around him, "and they will have to smart for it. You have all heard the suggestion made by this gentleman," he looked at the Mexican as he spoke, "and I entirely agree with it. Cacique, will you and a party of your warriors come with me on the war-trail against these scoundrels? You will do a public service if you can succeed in recovering the señorita from them; and in that case, whatever you may have done to Felipe, the rescue of the captive would count for much in your favour. In short, Cacique, if you will render good service in recovering her, I will appeal to the governor to pardon you. There is my offer."
The Indians talked it over rapidly among themselves. All joined in urging Salvador to seize the opportunity given him of escaping from the consequences of his rash act. Nor did he want much urging; he had fought the Navajos before, and was personally no ways loath to take the field against them again, and pride made him ardently desire to shine before his people in the character of a leader. In five minutes the matter was settled among them and his companions selected.
"Yes, Don Estevan," said he, "your offer is accepted. I will go with you on the trail of these Navajos, and I will take with me Miguel, who is our best tracker, and Alejandro, who is very good also. And it is agreed that you stand my friend in the matter of Felipe."
"Agreed," cried Stephens; "and now let us be off. You have weapons and ammunition."
"My horse is tired," said the cacique; "and how about horses for the young men?"
"My mule can carry one," said Stephens. "Could we have your horse, señor," he asked, turning to the Mexican, "and let you ride Mr. Backus's horse back to San Remo?—for I presume he isn't fit for another journey, either."
"Alas," said the Mexican politely, "I fear I cannot accommodate you in this. I have to ride now post-haste to Rio Grande and warn Don Nepomuceno's friends there of the trouble that has befallen him. They will doubtless send a party from there also on the trail. Were it not for that I would ride with you myself with pleasure."
"Look, now," interrupted the cacique, "at the plan which I propose. Let us go to the horse herd beyond the Cerro de las Viboras. My horse is tired indeed, but he can take me there; your mule is strong, Sooshiuamo,"—he took the first opportunity to call Stephens by his Indian name as a sign of renewed amity,—"let him carry our two young men also as far as the herd; when we get to the herd we will choose fresh horses for each of us, and we will take one of the herders along with us, young Ignacio, who is very clever at trailing, and knows the country; and besides, it is possible that the herders may have seen something of Mahletonkwa's band, and can give information. In any case we will start afresh from the horse herd and cut the trail of Mahletonkwa, and perhaps of Don Nepomuceno's party a good way off from here." Stephens looked up doubtfully at this suggestion. "Oh, never fear," continued the cacique boastingly, "we can leave a trail and find it again; I will show you what our men are like as trailers. There is no one equal to the Santiago men on a trail."
The cacique was known for a man of skill and resource in all these things of practical importance. He had indeed aroused the indignation of the prospector by his cruelty to Felipe and to his daughter, but in that after all he did but act according to his nature; Indians were cruel anyhow. The savage, even in the best of them, was close to the surface. When it came to going on the war-path the value of the peculiar powers of the savage was manifest, and Stephens felt satisfied with his own action in turning them to a good purpose. The cacique's proposal was unquestionably sound, and he accepted it without hesitation.
"Tell me," he said, "before you go," turning to the Mexican who had brought the news, and was standing there, quirt in hand, ready to start as soon as their plans were decided upon, "what more is there known about this matter?"
"Pues, nada, señor," answered the young man—"nothing—absolutely nothing. We know neither at what hour of the night they took her away, nor with what object they have done it, but it is doubtless to extort the money from her father, the money that they have been demanding for the Navajo killed by Don Andrés."
"Does the postmaster know anything about it?" asked Stephens; "I thought he acted very ill yesterday with regard to the Indians. If he's had any hand in it, by George!—" he broke off with a sudden fury of suspicion.
"Nothing is known either about him, señor," replied the Mexican; "Mr. Backus declares that he had no idea of their doing such a thing. They were at his store during the afternoon, but they went off again to a distance to camp before sunset. Doubtless they would conceal their scheme from him as from everybody else. And now, señor, with your permission I am for the road. I have near twenty leagues to ride to-day. I report, then, to all my friends that you, with the Indian trailers of Santiago, are going to take the trail. Believe me, we relied on you confidently to assist." He grasped Stephens hand warmly, sprang to his saddle, and was presently galloping for the Rio Grande.
The Indians ran to their houses for their guns and for the provision of dried meat and parched maize they would require for the journey, while Stephens brought his mare to the door and saddled her, tying a blanket for himself on behind, and filling his saddle-bags with as much victuals as he could stuff into them. Before starting he ran into Reyna's house to take one look at Josefa. She was lying on a rug spread on the ground. In a few words he told her of his summons to pursue Mahletonkwa, and his acceptance of the cacique's services for the purpose. "But don't you be afraid," he continued; "you're all right now. He shall never lay his hand on you again. Reyna will look after you, and nurse you, and feed you. You just stick by her as if she was your mother. And if anyone tries to bother you while I'm gone, you just tell them to go to blazes. You tell them that you belong to me now, and that if they go to try any nonsense on with you I'll know the reason why. They'll have me to reckon with. See? That's my talk, and don't you forget it." He gave her limp hand a reassuring pressure as she lay there, and turned away. Three minutes later he was riding north-westward from the pueblo in the company of Salvador, Miguel, and Alejandro.