Ramona — Chapter XXV - Part 2
Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his horse's sides, galloped after them.
“Baba!
by God!
” he cried aloud in his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster, shouting as he rode, “Stop that man!
Stop that man with the black horses!
” Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had happened.
Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, “Baba!
Baba!
” Baba knew his voice, and began to whinny and plunge.
Felipe was nearly unmanned.
For the second, he forgot everything.
A crowd was gathering around them.
It had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title to Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud voice, looking suspiciously at Jos, “How did you get him?
” Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried.
The man did not live, nor could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl.
Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and took a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: “Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would take right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the other one tew.
They ain't mine, neither one on 'em.
” Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, Jos saw it, and chuckled.
“Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,” he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and substance of what he had just said, adding: “They belong to an Indian over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers.
It had been hers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so much of hosses as they did.
” Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon, throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, “Follow along with my horse, will you?
I must speak to this man.
” Found!
Found,--the saints be praised,--at last!
How should he tell this man fast enough?
How should he thank him enough?
Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: “I can't explain to you; I can't tell you.
Bless you forever,--forever!
It must be the saints led you here!
” “Oh, Lawd!
” thought Jos; “another o' them 'saint' fellers!
I allow not, Senor,” he said, relapsing into Tennesseean.
“It wur Tom Wurmsee led me;
I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.
” “Take me home with you to your house,” said Felipe, still trembling with excitement; “we cannot talk here in the street.
I want to hear all you can tell me about them.
I have been searching for them all over California.
” Jos's face lighted up.
This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet Ramona, he was sure.
“I'll take you straight there,” he said; “but first I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.
” The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated scene of an arrest for horse-stealing.
“Good for you, Tennessee!
” and, “Fork over that black horse, Jos!
” echoed from the departing groups.
Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford to slight so notable an occasion as this.
As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair.
“Why, thar's mammy!
” he exclaimed.
“What ever hez gone wrong naow?
” Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, “Yeow Jos!
Jos, hyar!
Stop!
I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!
” Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound of the wheels.
Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's side.
“Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come!
Thet Injun Alessandro's got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less.
Thar wuz an Injun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent.
” “Good God!
Alessandro killed!
” burst from Felipe's lips in a heart-rending voice.
Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was almost beyond him.
“Oh, Lawd!
” he gasped.
Turning to Felipe, “Thet's mammy,” he said.
“She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.
” Turning to his mother, “This hyar's her brother,” he said.
“He jest knowed me by Baba, hyar on ther street.
He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.
” Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly.
Wiping her streaming eyes, she sobbed out: “Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a Providence, ez they call it.
'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less brung yer hyar jest naow.
I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy, ain't yer?
Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer!
Oh, Lawd!
How air we ever goin' to git ter her?
I allow she's dead!
I allow she'd never live arter seein' him shot down dead!
He tolt me thar couldn't nobody git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean.
Oh, Lawd, Lawd!
” Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken.
He turned in despair to Jos.
“Tell me in Spanish,” he said.
“I cannot understand.
” As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, “Too late!
Too late!
” He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered.
“Too late!
Too late!
” he cried, as he staggered into the house.
“She has surely died of the sight.
” “I allow she didn't die, nuther,” said Jos; “not ser long ez she hed thet young un to look arter!
” “Yer air right, Jos!
” said Aunt Ri.
“I allow yer air right.
Thar couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby 'n her arms!
She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow.
Thet's some comfort.
” Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands.
Suddenly looking up, he said, “How far is it?
” “Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,” said Jos; “'n' the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz livin'.
It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto Mounting, daddy sez.
He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.
” How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!
Felipe felt as if he were in a trance.
Rousing himself, he said, “We must go.
We must start at once.
You will let me have the horses?
” “Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--” began Jos, energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at Felipe's command.
“Jos!
He's got ter take me!
” cried Aunt Ri.
“I allow I ain't never gwine ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby.
He hadn't orter go alone by hisself.
” Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
“Yeow tell him, Jos,” she said, “I can't never git used ter bein' called Senory.
Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest wish he would.
I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right.
'Pears like I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust.
I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand bein' Senory'd!
Yeow tell him, Jos.
I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in Mexican, ain't there?
'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout sech a word!
He'll know what it means!
I'd go off with him a heap easier ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.
” Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto.
She laughed.
“Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,” she said.
“I bet yeow I'd go clean back ter the States ther way we cum.
I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n my hed plain's a turnpike.
Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the mounting, thet's another thing.
Thet's more 'n I dew know.
But thar'll be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn.
The Lawd ain't gwine to get hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.
” Felipe could not have found a better ally.
The comparative silence enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at first appeared.
They understood each other well enough for practical purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.
It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made the night as good as day for their journey.
When it first shone out, Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, “Thet's lucky.
” “Yes,” replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had spoken, “it is good.
It shows to us the way.
” “Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!
” thought Aunt Ri.
Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were hurrying.
Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one they had seen for many miles, said: “We'll hev to sleep hyar.
I donno the road beyant this.
I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n' take us in.
They're used ter doin' it.
They dew consid'able business keepin' movers.
I know 'em.
They're reel friendly fur the kind o' people they air.
They're druv to death.
It can't be far frum their time to git up, ennyhow.
They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's work.
I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here.
The fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way.
When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?'
'n' ter feed theirselves tew.
They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious.
I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin' in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but they don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much.
Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things.
Yeow wouldn't see no sech doin's in Tennessee.
I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n' I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up.
But these Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!
--Lawd!
I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!
” thought Aunt Ri to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face.
“'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between folks thet doos!
” When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his own horses.
He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like those, they said, if he took them over that road.
It was a cruel road.
They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois.
Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.
“I'm gwine whar he goes,” she said grimly to herself.
“I ain't a gwine ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.
” Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade.
The road had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous angles.
After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill.
Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern slopes.
From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla village.
A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part of the way without a guide.
Finally it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed to the road.
By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.
Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have experienced a keen delight in this ascent.
With each fresh lift on the precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet.
The pines were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was their size.
On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by myriads of bullet-holes.
In each hole had been cunningly stored away an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries.
“Look at thet, naow!
” exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; “an' thar's folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains.
They ain't noways dumb to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched with furriners.
I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar Mexican I'm er travellin' with.
” “That's so!
” replied Sam Merrill.
“When we fust got here, I thought I'd ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me.
But now I can talk their lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have.
” The miles seemed leagues to Felipe.
Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him.
How could she chatter!
But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm to her again.
They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon.
As their carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be seen.
Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by four horses had never before taken place in the village.
The agitation into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence.
The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this morning.
It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the Capitan's house.
Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and contempt.
“Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid eyes on,” she said in a low tone to Merrill, “I allow these yere air the wust!
But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit, if they wuz to set aout tew!
Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I allow.
” “Oh, they're friendly enough,” laughed Merrill.
“They're all stirred up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look so fierce.
I don't wonder!
'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a firin' into the man after he was dead.
I don't blame him for killin' the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good horse o' mine up that trail.
That's the only law we stock men've got out in this country.
We've got to protect ourselves.
But it was a mean, low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead;
but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his horse, that he didn't know what he did.
” Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech.
Felipe had leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan, had hurried with him into his house.
Felipe had evidently forgotten that she was still in the carriage.
His going into the house looked as if Ramona was there.
Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard.
The words seemed to choke her as she began.
“Young man,” she said, “I donno much abaout yeour raisin'.
I've heered yeour folks wuz great on religion.
Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeour age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear him say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I sh'dn't!
” What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door, beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house.
As she crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and said, “Come, speak to her.
” He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on the floor.
Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads?
Yes, it was Ramona; and it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.
Aunt Ri burst into tears.
“Oh, Lawd!
” she said.
“Ef I had some 'old man' hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever!
I dew bleeve I seed some on 't growin' not more'n er mile back.
” And without a second look, or another word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said, speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: “Yeow jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come.
I allow I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever.
Faster, faster!
Run yer hosses.
'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,” she cried, leaning out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground.
“Stop!
Here 'tis!
” she cried.
“I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along hyar;” and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining, gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely on their way back.
“This'll cure her, ef ennything will,” she said, as she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them.
“She's bad,” she said, her lips trembling; “but, 'never say die!'
ez allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone.
” Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own hands blistered by the heat.
It was a fight with death; but love and life won.
Before night Ramona was asleep.
Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, each taking heart from the other's devotion.
All night long Ramona slept.
As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she had knelt by his bed and prayed there.
He glanced around the room.
In a niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out before it.
The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during the past ten days.
The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were alone.
The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was heard.
For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt.
“Oh, Lawd!
” she thought, “the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!
” Then a sudden revulsion seized her.
“I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!
” And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done.
It was a moment and a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.
