Jessica, the Heiress Part 14

"Who did that will pay the price! I swear it!" he cried.

"It surely was meant for a Sobrante man, for they're few besides who ride this way," answered "Forty-niner," thoughtfully. "And, Atlantic!

Here's the mail pouch! Maybe 'twas robbery, pure and simple. Was it a money day, for supplies or such?"

"Reckon it was. The mistress herself locked and gave the bag to me, bidding me be careful. As if I was ever careless; but there was one letter in it I heard about, that the little captain wrote to Ninian Sharp. Wrote herself, an invite to the Christmas doings. Try it."

Examination proved that the bag had been tampered with, though the lock was a spring and now securely fastened; but a small leather flap, intended to cover the keyhole, had been torn from its fastenings and lay on the ground. The pouch itself had been flung slightly out of the way, under the bushes, as if the trespa.s.ser had satisfied himself with and concerning it and had no further use for it.

"Well, there used to be three keys to this concern. One the mistress has; one the postmaster keeps at the office; and the other was Antonio's, since he always was wanting to open and put something extra in the bag after Mrs. Trent had done with it. I never liked the look of that, and it's my opinion that it's the very key has unlocked this bag, if unlocked it's been. Which is more'n likely."

Cromarty's head was again beginning to grow dizzy, and he sat again upon the rock to recover himself, making no answer to Ephraim's words than the exclamation:

"How am I going to get that bag to post in time?"

CHAPTER XI.

THE Pa.s.sING OF OLD CENTURY

Jessica and her escort, John Benton, rode swiftly up the canyon trail and over the brow of the mesa toward the shepherd's cabin; but they had not proceeded far along the upland before a sense of the strangeness of things oppressed them both.

John's keen eye detected the neglect of the sheep, which were still huddled in the corral, though long past their hour for pasturage; while their bleating expressed hunger as well as dislike of their unusual imprisonment. But Jessica saw first the abject att.i.tude of the collie, Keno, who came reluctantly to greet them with down-hanging head and tail and a reproachful upward glance of his brown eyes.

"Why, you poor doggie! What's happened you? You look as if you'd been beaten. Where's your master, good Keno? Keno, where's Pedro?"

The Indian was nowhere visible, and as if he fully understood the question, the collie answered by a long, lugubrious whine.

"Something's wrong. That's as plain as preachin'!" cried John, and hurried to the little house, whose door stood open, but about which there was no sign of life.

He had tossed his bridle to the captain, meaning that if aught were amiss within she should be detained for the present by holding the horses. However, she saw through this ruse, and, leaping from Buster, swiftly hobbled both animals and ran after the carpenter.

Keno kept close at her heels, the very presentment of canine misery, and uttering at every few steps that doleful whine which was so unusual to him. But, arrived at the cabin, he left her and with one bound had reached the Indian's side, where he still sat beside his window, his head against its casing and his blanket--Jessica's gift--closely wrapped about him. He did not move when they entered, nor respond even by objection to the collie's frantic blandishments, but John raised his hand for silence, as she stood sorrowfully gazing downward upon the face of death.

Yes, it was that. He had more than rounded his century of years, he had lived uprightly, as the good padres had taught; he had bestowed upon those he loved the secret of great wealth, and he had gone to keep his precious Navidad in the home of eternal youth.

Jessica comprehended the truth at once, and her eyes filled with the tears which, as yet, did not overflow; for as she gazed upon the sleeper's face it filled her with amazement and something akin to delight; and at last she exclaimed:

"Why, how young and glad he looks! He's even n.o.bler than he was when he rode away from me last night, and I'd never seen him so dignified and grand as he was then. It's--it's as if he had done with everything is hard, like worries, and evil, and loneliness, and--all."

"Ay, la.s.sie; he has done with all--that you or I know aught about; and every inch a man he seems as he sits there in the majesty of death."

By then the child's tears had begun to flow, and she caught up Pedro's hand with an outburst of grief and love.

"Poor, poor Pedro! To have been here all alone when it came! What shall I do without him who was always so good, so good to me? Oh, I can't have it so, John! I can't, I can't!"

He was wise enough to attempt no consolation, knowing well how small a part of her life the venerable Indian had been and how easily youth accustoms itself to such a loss. But, after he had allowed her to sob for a time, he gently touched her shoulder, and said:

"Come. Pedro has finished his work and has pa.s.sed it on to us. Those poor sheep must be cared for, and somebody must ride home at once; or, rather, should ride at once to Marion to make the necessary arrangements. I wish----" And he paused in perplexity, regarding her as if in doubt what was best to be done.

They left the cottage with that quiet tread which seems natural in the presence of those whom no sound can trouble, and, hand in hand, walked sadly to the fold, where the penned sheep greeted them with eager cries and restless movements.

"Pedro used to say they talked and he knew what they said. I begin to believe he did, for, listen! This sound isn't like that other first one, which told us they were hungry. This says: 'I'm glad you've come!' Doesn't it?"

"So it sounds to me, la.s.sie; and I, too, am glad we came. It's queer, though, how set you were on it, even against the mistress' wish that you should wait."

"Yes, John, I had to come. I just had to. And this is what I think: When we've taken care of the sheep, we'll lay Pedro on his bed and lock the door. Keno will keep guard, if we tell him; though whoever comes here, anyway? Then you must ride to Marion to see about--about"--here, for a moment, grief interrupted her again, but she suppressed her tears as soon as possible and went on quite calmly--"about what always has to be at such a time. I remember--I remember it all when my father----No, no, John, I'm not going to cry again. I won't make bad worse, never, if I can help it. But this I say: You ride to Marion and send word to the mission so that a priest may come; and do all the rest. I will ride home and the boys will come up and fetch him to Sobrante. It must be in the little old chapel that we never use, because my father said he would not put to a common service a room that had once been given to G.o.d. Pedro always loved it. It was there he used to say his 'devotions' and there he must lie--in state--isn't that what they call it when great folks die? Pedro was great. He had lived so very long and he had always been so devout. What do you say?"

"What do I say, little captain, but that you've a long head on your young shoulders, and I'm sorry this load of grief had to rest on it so early. More than that; I undertook to be your guardeen to-day, and I've no notion of shirking the job--even now. I pa.s.sed my word to the 'admiral' that I'd fetch you home safe, and so I will. It won't take much longer and it's right. Home first, and Marion afterward."

"Well, maybe, that is best; and surely it is pleasantest. I didn't want to be selfish, but I'd rather you stayed with me. Are you ready?

Shall we leave him just as he is?"

"Just so. We'll close the window and the door, and then--home."

But it was with widely different feelings that they cantered down the canyon from those with which they had ridden up it, and when she saw them returning so soon and so swiftly, Mrs. Trent went out to meet them, saying nothing, indeed, yet asking the question with her eyes:

"What trouble now?"

Then John told their story speedily and suggested that some of the men ride to the mesa and attend to what was needful. Also, repeated Jessica's opinion about the chapel, with which the lady instantly agreed; then, clasping her daughter's hand very close, returned with her to the porch and began to fold away her sewing.

But both Aunt Sally, when she came and heard the news, and the little girl asked:

"Why do you put it away, mother, dear? If Pedro is happy now, as we believe, why shouldn't we be, too? All the rest must have their holiday, and I think--I think he'd like to have me look nice. He always did."

"Jessie is right, Gabriell'. Things do happen terrible upsettin'

lately, seems to me; but by the time you and me get to be a hundred odd, I reckon we shan't care a mite whether folks wear red and white dresses or horrid humbly ones. I'm goin' on just the same as ever, for that's the only way I'll ever keep my common senses in this spooky place. I knew when they two started off, left hoof foremost, they was ridin', to trouble; and this morning my hen chicken crowed to beat any rooster I ever heard, and that's a sure sign of death."

"Aunt Sally, don't!" protested Mrs. Trent, glancing anxiously at her daughter's face. But she need not have feared; for the child smiled back upon her, serene and happy, despite the traces of tears that still marked her bright eyes.

"It's all right, mother, dear; and I'm thinking how glad Pedro must be now, to have found all those he'd so long outlived. He just went to sleep, you see, alone, and waked up with them around him. I think it was beautiful--beautiful; and his last deed was to find me and to tell you how you could grow rich if you want to. Where are the little boys, I wonder?"

They presently appeared, in wild excitement, having been at the men's quarters when John rode thither to impart his news and directions; yet in this excitement was not a vestige of grief. They seemed to feel relieved of some dread, and Ned more than once punched Luis, whispering shrilly enough for all to hear:

"We can do it now, and not get caught! Yes, siree! We can do it now!

Don't you tell!"

And Luis responded by an ecstatic hug and the customary echo:

"Do it now; don't you tell! Yes, siree!"

John Benton had nearly covered the distance to Marion, when he perceived two men slowly advancing toward him along the level road.

For a moment, engrossed by thoughts of recent happenings, he paid slight attention to the fact, though idly wondering what strangers might be having business, and on foot, with Sobrante, at which point the road ended. But, as he drew nearer to them, something familiar in the bearing of the taller man, and startling in the appearance of the other, caused him to shield his eyes from the sunshine and peer critically into the distance. Then he slapped his thigh so excitedly that his horse suddenly stopped, reared and nearly unseated him.

"Oh, you idiot! Can't a feller slap himself without your takin' it to heart? If I ain't a blind man, and maybe I am, that's old 'Forty-niner' hoofing himself home, and----Whew! That's Marty, limpin' and leanin' alongside. Well, I 'low! More trouble and plenty of it. Seems if all creation was just a-happenin' our way, blamed if it don't. Giddap there, Moses!"

In a few minutes he had reached the pedestrians and saluted them with unfeigned astonishment, and Ephraim with great friendliness of expression, but also the question: